Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1)

by George Hatt

  “Thank you, Marek, for riding into the heart of danger to right the wrong that was done me. However, it isn’t necessary…”

  “But it is necessary,” Marek said. “These are dangerous times, and we cannot appear to be weak. A frontier warden must not be robbed of provisions in the dead of winter and not give swift retribution.”

  “You are right, cousin. But I nonetheless fear for your safety.”

  Marek shrugged. “We all must die some time. But I’m not worried. It’s a raid, not an invasion. If we run into any real resistance, we’ll turn tail and make for our side of the plain.”

  “But what if they follow you? They’ll come straight for Hearthstone!”

  If you keep whining, I’ll stab you in your fat belly and do Brynn’s work for them. “Do you really think they would be stupid enough to attempt a siege in the middle of winter? The Sheriff would be no more eager to try and crack your castle than I am his. It’s too fucking cold for such silliness.”

  Maybe Sheriff Cotrian will capture you and take you as a prize to Governor Drucilla, Marek thought. He smiled reassuringly at Rufus and drained his wine. Then you can annoy her to death, and we’ll be have the coming war half won.

  A small village squatted in the plains before the 150 men-at-arms under Sir Marek’s command. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the dour, gray little huts. The occupants had risen early and were starting their morning chores, no doubt.

  “This will do,” Marek told his standard bearer. “Signal the attack.”

  The knights galloped across the frosty plain in the predawn light. Marek had told Rufus’ men very explicitly that he wanted a thorough job done of the village. His own men understood what he meant when he said “thorough,” but he hoped he had explained himself clearly enough to the knights on loan from Rufus.

  It was a relatively simple operation. The knights encircled the village, set fire to the thatched roofs and cut down whoever came running out.

  Marek slowed his charger when he was among the burning chaos of the village and carefully walked the vicious beast from house to house to contribute his sword arm to the grim work of provoking a war.

  “Oh, you cheeky bastard,” he said, swinging his sword and breaking the head off of a pruning hook a half-naked man thrust at him. He then cut deeply into the man’s shoulder, grimaced at the sloppy blow he had delivered, then rode gingerly over the dying man to get at the woman and children struggling out of the burning house nearby. He felled the woman with a better-placed strike of his sword, but the children were too small and quick for his blade work.

  Mahurin’s balls. “Get those little bastards!” he yelled at everyone within earshot.

  One of Rufus’ men heard him and rode the children down. Their screams ended abruptly under the charger’s iron-shod hoofs. Good. They understood when I said, ‘thorough job.’

  Half the village was a smoldering wreck before the morning sun was very high in the cold, cerulean sky.

  “Burn everything,” Marek told his lieutenants. They were still mounted—there was no reason to unhorse. “We won’t plunder this one. There’s nothing here that’s worth the time we’ll waste pinching it. We need to hit one or two more to really get the Sheriff’s attention. You sick, violent bastards didn’t let anyone escape to tell of our awful deeds!”

  “You did say, ‘thorough’ m’lord,” his squire said.

  Marek clapped the squire on his armored forearm. “Aye, that I did. If you boys keep this up, we’ll be crossing the Mother River before the last frost.”

  He looked at the burning houses and the dead men, women and children littering the frozen mud paths, then smiled with the satisfaction of a laborer who has put in a good day’s work. Cousin Rufus, we have avenged you your stolen chickens!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Mithrandrates

  Mithrandrates slid Garon a stack of papers and parchments across the table in the Emperor’s Library. “You wield my authority again today, Black Rod. See that these matters receive due attention.”

  “I am honored to, my Emperor,” Garon said, taking the stack.

  “And these,” Mithrandrates said, handing Garon a leather cylinder, “are the latest troop movements in Relfast and Brynn. Study them, and give me your detailed analysis.”

  “I will do my best,” Garon said. “However, you have the better head for strategy and tactics. I question the utility my uninformed opinions will provide to you.”

  “Garon, every graduate of the Imperial Academy knows the secret to mastering strategy. Simply put your men where the enemy’s men are not, then burn everything in front of you until the other side sues for peace.” Mithrandrates smirked. “We are sworn to secrecy lest everyone know how simple military strategy actually is. Any idiot can successfully conduct a war, if he but grasps this single concept.”

  Garon took the scroll case. “That is strategy, my Emperor. And tactics? Are they as simple?”

  “No,” the Emperor replied, smiling enigmatically. “Tactics are the bugbear of young commanders until they learn to let bad weather and poor roads do most of their work for them. But I have perhaps revealed too much already.”

  “I will draw the information contained in this case on your map table, and leave it at that,” Garon said.

  “Thank you. That is all I really need.” Mithrandrates drummed his fingers slowly and rhythmically on the table. “With all of the work I am pawning off on you lately, you are gaining all of the practical experience you need to be Emperor, instead of me. You are cunning enough to be good at it.”

  Mithrandrates stared at Garon, keeping his face neutral but taking in every detail of the Black Rod’s body language and facial expression. Garon returned the stare.

  “I would not be Emperor of Mergova even if you threw in half of Supernia and opened up the sea lanes between the two,” Garon said. “I much prefer your sword at my throat to the thousand hidden knives pointed at the Emperor’s back.”

  “Your wisdom makes you doubly qualified to be Emperor, Garon,” Mithrandrates said. He stopped drumming his fingers. “Tell me truthfully, what do you think I have been doing lately when I beg off my duties and ask you to manage my empire?”

  “Whatever it is, Emperor Mithrandrates, requires a clear mind, total concentration—and absolute obedience to Lady Madeline,” Garon said, cracking a faint smile. “It is not my place to pry or otherwise interfere.”

  Mithrandrates nodded, then handed Garon one more piece of paper that was folded and sealed with wax.

  “Here is a coded message that was hand delivered to me earlier this morning. You will find today’s cipher in my strongbox,” the Emperor said. “Take any action you see fit, and report to me tomorrow—verbally. Commit nothing to writing.”

  “Very well, my Emperor.”

  Lady Madeline was waiting for the Emperor when he entered his study, a room in the Imperial Citadel that even dukes would be honored to have for a library.

  “Has your task been accomplished?” she asked in a tone appropriate for a teacher to her student, not a subject to her sovereign.

  “Yes, Lady Madeline,” he replied, sitting in a chair across from her. “My other courtesans have been dismissed.”

  “Good,” she said. “Have you masturbated this morning?”

  “Yes.” The question did not embarrass or surprise him in the least.

  “Good. It will be the last time for quite a while. This stage of your initiation will require total abstinence from carnal pleasures for a year and a day. If your willpower lapses at any time, you will need to start over from the first day.”

  “‘Will is the power of vir, and the key to the power of all,’” Mithrandrates recited.

  “Yes,” Lady Madeline said. “As you abstain from the pleasures of the flesh, and scrupulously follow your assigned exercises and meditations, you will begin to internalize this maxim. It will become inscribed in your physical being, much the way your skill with the sword the saddle are.”

  “
And the First Maxim? ‘All suppositions are true in some since,’ and so on? I struggle yet to truly understand it.”

  Lady Madeline smiled kindly. “You will do so with the First Maxim for years to come. In fact, when you think you understand the it, be especially wary. In this field of study, a little understanding is more of a hinderance than none at all.”

  “It is frustrating,” Mithrandrates said. “When I think I have grasped this wisdom, I am merely fooling myself into believing I understand. My hubris will lead me to believe I know what is actually unknowable—to my grief and undoing, I’m afraid.”

  “From what I have read in your magical journal, that will not be a problem for you,” Lady Madeline said. “Your diligent study of the Knowledge Lectures and your experience as a battlefield commander will guard you from that fallacy. You are, however, more susceptible to an even more dangerous fallacy—grasping part of a truth while thinking you have the whole. Remember the rabbit’s last words: ‘Aha! How clever I am,’ he said as the eagle sank her claws into him. ‘I knew that fucking bird was around here somewhere!’”

  Lady Madeline straightened in her chair and fixed the Emperor with an intense stare. “Enough with parables of animals. Recite the Wheel of the Sephiroth, and give me the corresponding emanations and aspects.”

  Mithrandrates began without hesitation. “The First Sephira is Mahurin, the Sun. This is the sephira from which clerics draw their vir, and is the sephira of transcendent will.”

  “Next.”

  “Then come the three Druidic Sephiroth. Udric, the Pole Star, is the power of the Air Element and represents the will to evolve. Next is Kyn, the White Moon which governs the power of Water. It is the sphere of self mastery. Taer, the Red Moon, is the power of Fire and the will to strive in conflict.”

  “Good,” Lady Madeline said. “The Esoteric Sephiroth?”

  “These are the sephiroth from which hermetic mages draw their power,” Mithrandrates said. “First is Discordia, the secret name of the Chaos Moon. Its power manifests in the randomness inherent in existence. It is the Will to Bliss. Absurdia is the planet Barshsazza; it is pure, untamed vir that manifests the impossible. Absurdia represents the sexual will. Finally, there is Disciplina, ruler of the planet Taza. Whereas the vir of Discordia is unbridled energy, the vir of Disciplina is pure form. The mental aspect of this sephira is the will to understand, to organize information into knowledge.”

  “And the last two sephiroth?”

  “Fentress, the sephira of the material plane. Its mental aspect is the will to possess, and its power is the magic of alchemy. Finally, there is the Null Sephira, the negative and unseen. It is the void of no will and the infinite well from which natural sorcerers draw their power.”

  Lady Madeline smiled and leaned back slightly. “Very good. Now,” she smiled impishly, “do you believe all of that?”

  “Why, Lady Madeline, all suppositions are true in some sense, false in some…”

  “Bullshit. Give me a real answer.”

  “You understand that I learned to ape this mystical claptrap expressly so I can rise in the ranks of the secret society that has infiltrated, as far as I know, every sphere of power and influence in my empire.”

  “Yes. I know. We know.”

  Mithrandrates sighed and rubbed his eyes. “But on a lark, I began looking at the intricacies of governance using the lens of the Sephiroth, and I soon began finding more and more connections between the strange occurrences that I used to call coincidences—and not the ‘coincidences’ that have human fingerprints on them.”

  “Certainly,” Lady Madeline said. “Any fool can deduce what happened to a lost grain shipment or a strategically delayed message, if the fool but knows who stands to benefit.”

  “Indeed,” the Emperor said. “But I am discovering associations between supposedly unrelated events. And I am guessing correctly and making right decisions based on those associations.”

  The Lady nodded. “This will only increase as you master the Order’s numerology system, as well as the more esoteric symbol systems you have yet to learn. You may never learn to directly manipulate vir power, to bend reality and cast spells. That is purely a function of the effort you put in your studies and meditations. But at the very least, you will learn to intuitively feel the significance between seemingly unrelated events, even if you cannot explain your conclusions using conventional logic.”

  Lady Madeline stood. “We are teaching you a different form of logic, a language by which you can explain those meaningful coincidences that are helping you pierce the fog of politics. I now leave you to your mediation. Think deeply on the number five, and all of phenomena that are directly or indirectly appropriate to it.”

  This is pure nonsense, Mithrandrates thought as he settled onto a cushion on the stone floor. He inhaled, held it, and exhaled—a cleansing breath. Pure nonsense, and therefore the realm of Absurdia. Who is one of the three hermetic sephiroth. Goddess and sphere of emanation all at once. Metaphor. And the Material Sephira and the Null Sephira make five, five of the nine total. Or eight, excluding the Null. Five and three, three and two are five…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Barryn

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Jasmine asked Barryn as he packed his traveling clothes in a waxed canvas bag. She sat on the edge of his small bed reading the letter of recommendation Barryn would carry with him when he left to join the mercenaries at Falgren Keep. It was signed by Lady Tethys herself.

  This was the last day of Barryn’s yearlong service to the House of Portia, and she had seemed honored to write the letter sending him on his next journey. But Barryn had caught just a hint of sadness when she had given it to him earlier that day.

  “Rumors of war are flying everywhere,” Jasmine said. “And not just in the ladies’ beds, when careless tongues wag in the afterglow. The whole city is on edge.”

  “I know,” he said. “The signs of war are all around. Shopkeepers are hoarding staples, and the City Watch is losing men every day. The Guild mercenaries won’t have anything to do with the deserters, but the free companies will gladly take them.”

  She laughed mirthlessly and set the letter down on the bed. “What have we done to you, Barryn? You were so innocent and unsophisticated a year ago. Now you can talk to women without stammering and read the omens of political turmoil like a jaded diplomat.”

  Barryn paused and looked at Jasmine, a vague grin creeping across one side of his lips. “The ladies at the House of Portia have had a very civilizing effect on me.”

  “Certain ladies more so than others,” she said. “Lady Tethys got very little work out of you after Lady Sanguina got ahold of you.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “A little.”

  The answer took Barryn by surprise. Before he could gather his thoughts, Jasmine changed the subject. “What was it like growing up a heathen? I always wondered, but we were both too busy with our duties for us to talk about it. Are the mountains beautiful?”

  “I only saw them up close once, when I was on my vision quest at the Sacred Springs. And even then, I was only in the foothills,” Barryn said. “But yes, they are beautiful in the distance, Jasmine. Especially when the sun is setting behind them and the clouds seem to be on fire above them. But they’re also frightening. When I was still among the Caeldrynn, we spent a great deal of my life trying to survive amid the powers that created those mountains.”

  “Is it hard to appease your gods?” she asked. “The ones we abandoned in the Empire long ago?”

  “There is no appeasing them,” he said. “We just try to live in harmony with them as best we can. We thank them for the blessings they give us. Even the poorest among the Caeldrynn rarely go hungry because the woods and fields are so bountiful. And when the gods do smite our villages with floods or fires or storms, the survivors pray for strength and then rebuild. Neighboring villages and clans will send help as best they can. I’ve seen entire villages destroyed and r
ebuilt. The gods destroy, we band together to rebuild, we enjoy the bounty of the land for a time. And then the gods strike somewhere else.”

  Barryn turned his attention back to his packing. He rolled a dark green wool cloak into a tight packet and stuffed it in the bag.

  “The Caeldrynn sound more civilized than we are,” Jasmine said. She picked up a shirt and carefully folded it for him. “Why do you want to fight in this stupid war? It has nothing to do with you.”

  “For the same reason I can never go back to the Caeldrynn,” he said.

  Barryn’s secret was one of countless that were guarded in the halls of the House of Portia. He had blurted it out to Lady Sanguina while in his pain-induced trance; he now gave it freely to Jasmine. “Deva Ashara appeared to me while I was training to become a druid. She claimed me. She took me away from my home, my people. Away from everything I had ever loved or known before. And now she is leading me to the Black Swan Company. When it’s time to part ways with the mercenaries, Ashara will guide me to wherever she wants me next.”

  “I’ll never understand religious people like you.”

  “Oh, I’m not religious,” he said. “Not anymore. Religious people worship their gods, and I don’t worship Ashara. I just do what she tells me to. I’m afraid not to.”

  Barryn paused and looked at Jasmine. “But I’m finding that she gives me strength, too. It’s just enough strength to get me through whatever hell she leads me to, but I revel in it. Strength is one of the kindest blessings the Mighty Ones can give us, and I’m grateful to Ashara for it.”

  Barryn wore his best clothes to the celebration that night in the great hall of the House of Portia. It was a very special occasion, and he wanted to look his best on the night that Jasmine was to be accepted as a full-fledged member of the Courtesans Guild.

  The evening began with feasting, drinking and music. Barryn sat at a table in the front with distinguished guests and family members of Guild ladies, and he felt bashful and awkward for the first time in months. Everyone at his table held some title of nobility or was otherwise incredibly wealthy. The guests looked like a field of wild flowers swaying and bobbing in the wind, such was splendor of their finery—wildflowers dining and drinking and chatting merrily in an illuminated cavern of splendor.