Prologue
Barghal
lay the three berries on the table beside a small brazier. They glowed
in the heat of the charcoal. Within the shadow of the moving flame Gegli
fancied she saw herself as is when alone beneath the winding sky.
The
old man took an earthen-ware bottle, no bigger than a thimble, from his
bag, pulled the stopper with his teeth and sprinkled silver dust into
the flame.
“Tell me what you see child,” he said, tapping the cork back into the neck with his index finger.
Nothing
happened. Gegli felt only the heat sear at her cheek-bones and brow.
Then suddenly the flame flashed into an intense white light. Blindly
Gegli gasped, as the light worked through her mind cleansing her; like
bathing.
“Tell me what you see,” repeated Barghal.
Gegli steadied herself, placing her fingertips on the table as she sought the safety of the corporeal world. “Trees,” she said.
“You lie.”
“Milk.”
“Go on.”
“I can’t. I see nothing. Only the spirits of this place returning.”
“Very
good,” Barghal said, softly, “you show promise. Now let us see
together, so I will know if you lie. If you do it will be so much the
worse for you.”
Gegli shuddered, knowing Barghal worse than any warrior, knowing he knew more than simple death.
Barghal
took the first eye moist between his fingers and cast it into the
burning embers. “Look child,” his voice seductive with hidden knowledge,
“let us see what secrets this berry holds.”
Gegli
furrowed her brow, willing herself to see more than the shriveling
brain cord, the glazing shine of the crust, the fear of mirrored
darkness.
“See girl,” commanded Barghal, before changing his to tone with an invitation to, “see, don’t think.”
In
that moment of the berry imploding, when Gegli succumbed to the light
of the sun, she saw a man’s sandalled feet, the hem of his purple gown,
the carpet of the woods, and the vagueness of singing voices.
Without
asking, Barghal took up the second eye. “She was a sacrifice,” he
explained, “a woman pure and shamed.” Gegli nodded. “Watch again.”
This
berry was not so whole, longer gone, wetter and filmy. The vision it
gave was brief: a Sar man, tall, blonde, full-bearded with braided hair
hanging in plaits. His smile curved in sneer. Across the broken bridge
of his nose was carved a ditch-like scar from an axe.
“That is Neb,” said Gegli, “the man who came as emissary to my father.”
“You
learn fast,” commented Barghal, and then noting a smug expression begin
to spread on Gegli’s lips he snapped, “do not be prideful girl, or I
will carve the whore mark upon you cheeks.”
Instantly the mask of pleasure dropped from her face.
The last eye was the freshest, taken from the woman hung from the oak tree.
When asked this time, Gegli hesitated, swallowed twice, “my uncle,” she whispered.
The Horse Lords — 1 The Whispers of Wrens
“It’s
this way sir,” said the gaoler, holding out the torch to illuminate a
narrow side passage. Lukas peered into the gloom, and on toward the
pitch darkness beyond the light of the torch. “Oh, do mind your head,
the uh, ceiling is a little low.”
The
corridor was dank, condensation ran down the walls staining them green.
In places the walls were so narrow that Lukas had to turn sideways to
pass, and the ample frame of Mr Dove, the gaoler, could barely squeeze
through. Cave spiders scuttled to the shadows at their approach, their
webs hanging heavy and whiskered.
“He’s a negro, you say?” asked Lukas.
“He’s
certainly dark,” answered Mr Dove, “not your coal black, no. More, eh,
how shall I say, um: well Mrs Dove when she saw him remarked that, er,
he was not your, uh, ordinary. And, uh, when your predecessor — Lord
rest his soul — said we was to take special care of the lad, well, er,
that is what me and Mrs Dove did. Mind you step, here it gets a bit
slippy. So we moved him out here.” Lukas became aware of faint daylight
ahead. “Not many folks know about this bit of the dungeon. Not that many
of them think at all when , the uh, you know, the inconvenience is
applied. So Mrs Dove suggested it was as good a place as any, it being
neither too fat nor thin; oh, don’t mind the smell,” commented Mr Dove,
“it’s just the drains, and the stink of the butchery.”
“Butchery?”
“Yes
the town butchers,” continued Mr Dove, his voice cheerful, “if you look
up from the meat market all you see of this area is the drains emptying
down the side of the cliff into the Old Harbour. It’s quite ingenious
don’t you think? Some grieving relative comes begging for mercy and
demanding that a father or a brother be released from the dungeons. And
the Lord with a straight face can deny they are in the dungeons.” By now
the daylight was strong enough to see without the aid of the torch. “Me
and Mrs Dove have quite the chuckle over it. We’ve lost count of the,
er, dowagers and heiresses and what-not who have come to us begging and
weeping.” Mr Dove paused in his speaking for a brief moment, before
adding, “not that we is that kind of person you understand.” Lukas
returned a diplomatic smile that lifted the grave expression from the
fat gaolers face. Reassured, Mr Dove, began again in a mirthful gloating
tone, “you see, we in the know, call it the aviary, and the inhabitants
we calls the birds. Ah, here we are.” Mr Dove stopped at a gnarled and
aged door, before lifting the skirts of his tunic to retrieve a large
iron key. “I should point out, that even in these troubled times, it is,
the er, custom, to er.”
“Of course” said Lukas, handing over the agreed purse of monies.
Mr
Dove took the purse, weighing in his hand, “honour among thieves they
say. Not that there is of course. Of don’t worry about the, er, muck.
You can’t smell it in the bird-cage. Well, most days you can’t.”
Unlocking the door, Mr Dove beckoned Lukas to lead the way.
The
passage behind the door was short and lit by daylight streaming through
a circular window cut high into the stone wall of the room beyond.
Lukas made his way into the room while Mr Dove locked the door. Along
the each side of the room were three doors. Were it not for the scent of
blood, from the market below, the room had the chilled calm air of a
chapel or a sanctum.
“He’s in here,” said Mr Dove, brushing past Lukas to the second door on the right-hand side.
Lukas
turned to follow him, unsure of what he expected to see, and concerned
that his fears would be confirmed. So much had come to rest on the boy
that he half wanted him to be a more than a normal child; an
extraordinary creature perhaps, with two heads, or reptilian scales, or
some mark of distinction to place him beyond the ordinary.
He
looked into the hatch of the door through which food was served. The
cell was sparse, a bed of rough planks furnished with blankets. A table
on which were scattered oddments, a serving bowl, a few trinkets of toys
made of bone and wood. But nothing more: and no sign of any boy.
Then
just at the moment when he was about to turn away, there arose
snakelike into his view an unkempt mat of hair, followed by dark
piercing eyes that carried a tone of mocking fierceness bordering upon
madness. Lukas stared back.
“That’s the little fellow,” said Mr Dove, snapping the hatch closed.
“You said he was a negro.”
“Did
I? I don’t think I did. I said he wasn’t your normal child.” In
response to the sound of scratching at the hatch and whimpering from
within the cell, Mr Dove barked, “pipe down you devil,” and kicked the
door twice with the iron heel of his boot. “Lively little chap he can
be: quite vicious too; worse than a dog if you give him an opening.”
Lukas
pondered the situation for a moment. He thanked Mr Dove, and agreed to
retain the upkeep of boy on the previous terms; including the clause of
secrecy. They then made their way back through the tunnels to the main
dungeons, and each returned to their respective business.
Over
the next week the mood within the city changed. Increasing numbers of
refugees flooded in from the countryside with stories of bandits and
atrocities. Rumours began to spread of a horde larger than any in
history marauding over the countryside at will, burning villages and
farms. At night fires could be seen burning on the horizon, and all day a
pall of smoke hung over the forests like a ghost, or fallen clouds.
The
few messengers who arrived from the Imperial Palace, offered little
comfort. Either the messages were completely outdated and irrelevant to
the current crisis, demanding increased grain, or petty administrative
changes to civil service uniforms, and the like.
The
city council read these dispatches without discussion, occasionally
Ducas Barades would sigh deeply, usher a page to issue instructions that
the Warden of Lamps should now wear three silver cuff bands to
distinguish him from the Constable of Measures. But more often than not,
he would lay the missives aside.
Lukas
watched the council members closely. Teprisdos Vardus, the Master of
Coin, retained his impassive expression but he now went everywhere with
three bodyguards. Michael Pearl, Commander of Militia, had taken to
wearing a pendant of the War God, Ursus. The Spy Master, Tibald, was the
only council member whose behaviour had not changed in the slightest.
If anything he appeared to be revelling in the tension of the moment and
the obvious discomfort it was causing Ducas Barades.
Lukas
found Tibald a most curious character for he had the strange knack of
being everything to every-man at the same time. It was impossible to not
both like and dislike him, all in the same moment: just as he was both
utterly duplicitous and totally trustworthy.
After
the Imperial messages had been read, and a brief debate on the fate of
the Imperial force that had been dispatched but as yet not arrived.
Matters moved on to provisioning of a siege, should the rumoured horde
fall upon them. As the representative of the Merchant Guild, Lukas read
the prepared figures, as to the estimates of the food supply currently
within the city. This it was agreed was insufficient. Leading Michael
Pearl to demand more victuals, and almost come to blows with Teprisdos
Vardus over how such a purchase could be funded. So violent was the
confrontation that two of Councillor Vardus’ guards drew their swords to
half blade in warning, provoking the Militia commander’s own men to
match this threat.
“Gentlemen,
gentlemen,” cried the Duke, banging the table with the flat of his
palm: a clenched fist being more effort than he could muster. This
dissipated the confrontation and all retainers stepped back. “We do not
know if there will be a siege. Lukas Bombyx, tell me, is trade
continuing to arrive in the city?”
“It
is, your honour. My understanding is that the river and sea trade has
been unaffected. It is only wagon trade that has ceased.”
The
Duke nodded: and as if to prove some point, he took an olive from his
plate, wrapped it in salami before popping it into his mouth with some
aplomb. He slumped once more in his chair, looking from the one
protagonist to the next, like a weary father, before casting his glance
to Tibald who sat beside him rereading the Imperial dispatches. “Tell
me, what have you learned of these refugees?”
Tibald
made pretence of being startled from his reading. He brushed aside his
fringe, “it is all rather strange. They tell so many stories.”
“Get on with it,” growled Michael Pearl.
Tibald ignored the interjection, “they speak of new Gods.”
The quietness with which this was said echoed in the silence which followed.
Lukas said nothing for the rest of the meeting.
“How is you wife?” asked Tibald, when Lukas caught up to him in the corridor.
“You owe me money.”
“I
do,” Tibald agreed, “but we both know that what is coming, and money
will be of little use when it arrives. So, until then, let us make small
talk, for the benefit of walls with ears. How is you wife?”
“She is well.”
“And your daughters?”
“Thriving.”
“A
word of advice, I hear your doctor has advised sending your wife to
your villa in the Capital. It might be better for her health if you were
to follow doctor’s orders. Now, if you will forgive me, I have matters
to attend to.”
Tibald
bowed. For an awkward moment the two men stood like spare parts at a
wedding on the threshold of the Great Hall, before Lukas returned the
bow and departed.
At
the gate of the Ducal Palace a crowd had gathered to listen to a ragged
man preaching. His wild hair and beard marked him as a Hedge Vicar, his
home-spun clothes hanging loosely as a scarecrow only confirmed this
appearance. He cried aloud on sinners to repent with deep and powerful
voice of a man three times his size. His withered hands rent at the sky.
As he tilted back his head to implore once more, Lukas could see
clearly the raw red bands were a rope had cut the skin.
“We should go sir,” said Isaac, aware that eyes were beginning to turn toward his master.
“Is he…?”
“Ay,
one of the refugees. They like their religion a bit on the wild side. I
can’t say it will catch on here. Town folk like money too much to
bother with that sort of thing.”
As
they made their way across the Ducal Plaza, they saw more signs of the
wild religion the new comers had brought with them. A bald headed man
lay on the cobbles as two other men rolled a giant cartwheel over his
body, his cries of pain were a source of delight to the watching
children. Of equal delight to the spectators were three bare-breasted
women tied to stakes because the stocks. They sang hymnals as they
writhed under the lash of whips, rejoicing in the pain, and the
humiliation of drunks, both male and female, who broke from the crowd to
kiss them roughly, or cut at their belly and breasts with knives.
Cantineers
mingled with crowds selling apple brandy and scuff. Hawkers sold
ribbons and trinkets. And cut-purses and pickpockets sold
disappointment. For all the misery of the pain of children having
fingernails pulled in praise of their faith, the atmosphere was one of a
fairground.
Yet
as they moved from the plaza, and into the lanes, no happiness lay
there. Isaac kept his hand upon his sword hilt. For here lay women with
no hands, infants living and dead, wrapped within their cloaks. Grime
faced men, with haunted eyes, crouched on their haunches ready to spring
on the unwary. Passing militia kicked at bodies to check their
readiness for the handcart. And everywhere flies, and fights, and
cursing.
“Bow the knee, with the tolling bell,” muttered Lukas.
“Beg your pardon.”
“Isaac, I have decided that it would be better if you were to wear the colours of my house.”
“Take a pay cut you mean?”
“Must everything be about money?”
They stepped aside to allow the passage of heavily laden hay cart.
“Forgive
me, but you are a merchant, the richest merchant in Aballia. I am a
sell-sword, I like to think myself the best sell-sword in Aballia. You
hired me. And now you want to say that our relationship is not based on
money.”
“I am not asking you to be a retainer: just to look like one.”
“I don’t think so,” Isaac answered, “I’ve been a soldier and a slave, and all things considered I prefer being a freeman.”
“What if I commanded you?”
Isaac snorted, “if you didn’t have me killed before I got out of the city. I’m sure I could find work elsewhere.”
At
that moment a liveried servant came running up, the poor man was
breathless and quite red in the face, “Oh thank the Gods I found you,”
he said, panting.
“What is the matter Davos?” asked Lukas, without breaking stride.
“When you carriage returned without you…”
“I fancied a walk.”
“It’s the mistress,” said Davos, scurrying to catch up, “the doctor is with her.”
The Horse Lords — 2 Sacrifice
“Leave it.”
Margo,
in her tiredness, stared without malice at the round faced man looming
over her. “you are slowing us all down. Leave him.” Anger flared in the
man’s eyes when Margo made no reaction. He reached out to grab the limp
body of the boy that Margo was carrying. Instinctively she turned away,
causing the man to stumble and almost fall. He turned back to her,
“bitch,” he cursed, his voice growling like a dog.
“Jofrit,”
rebuked the woman, her face equally round, a feature emphasized by the
tight wimple of her headscarf. Jofrit took a step back. “Let me see the
child,” ordered the woman, taking control of the situation.
Margo did not resist.
The
woman pulled the boys eyelids upwards, felt his neck for a pulse,
pulled his chin down with her thumb and gazed into his mouth. Margo
watched the woman carefully, as a cow with a calf.
“They
are slowing us down,” repeated Jofrit, taking his knife from its sheath
on his belt, “it would be a blessing to end it here.”
The woman paid no attention to this, “there is no fever.”
“I can manage.”
“This isn’t your child,” said the woman, the boldness of the statement emphasised the accusation.
Margo nodded, “I can manage.”
“The child is very white.”
“I can manage.”
“Very
well. Jofrit leave this woman to her fate.” Jofrit waited for a moment,
but seeing Sister Luna would not relent, returned the knife to the
sheath. “Attend to the others. I shall take personal charge of… what is
your name?”
“Margo.”
“I shall take charge of Margo.”
The man wandered off, mumbling about the wolves.
“Thank you,” said Margo, as Sister Luna took her by the arm.
“You
are too young for this to be your child. How old are you? Fourteen?
Fifteen?” Margo offered no answer. “It is lucky we found you. These
woods are no place for such as you, and your brother.”
“He’s not my brother.”
“We are all brothers and sisters in the sight of the Gods. I can carry him if you like.”
“I can manage.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Ajai.”
The
chaos of the uprising had not reached the depths of the forest. The
small column of refugees threaded their way along the hunting track
through the cool morning. Though Margo struggled to carry the boy, with
the help of Sister Luna she managed to keep within touching distance of
the column. Only once did they lose sight of it. And only once did they
see a wolf.
When
they stopped to rest, Sister Luna had the men guarding the column rig
up two sleds with poles of their halberds and their cloaks. Onto one was
laid Ajai, and the other was used for a breast feeding mother still
tired from labour. This speeded up the party considerably. Margo
remained firmly at the boy’s side, striking out at anyone who tried to
touch him, except for Sister Luna, who monitored the boy’s condition
from time to time.
Shortly
before dusk they reached the line of a river. Here the path was wider,
and rutted with the pockmarks of riders. One of the guards was sent
ahead to warn of their arrival. Sensing safety the nuns in the party
began to sing psalms of deliverance.
“Don’t worry,” cooed Sister Luna, “you are safe now.”
Margo
took the boy’s hand, and squeezing it with the tenderness of a mother
comforting a baby, she said softly, “I told you. I told you.”
And
having said this, she turned on her heels and sprinted into the forest.
The act was so sudden that all Sister Luna could do was to call out her
name, and then to call Jofrit, and then to call out the girl’s name
again.
But
it was in vain, for in the fading light the girl had disappeared into
the deep shadows with only the breaking of twigs to mark her receding
flight.
Jofrit hurried across to Sister Luna, his sword drawn and ready, “are you alright ma’am?”
“Mother?” cried Ajai.
The
sister stared down at the boy, who had snapped into life, “be still, be
still,” she urged, resting her hand on the boys shoulder as he
struggling in confusion to rise from the sled. “Have no fear, the Gods
will protect you.”
Ajai
slumped back onto the sled, his eyes staring up to the sky, and to an
eagle turning lazy circles on the thermals of the dying day.
Just
as the last pink of evening slipped from the horizon they reached the
western gate of the monastery. The riders sent to meet them led them
into the enclosure, where they were met by a small crowd of the faithful
offering food, clothes, and welcoming alms. Those seeking refuge peeled
away with in twos and threes, and family groups, with the monks and
nuns who led them to the refectory, or the bathhouse, or the dispensary,
or to the bunk-houses. Only Ajai and Sister Luna remained when all had
dispersed.
“Are you hungry?” Ajai nodded. “Good, the Abbot lays a fine table, and would be most interested to meet you.”
Sister
Luna led Ajai to the Abbot’s house at the far end of the compound. It
was a two story stone building bearing all the hallmarks and ostentation
of a wealthy manor. Liveried monks, in tabards of blue and green
stripe, emblazoned with a white bear, guarded the flight of stone stairs
that ran up to the first floor entrance. After a moment a page called
Wirfrith appeared at the doorway and beckoned them to enter.
Ajai
was dazzled by the room. A roaring fire blazed in the carved marble
fireplace, the brightness of the flames lighting the gilded frescos of
the Gods portrayed in scenes of hunting, and war, and judgement. Golden
gargoyles grimaced from the rafters. Three lines of tables ran away from
the dais on which the Abbot’s table stood. Servants busied themselves
tidying away greased silver platters in which the picked carcass of swan
and goose sat like abandoned ships.
In
all this splendour, it took a moment for Ajai’s eyes to focus on the
figure of the Abbott and the woman who sat beside him. The Abbott was a
thin man, young, with a mane of yellow hair the colour of August corn.
His face was bardicly handsome, of the kind not to instill vanity but
easily to provoke jealousy. For it had none of the prettiness of women,
only the reassurance of masculine youth.
His
black clothes contrasted with the ivory of the woman who fawned beside
him. Her bejeweled figures appeared always to be attracted to him:
touching his arm, his hand, or resting to be close enough to feel the
warmth of him.
Sister
Luna led Ajai to the Abbot, who bid him sit and eat his fill from the
remains of the feast. Ajai needed no second bidding, and greedily piled
his plate with venison pie, swan breast, a goose leg, bread and cheese.
The
Abbot and Sister Luna talked in low voices. Ajai caught snatches of
their talk but in truth he was less concerned with filling his ears,
than he was of filling his belly.
“Come here boy,” said the Abbot.
Ajai
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; he looked dully at the
Abbot, perhaps so dull that before he could stand, the woman in the
ivory dress had risen. As she passed the Abbot her fingers trailed along
his shoulders and though the curls of hair hanging past his collar.
“Behind the ear,” offered Sister Luna, and added, “the left ear.”
Instinctively Ajai tilted his head to the side as the woman lowered herself to inspect his neck. “How did you get this?”
“Get what?”
“This birthmark.”
“I was born with it. I suppose.”
The woman straightened herself and turned back to the Abbot, “We must find the girl. And begin preparations at once.”
The Abbot’s green eyes sparkled like ravenous gemstones.
When
Ajai awoke, the morning had almost passed. His sleep had been
dreamless; or rather the dream that had awoken him had instantly faded.
He lay for a while staring at the whitewashed ceiling, luxuriating in
the smooth comfort of the feathered mattress, the coolness of the silk
sheet.
Wirfrith
entered carrying a large bowl of water and a towel draped over his arm.
“You are to wash and get ready,” he said, setting the bowl on the table
beneath of the window. “Come on, they need you. We mustn’t keep them
waiting”
“Were you watching me?” asked Ajai, swinging his legs from the bed.
“Of
course, my instructions were to let you sleep until. And when you came
to, I was to wash and dress you. Now come on. We haven’t got all day.”
Wirfrith
was much older than Ajai: a full head and shoulders taller. As he
lifted the shirt over Ajai’s head, Ajai caught the smell of a pungent
perfume from the water in the bowl.
“Arms
out, legs apart,” ordered Wirfith, and with that he began to wash
Ajai’s naked body, having nothing else to do Ajai stared of the window.
“Where am I?”
“Don’t
you know? The Dredfork monastery of course. If you look down there,
past the fishponds and on toward the forest, you can just see the
Dredfork’s.”Wirfrith briefly craned his neck to check he was correct,
“Of course you need a clear day. You can’t see much with this river-fog.
“
“I thought it was smoke.”
“You’re looking out of the wrong window if you want smoke. The fighting here is to the north and the east.”
“Are they going to kill me?”
Wirfrith wrung the excess water from the cloth, and stifled a nod, “of course not. What makes you say such a thing?”
“When
I was five, the villagers found an orphan in the woods. A boy I think.
They brought him into the village and fed him the finest food they could
find, and washed in him rose and sandalwood, before they dressed him in
a shift of linen, embroidered with flowers in silver thread. I don’t
remember much more. But I remember the flowers, because my sister helped
with their sewing. I knelt beside her while the maidens of the village
sat beneath the village oak, laughing and sewing and making wishes for
their husband. They did not object to my hearing their secrets, for I
was just a child. And, they enjoyed trying to frighten me.”
“The
silly superstition of simple folk,” sneered Wirfrith, recommencing the
washing of the boy. Then he asked, “are you an orphan?”
“No,” said Ajai.
“Well you’ve have nothing to worry about. Do you?”
“I can’t be an orphan, because I never had a mother or a father.”
“You
can put your arms down now.” Wirfrith looked at the birthmark behind
Ajai’s ear, but thought better than to mention it. “How did you get here
if you didn’t have a mother or a father?”
“An
orphan,” explained Ajai, “is a child that has lost its parents. That
boy we burned, they found him with his dead mother. But I never had
parents, so I can’t have lost them, and so I can’t be an orphan.”
“Is that what you are going to tell them?”
“I’m not afraid of death.”
“Everyone is afraid of death.”
“I’m not.”
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“You
are too young to fear death. Give it a few years and you will be like
the rest of us.” Wirfrith washed down the inside of the boys legs like a
groom with a pony. “Besides has anyone harmed you? No, they haven’t. So
stop imagining you are someone special.”
“My mother is an eagle and my father a stallion,” asserted Ajai, “so I can’t be an orphan, can I?”
Wirfrith
snorted with laughter, “Oh sure. And I am the Emperor’s eunuch’s
ballbag. There,” he said, “you’re as a clean as you are going to be. I
have lain out your clothes on the bed, Get dressed.”
Ajai
took the white linen shift from the bed. He could not help but notice
the garlands of peonies and carnations embroidered in gold thread around
the cuff, neckline and hem. His sister had taught him never to be
afraid. In the village he had fought much bigger boys than him, and win
or lose, he had always mastered fear, and never shown defeat: even when
it led to a second fight, or a third. Yet he could not help but see that
burning boy in his mind’s eye as he slipped the shift over his head.
Wirfrith fussed over him, adjusting the garment to sit smartly on his
shoulders, smoothing down the skirts and the bodice before fastening it
at the waist with a thin belt of calf leather that he tied into a
barley-knot. Lastly he placed upon his feet a pair of soft sandals.
Two
nuns joined them as they left the hall. Each carried an incense burner
of burnished silver, which they swung to scent the path both fore and
aft. A liveried monk led the procession beating a slow march on a drum.
And guarding them was an escort party of six soldiers with halberds.
Everyone
they passed doffed their caps, or bowed or curtseyed, but none looked
upon the boy directly. Though some moved their mouth in silent prayer,
or touched their heart with the flat of their palm.
The
route ran past the dove cotes and the granaries, down through the
orchards of cherries and pears to the fish ponds, then turned sharply to
pass through the embankment and over the ditch, before moving on to the
pastures of sheep and goats and into the woods beyond.
And all the while the eagle he had seen the day before turned in lazy orbit, watching.
Some
half a mile inside the wood, Ajai became aware of a great activity
ahead. Figures moved hurriedly as if engaged in an intense task, barked
voices calling instruction disturbed the silence of the wood.
As
they drew closer Ajai saw more clearly the clearing. The abbot and his
lady, flanked by a choir of twelve nuns, stood by a felled oak tree. The
tree had been cut flat at shoulder height. At its base teamed men, like
rats, digging and sawing at the tree roots, while forty more pulled at
chains, attached to carved loopholes in the tree, cracking and tugging
at the roots, as inch by inch they prized the stump from the ground.
Yet
more men laboured all around the clearing stripping the bark from the
felled tree top, hammering wedges into the wood to split the trunk, and
suitable branches, into planks and poles.
While
away from the forestry, a small group of men dressed from hood to foot
in black leather, fed and stoked a cauldron furnace. So hot was the work
that teams of boys scuttled back and forth from the beck with buckets
of water to douse the leather, and stop it singeing. Gouts of steam
rouse from the men’s clothing as they toiled at the red hot iron of the
pot-furnace.
And
at the centre of the clearing, at the feet of the Abbott and his lady,
had been dug a pit, one span wide and a span deep. Ringing it, labourers
still toiled digging a thigh-deep trench, they rapidly closed upon the
only obstacle preventing completion of the circle: the tree, tilting
ever further from the claws of the earth.
The
Abbot and the Lady turned to greet Ajai, who was led by Wirfrith to
stand at the southern tip of the circular trench directly facing the
Abbot’s party. Just at that moment the sun broke from a cloud-bank
sending a shaft of sunlight down upon the three of them. The nuns
watching took this to be a sign and instantly broke into singing a most
joyous psalm in praise to the womb.
“Lord
of Light, Lord of all things and all time, bless our work this day.”
And in saying the Abbot raised his arms to the sky. “Lord of Light, Lord
of all things and all time, bless us and cleanse our souls; for we are
but flesh of the flesh, impure and tormented, and bound to this bestial
realm of desire.”
The
shifting clouds licked at the face of the sun, causing the limelight to
weaken to a greyness like candlelight seen though beer.
At
this change the Abbot began to shake, his arms began to jerk, and
instead of the honeyed voice of preaching, when he spoke again his voice
was scratchy and tight, “I hear you Lord, tell me, oh recite- that I
might speak truth.” The nuns of the choir gasped as the Abbot fell to
his knees, the convulsions of his body increasing. No words came now,
only a rasping and gasping as if angels had taken him by the throat. His
eyes that before had rolled back into his head, now seemed to burst
from their sockets, and then he cried aloud, “prophesy is fulfilled. Let
us be true to ourselves at last. Prophesy is fulfilled”
The touch of his lady’s hand upon his shoulder triggered the return of his senses.
At
this confirmation of prophesy again the nuns broke into singing, this
time in harmonious melody to the slain and the damned who would sicken
and quake in the path of the righteous.
The
labourers who had ceased work to witness the miracle redoubled their
efforts. Some leapt from the ring trench to scrabble at the earth
holding the roots with their bare hands, or rushed to take their place
in line to pull upon the chains.
Ajai
felt a trickle of piss run down his leg. He sucked in hard to stop it
becoming a flow. Then he looked to the sky, to the eagle, and began to
doubt.
When
the Abbott regained his feet, once more the sun broke from the cloud
drenching the whole clearing in warm summer light; so clear that the
wings of flies glinted, and the beetles disturbed by the digging
shimmered in the dead needles and wispy grass.
“Lord
of Light,” intoned the Abbot, raising his hands to the sky, “free us
from our terrors. Let Heaven be here, Let Heaven be now, let us be more
than men.”
With
a groaning of muscles and a sighing of earth the tree broke free from
its bonds; crashing to the earth with an echoing thud.
The
vibration and the noise disturbed the last of the crows, who took to
the air from the trees all around, complaining bitterly.
The
men, now drunk with success, rushed to take up the strain of the chains
to drag the huge trunk towards the pit. The Abbott and his party
vacated their path with the deftest of dancers on a stage.
Crossing to Ajai they took him by the hand, to begin in procession around the clearing.
Now
the nuns sang of the morning: a carol that rolled off their tongues in
round with the heart-broken sweetness of skylarks. Around and entwining
their wrapped their lyric, picking up and dropping the lines of the song
with soft kicks of joy at the beauty of creation.
And
as they drew near to the fire, Ajai saw the implements of torture: the
tongs, the knives, the hammer, and the screw, all resting on an iron
gauze, heated beyond the red of ember: heated so hot that flame sparked
from the metal.
And still the eagle watched.
The Horse Lords — 3 Skirmish in the Woods
“I
fucking hate the north. I hate the flies. I hate the people. I hate the
fucking weather. And I hate this fucking food.” Lutx tossed the jerky
back into the bowl.
“I’ll eat it, if you don’t want it,” said Mertz, wiping millet porridge from his beard.
Lutx
straightened his leg to ease the pain in his knee. “Can’t a man
complain now?” He fished the strip of jerky from the mess of porridge in
his bowl. “Where are we anyway?”
“Here,”
observed Gimol, dryly. “That’s where we always bloody are. And that’s
where we will always be until some bastard sticks a blade in us.”
Lutx,
tugged at the meat with the good side of his jaw, trying to get enough
purchase for a bite, but fearing it would break another tooth he gave
up, “I’ll stick a blade in you if that’s what you want.” He set the meat
on a large flat stone, withdrew his knife and began levering the blade
to try to cut a strip. “What the hell is this?”
“Dragon,” said Gimol, “they say it tastes like chicken.”
Lutz
raised an eyebrow, “well at least it is something different.” At last
he cut the meat. He wiped the blade of the knife on his sleeve, “hey-up,
here, comes trouble.”
The
men at the campfire all looked up to see Ensign Favell approaching. His
uniform was clean and pressed: his armour buffed and polished. He
walked with the characteristic stride of a nobleman, proud,
self-assured, and slightly bow-legged from too much time in the saddle.
Behind him trailed his page, Aotur, leading their horses: Aotur was
almost as smartly dressed, and almost as inbred as Favell.
“Good day,” called Lutx, spooning the sliced jerky into his mouth with the back of his knife. “you are a long way from home.”
Favell
stopped a little way from the fire, by a log that he rested his foot
upon, “Armed men in a wood, far from the road.” He casually glanced
around at the trees, nodding, his bottom lip curled as if weighing up
some knotty problem. “Bandits would be the obvious answer. But you carry
too many scars to be bandits, so I’m guessing deserters.”
“Ay, but from whose army?” said Lutx, with a wink.
“I’m looking for a girl…” continued Favell.
“Aren’t we all,” interrupted Gimol.
Favell ignored the goading, “she may not be travelling alone.”
“That would be unwise in these parts. We haven’t seen her.” Lutx sniffed.
“I haven’t said who she is.”
“You
carry the emblem of the house Erelis. Erelis is a thousand miles from
here. I think we’d spot some run-away southern noble bitch if we saw
her. Has she got a price on her head?”
“You
should curb your tongue,” chided Aotur, “you are speaking to an officer
of the Imperial army. He could have you killed for your insolence.”
Gimol
cast a worried glance at Lutx. Lutx leaned forward and spat the chunk
of meat into the fire. He awkwardly stood up, “and who are you boy?”
Aotur
looked at Lutx’s smashed and slashed face, and knowing himself to have
spoken out of turn Aotur hastily apologised. Satisfied Lutx turned to
the Favell, who remained unmoved by the exchange.
“Enjoy your meal,” Favell said, turning to leave.
“Wait.
If we see this girl, what should we do?” Favell did not reply, instead
he mounted his horse. “You’re with the column? We saw it pass
yesterday.”
Favell reined in his horse, turning to Lutx he asked, “What have you done to your knee?”
Lutx
grinned, “it’s dislocated. Some dying farmer: I thought he was dead.
Took me by surprise: grabbed my ankle: my foot mud was stuck in mud: and
the fucking thing popped.”
“You can add to your list of injuries.”
“Ay, I’ll leave my body to a necromancer.”
“What did you do with the farmer?”
“I stuck a dagger in his head. And I twisted it to until his brains ran out of his nose like gravy.”
“And then you raped his daughters.”
“Us: someone; who cares who it was?”
“And having raped them, you killed them. Or you killed them while you raped them. The distinction is fine and irrelevant.”
“Us or someone,” repeated Lutx, slower this time, wary, “who cares who it was?”
A
dagger flew past Lutx’s ear, swiftly followed by the charging roar of
Mertz, his battle-axe raised. Favell reacted in time, leaning back in
the saddle, but Aotur was unready and took the blow, the dagger striking
him and digging into his shoulder. Favell drew his sword in time to
stave off the blows from Mertz’s attack. He swung his horse around and
in doing so sent Mertz stumbling backwards.
“What
the fuck,” sighed Lutx, drawing his sword and moving forward to support
Mertz, who once more attacked, swinging the battle-axe in wide arcs.
Aotur,
still with the dagger in his shoulder, spurred his horse into a swift
charge. Lutx sidestepped the charge, but Gimol was caught in the horse’s
path, knocking him off his feet and into the fire. Gimol struggled to
stand but was too slow, for Aotur had wheeled around to charge him
directly; the horse caught Gimol in the mouth with a front hoof as it
leapt the flames, bowling him backwards so as the horse landed on him
and trampled him as he fell unconscious.
The
matter was settled when Mertz overstretched in the attack and was
caught beneath the armpit by Favell with a well-aimed sword thrust,
which cut through to his heart. Mertz slid from the sword blade in
shocked slow-motion and crawled away like a man kneed in the balls.
Lutx
was now caught between the two riders. He crouched in defensive
position with falchion and dagger ready, turning as best he could to
face off against either enemy.
Gimol
lay dead. Mertz was still alive but coughing up strings of blood and
unable to raised himself beyond the a few inches from the ground to save
himself from drowning.
Aotur pulled the dagger from his shoulder and threw it at Lutx’s feet.
“Will you attack too?” asked Favell, struggling to bring his skittish mouth under control.
“Kill me,” growled Lutx.
Favell
smiled, “I don’t think so,” He sheathed his sword. “Tell me Aotur,
would there be honour in such a fight? Would they sing songs of me
killing a rapist and deserter who was also a cripple?”
“No, my lord.”
“No. I thought not. Tell me, what is your name?”
“Kill me.”
“Very
well, Kill-me, here is my bargain. I am going to continue my search for
the girl I seek. And then I will ride back to join the Imperial army
that is camped in the next valley. When I get there I will select twelve
of my best men, and they, along with my hounds, will bring you to
justice. Am I not a fair man?”
“Kill me.”
“I give you five hours head start.”
Lutx
watched the riders leave. He waited for a moment, weighing his options.
Whatever game was being played he knew of two lies that had been told:
there was no Imperial army camped in the neighbouring valley, and there
were no men of the south in that Imperial army. This he knew for
certain, having deserted from it.
He
sheathed his weapons and set about gathering their belongings. As Mertz
was closet, he rifled his body first, he took his money pouch, the
rings from his fingers, pulled his face from the puddling blood to check
for gold or ivory teeth. There was still some wear in Mertz’s boots,
and he took the leather jerkin just in case.
As
he stashed these items into a sack, Gimol began to stir. This stirring
was hastened by the sudden realisation that his hand was in the fire. He
snapped into a sitting position, looked around, and then as suddenly
collapsed with the pain in his ribs.
Lutx
slung the sack over his shoulder, “you’re alive then?” Gimol groaned
rolling himself in a foetal position. Blood ran down the side of his
face from the teeth he lost when the horse kicked him. “Some soldier you
are. You got beat by some unarmed boy. Get up.” Gimol groaned again.
“Mertz is dead.” Lutx kicked at Gimol’s feet as he passed, not a hard
kick, more a reminder, “We have to move.” Lutx drank a draft of water
from his flask, swilled his mouth, swallowed half and spat the other
half in his eating bowl to rinse out the porridge. He gave it a brief
rub around with his fingers and tossed the bowl, knife and spoon into
the sack. He tossed in a few other items too: the socks he had drying by
the fire, a felt hat, a bone handled boot brush. Gimol still had not
moved. “You have two choices, get up and come with me, or stay here and
take your chances with whoever that knight was.” Lutx held out his hand
to Gimol. The boy stared up at Lutx, looking every bit the callow raw
soldier her was. Gingerly he held out his hand. Lutx took him by the
wrist and pulled him to his feet.
“Why did Mertz attack them?”
“Fuck
knows, but grab his battle-axe, we might need it.” Gimol hobbled across
to the battle-axe he winced and gasped as he bent to pick it up. “It
will get worse before it gets better,” commented Lutx, inspecting
Mertz’s eating bowl. “Maybe he didn’t want to go back to the army. Maybe
he didn’t like the blokes face. There’s no point trying to read
people’s minds, especially when they are brainless.” He slipped Mertz’s
spoon into his belt and threw the cracked bowl onto the fire. Gimol
carried the axe back to the fire. He leant on it to regain his breath.
Lutx raised an eyebrow, “If you can’t walk, I’ll leave you. We are clear
on that?” Gimol nodded, wiping the bloody matted hair from his face.
“I’m not your servant.”
“Where are we going to go?”
Lutx
paused in his gathering of Gimol’s belongings. Though he had been north
several times, and had on occasion seen maps, he wasn’t familiar with
the region. When they deserted, their only plan was to escape the army
and then go south but that was out of the question now that they were
both injured. The nearest town to the south was at least one hundred
miles, and the countryside had been lain waste by the Imperial army as
they marched north on their mission to smash the rebellion. The
countryside was also against them, for beyond the forest was open
moorland and heath, which given their condition would be extremely hard
going due to bogs and marshlands: also they would be seen for miles.
“What was the name of the town the column was headed for?”
“Er… Abalabalia…. Something like that.”
Lutx
handed Gimol’s sack to him, “hang it on the end of your axe. If I
remember rightly there’s a monastery around here somewhere. We’ll head
for that.” Lutx pulled a leather bottle from his sack; he drank from it
and then handed it to Gimol, “Drink this.”
“What is it?” asked Gimol, sniffing suspiciously at the neck of the bottle.
“Soldier’s friend, it will kill the pain.”
The Horse Lords — 4 Purity Tests
“You don’t have to wear the veil indoors.”
Tande shook her head. “I am unclean.”
“Nonsense
child,” Fila corrected herself, “my lady. There is nothing unclean in
being more than a girl. It is a normal as… well the most normal thing
you can think of: like being ill if you don’t eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“This is the second day…”
“I tried it and didn’t like it.”
“And I am sworn to tell you your father.”
“Tell him, he doesn’t care.”
“That is a wicked thing to say Lady Tande, and well you know it.”
“Then beat me. I deserve it.”
Fila
fussed some of the food onto the plate and took it to Tande, who was
sitting by the window. In the gardens below her sisters Liyla and Vanna
dashed in the sunlight; weaving between the gardeners and the shadows
playing tig. “Please eat something,” begged Fila, placing the plate on
the sill in front of the girl. Tande looked up at the sympathetically
smiling face of her maid. She took a quail egg from the plate, and
taking advantage of the veil pretended to eat it, while actually
sneaking it into the décolletage of her dress.
“Are you happy now?”
“No,” observed Fila, “and neither will the laundress be.”
“I don’t care.”
“Tande!
Tande!” came the cry from the garden. Both women looked out to see
Vanna standing on the balustrade of the fountain. The feature was
narrow, running between the seats, but not so narrow that the girl
needed to play-act at being a tight-rope walker. She called again to her
sister, waving and smiling brightly.
Fila, chuckled and waved back.
While
Tande felt a malicious spite run through her. She managed to rein in
this jealousy and also the accompanying thought of ‘please don’t…”. She
dared not complete the thought but caught herself in time. But no sooner
had she breathed a sigh of relief, than the thought completed, ‘… fall
in’.
And
in the moment, Vanna caught her foot in the hem of her dress, and tipped
headfirst into the fountain. Her sister and the various servants rushed
to her aid. But the panic was for naught, for Vanna spluttered out of
the water laughing at their alarm.
“I’m
bleeding, I’m bleeding,” cried Tande in panic: rising from the chair
and dashing to the bed. She threw herself down, buried her face in the
pillow, and began to sob.
“There is no need for tears, I’ll fetch a fresh towel.”
“I hate it, I hate,” wept Tande, “everyone says I will get used to it, but they don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“I can’t tell you. If I tell you will hate me. You will hang me.”
“But what have you done?”
“I
can’t tell you,” screamed Tande, as she spun around to crouch on the
bed facing Fila. She threw back the veil from her face bathed in tears
of rage and pity, “Father will kill me if he knows what I have done.”
Fila
bit her tongue. She went to the toilet closet to collect a fresh towel.
“Do you remember what I told you?” she asked, returning to the crying
girl. “There is nothing shameful in it. Some think it a great gift, a
power even. My grandmother said it was the greatest power on earth.” She
held out the towel to Tande, who shook her head. “She said the blood
was good luck. She said that it made the power stronger for next time.”
“But I don’t want it to be stronger. I want it to stop.”
“It’s
when it stops that you have to worry. Come here,” she beckoned the girl
to come for a cuddle. Fila had been Tande’s nurse-maid and no one was
more of a mother to her than Fila. Tande crawled to her, partly by
instinct, but mainly because she saw no other thing to do: beyond rage
and scream; and wish to die. “Let me wipe those silly old tears away.”
She made play of using the towel, before fishing a handkerchief from her
pocket, “you mustn’t be scared. It’s the one thing we have over men. I
know it is hard to accept at first. But when you really focus, and get
used the changes, there isn’t anything that you cannot make people do.
Especially with these,” this last comment was made as Fila picked at the
crushed shell and egg between Tande’s breasts: broken in the drama of
hurling herself on the bed. “But you have to be discreet. And you have
to be careful not to be caught. You haven’t been caught have you?”
“No,” said Tande, emphatically.
“Good.
Well I don’t mean good, because a girl of your age shouldn’t be doing
it at all. But if you have to do it, then don’t get caught. And if you
are doing it, then make sure you bleed. Or there will be hell to pay.”
“Hell?”
“Maybe
not hell, but if you must do it, don’t just do it because you can. Do
it for the good of yourself or others. Make it a happy thing. The Gods
know, there isn’t enough happiness in the world.”
On
her way to her lessons, Tande chanced to meet Antonin lolling in a
chair by her mother’s chambers. “Ah! A Ghost!” he cried aloud, leaping
from the chair. “From our mother’s womb we tumble, born into this
troubled world. What mask has slipped in death, to show the world our
real face.” He bowed deeply, and elaborately.
“Do you mock me sir?”
“Me?”
“You.”
“Not
I. I honour you, my lady. The death scene of King Tarlas is a song of
praise to the virtue of the true woman. Perhaps you would prefer
something comedic or a song.”
“Stand
up sir. I do not wish to see your thinning hair.” Antonin rose from his
bow with the same flamboyant panache. “If you are seeking employment as
a fool, you have come to the wrong house. This is a merchant house, and
we have no need for extraneous luxury.”
“You have stabbed me,” Antonin said, clutching at his chest and mugging towards the imaginary cheap seats.
“Why are you at my mother’s door?”
“To
comfort her weary soul with the elegant sweetness of poetry, will you
join us? I am sure you presence would be a fairer comfort than the
anything the doctor might dispense. Perhaps the surety of your mother
might even allow you to show your face. And give to the world the
brilliance of our beauty.”
“What do you know of my beauty?”
“Nothing,
beyond the fabled tales I have heard of your radiance. For which I
cannot vouch, as I have seen nothing by a virgin widow in all the time I
have been a guest in your father’ house.”
“You
do mock me.” Tande’s voice was cold, “stand aside before I have you
thrown out with the other vagabonds cluttering the street.”
Antonin
stepped aside to allow the passage of Tande, and her maid. “Will you
come see the entertainment I have prepared with your sisters tonight?”
Tande ignored the offer, sweeping past the actor with all the distain a sweep of skirts could muster.
Instead
of going directly to her lessons, she went to her father’s Steward
Pautos. She found him in his rooms beside the kitchen corridor. With no
regard for who might hear, Tande upbraided him for allowing her mother
to be disturbed by such a loutish character as Antonin: before moving on
the subject of the wisdom of her sisters being encouraged to ape the
morals of actors by partaking in the foolishness of a masquerade, when
clearly they should be studying. Pautos meekly pointed out that her
father had left instructions that such activities were his desire: and
she had no authority in these matters.
Tande’s
temper was not improved when she reached her lessons to find that
instead of Mistress Englantine, she was to receive her instruction from a
moustachioed stranger, who introduced himself as Niepeldorp of Spart.
They exchanged brief words of introduction and clarification, during
which Tande learned that her new tutor was in sympathy with her own, and
her father’s, religious views. Something confirmed when he took a
pocket-sized copy of Oculus Autem Dei per Singula from his bag and
announced that it would be the text they would study that day.
“There
can be justice only in the justice of the Just. For only the Just can
know the way of the sky and the lay of the land and the true confession
in the movement of skin,” read Niepeldorp, his voice was swift, and
slightly breathless, “for justice is always tempered in the mercy of the
Just: for they do not know the will of the unseen, or claim to know, or
try to know. But, see with a singular eye, all that has come to make
them the true believer in the one true light.”
As
she listened, Tande wished for a sign; not in some childish manner,
like when she wished for pears out of season, but with a forceful
desire, that seemed to project itself beyond her: carrying that
permanent sense of what it was to be her away with that thought.
A
sudden consternation of voices rose up from the city, like a vast
intake of breath. Niepeldorp of Spart lowered the book and hurried to
the window. In the sky to the east a bright light appeared in the sky: A
blue light, smaller and brighter than the sun that sat in the western
sky. No planet ever hung upon that curtain of the heavens. And no star
neither.
Niepeldorp
smoothed his moustache nervously as he watched, before his fingers came
upon the waxed tip which they pinched at and twisted as he slipped into
deep thought.
And then Tande lifted her veil and the light disappeared.
“Shall we continue?” She asked, her tone calm and without of the brittleness that had plagued her for days.
