“Dthor-Aid’n that would please me greatly.”
He left me then in the company of the guard and made his way back towards the barracks.
“Ez’n?”
I turned at the sound of the guard’s voice. The young man was holding the door open, and it was only then that I realised I had been standing staring across the square long after Dthor-Aid’n had disappeared into the shadows.
“Is everything well?”
“Yes. Yes, Malek,” I was just lost in thought.” I answered, though I had no idea what I might have been preoccupied with for I had no memory of what I might have been thinking.
†
CHAPTER 12
MORLANS
DAWN BROKE to a cacophony of clattering hooves, clanking armour and voices raised as commands were shouted over the din. I sat bolt upright in bed, startled by the suddenness of the noise and clambered out of bed. Grabbing my dressing robe I strode out into the main lounge where the servants had all gathered on the balcony and were staring down into the square.
“What in the nine hells is going on?” I demanded, angry at being woken by such a din before the sun was scarcely risen.
Jae’nt turned to face me, jostling the others to do likewise. “The Morlans—or at least a vanguard,” he told me. “I counted about twenty men with what looks like four ranking officers and some followers. There’s also one that looks like he could be Royalty.” The Prince added.
“The Crown Prince Markos?” I asked.
“Probably,” Jae’nt answered, “he’s about my age.”
I stared down into the square where the palace guard were engaged in trading insults with the Morlan infantry. I turned quickly and strode towards the door grabbing my thobe from Aarin almost before he had entered the room and threw the garment over my head before hurrying down to the quadrangle with Jae’nt hot on my heels trying to throw my cloak over my shoulders.
There were, as Jae’nt said, about twenty men, ten cavaliers and ten infantrymen; a mixed bag of hoplites, javelineers and archers and, to my surprise about half a dozen shield maidens, and not Followers as Jae’nt had supposed. I was aware that Morlan women occasionally entered the warrior ranks, but I had never actually seen them. If the stories were to be believed, these women were every bit as deadly as their male counterparts and on occasion were even more so.
In the square the palace guard continued to hurl abuse at the new arrivals yelling the vilest insults I had ever heard come from a soldier’s mouth and the avalanche of obscenity continued until the men caught sight of me approaching. I reached the head of the throng just in time to hear Aenar yell something frightful at one of the cavaliers.
“Provost! Bring your men and yourself to order at once!”
Almost instantly the gathered soldiers dropped to one knee and Aenar went as crimson as the Morlans’ cloaks before joining his men in formal genuflection.
“Ha! A pretty sight,” one of the cavaliers shouted, “men under the thumb of a mere boy.”
“Well,” another rejoined, “leastways under his tunic!”
I ignored the taunt and turned to Jae’nt “Go over there and invite the ranking officers and that suspected Prince to break fast with me and then get over to your father and make sure he is aware that these men have arrived.”
Without another word I turned on my heel and returned to my chambers fuming both at the conduct of the royal guard and the attitude of the Morlans which had probably contributed to the altercation.
Once back in my chambers I threw off my thobe. “Tea,” I said to Iannos. To Jalin, “Dress robes,” To Aarin and Alna, “Breakfast for five.” The servants scattered like leaves before a wind, and I went out on to the balcony to observe a much more sedate and polite scene. The men were now engaged in showing the Morlan horsemen to the stables while yet others began to direct the vanguard to the soldiers’ refectory and common areas.
I watched carefully as Jae’nt paid his respects to one of the ranking foot soldiers before approaching the young man who had been pointed out to him. The pair exchanged formal salutes before Jae’nt was introduced to the officers. The formalities over the two Princes shook hands and Jae’nt led the men into the apartments.
By the time I was dressed and seated in the reception room the delegation were just coming through the foyer. I rose and moved to meet the men as they entered.
“Gentlemen,” Jae’nt said with careful formality, “May I present Ez’n-Kyr Meriq ibid-Syrrith, Master of the House of Zetaria.”
The youngest member of the group stepped forward. He was a dark haired quite swarthy young man, hardly much older than Jae’nt but clearly as seasoned a fighter, and quite tall for a Morlan, due in part, I guessed to his mixed blood—provided by King Keelan’s first wife, a Medran Princess from the northern states. His eyes were dark and green as the Medran veldt and held mine with a disquietingly frank appraising gaze. His face was well-sculpted and sharp boned, a quality that would maintain his looks for many years—much like his father I supposed.
“Which explains the earlier behaviour of the guards,” the young man observed, giving a nearby veteran a pointed looked. “I am Markos, Crown Prince of Morla.” He introduced the various captains in turn, “And this,” he said finally indicating the cavalier who had taunted me earlier, “is General Korlaq, my commander-in-chief.”
I have no idea what it was about the man possibly his earlier insolence, but I instantly disliked him, and it seemed from his expression as he bent his knee to me, that the sentiment was returned ten-fold. I signalled to Aarin who stepped smartly forward.
“May I take your cloaks, sirs?”
Markos gave a little crooked smile and Korlaq seemed to smirk. “We are not exactly dressed for the occasion, Ez’n-Kyr.”
“I am sure that etiquette will survive,” I answered amicably.
“If you are certain, my lord,” Markos answered and threw off his cloak.
Aarin caught his breath and there was a startled gasp followed by a crash from the kitchen doorway as Alna dropped the tray she was carrying. The girl, now redder than rubyspike tea, gabbled an apology before grabbing up the tray and the shards of pottery and running back to the kitchen to get a replacement.
Markos and his companions were dressed in what I supposed passed as combat wear in Morla, but which even the denizens of the Moon’s Mask might balk at wearing.
The breastplate was no more than a dark red leather harness decorated with golden studs joined over the sternum by a long metal plate from which radiated several spines that curled around the soldier’s chest to protect his ribs. Their girdles were of strong black leather, moulded to a degree of anatomical correctness that might be considered obscene in some cultures for it left nothing of any consequence to the imagination. The garment, if it could be called such, curved high from the groin to the buckles over the crest of the hip and cutting in over the curve of the buttock. Their boots were tightly strapped to the knee and, like their harnesses, were dark red armoured with gold plates hammered to protect their shins and knees. All of the men were well muscled, each with such sharp definition that they looked as if they could have been carved from amber. And even Korlaq, who was clearly a veteran of at least fifty cycles or more, had lost little of his impressive physique to age.
I gave Markos a smile and gestured towards the dining room.
The prince placed his hand on his cloak and glanced towards the kitchens. “Would you prefer us to be covered, Ez’n? I am aware that our dress is a source of embarrassment to some.”
“If you are comfortable as you are Prince Markos, I am comfortable with you as you are.”
Korlaq muttered something under his breath that elicited a sharp retort from Markos. The man titled his head in deference and said nothing more through the entire meal.
The king arrived unannounced at my chambers with Jae’nt and Balten just as we were finishing breakfast and was obviously as unprepared as we had been for the appearance of my guests.
&
nbsp; Markos made a formal genuflection to the king and his sons, dismissing Janir’s apology for being unavailable to meet him personally on his arrival with a grace that clearly surprised the king and even more obviously irked Balten. Jae’nt’s expression was simply one of stunned disbelief. He clearly had no idea of how the Morlans were dressed; their ample cloaks had hidden everything from view.
“You might have warned me they were naked,” Janir said to his son as Aarin escorted the men through to the lounge.
“Forgive me, father, but I did not realise how sparsely covered they were. I suppose it is as well to be as unrestricted as possible in battle.” Jae’nt said.
The King peered past his son’s shoulder as Markos disappeared into the lounge. “The coverings of a Polisian pleasure boy are sparse and one can still at least enjoy the anticipation of uncovering his favours. That,” he gestured in the direction of the lounge, “is well beyond sparse.”
“Why Sire,” I said as the princes moved into the lounge to join the Morlans and I was certain they were out of earshot, “I had no idea you could be such a prude.”
Janir gave me a mischievous grin, “Not at all Ez’n,” the king whispered confidingly, “It would not be proper to let my sons know how heartily I approve. But I feel we shall have to insist that they remain cloaked on the streets lest riots break out.”
“You believe that Zetan decency may be outraged, Majesty?”
“Something like that,” the King said artfully, “but I fear that if all the Morlans are as well constructed as our guests they will not survive to see the campaign—they will be killed in the ensuing stampede by citizens seeking to employ their less martial qualities.” Janir frowned slightly. “I have to confess, Ez’n, I do not remember them ever being quite so exposed.”
I laughed taking the king’s arm as he offered it and went with him into the lounge.
The interview with Markos went well. It transpired that he and his men had travelled on ahead of the main force, much as Jae’nt had thought to act as a vanguard and first point of contact while the main force marched on. Markos and his contingent had left several settans before Keelan and the main army braving the worst of the weather so that suitable quarters could be prepared. It turned out that a quarter of his original force had perished on the march when the troops were caught in the recent vicious cold snap.
Janir made suitable commiserations ordering that our priests should offer up prayers immediately for the safe passage of their souls to the Hall of Heroes.
“It is not our way to honour the weak.” Korlaq said, “They were . . .”
“Soldiers who died in the service of their King,” Jae’nt said, quite forgetting himself and his current lack of rank, “as all soldiers do. It is a matter of honour to pray for them.”
Janir ignored the unprecedented interruption and simply nodded. “As my son says, General Korlaq. This is our way. And your men were our allies after all.”
“Your words are kind, and well met, King Janir,” Markos said cordially.
The conversation moved then to how the Morlan troops were to be accommodated. The force was some two thousand men initially, the main force would join up with the Zetan army at the mountain pass into Mederlana. When the merged forces of Zetaria and Morla moved on into the country it would be as an army of almost fifty thousand.
It was decided that the Morlan Royal Guard would be housed in three of the disused city barracks each of which could provide comfortable lodgings for up to two hundred men. Work crews would start preparations to receive the soldiers immediately and others would be formed to provide a barbican just beyond the city walls to provide the remaining army with protection from the multitude of wild animals that roamed the Zetan plains and who would be ravenous after the harsh exactitudes of winter.
“We are not afraid of a few wild dogs, King Janir,” Korlaq stated, “We have no need of a fortification. It is not our way to hide from danger.”
“You have clearly never faced a Zetan tusk-bear have you General?” Janir said pointedly. “It is twice your height, three times your strength and its jaws can crush a grown man’s head like a melon. At this time of year they have even been known to breach the city and snatch full grown men, experienced guards no less, from their boxes in broad daylight. Be advised, general, your men will need the barbican if they are to bivouac safely outside the city.”
“You must excuse my general, Majesty,” Markos said genially, “he is a little dogmatic regarding our traditions.” He turned to his commander. “General Korlaq, it is true we are a hardy nation—we did not grow to be so by being a foolhardy nation.” Markos’ tone was friendly but there was an edge of reproach to it that made me think that the young prince probably had his work cut out for him keeping the man under control.
With the meeting at an end and with the King returning to his quarters I despatched Jae’nt to summon an escort to take the Morlans to their quarters. I offered Markos the use of my old quarters within the apartments but he declined, thanking me for the generous offer, but telling me that it was the Morlan way for a commander to share the same conditions as the men in his command. “It maintains the bond between commander and soldier, Ez’n.”
I nodded and excused myself in order to start preparations for my audiences and petitioners that were scheduled for the morning. I was already running quite late due to the unforeseen arrival of our allied vanguard.
“And it will probably mean that the attention your back receives comes only from someone interested in keeping it safe and not mounting it.” Korlaq’s voice carried quite clearly through the lounge door. Markos said something I could not quite make out, but it was clearly something the general did not appreciate.
Faedron and Dthor-Aid’n arrived quite swiftly following my summons and stood at attention with their eyes fixed straight ahead as the Morlans donned their cloaks. As the group made to leave I called out to stop them. I had been considering Korlaq and his conduct. I did not like the man at all, and although he had offered no direct insult to me, I considered that I could not let the man leave without making him aware that I had overheard his comment and did not appreciate it.
“General Korlaq, a word if I may.”
The man turned, throwing his cloak over his arm. Markos walked up behind him standing just beyond his shoulder. The man remarked the prince’s presence with a short glance before turning his red-brown eyes on me. “Ez’n?” he said coolly, “How may I serve?”
“I do not appreciate having the motives for my offers of hospitality called into doubt. I would like you to be aware of that and refrain from comments such as the one I overheard earlier.”
The man regarded me as if he would like to crush my head with the heel of his armoured boot and when he spoke his voice was thick with ill-concealed contempt. “I had no idea the walls here were so thin.”
“They are not, general, your mouth is that big and,” I added by way of warning, “your tongue far too loose to be of benefit to your continued welfare.”
Whatever Korlaq had been about to say never reached his lips for Prince Markos had moved around into his line of vision. The man shifted his stance slightly, “Your pardon, Ez’n-Kyr-Meriq, the remark was made in jest to my companions. I see how it might be poorly received by someone not accustomed to a soldier’s humour.”
I gave the man a frosty stare. I was more than familiar with the humour of soldiers and knew well the difference between comments like Korlaq’s made in the spirit of jest and those spoken from the heart at a time when one felt confident of not being overheard. Korlaq would not know that of course, and I was not disposed to acquaint him with the fact. “Perhaps then you should confine your jests to your own language and avoid the common tongue. I accept your apology, general. Good day.” I said as I turned away.
The man turned abruptly and strode to the door. Markos shot me a sideways glance, winked and made the Morlan sign of victory over his head as he walked out. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and return
ed to where I stood. Dthor-Aid’n was beside me in less than a heartbeat standing with his sword between us.
Markos gave the Captain an easy smile. “At ease, Blondie. Ez’n may I presume to invite you to share a meal with us once we are settled? I should like very much to return the hospitality you have shown me and my men; that is if the company of soldiers is not too rough for one of your obvious refinement.”
Though Dthor-Aid’n did not move or make a sound, I could feel him bristling at the young man’s words, and Prince Markos would have had to be blind not to see the look in his eye. I placed my hand on Dthor-Aid’n’s wrist applying just enough pressure to signal him to put up his weapon. “It would be my pleasure Prince Markos. Captain, perhaps you would be good enough to despatch Polo when His Highness is ready to entertain?”
Dthor-Aid’n nodded, the look in his eyes making it quite clear to me, if not to the Morlan prince, that he would much prefer to despatch Markos—most preferably to one of the lower reaches of the Dark Realms as much for the presumption of his invitation as for his suggestion that company of soldiers, whose regard for me was widely known even, I guessed, amongst the Morlans, was somehow beneath me.
I smiled to myself as Markos and his contingent left and I settled on the couch in the reception area. Markos, whose name meant “Black Fox” in Morlan, was obviously well-named. It was a clever manipulation and one that I admired for its cunning. If I declined the invitation I would not only be insulting the Morlan Crown but also sending a negative message to the men of my own Guard; if I accepted I not only exposed myself to the criticism of favouring foreign soldiers over those of Zetan stock but also to accusations of collaboration with a foreign power—mainly by those lacking the brains to see through such a transparent ploy.
I suddenly became aware of Jae’nt hovering uncertainly in the kitchen doorway. I leaned back and motioned him forward.
A Rising Darkness Page 16