“Know thyself before others”, was the advice given by one of Saqr’s favourite poets. He had sent a letter to General Anma detailing what he regarded as a far superior proposal, and now awaited her response.
He shivered at the draught that swept through the corridors of his palace and made the candles in his private study flicker. His palace in his capital city of Hasan, like all Temerian palaces, was built for splendour rather than comfort, a chilly combination of temple and mausoleum. In a land where life was brief, uncertain, and brutish, honouring the Gods and one’s ancestors was traditionally considered far more important than providing for the needs of the living. Saqr was as traditionally-minded as the next Temerian aristocrat, but sometimes entertained treacherous thoughts of warm beds and soft carpets.
There was a gentle knock at the door. “Come,” he said sharply, looking up from his desk, and the door opened to admit Hoshea, his principal servant and secretary. The man oiled into the room like an excessively polite shadow and, not for the first time, Saqr marvelled at the manner in which his perfectly manicured feet didn’t seem to touch the floor.
“Lord,” murmured Hoshea, halting at the proper distance from his master’s desk. He bowed his head and placed his hand over his heart in formal salute.
“What do you want?” Saqr snapped, making a show of sifting through the heap of papers on his desk. “Your master is in a purple mood, verging on black. I am extremely busy, I cannot sleep, and my arm aches as though devils gnaw on it.”
Hoshea smiled thinly. He had been in Saqr’s service all his life, over forty years, and took little notice of his moods. “A letter has arrived, lord, carried here by a sergeant of cavalry in the employ of General Anma. I believe it is a reply to your offer of co-ruling. A somewhat unwise offer, if you will permit me to say so.”
“Yes, yes, give it here,” Saqr blustered. He disliked Hoshea’s habit of commenting on his decisions. In his view, a commoner had no right to be opining on high matters, especially when the wretched man was always right.
The secretary withdrew a cylinder of smooth white paper from the satchel slung round his neck, and laid it carefully on the edge of his master’s desk. Saqr snatched it up, tore away the binding, and eagerly read the contents.
“To the most high and honourable General Nasheem Saqr, greetings,
We have given due consideration to your intriguing offer to divide the land of Temeria between us, with myself as Overlord of the East and you as Overlord of the West, and herein is our response.
You know me for a cruel woman, and you have often upbraided me for my cruelty. Know now that I intend to give free rein to all my cruelties and practice them on you and yours, Saqr, until all your cities and palaces are as dust and all your soldiers, servants, bondsmen, and livestock so many burned offerings. I am raising all my hosts and we are coming, like a storm, to wipe your name off the face of the good earth.
However, do not be in any doubt that your name will be forgotten in Temeria. Generations to come shall whisper stories to each other of the terrible fate of General Nasheem Saqr. Mothers shall frighten their children into weeping fits with the details of what the Empress Anma did to him with her bare hands. Of how she wrestled his entrails from his living body and wrapped them, like so many bloody snakes, about a lance, of how she twisted his foolish head off and placed it in a pit to be shat on by slaves. Further details I shall not go into, for I have no wish to frighten you into taking your own miserable life before I have the opportunity to rip it out of you.
In short, I decline your offer.
Signed, with respects, the Empress Anma, First of Her Name.
When he had finished reading the terrible letter, Saqr set it down, leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingertips. In this way he hoped to look calm and thoughtful, but Hoshea knew him too well.
“A light perspiration has broken out on your forehead, lord,” he said in the same level respectful tones he always used, “and the corner of your mouth is twitching, which I have generally observed to be a sign of agitation on your part. Is there something you wish to tell me?”
Saqr moaned in frustration. There was no hiding anything from Hoshea. “The bitch has refused me,” he cried, “and she even has the temerity to refer to herself as Empress, as if I am already dead!”
Hoshea raised a neatly clipped eyebrow. “Indeed? What else does she say?”
“Promises of destruction and torture, predictable stuff coming from such a vile she-beast…she promises to raise all her forces and crush me, Hoshea, crush me like an insect. And she can do it. My own armies were so decimated by General Harsu, may he spin in eternal torment, that I cannot possibly face her on the battlefield.”
“Have you considered introducing conscription, lord? Your lands are still vast, and there must be enough fit young bondsmen and farm boys available to re-stock the ranks.”
Saqr waved away the suggestion. “It would be lambs to the slaughter. Anma’s troops are hardened fighters. Years of civil war have made sure of that.”
“Mercenaries, then? Your coffers, though depleted, could sustain the burden of paying them. Of course, you may have to raise taxes.”
Saqr shuddered and winced as another shot of agony ripped through his wounded arm. A natural miser, the prospect of spending excessive amounts of money made him feel almost physically ill.
“Mercenaries,” he whispered, “Gods above, that it should come to this. Mercenaries are not only ruinously expensive, but unreliable and entirely self-interested. Half the time they neglect to fight and start pillaging one’s own baggage train.”
“True enough, lord, but there is no lack of them. Since the Winter Realm fell into such discord, increasing numbers of refugees from that unhappy land have been finding their way to our shores. Many of them are good fighters, indeed they know little else, and have no other way of earning a living. To be candid, I fear that unless someone employs them these foreigners will turn to banditry and start pillaging our countryside. Some have already done so.”
“They have? I knew nothing of this!”
Hoshea smiled in a superior sort of way, as if to imply there were many things Saqr didn't know. “Your cares have been so excessive of late, lord, I thought it best to keep it from you. ”
Saqr spluttered in disbelief. “You did, did you? Damn you, Hoshea, I'll decide what should be kept from me! ”
Another, less self-possessed man might have smiled at such an absurd statement, but Hoshea's features remained as blandly immobile as ever. Instead he returned to the original subject, or his version of it.
“Just as you say, lord. I shall begin organising the recruitment of mercenaries from the foreigners landing on our shores. In case any of them prove unwilling to serve, do I have your permission to use force? Some of these Northerners are said to be of a stubborn and intractable nature. ”
“I... ” Saqr hesitated. His mind was still reeling with Anma's threats, and even at his most focused he was no match for Hoshea in a debate. “Ah...yes. Yes, send a couple of my best regiments to draft a few of them in. Use as many men as you need, within reason. Is that understood, Hoshea?”
The secretary bowed solemnly. “Perfectly, lord. A most wise and sagacious plan. Why waste the lives of your remaining soldiers, when you can throw worthless foreigners at the enemy instead? ”
“Yes. Yes, that's it, exactly! Now leave me, I have much to do. ”
Executing another perfect salute, Hoshea turned and flickered out of the room.
* * * *
The ship was named the King’s Glory, which Felipe found amusing in a bitter sort of way. He couldn’t imagine anything less glorious than the reality of her current purpose, which was to carry refugees away from the land of their birth. Originally a troop carrier designed to ferry soldiers between the Winter Realm and the (now lost) lands of the Old Kingdom, the Glory was stuffed to the gunwales with people seeking a new life in Temeria.
Nobles, merchants, rural peasants and yeomen,
knights and men-at-arms, mercenaries and city tradesmen…every section of society was there, from the highest to the lowest, all with their inevitable wives and children and servants in tow. There were even a few priests, men and women in colourful robes covered in the moons, stars, and sigils of their various faiths.
Felipe had nothing but contempt for those abandoning the Winter Realm and, in the five days of the voyage so far, had experienced difficulty keeping his temper. The nobles and priests annoyed him most, for they were supposed to lead and guide people, but instead had given up on their duty and fled with the rest.
Greater than his anger, though, was his sea-sickness. He had never been much of a sailor, and the heaving green sea was doing terrible things to his insides. The Glory had left the Winter Realm via the Iron Gate, a massive wall of iron that protected the southern tip of the island, and immediately ran into choppy seas and battering winds. Her captain was nothing if not a risk-taker, and had reefed his sails to take full advantage of the wind while it lasted.
Felipe appreciated the need for speed, and that the ship cut through the water at an impressive pace, but was looking forward to the day when he could keep down his breakfast. His companions, Jean and Guillaume, were no less miserable, and the three of them spent much of their time huddled together for warmth, wrapped in their sodden robes and shivering.
Jean occasionally tried to lift their spirits by playing tunes on his flute, which he had carved himself. Life in his part of the Winter Realm was unrelentingly harsh, and the music he played reflected his background.
“I swear by all the Gods,” growled Guillaume, “if I have to listen to one more ballad about drowned lovers, or another dirge about some blood-feud hundreds of years ago, I will snap that fucking flute in half and jam the jagged end up your backside.”
Jean shrugged and finished the lament he was playing. He was an uncomfortable presence, sly and saturnine and lean as a stick, and he reacted to Guillaume’s blustering with the same insouciance he applied to everything else.
“Better my wailing than the wailing of bairns, I reckon,” he answered.
“He has a point,” said Felipe, ashen-faced and trembling as he pulled his cloak tighter about him, “this ship is haunted, day and night, by the howls of women and children. And a few men, too.”
Even as he spoke the lower deck echoed with cries from below, where anxious mothers tried to calm their sick, terrified infants. Rough seas, combined with the constant creaking and lurching of the ship, and a diet of ship’s biscuit, black bread, and beans, were having their effect. There was no fever, yet, but the Templars reckoned it only a matter of time.
“The moment disease breaks out,” said Guillaume “is the moment we seize one of the longboats and row for the nearest land. I’ll not die aboard this hell-hole of a ship, shuddering and shitting like a sick dog.”
“Keep your voice down,” hissed Felipe, pausing to cough, “we’re disliked enough already.”
He looked around, noting the hostile eyes glancing in their direction from the closest of their fellow passengers. Many were scattered about the deck, singly or in groups, willing to endure the rain and flying spray for the sake of escaping the foul atmosphere below deck.
More than one had noted the trio of scarred, ageing men who carried swords under their cloaks and shunned other company. Their sullen, aggressive presence was resented, and a few of the harder cases had considered doing something about it.
Felipe had a talent for spotting trouble, and knew who the potentially dangerous people were. He returned the stares of two of them now, a one-eyed brigand with a disfiguring rash down the side of his neck, and a poor knight in a leather jack with an iron-studded maul hanging from his belt. Felipe met their glowers with a wolfish smile, exposing his teeth, and gently laid a hand on the pommel of his sword. After a long moment of tension, both men looked away.
“Fuckers,” he muttered under his breath, and the world exploded.
To be more precise, a bundle of flaming bolts the size of a wagon, coated in tar and set ablaze, came out of nowhere and smashed into the deck. Their iron tips ploughed into the timbers like a fork into rich soil and shattered them, raising a storm of flying nails and splinters.
Felipe wrapped himself in his cloak and rolled into a ball, wincing as he waited for one of the fragments to slice into his flesh. He heard Guillaume yell in pain, followed by a torrent of curses. Then more yells and screams from passengers elsewhere in the ship, along with the crackling of flames and panicked shouts of the crew.
He risked glancing out from under his hood in time to see fresh bundles of fiery missiles soaring towards the ship. The Glory lurched to larboard as her captain spun the wheel in a desperate attempt to manoeuvre, and the deck shifted to a terrifying angle. Felipe slid and rolled down the sudden slope, scrabbling for purchase on the wet timber, and crashed with rib-bruising impact against the side. A huge shadow passed a few feet over his head, accompanied by the smell of burning timber, and a load of flaming bolts plunged with a hiss and a crash into the waters just beyond the ship.
The Glory lurched again, this time to starboard, and the deck more or less righted itself. Felipe spotted Jean clinging to a piece of rope, and Guillaume not far from him, flat on his back and shouting as he tugged at the piece of jagged timber stuck in his forearm.
Pigtailed crewmen were swarming about with pumps and buckets, attempting to douse the fires. Others rushed up and down the rigging, nimble as monkeys, spurred on by the screams of their midshipmen and officers as more missiles thumped against the Glory’s hull.
“What in the Hells is attacking us?” Felipe shouted at no-one in particular. With grim determination he picked himself up and staggered drunkenly to starboard, somehow keeping his footing on the shuddering deck. He grasped the rail and thrust his head over the side, though he quickly wished he hadn’t.
Felipe was not much of a praying man, since he worshipped a God who scorned most prayers as signs of weakness, but what he saw now caused him to whisper a few.
Not far out to sea, maybe a quarter of a mile if he was any judge, were fifteen sleek black vessels with white fin-shaped sails. From the main masts of each flew the infamous banner of the Raven Queen, the silhouette of a raven in flight against a blood-red background.
Guillaume and Jean appeared at Felipe’s elbow, along with another man, a pale young nobleman with thin duelling scars high on both cheeks.
“Pirates,” said Guillaume, sweat rolling down his meaty face as he expertly tied a strip of cloth from his cloak around his wound.
“Gutter filth,” the noble corrected him. He tapped the elaborate basket hilt of his sword and almost slipped as the ship heaved again. “I have long desired to cross blades with the Raven Queen’s minions. Let them come!”
“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Felipe, “every one of those ships has more fighters aboard than we have, and all of them will be hardened killers.”
“Not rotten with sea-sickness either,” Jean added gloomily.
The noble stiffened at being called a fool, and regarded the knights with deepest contempt. “Such courage,” he mocked, “I see now how you have gained your grey hairs. Very well, grandfathers, sit back and take your ease during the coming battle, while I uphold the good name of my House!”
What that name might be Felipe was never to learn, for the noble’s mouth suddenly gaped open in surprise, and he uttered a grunt of unexpected pain. Guillaume had drawn his knife and stuck it in the man’s liver.
“Enough of your cheeping, little mouse,” the big knight whispered into the noble’s ear. Withdrawing the knife, he seized the youth by his belt and collar and heaved him over the side. The splash as he hit the water was drowned out by the chaos aboard the Glory and the war-yells of the pirates as their vessels drew nearer.
Felipe threw up his hands in exasperation. “Oh very well done, Guillaume,” he cried, “we’re outnumbered enough already, and you’ve just gone and made things harder!”
Guillaume shrugged. “He was a prick. I won’t fight alongside people like that, they vex me.”
“What did his personality matter? I’ve known all kinds of idiots who were good with a sword. In fact, there’s one standing in front of me!”
“You had best save your breath,” interjected Jean, “some gentlemen will soon be here to take it away from you.”
The pirate ships were closing in at a terrifying speed, using the wind to full affect as they homed in on the Glory from the north-west. The lead vessel was a streamlined black nightmare the shape of a viper’s head, with long ropes festooned with human skulls dangling from its hull.
Felipe saw a tall, raddled man in a black silk coat standing at the helm, cackling in anticipation of bloodshed. Next to him stood a glum-looking dwarf, bald as an egg and giving his sling an experimental whirl.
The Templar ran his professional soldier’s eye over the rest of the pirates crammed fore and aft, and judged them a motley bunch, brigands, sell-swords and cut-throats scraped from every dank corner of the earth. Scum, maybe, but dangerous scum, and armed to the eyebrows. Clubs studded with nails, butcher’s knives, rapiers, broadswords, axes, maces, spikes and daggers strapped to long poles, short-bows, crossbows, slings, pikes, even one or two halberds...the Raven Queen’s servants bristled with almost every killing tool imaginable, and were straining like hounds at the leash for the opportunity to use them.
They also had grappling irons, and the toughest-looking among the pirates were gathering at the prow, ready to board. The Glory’s captain had given up trying to manoeuvre his lumbering ship out of danger, and now the order to repel boarders was sounding across the deck.
Those with the will to fight hurried into position, or as quickly as those affected by sea-sickness could manage. There was a score or so of real warriors among them, armed knights and mercenaries, but the rest were poorly armed and had little experience of fighting.
The Path of Sorrow Page 9