by J A Deriu
Nico moved as quietly as he could, not sure if he was being quiet. The shape of the horse loomed in front of him. He had ridden horses before at his uncle’s estate when he was a boy, although they were ponies. These horses could not be too different, although he could not remember how he had done it. The overwhelming stress to escape forced him ahead, although he could not see where he was stepping. He stumbled. His head felt heavy. He reached out. The horse was not where he thought it was. He reached again and felt its smooth neck. It was calmly still. He stretched his arms around its body and tried to lift his leg over. He remembered the stirrups but could not see them. He landed back on the ground and dreaded the noise that he was making. He took long, slow breaths and hoicked himself over again. The horse moved with a few steps. Nico steadied himself by grabbing it around the neck. He tried to think plainly. There was nothing to hold. The Mongols had taken off the bridle and reins. It did not matter –
he needed to flee. He pushed forward with his body and shoved the horse to move. It only moved some steps sideways. He pulled on its mane. It made a whining noise. He also heard noise from the camp. He pulled harder on the mane, and the horse started to move. He balanced himself and grabbed tighter.
He looked around to see that someone was standing and holding above their head a lamp. He pulled a savage tug of the mane, and the horse complained loudly. He pulled again, and it started trotting. He kicked his heels into its belly, and it galloped. He was moving quickly away from the camp. He smiled and gripped tighter to stop himself from falling off.
He was certain that he was free. The wind was on his face. The ground was racing underneath. He trusted the animal would take him to safety. He kicked again when the horse had slowed, and he yelled at the fat moon a scream to express a feeling of freedom like he had not felt before. Abruptly, there was a powerful yank at his collar. He was pulled from the horse. He was airborne for a moment with the horse disappearing from under him. Then, he was on another horse. An arm holding him at the neck and another around his waist. He smelled the Mongol. He was held firmly, as if bound. The Mongol steered the horse without his hands. They turned back for the camp. Nico felt sick. The Mongol whistled, and the other horse followed behind.
The husband and wife watched him with sorrowful eyes as he returned to the camp. “I am not going with you. You can’t force me. I am sick of this,” he shouted. The Mongol shoved him off the horse, and he fell to the ground and landed awkwardly.
Anton moved to help. “Prince, there is destiny, for the fatherland, for God.”
Nico stood up and batted away his hands. “Get away. I am not going.” He rubbed the dirt from himself and returned to his bedroll, where he covered his head with the flap and closed his eyes.
In the daylight, the Mongols and the count and countess had readied themselves with no words. Nico held a hope that they would leave without him. He watched without moving. His hope was ruined when the Mongol reached out, grabbed his hands, and had them tied, before Nico had known what he was doing. He wrestled but could not loosen the binding. The Mongol moved him like a plaything, and he was once again on the horse in front of the tough man.
The count and countess mounted their horses. Regina yawned. “Well, I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to someone.”
Nico was too spent to say anything. He kept his face pointed down and looked at the ground glumly. They rode at a brisk pace. The sky cleared, and the sun beat through to warm Nico’s face. His tied hands sat at his crotch, bobbing with the movement of the horse. The Mongol controlled the horse as if it were an extension of his body. The terrain in front of them spread out, flat and featureless. The horse sprinted as if it had been caught by the wind. For a moment he felt the same freedom that the Mongol must have felt, until he looked down and saw that his hands were tied.
He looked behind. The count and countess were far behind. The Mongol riders were on each flank. The horses did not tire. For hours they traveled like this, sometimes stopping at a stream or puddle for the horses to water and the Mongol to chew on his dried meat sticks, passing one to Nico, which he held to his mouth with his joined hands. In the distance the undulation of hills could be seen, and the Mongol raced for them. Sheep, goats, peasants watched as they passed. The hill was dotted with trees and fallen branches underneath. The Mongol spurred the horse on and sat upright. As they neared, Nico could distinguish figures along the rise. The Mongol slowed with the other two filing at his side. It was men on horseback atop the hill, dozens of them, in uneven lines, watching them approach. They were dressed like Mongols and holding long poles with horsetails blowing from the top. They wore elaborate helmets, some with their faces fully covered. All had swords hanging from their waists and handled rifles.
They stopped. The Mongol leader raised an arm and held out an open hand. The horsemen quietly moved so that that were surrounded on three sides. The count and countess caught up and trotted alongside. There was silence, other than the wind and the breathing of the horses, as the Mongols looked at each other. The count and countess steadied their horses and looked nervously at the heavily armed Mongols.
The Mongols around them started a warlike howl coming from low in their throats. Some of the riders dismounted and walked to face the Mongol leader. They bowed with a quick jerk of the neck, said something, and kneeled.
“Ha,” Anton laughed wryly. He looked at the Mongol leader. “It seems we have been traveling with the khan.” He looked at his wife. “This is Khan Krum, the Khan of the Mongol horde.”
Chapter Ten
It was the same room where the political career of Councillor Conrad Vandergrift had come to an infamous end and hers had begun. That had been a shadowy night in contrast to the present, when sharp midday light from the fully opened windows glinted from the cutlery. It was the strange weather of the city, which a few minutes before had been talked of as a dreary day. Her guest was looking nervous, watching the white-coated waiters with suspicion.
Dagni’s eyes stopped at Ida. She leaned her head toward her. “I never thought I would be in this place. I can feel the hostility.”
“It is in your imagination,” Ida said. “I have long argued that this type of event should be more inclusive and not full of echoes. What is the point of a political day when everyone agrees?” Dagni smiled. Ida leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Before Newton starts talking and the opportunity for conversation is lost, I wanted to ask you about Inspector Milo and your thoughts of her.”
Dagni’s face was torn between a smile and a scowl. “That one is a devil,” she answered. “Would you expect any other answer from me?”
“No, I wouldn’t. And to honor that response, I have a gift for you in appreciation of your acceptance of my invitation. I cannot think of another from your group that would have accepted, not that I could have thought of another to invite.”
“You are kind, but a gift?”
“Yes. It is why I mention Inspector Milo.” Ida paused and took a long, deep breath as though she were hot-blooded. This drew Dagni closer. “The gift is information. There is a man I know – a journalist. His name is not well known, but he is a prolific contributor. He has uncovered information in regards to Inspector Milo. It is something he intended to print. However, I have goodwill with him, and the information is now at my choice. It is political capital, a gift.”
Dagni gaped and lowered her head to a conspiratorial level. “Are you offering me this information?”
“You will have it.”
“And can I ask – what does it concern?”
“Inspector Milo is a secret Mohammedan. She has been practicing the faith for years.”
Dagni’s face showed surprise, and she put her hand to her lips. “That is not a crime.”
“No, it is not. And most would not be bothered. For the Progressives it would even be considered something modish. But why keep it a secret? I would think if a Traditional
ist brandished this information, their standing would rise tenfold.”
Dagni produced a devilish smile. “You are not wrong. Inspector Milo is hated at the suburban-committee level as a blunt tool of the irreligious establishment. Anyone that would bring ick to her reputation would be admired.”
“Good. Then expect a contact from my man. His name is Cass, and he likes to meet, usually somewhere ratty, bohemian, with awful coffee.”
Dagni giggled. “That sounds exciting.”
The gnomish Councillor Newton stood at the end of the table, scarcely taller than those sitting. He held up a wine-filled glass for no reason other than to indicate that he was ready to talk. He had a buoyant posture. In the preview coverage of the event by the broadcasters and broadsheets, he had been the main topic of discussion. It was to do with him filling the void left by the Vandergrift demise. Only Ida and her unusual guest had nearly rivaled the coverage. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, before the lunch arrives – I can smell that it is on its way –
let me take this opportunity to welcome you to the biannual university political event. Across this vast and esteemed campus, the rooms, like this one, and the lecture halls, and meeting spaces will be turned over to the discussion of politics, and thousands of students, politicians, and operatives will join in these discussions. This year, with the onset of winter, and it looks like an extra-cold one …”
“He will ramble,” Ida whispered to Dagni with her hand over her mouth. Dagni giggled.
“In the midst of current controversies, this day and the discussions and exchanges of ideas are most relevant. One only has to read the morning newspapers to see that conflict is escalating. Last night, there were fights and violence at a Templar recruitment center, and dozens were injured with some struggling for life. The Templars are now boldly walking our streets with arms. The young and rootless are pulled into their fancy-uniformed lure. Other states have moved against them. The Riverina State has banned their recruiting activities. The Tasman Island has also made a strong condemnation. In our state the efforts for sanity are led by our greatly admired guest, Councillor Ida.” He held an open hand toward Ida so that all the heads in the room turned toward her. “Her campaign against these rogues, these anachronistic fools, is second to none. I have the sense that her legislative deeds are close to success. The Forum will not withstand her tireless lobbying – dare I say, crusade – I am certain that she will convince the most stubborn of minds” – he looked at Dagni – “of the merits of punching these radicals in the face.”
A quiet applause rippled among the guests who were seated along the mahogany table that extended the length of the room. Ida remained motionless. She glanced sideways at Dagni who had her hands joined together, and the edge of Ida’s lip curled to an almost imperceptible smile. Newton held his wine glass pointed at her. “Ida, I know you are consumed by this matter, but you must find the time for your maiden speech.”
She touched the wine glass in front of her. “I will, Councillor, I will.”
“Your friend here found the time, and we are still putting out the fires.”
Ida leaned back and watched the university dean stand, gently touch Newton on the back, and signal for the waiters holding the trays of food to enter. Through the open door, she could see the line of waiters. She looked at one of the waiters longer than the others. He stood holding his cloth tightly stretched between his hands, inspecting the line. He glanced into the room for a moment, his eyes gleaming. A familiar face? She thought for a moment. He ordered the others with cool authority.
Later, after the plates had been taken away and they were standing, Newton, with dour smugness across his face, approached Ida. “I am sorry to have heard of the misfortune that has to do with your husband,” he said. “Why Councillor Vandergrift orchestrated to have Pierre sent overseas is part of his bizarre legacy. Nonetheless, let me assure you that all the resources of the state are available to locate and safely return him.” He momentarily glanced at Dagni as if she were Ida’s exotic attraction and then refocused on Ida. “Did you see the commotion outside? The event has attracted crowds – not the desired type, though. I had to travel underground to arrive here safely. There were ruffians, the Christian Unionists, I suspect, as they have sided with the Templars in these controversies. And of course where there are the Christian Unionists, they will attract the Red Dawn, and they will brawl.”
“I have seen it,” Ida said. “Let them fight like the juveniles they are. It won’t influence what we do.”
“True, but chaos cannot be unchallenged. There are all types of strange groups falling into this vortex of violence. The Christians believe their time has come, twenty years too late from their much-talked-about millennium. The end times indeed.”
Shouts were heard from outside. Ida moved to the window with the others and craned her neck to see a squad of police hurrying past, batons in their hands. There was the sound of galloping horses in the background and the smell of burning coming into the room through the open window. Newton dragged a chair to the window, steered others out of the way, and stood on it so that he could see outside. “Shoot some of them. That will get rid of them quick,” he shouted down to the police. As if to answer him, the crackling sound of gunfire could be heard deep in the distance. His face instantly lost its cheekiness.
Ida brushed her shoulder against Dagni. “I’m sorry. It looks like it is going to be a not-so-pleasant day.”
Her guest did not look perturbed, instead calmly relishing the excitement. One of the politicians shrieked and claimed that she saw protestors on the campus lawn. “Not possible,” Newton assured her. “The police have cordoned off the university.”
“Something is burning,” the woman answered.
“Everyone, remain calm.” Newton held up his hands. “It is only the smell of the gas the police are firing at the protestors.”
There was a rapping at the door, and a concerned-looking university staff member came into the room. He found Newton and the dean and huddled in an intense conversation with them. Newton looked up and across the room. His fingers touched his thin lips. There were a dozen people left from the lunch, standing awkwardly and sensing the tension.
“What is happening?” one of the guests demanded from Newton.
“It is all being brought under control,” he answered.
As if to answer him, there was a sudden escalation of the noise from outside – the smashing of glass, angry shouts, and horses galloping.
“What is this chaos? Who is causing it?” the same guest asked.
“It is those bastard Templars,” another guest answered.
“But how? They are not rioters,” Dagni broke in.
“The Christian Unionists, then,” the same person replied. “They are supporters, and they know the Progressives have them marked. They are trying to intimidate.”
“It does not matter who it is,” Newton said, waving his hands as if to dampen the tension. “It could be any of a number of groups. We have seen that the Red Dawn is not reluctant to attack our gatherings.” He knowingly looked toward Ida. “We should be calm. We are the bedrock of this city. We must not show the slightest inclination to be thrown from our business by their tactics. Let us continue our meeting as best we can.”
The certain noise of gunshots was heard. All the heads turned to the windows.
“All right, perhaps not. If we look to evacuate, let us keep it orderly and dignified.” Newton turned to the university officer. “What is the best way out of here, man?”
Dagni was at Ida’s side. “This is not the Templars,” she said. “This is something devilish, as if our liaison has awoken it.”
“Don’t be overly dramatic or biblical. Stay with me. I will get us out of this mess. Ignore Councillor Newton,” Ida said.
Another university officer rushed into the room. “The university is under siege. Gather in the Great Le
cture Theater. From there a safe exit will be organized.”
“This is ludicrous,” Newton dramatically hollered. “We are representatives of the people! We should not be delayed by anyone.”
“There is incredible violence being wrought out there,” the officer replied.
An explosion was heard that moved the furniture, and through the window a plume of rising smoke could be seen.
Newton stared with disbelief. “Who dares to do this?”
“Sir, this is not a protest,” the officer said. “This is terroristic action. The City Legion is to be deployed. We have been ordered to safety until they arrive.”
The stairs were busy with others fleeing. Newton was next to Ida. “Stay close, Councillor,” he said. He turned to Dagni. “This is your rousers that have caused this.”
They stepped outside to see bloodied university security men sprawled over the campus green with smoke like a winter fog weaving between them.
“The theater is this way,” Newton said. Ida knew the path. She hesitated. Around her were the sounds of uproar. Moaning could be heard from the battered security men and women. They walked briskly. Newton led the group. “This is democracy that they are trying to seize and choke,” he said as they moved. A dazzling light arched across the path in front of them like a firework and crashed among trees. Dagni moved easily next to her, with no hint of fear or worry. Ida smiled at her. The bravado was appealing. She imagined the thinking of her political rival. The city always operated with tension and the threat of violence. Riots were common but usually short. The City Legion was ruthless and deadly in suppressing them. Yet it was true that in recent times, the inhibitions had been lost by all sides, as though some sinister force had stepped in.
The paths were cluttered with others fleeing the mayhem, students, and politicians. Councillor Newton was all powerful, a face known to all, and with the demise of Vandergrift, it was expected that he would ascend to the Governing Trio. Those fleeing were drawn to him. She moved in his wake like the others.
