The Witch of Torinia

by Clifford Beal

  The Duke seized the man-at-arms next to him by his tabard and gave him a shake. “Fetch me a horse this instant!”

  Mounted, Ursino whipped the horse underneath him as he and two guardsmen worked their way around the rear of the armies and towards the baggage camp that lay at the north end of the open plain. If Kodoris had regained his senses and had decided to support him, it could turn the tide. If needs must, he could always lash the old priest upright into a saddle so that the enemy could see him. The day would be his all the quicker.

  He dismounted and threw the reins to a nearby soldier. “Take me to the High Priest!” War harness jangling, he made his way through the forest of canvas and guy ropes, throwing off his gauntlets and polished sallet helm and leaving them for the fawning guardsmen that followed in his wake. He reached the tent and grasped the flap. There was silence and darkness within. Almost a palpable stillness. Lucinda’s warning popped into his head—a foolish womanly warning—but now that the High Priest was awake such timidity had to be discarded. With the leader of the One Faith at his side there would be no doubt he was the rightful heir to Valdur. Either Kodoris or the spirit of a long dead prophet, what would it matter, so long as the old man was his ally. Ursino raised the flap and stepped into the airless gloom.

  CORONEL ARETINI BIT the inside of his cheek when he saw the first griffon—or what had been a griffon—fall to the ground dead. He was some distance away from the Maresto war machine but his view was clear: they had fired on it with cannon and had killed it stone dead. Around him, he could feel the lines of the Blue Boar spearmen and swordsmen shudder and begin to bunch as hesitation set in. They, like him, had witnessed a deception, a deception of dark magic. The whispers of “enchantress” and “sorceress” had floated on the wind for days in camp and now, foul white worms that had long been banished from Valdur were but a few hundred yards away. He had felt unease himself for a while but had kept his doubts to himself. Now, his mind weighed options and outcomes even as he watched Lucinda try and regain mastery of her little battle against the wooden contraption. Leaning forward in his saddle he could just make out a figure emerging from the machine, walking towards the beast as calmly as any man out for an afternoon walk.

  Aretini spurred his horse out in front of the lead rank of spearmen, guided it left around the corner formation and rode hard for the cavalry that stood massed on the other side. He singled out Captain Gheradi and pounded up to him. “I have new orders for you, old friend!”

  “New orders? I just had word from the rear that the Duke himself has ordered us forward. We are forming up for the advance.”

  Aretini cursed. “Belay that. My orders are if you see the other monster fall then you are to charge the infantry of the Milvornans.”

  Gheradi tilted his head and sat back. “Change sides?”

  “Aye. Roll them up and crush them between yourself and the Maresto spearmen. I smell a change of fortune on the wind, Captain, and we must be ready to act.”

  “BROTHER ACQUEL?”

  He hadn’t even bothered to reply to Demerise as she tended to Strykar, but just yanked the sorbo sword from where it was thrust into the ground and then dashed to the wall of the machine again. A bellow from Strykar followed him. He knew what Volpe was doing and his stomach rolled on itself, a leaden weight. He crawled out from underneath the land-ship and stood, holding the wooden sword and praying its magic would work for him as well as it had for Volpe. Yet when he saw the viverna his legs just stopped as if they had been cut off beneath him. The beast had extracted its head from the land-ship at Volpe’s approach, the monk yelling and waving his arms. Acquel wanted to cry out but could not find his voice. The creature shook itself, bemused by the lone man that was walking towards it. Cautiously, it turned to face him full on, lowering itself for a lunge.

  Acquel’s mouth opened in silent horror as he watched Volpe pour the contents of the flask down his throat and then hurl the empty silver at the viverna. It was the last of the acqua miracula they had taken from the apothecary. And perhaps Lucinda had realized this too. She was now low in the saddle and pounding towards Volpe, sword in hand. Acquel knew he could not save his friend, but he might be able to prevent the witch from stopping his final desperate plan. He ran toward her as she came on. Lucinda saw him, eyes widening, but did not stop. Acquel reached her, raising his sword arm and clutching at her bridle. The amulet on his chest flared, an agony of white-hot fire, and a pain exploded inside his head as if he had been clubbed. Lucinda lashed out with her sword as he ineptly warded her blows, one hand stubbornly clinging to the horse’s bit. Again and again she swung, screaming at him to let go. His foot slipped and her blade glanced from his shoulder, the tip cutting across his face and opening up his cheek in a spray of blood. But he had gained precious seconds, seconds that she had lost.

  Acquel spun around, his grip slipping off the bridle. He hit the ground upon his knees and then saw Volpe raise his hand to his forehead and then his chest. The viverna leapt forward, jaws wide, and in one swoop clamped down on the monk, swallowing him whole to his knees and then arching its head and neck as it shook and swallowed. Lucinda’s horse reared up where it stood and Acquel’s eyes filled with stinging tears. He stumbled to his feet, the sorbo sword limply held in his shaking hand. The viverna locked its eyes on Acquel and he froze anew. Slowly, playfully, the great worm crept towards him, fifty yards away. It took a few more strides and then Acquel saw a shudder ripple through its massive frame, turning into a frenzy of thrashing. It rolled onto its back and let out a screech and the light greenish-white hue of its underside rapidly began to turn inky black as finger-like tendrils spread. The viverna rolled over again, tongue shooting out, its sides heaving rapidly as the poison coursed through its body. Suddenly, its eyes clenched shut, its massive skull lowered, chin hitting the ground, and it died.

  Behind him, Acquel heard the cheer of the Maresto soldiers echo across the field. What had been almost a stand-off on the right flank now turned into a melee and he thought he saw horsemen on the Torinian side plough into men on their left—their own—while the Maresto spearmen rushed forward against the same target. He staggered toward Lucinda, his tabard covered in his own blood, and he could feel a breeze playing on the open wound of his face; a deep dull throbbing to accompany the sting of the wind. Beyond Lucinda, the serried ranks of the Blue Boar were quiet. Acquel could see the ripple of the raised spears as men jostled and turned, unsure what was happening. Swaying, he saw Lucinda a few feet away, staring unbelievingly at her dead beasts. She then wheeled in the saddle, fixing him in her gaze. A sharp pain stabbed his temple, instantly doubling him up in agony. Her voice rang inside his head, one word thundering around his skull: How?

  She lifted her sword and Acquel lifted his in both hands into a guard. He knew the sorbo sword would be nothing but a tyro’s practice blade against her own steel for she was, like him, born of woman. Sorbo held no power over her. Her horse began moving towards him at a walk, her face contorted into a mask of pure rage. He felt he could hardly hold up the wooden blade. A blast of trumpets shattered the air, louder than anything he had ever heard in his life, almost unearthly in its volume. Lucinda pulled up on her reins and the look on her face suddenly changed. She appeared apprehensive, uncertain, blank eyes looking beyond him, beyond everything. And it had nothing to do with him. Lucinda suddenly kicked her mount and jerked the reins, flying back to the Torinian lines, lines fast disintegrating into confusion. Acquel, dumbfounded, watched her ride away. His feet managed another two steps and then he fell to the ground.

  LUCINDA REACHED THE carroccio and pulled up hard, her horse whinnying in protest. Men were running away, others standing dumb like confused sheep, all discipline dissolved, the bonds of fealty cast to the four winds. Coronel Aretini was nowhere to be seen. The wagon itself was empty of anyone, its red pennons waving forlornly. Then she saw Ursino, walking towards her, a few of his banner-men and guards tentatively following in his wake. In Ursino’s wake, what looked
like a bank of pale fog was coalescing and rising up from the ground. She stopped a few paces away and dismounted, dread tugging at her throat.

  She could barely get out his name. “Ursino! My lord!”

  He stopped and raised his hands out to either side. Again, unearthly trumpets blared and the remaining retainers fell to their knees in fright. The cloud of fog cleared and Lucinda saw in its place a vision as if looking through a clear, rippling waterfall, a hundred feet wide and as high. It was a window on another world. A new sun shone beyond and in the distance she glimpsed riders moving towards the portal’s edge, towards her world. She felt a tremor under her feet and the carroccio bucked and tipped upwards, driven by a pulsing tree root, a massive beanstalk of shining oily blackness. The Tree. Her jaw fell and she dropped her sword, shaking. “Ursino, my love.”

  She reached him and looked into his face. And it was him. The man she loved. His mouth opened in a rapturous smile as he focussed on her. “Lucinda... my daughter!”

  She halted and felt herself fall back a little. “No,” she whispered. Then the tears welled up. “No, Ursino, no. You should not have, my love.”

  The shimmering window on the other place pulsed with light and now a wind of considerable force blew up, emanating from beyond. The riders could now be seen and Lucinda felt terror, not the joy she had always anticipated. A huge figure, naked, with a raven’s head, rode upon a white wolf grown monstrous. It brandished a flaming sword. Andras was about to step into Valdur, summoned by his prophet Berithas the Redeemer. On either side of the raven man, two naked youths— each ten feet tall, shining, golden and beautiful, with tumbling curls—walked as his escort and each held swords that issued tongues of red fire. Belias and Belith, the trinity complete. Glimpsed behind, loping and hopping on misshapen limbs, an army of dark troubles followed.

  Lucinda turned to Ursino and screamed at him, the tears coursing down her cheeks. “I told you not to!” But the man she loved was no longer there behind the grey eyes she knew so well.

  “My daughter, come to me.” It was Ursino’s voice still. “Come to me and prepare for the arrival of the Three.” Lucinda let out a sob and approached Berithas, now human once again. The ground around them buckled and shifted, the grassy plain erupting as more shoots of the dark tree pushed their way to the surface, each as thick as a man’s thigh. Soldiers dropped their weapons and began to flee, what they were witnessing beyond all comprehension. Lucinda stood in front of the Duke. She reached up and touched his cheek with her left hand, stroking his fine trimmed beard. “Oh, my love,” she breathed.

  The Duke smiled at her but it was more with amusement than affection. “Daughter, you will kneel to receive the Lord Andras and his servants.” Lucinda turned to look at the portal. The old ones were still coming, not yet having reached the shimmering curtain between the worlds but now a stone’s throw from it. She looked back at Ursino, turned her hand and stroked his cheek again with the back of it. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat as the tears ran down her cheeks. She turned again to look at Andras, the raven’s jet eyes were empty of either hate or love.

  She shook her head slowly as anger blossomed in full. “No. If I cannot have him then no one shall! Not even you!” Her right hand flew to her belt and then in one swift movement—left palm pressed against Ursino’s skull—her right rose to drive her dagger through his neck to the hilt, a fountain of crimson spurting and pulsing, splashing her face. The body of Ursino gasped, shuddered, and dropped to its knees. Lucinda, still gripping the dagger, held his head against her armoured belly. A voice she knew well, disembodied now, wailed in its despair and then disappeared into nothing, borne away. And her mind was her own again, the livid, living wound above her breast silent.

  Like a dark curtain falling over a window, the portal instantly clouded over, the wind falling. The ball of fog began to shrink upon itself until only wisps remained and then were still. The roots of the great tree groaned and then stopped their movement. Lucinda tried to suppress the sobs that wracked her, her left hand caressing her lover’s head. She pulled her dagger out and slowly let Ursino’s body fall away.

  Those few terrified men that had remained did nothing, their faces ashen. Lucinda glanced around at them as if she had forgotten where she was. Slowly, she stepped away, not looking at the fallen Duke, the last vessel of Berithas. The dagger still dripping in her hand, she remounted and fumbled with the reins. She then closed her eyes and opened them again. The guardsmen were still staring at her—the sorceress assassin—bloodied and terrible. And their fear held them rooted, petrified.

  Lucinda kicked her heels and the horse sidestepped before recovering and moving forward. A place suddenly came into her head, a place in the north, in the shadow of white-capped mountains. A place she had once loved and called home. Rovera. And there would be no gods there in future, no Old Faith, no new. She was done with belief and done with the world.

  Thirty-Six

  STRYKAR GRIMACED AND leaned back on the trestle bench, his splinted leg thrust out in front of him. “And can you believe they awarded that son of a bitch Aretini a knighthood? Messere Lupo! Makes me sick.”

  Danamis filled Strykar’s mug then his own. “Mercenaries change sides. What did you expect?”

  “Bah! He should have had his head struck off—like the Count of Naplona. Aloysius on an ass! He even made Alonso a gift of the sacred Hand of Ursula; it wasn’t even his to give.”

  Danamis took a swig and leaned back to admire Citala, who stood staring out the windows of the stern cabin of the Vendetta. “Alonso could hardly do that when Aretini’s men rolled up the Milvornan army and drove it into the river.”

  Strykar waggled a finger. “You’re playing Devil’s advocate, my friend! The queen recognizes that my service in that hellish contraption is what won the day. That and my myrra.” He paused a moment. “And that mad old monk. I must give him his due. Damned brave... glorious. Both of them.” He raised his cup. “Aye, Brother Acquel took that hard, and blames himself for not killing the witch on the battlefield.”

  “And did you give him comfort?” It was Citala who spoke up from across the cabin. “He has lost his mentor, and his way. So where are his friends?”

  Strykar looked down into his mug as if he had lost something. “He wanted no comfort, mistress. We cleaned him up, tried to cheer him. The Duke received him, thanked him for his fight against the beasts. But I swear, he just wanted to be away with himself.”

  Citala frowned. “And that is when a friend is most needed.”

  Danamis gave Strykar a sheepish look.

  Strykar cleared his throat. “Aye, I take your meaning mistress. But a man must be his own captain. Brother Acquel’s road leads him elsewhere. And... I will miss him.”

  “What of your road?” said Danamis. “You told me yesterday you’ve decided to give up your command of the Black Rose. I thought perhaps you were just being... Strykar.”

  The mercenary gave him a baleful eye. “Is that what you think? Well, I told Malvolio to shove it up his arse. I’ve had enough of the Black Rose. Cortese can have it all.” He sealed his declaration with a long gulp of wine. “Besides, my brother has offered me command of the palace guard—if I want it.”

  “Half-brother.”

  Strykar pursed his lips and then grinned. “You’re a bastard, Nico.”

  “Your decision wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain royal huntress of the Duchy of Maresto? Would it?”

  Strykar issued a low growl and shifted his weight on the bench, prodding at the cushion that supported his leg. “Mistress Demerise and I have an understanding.”

  Danamis smiled.

  “And towards that end,” Strykar continued, “it is better that we stay in Maresto for a while. For the both of us to serve Alonso and his household.”

  Danamis stood up, listening to Gregorvero’s roaring voice out on the main deck. Final preparations were under way: the lashing of the guns, the stowing of supplies, sails and spars made
ready. “I am glad for you, my friend. But if the Lady della Rovera still lives, you may yet find yourself in harness and on the field.”

  Strykar shrugged. “So be it. But with fifty witnesses babbling about how they watched her slit Ursino’s throat and then ride off as if nothing had happened, I doubt she will be troubling Maresto again soon. That was some lovers’ quarrel.”

  “There’s a tangled maze of giant black roots beyond the city walls that say otherwise.”

  “Whatever evil she helped spawn is dead out there. I have walked it myself. It’s hollow, dried out and lifeless. The Witch of Torinia is defeated and so is her magic.”

  A muffled knock sounded at the door to the cabin. It was a liveried ducal guardsman. He bowed to Danamis. “Admiral, begging your pardon, my lord, there is a summons for Coronel Strykar to return to the palace. His palanquin awaits on the quay.”

  Danamis turned to Strykar. “Palanquin? Sounds like you’ve already accepted your brother’s offer.”

  Strykar returned a sly smile. “Half-brother, Nico, half-brother.” He shifted his leg to the floorboards and suppressed another grimace. “Come, my lad! Help me up and get me down to the dockside.” The guardsman rushed over to the table and hauled up the mercenary, though not really knowing what he should do. Suddenly he paused and turned back to Danamis.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, I almost forgot. I am to give you this.” He reached into his doublet and pulled out a letter. “It is from the queen.”

  Strykar cursed and reached for his crutch. “Hope that damned chirugeon set my leg proper. I’m still waiting to sniff a bit of rot and then that will be the end of it all. So, Nico, will I see you at court in the palace tomorrow? There’s talk of the prince returning to Perusia—and Alonso coming with him. To dictate terms of submission to Milvorna for their treason... and to sort out the mess with the Sineans too, no doubt. God knows who will rule in Torinia now that Ursino is crow food.”