I strolled over to the hearth. The young men rose immediately and saluted. “T’pahq Our hearts warm with your coming. Shall we call them?”
I shook my head. I had no wish to disturb whatever it was the couple was engaged in.
“Probably as wise decision,” Lythor commented. “Will you take spice tea with us, t’pahq?”
I rather thought I would. I settled with them by the hearth and took the warm, spiced brew gratefully. I was developing quite a taste to the rich aromatic cuisine of our Morlan allies. It was such a contrast to the more delicate, herbal and fragrant foods of Zetaria. There was a raw, rich strength to the Morlan food—one could almost call it courageous.
“It is the food of real men,” Kel said grabbing the front of his battle girdle in a most startling manner.
“You are not suggesting that before I began to enjoy your cooking I was anything less, are you Kel?”
The young man flushed over every inch of his enormous frame. “N-no of course not, T’pahq, I-I merely meant . . .”
“I would stop speaking now, fool,” Tyrel counselled, “You are in a hole—stop digging.”
The young man caught sight of my expression and scowled at me. “You are teasing me, t’pahq.”
As we sate and chatted Tariq peered out through the doorway and moments later he and Jae’nt emerged. The pair looked happy and relaxed, but it was not long before they were spotted and several people approached asking if they might give token. The attention did not last long, but it clearly made them uncomfortable. Lythor gave a grin. “It will pass. No-one has ever withstood judgement by the M’rgaerdjinn let alone been acquitted by the Great Invocation.”
I was just about to say something acerbic when Jalin came trotting up with a scroll from King Janir. I made my apologies and took my leave walking swiftly back with the page to join my king.
As we passed Markos’ Enclave a wave of herald eagles with gold ankle rings burst from the Morlan’s aviary and shot into the sky. They climbed rapidly and disappeared from site in moments.
“Itna-deqtel,” Jalin said. “One eagle for each of the regional capitals,” the page observed. I raised an eyebrow. Even I could not have counted the birds that quickly. Jalin sensed my surprise. “I did not count, my lord. King Markos has begun his purge. He is going to destroy every M’rgaerdjinn Chantry in his kingdom simultaneously.
I considered asking the boy how he knew this for I doubted that Markos would have confided that particular plan to him, no matter how much trust for his other deceit he had reposed in the youth. I decided I would be better off not knowing.
When we arrived in Janir’s rest area he was stretched out sipping ruby spike and eating Morlan spice cakes. He curled his legs motioning me to join him and when Jalin went to top the king’s cup the man merely pulled the youth into his side and hugged him close.
“Markos has requested an audience.” Janir said.
I made no attempt to conceal my displeasure at the thought. “Will he be here soon?
Janir released Jalin from his embrace indicating that he should pour me tea. The king swung himself upright. “He has not asked an audience with me. He has requested it with you.”
“And will he be here soon, Sire?” I asked again.
The king gave a small, mischievous smile. “Ah, now. You see, Ez’n he will not be coming here at all.”
My face must have looked like the start of a thunderstorm for Janir frowned at me. “He has invited you to his Enclave, formally through me.”
“And given his recent conduct—the nature of which I have acquainted you with—does he seriously expect me to go.”
Janir smiled again. “No of course he does not.”
“Then he will not be disappointed,” I replied.
Janir gave me a stern look. “I, on the other hand, will be extremely disappointed and he may not expect you to go, but I do.”
“Sire?”
“This rift between our houses must be closed, Meriq, for all our sakes. You know this. I know that you love him as a brother and he loves you as so much more than that. That is why this is so hard.”
“You have no idea, Majesty.” I replied quietly
“Oh I think I do. You are to go alone, Meriq. That is what he has requested.”
As I moved through the camp towards Markos’ enclosure I suddenly found myself flanked by Jae’nt and Tariq and moments later by Faedron and Maegor and later still by Kylos and Aenar. None spoke they just silently formed an honour guard around me their weapons drawn and held in ceremonial positions across their breasts making it clear that my movements across the camp were official and none were to approach.
Ignoring the challenge from the guard at the outer barbican my self-elected guard stopped only when we were a spear’s length from the Royal Tent and Markos appeared in the doorway. The men saluted the king and dropped to one knee until he bade them rise. The men then turned smartly and set themselves at attention the three older men one side of the entrance, the younger ones opposite them.
Markos moved into the sunlight. He was holding and elegantly cut bottle in a woven gold cage beset with carefully cut gems. A rich, ruby coloured liquor sparkled behind the glass. He held the bottle out to me. “Areggio Partha,” he said quietly, “From father’s private cellar. A peace offering.”
Behind me I felt my men shuffle slightly. “We shall see.” I answered but made no attempt to take the proffered flask. Markos motioned me into his withdrawing area and sat in silence with me until his page had finished setting and serving the refreshments. He set the bottle of Areggio in the centre of the table. He handed me a goblet of wine and slid a plate of cured meat and spiced bread towards me. I noticed suddenly that his hands were shaking and he was trembling.
“Meriq—please—tell me. Have I murdered my friend and brother whom I love more than my life? Are you lost to me forever?”
I suddenly felt as if someone had seized my heart and crushed it. I stood up abruptly. “What? No, Markos. No!” I said before I had scarcely considered. “Of course you have not. You have hurt and bruised me. I may even feel a little betrayed and ill-used.” I gave him a scowl. “A lot ill-used, in fact! But I could never hate you. I could never cut you from my heart any more than I could take Dthor or Jae’nt or any from my being. And never would I want to.
Markos rose and clutched me to him. “You have no idea how I have hurt through this knowing what I forced you into. But,” he paused to stoop and grab up his wine. He took a deep hard swallow and signalled that I should do the same indicating that I was likely to need it.
“But?” I prompted.
“But will you come with me now, there is something I want you to see so that you will understand why.”
“Why what?”
“Why Keelan did as he did and why I carried out his final instructions as I did.” He turned and grabbed up the gemmed flask. “And take the damned wine. You know it was a ploy. But its Keelan’s own vintage and it’s far better than Aldrigan’s and will give you and Dthor one hell of a night.”
He was suddenly serious again and offering me his shield arm which I took readily he escorted me from the tent. As we entered the small matted area in front of his tent the contingent from the Kyr Garrin formed around us joined by four of Markos’ own guards and we walked quickly from the enclosure.
It was a little while before I realised that we were heading towards the black and gold tents of the defunct M’rgaerdjinn. When we reached the enclosure it was to find the Aergin’s entourage short-chained neck to ankles so that they could scarcely straighten themselves. My men exchanged shocked looks. Remarking their reactions he signalled his men to stay and indicated that we should enter the tent.
Inside, the stench of stale semen, excrement and blood was almost overpowering. Blood spattered gold chalices filled a chest in one side of the salle and next to the over-filled chest piles of gold chain, amulets rings and charms formed a pile almost the size of a Kal-tzarrak.
Faedron gagg
ed. “This is obscene,” he choked asking almost immediately if there was some kind of ventilation system that might clear the air a little. Markos shook his head. This was how the priests lived.
Aenar stared around the edifice aghast. “King Markos, if you cannot tell me it does not get better—please assure me it does not get worse.”
Markos could not. And when he led us through the stinking foyer and into the huge common room beyond we realised why.
The area was a hybrid of dormitory and dungeon. I counted twenty-four beds each one having an acolyte either chained or bound to it in some way. The ages of the novices, I estimated ranged from twelve to twenty. So focussed was I one the horror of seeing people kept in such disgusting circumstances that it was a while before I realised that there was a whole slew of healers at the opposite end of the space brewing and fomenting. Karyn and Thaze hurried up to us when they caught sight of Markos.
“Majesty. We need an armourer. I cannot find any keys and we must get the chains off these poor creatures to treat the infected chain bite.”
Markos turned to me, “Would you be good enough to despatch one of your men, Ez’n?”
“Faedron, fetch Kort—I think he will be best skilled for this. Kylos?”
“I know just the man. Valen. I will get him.”
Markos smiled. “Good choice, brother.”
A sudden call from a small side compartment of the tent brought us about. A young shield maiden appeared from behind a flap shaking and crying and calling for us to come quickly.
In the oppressive gloom of the tiny storage port it was hard to see what had so upset the girl, but once I my eyes had adjusted I could see a pile of gut chain and charms and precious little else. It was not until the girl rather unceremoniously grabbed my head and directed my gaze that I realised there was a boy buried under the heap, and there was an even briefer pause before I suddenly realised that he was alive and struggling greatly to stay so.
“Oh Zoar” Markos, Aenar. Quickly. I turned to the girl. Get Karyn.”
I began clawing at the gold chains dragging the stuff off the boy as fast I could. Markos and Aenar knelt beside me and began the same. By the time Karyn reached us we had uncovered poor wretch to find him naked and bleeding from wounds caused by tiny gold trinkets that had become embedded in his skin under the weight of the other gold.
Aenar let out a trembling breath. “This boy cannot be more than ten, Markos. How could any civilised man do this?” He turned a fierce, almost hateful eye on the Morlan King. “How any ruler condone this?”
“It was never condoned, Aenar, not from the moment the mad king died. But once enacted The Charter could not be stopped—until now. The auspices were perfect. Now it is stopped and it will never return. Varel’s madness will be an eternal stain on us. And I intend that it shall never be forgotten.” The king turned to Karyn who simply sketched a non-committal gesture with her hands. She could not say for sure that the boy would live. She and the other healers could only do their best to save those could be saved and make the passing of those who could not be saved as comfortable as possible.
Aenar turned to Karyn. “Can we moved him from this place to somewhere of comfort?”
Karyn nodded warning Aenar to be cautious; there was no telling if the boy’s internals were cut or if the charms had only penetrated to muscle. As the provost lifted the boy he threw his arms around the soldier’s neck and clutched him as if he would choke the man. “I would not let them, Lord Soldier. I would not do the things they demanded. I would not.”
Aenar’s voice caught in his throat momentarily. “You are a brave and honourable man, and it would honour me to know the name of such a courageous young warrior.”
The boy’s eyes rolled slightly as he hovered on the brink of consciousness. “Daryth, Lord Soldier. I am called Daryth.”
Aenar set the boy down on the clean palliasse that Karyn indicated and smoothed his filthy black hair from his forehead. “Then I give you this charge, Daryth. You are to fight these injuries as you fought your oppressors. You are to get well and strong and when you are such you will come and find me and become Squire to me and my Consort.”
“I will try, Lord Soldier.”
Karyn put her hand on Aenar’s signalling him that she needed to start work at once if the boy’s promise was to stand any chance of being kept.
The armourers had arrived by the time Aenar had settled Daryth and had already removed many of the shackles. Some they had managed to pick open but others had needed cutting or striking irons the use of which inevitably caused more injury to already damaged ankles, wrists and necks.
When all the chains had been struck off the healers set to examining each of the young men in turn. When they had finished their inspections and assessments, they separated the group into those who needed immediate attention and those who were fit enough to go to the infirmary tents in the main camp. Of the twenty-five acolytes in the enclosure seventeen were felt fit to make the walk to the main infirmary. The others would remain and be tended to where they rested.
“We will take them now,” Markos said quietly. “Lord Ez’n will you and your men be kind enough to assist me?”
I narrowed my eyes at the young king and glowered. “Enough with the Lord Ez’n, nonsense, Markos. Of course we will help.”
“Finally some sense from one of you,” Kylos sighed, relief wrapping every word. The young archer gave me an apologetic look. “Well—he’s the king—so I suppose it came from him first . . .”
I kicked the archer’s ankle playfully. “And of course, family bias has nothing to do with anything.”
“I refuse to affirm or deny that.”
One by one we helped the injured acolytes to stand supporting those who needed help to walk where we could, each of us supporting two on one where we could.
When he entered the courtyard Markos ordered his guards to the summon grooms and stable hands to the Aergin’s enclosure with all their tools and as much fresh thresh as they could manage to load into hand carts. They were to cut windows and clean the whole area as Karyn directed laying fresh straw. Carpenters were co-opted to go to the enclosure to build cots and whatever else Karyn and her healers might need, and a cohort of both carpenters and stable hands was to remain with the healers keeping the area fresh, clean and in good repair until they were no longer needed.
As we emerged from the great black tent with our pitiful charges Morlans and Zetans alike left their hearths and started to form a curiosity driven line along our route. Some of the Morlans spat at the boys as they passed others just looked on in horrified fascination; the Zetans just looked stunned. One of the boys I was supporting suddenly stumbled. Overcome by weakness his knees buckled but he had scarcely dropped when a Morlan hoplite jumped forward and pulled him up. He took the youth by the shoulders. “You will not fall this day, boy,” the man told him. Leaning down the hoplite scooped the youth up as if he was nothing and began carrying him.
The youngest of our motley brood whom Markos had been walking with wobbled uncertainly and began to stagger. The young king scooped the boy up and carried on. He had moved only a couple of steps when an archer stepped across his path his dark eyes focussed on the child in Markos’s arms. At first I thought man was challenging the king as, it seemed, did Markos and two of his guards. But it was no such thing; the man put out his arms and merely nodded. Markos passed his charge to the Kalthar and as the man fell in behind him we moved on growing more aware of the increasing size of the crowd of onlookers.
As we walked, more soldiers took charge of the injured youths, some Morlan some Zetan and a Kendir but it was when the last boy was pulled to his feet by an elite warrior that a commotion started.
“Bahrin! Bahrin! You cannot—you must not abandon your sacred trust like this.”
Almost every head in the crowd turned and we all stopped to see who had shouted.
A filthy priest still in his robes and a little of his gold shoved his way to the front of the
gathering. “Unhand that acolyte, you filthy heretic!” the priest shouted jabbing a wooden stave at the man. “He is of The Order and he is mine!”
The warrior swung the youth down and set him on his feet as if he was nothing more than a sack of flour. He said nothing, he just reached over his head pulled the two-handed battle razor from its clamps on his harness and in one smooth movement he brought the finely honed hardened blade down in the centre of the priest’s head and cleaved him like a butchered horse. The two halves of the priest had barely touched the ground before the Morlan’s laminaris was returned to its clamps and the warrior had reclaimed his charge. The man glanced at the corpse and spat at it. “And now, you piece of ox-shit, he is mine. And he will learn honour and decency and how to be respected.”
The youth was trembling as the warrior moved on the man merely touched the boy’s head to comfort him. “Thank you, Lord Soldier.”
The warrior paused. “No-one is your Lord but the King and the Great God. You will call me Khannis.”
We reached the infirmary without further incident and though the acolytes were clearly settled and being cared for, the men who had helped or carried them to the hospital tent remained with them tending them when the healers went about their other duties. We left the men to their charges and returned with Markos to his enclosure.
He paused at his door. “Will you join me gentlemen? I could truly use the company and some genuinely friendly faces will be such a welcome change from the ones I have been looking at all settan.”
A Rising Darkness Page 57