by P J Berman
‘Only she who is divinely chosen may cast the first stone,’ he told the younger man.
Abashed, the priest bowed and handed the stone to Ezrina. She took it and with only the slightest hesitation hurled it at the statue of Lomatteva. It struck the wooden carving fully in the face, smashing off shards so that her features were unrecognisable.
‘Praise be to Bertakaevey! The false Goddess is defaced and shown for the heretical idol she is!’ Ezrina declared. She bent to pick up another, now joined enthusiastically by the baying group of clergymen and the Bennvikan deities were soon battered and broken under a hail of stones. Remarkably the Amulet was untouched. It was if Bertakaevey was guiding their stones away from it and on to these idols of the false Gods. Picking up the largest stone she could find, Ezrina launched her projectile at the base of the weakened statue of Lomatteva. With a crack the legs gave way and the wooden structure was pitched forward, sending it crashing to the ground.
Soon the statue of Vitrinnolf was down too and as it fell Ezrina reached out a hand and plucked the Amulet from the air by its chain. The crowd lurched forward, eager to crush the statues to dust. Only Jakiroc had noticed that Ezrina now held the Amulet in her hand.
‘Silence,’ he called, causing the clamour to turn to a deathly stillness. All watched as Ezrina held the Amulet above her head by its chain.
‘…for the Daughter of Ashes,’ Jakiroc declared.
‘For those ashes that made Bertakaevey’s holy body are reborn to bring life to me, her holy daughter. The Daughter of Ashes is risen,’ said Ezrina as she placed the Amulet around her neck. She had won it back for a second time. For the sake of her people, as long as she lived, she would never be parted from it again.
Chapter 23
The spy was impressed with Jostan’s command tent. It was hard not to admit how visibly the foreigner had gone up in the world since they had last met during the diplomatic visit to Bennvika that Jostan had made over three years previously. Though he had been in Jostan’s service ever since then, this was the first time they’d met in the time after that most profitable autumn.
The tent’s front was open. Jostan was in the centre, looking at what must have been some sort of map or diagram on a table, or perhaps a strength report for his remaining forces after the debacle that their previous attacks had turned into. He was accompanied by Feddilyn, the black-armoured royal bodyguard who was apparently named Gormaris and a Chief Invicturion, whose name the spy didn’t know. Clearly he had been quick to replace Aetrun. Jostan looked up from the document as the spy was searched by two further guards, one Verusantian, along with a Divisioman.
‘Three years of loyalty from afar and still I get searched. Maybe I should have made all those sea voyages myself and handed you my letters personally, your Majesty? Perhaps then your guards might recognise their own master’s most loyal servant?’
Feddilyn looked most surprised to see him, but said nothing. Jostan’s face was one of naked fury, but he contained it.
‘Lord Rintta, Gormaris, Rhosgyth, leave us, if you please?’ he said in a flat tone. It was not a question. He said nothing further until the others had gone; never taking his eyes off the spy, who returned his gaze, while simultaneously craning his ears to see if he could pick up anything said supposedly out of earshot that could prove useful. He was rewarded, as he heard Feddilyn speak the words ‘Vinnitar, come with me. I must speak with you.’ So, that was the new Chief Invicturion’s name then, Vinnitar Rhosgyth.
‘What are you doing here? Why are you not in the citadel?’ Jostan demanded.
‘Such a response after all this time?’ the spy chuckled. ‘Don’t forget, we’re family. You don’t know what it’s like in there, having to be so quiet so that people forget I’m even in their presence, making them think I’m an incompetent fool so that they don’t see me as a threat; and all so that I can report back to you, cousin.’
‘Don’t ever call me that,’ Jostan raged, but the spy was unmoved. ‘We appear on the same family tree only because your mother married below her station. Even if we were close blood relatives it would not entitle you to disobey my orders. You were instructed to stay inside the citadel. There has been an attempt on my life and my wife-to-be has been murdered with King Lissoll’s unborn son dispatched to the afterlife with her.’
‘Yes. Don’t think I hadn’t noticed your strained movements, however much you try to cover them. Do not forget that this place is full of people who would take advantage of such weakness, so my assistance to you is not to be scorned.’
‘I need you now and you will be rewarded appropriately if you succeed, but only as a demonstration to my supporters that their new King is a generous one, nothing more,’ Jostan seethed. A cold silence fell, as the two men eyed each other in subtle challenge. It was Jostan who broke it.
‘My orders will not be undermined,’ he said with quiet certainty.
‘I had no choice,’ the spy replied, with a calmness that now coated every word. ‘That peasant girl you sent me went and got herself caught. I had to come here before my cover was blown and also so that I could draw your attention to the most effective way in which I may serve you now.’
‘I decide how you serve me,’ Jostan said. He bashed the table with his fist but clearly instantly regretted it, attempting to cover a wince while reaching behind him to where the pain had clearly come from. This was not lost on the spy of course.
‘It appears they really did leave their mark. With a steel tent peg of all things, it would seem, if one believes the rumours in the citadel. They are in confident mood. Hardly surprising, since another interesting development that is on every defender’s lips is that their spies have taken Amulet of Hazgorata. Apparently, it now sits in the Great Temple.’
‘Then why haven’t you taken it back?’
‘I never received orders to do so. You’ll be able to take it back when the city falls,’ said the spy calmly.
‘And what if it doesn’t now fall? The Dowager Queen’s death is a sadness and will be respected in the proper ways, but the Amulet has great power, even if it is only the power to inspire. We cannot allow that to work in the enemy’s favour.’
‘True, but I really thought you might be more concerned about Accutina’s death and the attack on your own royal person, let alone the compromising nature of the attack’s circumstances.’
‘You insolent bastard. You think you are as silver-tongued as me but instead you are just beyond the pale.’
The spy laughed.
‘In fact it must be the case that I am more silver-tongued than you, for you never manage to best me in that regard. Gods, I’m so busy in there being so quiet and unassuming that I’m completely out of practice, yet I’m still better at it than you. I wonder why that would be the case?’
‘I make the orders. Not you!’ Jostan shouted.
‘No, but you need me and I’m sure that’s why you have so far resisted the temptation to have me executed. I know how dearly you’d love it, but you know you’ll be the worse off for it too. Now, I have a plan by which you can take the city at the moment of your choosing; all developed and planned based on the information that I personally have gained for you. I presume you have other spies in the citadel. But none of them have provided you with a breakthrough, have they? My proposition is that I can now be of better use to you from outside the castle walls.’
Jostan laughed ruefully.
‘You coward,’ he said.
‘They know me. They trust me,’ said the spy. ‘If I could just play the act of political prisoner and make a heartfelt appeal to them from in front of the citadel’s gates. I’ll tell them of the folly of their venture and of the futility of their current position, then tell them of your mercy. Give me that chance and it will cause a mutiny and they will be forced to surrender.’
‘Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?’ Jostan said. ‘Well, if this wasn’t coming from a man who’s just disobeyed my orders then I might be prepared to listen. Insubordi
nation or open rebellion, neither shall be tolerated lightly, so I’ve got a better plan. One that’s of rather more risk to you, but all the same for me.’
He walked over to the tent’s entrance and addressed one of his guards.
‘Find Invicturion Rhosgyth and bring him back here.’
He re-entered the tent and faced the spy again with a smirk.
‘With Rhosgyth by your side, I’m sure you won’t stray from the path again. Falter a second time and he will see to it that the problem is swiftly eradicated,’ he said, clearly enjoying his own words. The spy glared at him with steely eyes.
‘What would you have me do, your Majesty?’ he said in a tone laced with irony.
The time was approaching slowly. Silrith could feel the strange sense of anticipation growing. It didn’t engulf her like a wave, but instead, it steadily built, as if it were a great wall being constructed piece by piece, hiding her fear so far from view that she almost no longer felt it. Almost. She kept her mind focused on the job in hand and all she wanted to do now was sit on her horse and be with her soldiers.
Already in full battle gear, she was intensely restless. Yet there was nothing more to be done until shortly before the attack and after finding herself pacing in frustration, she had remembered that there was somebody she needed to visit. Someone whom she regretted having barely seen since her arrival in Rildayorda. Entering the small but highly decorated room, with its intricate red, white and green patterns on the walls, she dismissed the maids and was greeted by the most excited little face she’d seen in days.
‘Silfiff!’ Yathugarra exclaimed. Silrith laughed as her two-year-old cousin leapt out of her little bed and charged towards her.
‘Hello Garra,’ Silrith said happily, using the shorted version of the golden-haired child’s name.
She crouched down and gathered her up in her arms, holding her close and giving her a little kiss on the head. This was only the second time she’d had a chance to see her since her own arrival and even now, she knew the visit could only be fleeting. But for Silrith, looking into Yathugarra’s innocent face was an extra reminder of what she was fighting for now, the safety of her family and her people.
She decided that after the coming battle, if Bezekarl really was dead, she would name Garra as her heir. She had wanted to do this already, in case she was struck down by an enemy blade, but to do so in the middle of a siege would make Garra far too much of a target for Jostan’s spies and assassins. Nevertheless, it had to be done eventually. After all, even winning back the throne would be worthless if the country was thrown back into a blood-soaked struggle for power after her death. Moreover, while Silrith knew that her heir needed to be of her blood, she was certain she would not be capable of producing one herself. The problem was, she couldn’t ask any doctors about this, for fear of her secret escaping.
Soon after her return from her ill-fated trip to Verusantium as a young girl, she had contracted a fever. It had been short but violent and she had almost succumbed to it, but the prayers of her family and the work of her physician had seen her well again in short enough time for the illness to remain a secret. The reason for this secrecy was that the physician had told her father that the fever was of the same kind that had famously struck Princess Azakrina more than two centuries earlier. Like Silrith, she had survived, but according to the story, for the rest of her life, she had been barren, despite having given birth to a daughter only a year before contracting the illness. Nobody except Silrith, her parents, her brother and the physician ever knew of Silrith’s fever and the physician had been sworn to secrecy under pain of death.
Many times in her life Silrith had wanted to tell someone, as the secret felt like a lead weight inside her womb, but she knew she couldn’t. She had to be strong and accept the path that the Gods had chosen for her. She owed her people that much. Yet it angered Silrith more than anything that a defect in her own body had the potential to decide the fates of so many others. However, there was nothing to be done about it and she forced the thought from her mind, refocusing on the coming battle and on her plan. She stayed a while and played with the little girl until the toddler began to yawn.
‘Garra, I need you to be a big, brave girl for me tonight. You’re going on an adventure.’
With perfect innocence, Garra carried on playing, having pulled out one of her dolls from somewhere. Given that she was only two years old, Silrith wasn’t sure how much Garra was understanding but at least saying the words helped her to believe that Garra would be alright.
‘You’re going on a boat tonight Garra and when the ship sets sail, you’ll be on your way to explore a place called Etrovansia. Would you like that?’
Garra just giggled. Silrith stayed a few more minutes, savouring the time, but all too soon she knew she had to leave; to shut away her maternal instincts and become the warrior that Garra and everyone else within these city walls depended upon. Before she did, Silrith kissed her little cousin goodbye as the girl continued to play. As she walked towards the door, she called back one of the maids, telling her she was to take Garra outside. Out there she would find Yathrud’s Master-of-Horse waiting with a cart, in which they would find dirty clothes and coats to help them blend in. Then the cart would take them, with luck, out of the city and on to a ship named the Bastinian the Great. It was fitting that a ship named after her own illustrious grandfather would be the bearer of such precious cargo.
She had instructed the Master-of-Horse to smuggle the child and the maid on board, then find the Captain, a woman known loosely to Silrith, and tell her of Silrith’s order for them to set sail for Etrovansia at the earliest opportunity. Of course, she had also told the Master-of-Horse to take enough money to bribe any guards if necessary. She hoped to the Gods that if she could continue inflicting further losses on the enemy, then at some point Jostan’s troops would be forced to withdraw from the port and would be called to support their comrades and that the shipping could get underway again so that Garra could be protected from all of this. Shappa had told her that if Garra was taken to Nangosa City, the staff living on his old family estate would take her in and care for her there. But for now Rildayorda’s port was in enemy hands and it was believed that the crews of the various ships were now quarantined on the floating prisons that their vessels had become. Yet surely even Jostan knew that he would need these very ships and their crews so that trade could eventually get back to normal, so maybe a poorly dressed man, woman and child would get through.
From that point, it wasn’t long before Silrith, under escort and now mounted, rode through the streets. Her entire cavalry force, around three thousand in all, had been ordered to congregate by the East Gate, ready to move out and get into position for the attack. Despite their occupation of the port, it seemed that Jostan’s patrols of the forest were few at best. It was possible that his troops were nervous of ambush, especially at night.
As she neared the East Gate, she felt her gut muscles slowly tighten. The most crucial moment of the entire siege would soon be upon them. Instantly she chided herself for such a thought, telling herself that what she was feeling really was anticipation and not nerves.
Finally, she reached the gate. Apparently, its proximity to the forest meant that it was rarely used compared with the others. It was a strongly built, highly utilitarian structure; an image of pure functionality that was not in keeping with beauty of the city’s other areas.
All around her, the narrow streets were filled with her soldiers, carrying their various banners. Most carried Yathrud’s three golden dragons, surrounded by a deep scarlet. Despite carrying this emblem on their shields, however, Silrith had ordered that Gasbron’s cavalry should also carry her own banner of emerald, with its white stallion, as she would ride with them personally. Then there were Shappa’s Etrovansian knights, who carried a golden banner with the image of a black hound, crouching, ready to pounce. This was the flag of Shappa’s Etrovansian Duchy, Nangosa and the design was also emblazoned across
the knights’ shields. The Hentani, meanwhile, had no banners at all.
More than half of the cavalry force that had grouped here were militiamen and Hentani warriors. Between them, the mounted Divisiomen and Shappa’s cavalry numbered around seven hundred. Their innate sense of professionalism saw them keep a soldierly silence, awaiting orders and the others followed their example.
Silrith hadn’t had a close look at Shappa’s knights until now and she noticed that they were equipped quite differently to the Divisiomen and even from Shappa himself, fond as he was of plated armour, albeit of a very modern, sculpted kind. His troops, by contrast, relied heavily on chain mail and wore pointed helmets, which were open-faced except for a nasal guard and they carried large, diamond-shaped shields.
In stark contrast to both of these elite units and the battle-hardened Hentani warriors, Silrith’s Bennvikan militia lancers had looked every inch the hastily thrown together force that they were. It had been known since before the siege that they may need to fight on horseback at some point, so they had received some training, but all were untested in a real battle. On her way through the streets to the gate, the tension had been written across all of their faces, but nonetheless they each bowed their heads, some calling ‘My Queen!’ as she had ridden by. At one point she had recognised Dazyan of the Southtown, the young soldier she had met on the walls of Preddaburg before giving her first speech. Without even thinking she had winked at him; a respectful smile coming in return. Friendly gestures cost nothing and yet could be priceless.
The mood had been rather different when she had trotted passed some of the Hentani warriors only minutes later. In place of nervous motivation was calm confidence. They had seemed in a relaxed mood as they laughed and joked with each other under their breath in their harsh, gruff tongue.
Still silently reviewing these thoughts, Silrith drew her horse alongside Gasbron’s. He’d been waiting with his comrades and now saluted sharply.