“A fascinating history lesson,” Longwell said, skeptical. “But I have a hard time believing that, if you’ll forgive me.”
Curatio shrugged. “I saw enough of it myself to be sure it’s true, humans marched into the coliseum to fight for the entertainment of the ancients. I saw them tending the houses, working in the fields. I’ve never been to Luukessia myself until now, so all I’d heard is what those on the expeditions told me.”
“You knew the ancients?” Cyrus asked.
“Some of them,” Curatio said. “I was in their capital for a time.”
“Interesting story. Will you play Alaric and refuse to tell us any more of it if we ask later?” J’anda watched the healer with a coy smile.
“I’d rather not remember some of those days,” Curatio said darkly. “But I’m willing to discuss parts of it. Back to the point, though—the last time the ancients came here, Luukessia was already in chaos and the land was dividing into what I presume became the Kingdoms you have today.” He shrugged. “That is all I recall of it.”
“Fascinating,” J’anda said as the volume rose down on the floor, drowning out any further whispering.
King Longwell was standing now as was Milos Tiernan and a few of their aides as well. “I have done nothing to you,” King Longwell said, his voice comically raised. “Did I ransack one of your castles? Did my army? No.”
“It was your vassals,” Milos Tiernan said, his voice calm, much calmer than Longwell’s. “I see them, even now, sitting with my sister, as though to taunt me with her as an affront to my honor.” Cyrus looked at the man carefully, watching his facial movements, and decided that if there was any sign of effrontery there, it was well hidden. “Your mercenaries came through my lands and caused great harm to my people.”
“Your Baron kidnapped my people and brought great harm to your own lands,” Cyrus said, standing, and drawing a gasp from the crowds on Actaluere’s and Galbadien’s benches. “Had he simply let us pass, none of what you’re upset over would have happened, and he’d still be a baron,” Cyrus pointed to Hoygraf, who glared at him, hunched over on his seat, “with all his equipment still functioning, and not a Grand Duke who lacks any grandiosity.”
“You have no standing to speak here, sir,” Milos Tiernan said, still unexpressive.
“And yet I’m standing and I’m speaking,” Cyrus said. “How ’bout that.”
Cyrus felt the tug of Odau Genner pulling on his sleeve, so he sat and Genner whispered to him, “Interrupting the debate of Kings is not considered to be appropriate.”
Cyrus stared at the clearly disturbed Genner, whose face seemed to be twitching from thought of the infraction of the rules. “I’ll do it sparingly in the future,” Cyrus said, causing Genner to twitch anew.
They returned their attention to the floor, where King Longwell was reading a list of grievances to Briyce Unger of Syloreas, who stared at his feet in utter boredom. When Aron Longwell finished, he asked, “What say you, Unger?”
Briyce Unger stirred, slowly, as though awakening from a sleep. He got to his feet, unfolding his massive frame. He was muscled like Cyrus, though he was older, and his physique bulged even through the sleeves of the robe. “It’s all true,” Unger said. “I won’t deny a bit of it, though some of those injuries don’t sound like things my men did, especially a few of those villages you claim were damaged. Seems they’re a mite further south than my armies got, at least to my understanding, but I’ll not quibble with your accounting.”
A buzz ran through the garden, one of amused joy in the Galbadien ranks, slight shock in Actaluere’s, and mutinous rumblings from Syloreas. “What’s that about?” Cyrus asked Genner, who watched agape.
“Briyce Unger has just accepted the King’s reportage of grievances,” Genner said, his mouth flapping in shock. “That means he’ll agree to pay reparations for the damages. Such things are never agreed upon this quickly in the moot, and certainly not wholly—I mean, we included villages in the listing that suffered no damage, so we would be able to cede some out from the final figures. That’s how it works, you see, you profess a list of damages, they deny it totally, then you give them a smaller list, they acknowledge one, maybe two, and it goes on—no one accepts a list of grievances wholly, not ever!”
“Why would he do that?” Cyrus asked.
“How much will he be paying?” Terian asked, a glimmer in his eyes.
“I don’t know on either count,” Genner said. “It’s all to be decided later, in smaller sessions. This first session is for the points of major contention, when all the grievances are reported; the mediations come later and are handled by underlings, not the Kings.”
“Briyce Unger,” Grenwald Ivess spoke, as King Longwell took his seat. “Now has come the time for your first grievance to be brought.”
Unger took his feet once more, and motioned up the steps behind him. “I have a grievance mightier than anyone else, one that concerns everyone in this room, eventually, one which will destroy us all if left unchecked.”
“You fear my mercenaries?” King Longwell was already on his feet. “You bring your own, wreck my Kingdom, and now you wish to warn of the dangers of westerners, now that a group of them is poised at your neck?” Cyrus watched the King, and from the side profile he could see veins standing out on the man’s temple, his ire either real or well feigned.
Unger waved his hand in utter dismissal. “Were your western mercenaries camped outside my hall in Scylax even now, I would be unworried. I have greater concerns.” He waved his hand up the stairs, and four of his men came down, carrying a large bundle between them, wrapped in cloth as though it were a funeral shroud being borne by the four warriors, one at each corner. “Things have happened between us, battles,” he nodded at King Longwell, “wars, takings of women and sisters,” he nodded at Tiernan. “But what is waiting for us right now is a threat graver than any of our petty concerns.”
“I doubt he’d feel the same had he taken Vernadam a moon ago,” Genner said under his breath. Cyrus heard grunts of agreement from the benches in front of him.
Unger ignored whatever comments were made and focused on his oratory. “In the last month and a half, my Kingdom has been invaded.”
Milos Tiernan sat up in interest, as did Aron Longwell, Cyrus saw. “I didn’t think Count Ranson’s armies had made it into Syloreas’s territories yet?” he asked Genner under his breath.
“They haven’t. It must be Tiernan, that bastard opportunist. He always strikes when a back is turned.” Genner guffawed. “Better Unger than us.”
“What accusation are you making here?” Milos Tiernan asked.
“I’m not accusing anyone here,” Briyce Unger said, holding up his arms. “I’ve lost the northern mountain reaches of my Kingdom to an invasion. No man is responsible, not as near as I can tell. It’s this,” he kicked out with his toe, pointed at the bundle his soldiers had laid at his feet. “These … things.”
With that, his men pulled back the cloth. A smell of rot wafted over the crowd, causing a few weak stomachs to gag. Cyrus’s eyes were fixed on the black cloth, on the creature within. It was pale of skin, without a hair to be seen. Decomposition had set in and the flesh had begun to decay, maggots crawling over it, but the figure was still visible, and Cyrus stood to get a better look.
It walked on four legs, even with a roughly man-shaped body. A hideously disfigured mouth was still visible, though the edges of it had begun to decay. Had he not seen one recently, it still would have looked familiar, though Cyrus could not place the thing, could not decide where he had ever seen one before, or even if—
“It’s the …” J’anda was the one who spoke. “From the swamp, when we captured Partus, it’s the … ghoulish thing that was attacking him. It’s just like it.” The enchanter covered his nose. “But I think it might smell worse than the other one.”
“These things,” Briyce Unger said, “have cut to the heart of my Kingdom. They come by the thousands, out of the mountain
s to the north, the impassable lands of snow, and even now they are sweeping south toward Scylax.” The big King drew himself up, and a look of utter calm descended upon him. “And soon enough, if we don’t act together, they’ll keep coming south, until they cover all Luukessia.”
Chapter 28
“What in the blazes is that?” King Longwell cried out, half-laughing. “A rotted goat?”
Briyce Unger looked down at the festering corpse then back at Aron Longwell, who was still chortling. “Does that look like a goat to you, Longwell? Is your vision so poor and your wits so dulled from sitting your throne these last years, not feeling the song of blades in your bones, that you don’t know something unearthly when you see it?”
Aron Longwell stiffened. “You insult me, sir.”
Briyce Unger drew up short. “I suppose I did, at that. It was not my intention when I started, but I got there, sure enough. I apologize. But surely you must see that this is no man, no beast that we’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve seen one before,” Cyrus said, standing. He looked down the benches toward the center of the amphitheater as faces turned toward him. “One of them attacked us after the battle of Harrow’s Crossing. They’re fast, they’re mean, not too tough, but enough that it gave us a fight.”
“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Aron Longwell said with a shake of his head. “Ridiculous creature.”
“Sire,” Count Ranson spoke from next to him. “I told you of this when I returned. Lord Davidon brought the body of one of these things back to us at the crossing, but I scarcely believed it was real. I have heard reports of similar creatures, sporadic, herds being culled, disappearances throughout the Kingdom, and a few indescribable … things … found responsible.”
“I still do not believe it to be real,” King Longwell. “That could be some other sort of creature, a farm animal, dressed up to look like something …” He stared at it, as though trying to discern its nature, “… something else entirely. This is a distraction, meant to muddy the issues before us at a time when we should be addressing grievances.”
Briyce Unger let out a bellowing sigh that turned into a grunt. “Once you’re quite finished reporting your grievances, then will you be willing to listen to me about these creatures?”
“I disbelieve that this threat you name even exists.” King Longwell shook his hand in the direction of the corpse. “You are playing at something, Briyce Unger, but I know not what.”
Unger’s eyes narrowed and the man seemed to grow another foot as he swelled with anger, dark clouds gathering across his countenance. “You and I have known each other for a great amount of time, Aron Longwell, and you know full well that I am not one to move about treacherously. If I want something, I go straight at it until I get it or I’m too badly beaten to go onward. I am telling you that something is devouring my Kingdom whole. A pestilence—a scourge of these things, is sweeping down out of the mountains of the north, taking whole villages and leaving only the survivors who can outrun their grasp before they move again. If you choose not to believe me, that’s your prerogative, but understand this—they are coming, and I doubt seriously that once they’ve run across all the lands of Syloreas they’ll simply stop at your borders, bow to your greatness, and hold their line.”
“I am of a mind to listen to King Briyce,” said Milos Tiernan. “At least insofar as maneuvering goes, he shows little of the taste for it that you and I have, King Aron.” Tiernan raised a goblet at Longwell, who seethed. “Perhaps there might be something to his claim; I have my doubts that he would wait until this late stage in his life to develop a knack for treachery.”
“I think I might have heard an echo of an ‘old man’ joke in there somewhere,” Briyce Unger said, voice dripping with irony, “and yet I don’t care. What will it take to convince you that we need action?”
“There have been reports from the northern reaches of my Kingdom as well,” Tiernan said shrewdly, “strange news, strange occurrences, odd creatures blamed, but not in such numbers as you claim. I would like to send an observer to see these things with his own eyes and report back to me with the veracity of your assertions.” Milos Tiernan finished, taking another sip from the goblet that was held by one of his courtiers. “If what you say is true, there should be no shortage of places where they could witness your Kingdom under siege from these creatures.”
“Aye,” Unger said, “no shortage. We can do that, arrange for someone to come north with us, see some of the carnage these things leave. But we’ll need to hurry.”
“What is the great hurry, Unger?” Aron Longwell sneered with disdain. “Afraid that your mystery creatures will vanish by the time his observer gets there?”
“No, you great dolt,” Unger said, bitterness dripping from his words, “I’m afraid that by the time they see the truth of my words, we return and your man motivates your slow-spinning arse into action that my Kingdom will be naught but ashes and blood.” He drew himself up again. “Every Sylorean, we men of the north, know battle in our souls, quest for it in our lives, but this scourge that sweeps across our lands spares not women nor children, and is unmerciful in every way.” He looked around. “I see in these things the death of all I hold dear, of my lands, of my people …” he seemed to grind out the last words, “… even of the rest of Luukessia. And I don’t mean to have it happen while I’m lying about. Give me your observers and I’ll take them north, I’ll show them the right of it, and we’ll come back—but when we do, I want your word that you’ll move your armies to action, because if you don’t—if you don’t mean to do anything—then I’ll be leading all my armies in a last charge. Something, anything to stem the tide of these creatures,” he spat onto the grey skinned rotting body at his feet, “and try to save my people.”
Chapter 29
The moot went on for a bit after that, a few more grievances aired (by King Longwell only—every time he was offered the opportunity to speak, Unger demurred and Tiernan did the same), petty concerns, mostly, dealing with small matters.
Cyrus turned to Odau Genner as Grenwald Ivess took to his feet once more. “What about Cattrine?” Cyrus asked. “I must have missed the resolution of what was to happen with regard to her.”
Genner shook his head. “There was little argument because the discussion was tabled as unresolved, destined to be debated further in the coming days. The reporting of grievances can only end with accession or dispute; in larger matters, accession is the rarer course.” Genner smiled faintly. “I suspect it will be hotly debated on the morrow in session.”
“The King wants me to turn her over, doesn’t he?” Cyrus asked, prompting Genner to hem and haw. “I won’t. I will not send her back to the arms of that coward so she can be whipped and beaten.”
Genner’s face became slack. “Then you’ll need to fight for her, else you’ll be placing our Kingdom in the midst of another war, one I have doubts we could win at present.” He looked away. “It’s not something we need to worry about yet, anyway.”
“Who will the King send north?” Cyrus asked, causing Genner to cough.
“I suspect Count Ranson will be our envoy,” Genner said. “If I had to guess.”
“I want to go with him,” Cyrus said, feeling a stir inside. The moon shone down overhead; long ago the sun had set and it was deep in the night. The stars were barely visible against the blue-black of the sky, and the torches burning on sconces around them lent the garden a smoky scent, reminding Cyrus once again that he was not in Sanctuary, with her smokeless torches and bright hallways. “I want to go north, to see this threat for myself.”
Genner nodded. “You are in charge of your own army. I can’t see the King refusing you, especially while we are still encamped here at Enrant Monge—and it seems unlikely we will be leaving until this expedition returns from the north.”
The benches cleared a few at a time; some of the delegates remained to chat with others in their own party, and in a few cases, with other delegates. “There looks to
be some crossover,” Cyrus said. “Some of them know each other?”
“Oh, yes,” Genner said. “It has been over a decade since the last moot, but the older among us know each other. Between you and me,” he said with a smile, “this is how the diplomacy gets done, the deals worked out. It’s not presented in session, but haggled by lower level intermediaries, argued back and forth, until something amenable comes to be discussed in the garden.” Genner shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We have discussions, surely, but all the real work is done when the session ends or on a break. In these meetings all we do is shout our position at the top of our lungs, never changing it until we’ve privately agreed with the other side on concessions. With Actaluere, anyway,” Genner amended. “Briyce Unger is usually not so subtle in his negotiations.”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me,” Cyrus said. “I think I prefer Unger’s method.”
“There is no finesse, no subtlety to it,” Genner said. “He is a brute, a man who leads with his sword and follows with whatever is left.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said with a smile. “I like him already.”
“Eh?” Genner looked at Cyrus, mystified. “I’ll communicate your desire to go north with Count Ranson, old boy. I wouldn’t presume to tell you exactly how it has to be, but if they’re in as great a hurry as Unger appears, they’ll likely leave tonight or early on the morrow, and you’ll be restricted to taking only horsed men with you. I doubt they’ll want to wait for men on foot given the urgency of this mission.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Cyrus said, and turned to look at the others, now folded into a group behind him. “I mean to go north with Unger,” he told them. “We’ll only take those on horseback, and I need a good, solid corps of veterans—somewhere between twenty and thirty, but not so many that the army is crippled without us.” He nodded at Curatio. “You and J’anda, for certain. Longwell, I’d like you to be your father’s eyes on this, in case he doesn’t trust Ranson.” Cyrus turned to Terian. “You, I think will need to stay and keep an eye on things around here.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 31