Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two

by Robert Reginald

  The cleric was imposing in his red cassock and ornate vermilion hat, towering at least two feet over the boy. With his bushy gray beard, he looked like God Himself.

  “You may go,” the churchman ordered the guards, who immediately departed.

  Then he turned to his nephew.

  “Your father’s dead,” he stated, “your brothers too.”

  “Wh-what?” Kipriyán said, unable to assimilate the message.

  He felt as if the underpinnings of his entire world had just been destroyed.

  “The king’s been killed,” Víktor repeated. “I’ve been named Prince-Regent of Kórynthia by the Royal Council. We have to make a few decisions, Kyprianos.”

  “What?” the boy stated again.

  “Look at me, lad!” the prelate ordered.

  He gazed up into that austere face. His great-uncle’s eyes were as cold as emerald crystals.

  “The king is dead,” the regent emphasized once more. “Your brothers are dead. That leaves you the apparent ‘heir apparent,’ Kyp. But these things aren’t so obvious sometimes, are they?”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Kipriyán responded.

  “No, of course you don’t,” the older man indicated. “Some of us feel that you’re not quite kingly material, but I happen to believe that you’ll do just fine. What do you think, my boy?”

  “I, I,...”

  “That’s what I thought,” the cleric said. “Now, listen to me carefully, Kyprianos. This afternoon you’ll be presented to the Royal Council, where you’ll be proclaimed King of Kórynthia. I and your grandmother will be your co-regents, but you will obey only me, do you understand? You will follow my every lead, you will respond exactly as I dictate. If you fail to do this, if you fail me, boy, he’ll come for you in the night.”

  “Wh-who, sir?” Kipriyán said.

  “The Dark-Haired Man!” the metropolitan roared, suddenly transforming himself into the image of a hairy, black beast rising up to the ceiling of the church, ready to devour the lad.

  The king screamed out loud, screamed his terror and fear and horror, and he was still shrieking when he awoke in his tent, surrounded by hundreds of fluttering moths that kissed him everywhere he turned. But try as he might, he could not get away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “THE ENTERPRISE WILL PROCEED”

  Two weeks later, early on the morning of the Feast of Saint Matthias, the royals, accompanied by the first units of the Kórynthi army, finally reached the gated citadel of Myláßgorod. Behind them snaked a column six miles long, although some of the supply trains were straggling as much as three days behind the main force. The weather had cleared for five straight days out of Paltyrrha, allowing them to make very good time initially; but the rains had started up again on the sixth day, and the cumulative effect of thirty thousand human feet pounding into the same small patch of ground, not to mention several thousand horses and the wheels of a thousand wagons, had churned the roads into runny brown ribbons of slippery mush.

  The ancient walled city of Myláßgorod was located on the eastern bank of the Myláß River in the foothills of the Carpates Spinæ, a long, narrow mountain range that angled northwest towards the Baltískoye Mórye, and acted as the border between Kórynthia and Pommerelia. The city was the chief seat of Count Otakar von Tighris-Myláßgorod, who was waiting nervously just inside Saint László’s Gate to greet his distant cousin and liege, the king of Kórynthia. The rains had mercifully abated during the last day, and the sun was glittering brightly off his armor as Count Otakar stepped forward, gloved hand raised in welcome.

  “All hail, King Kyprianos!” boomed Otakar, sweating profusely. “Welcome to Myláßgorod, gateway to the Inland Empire.”

  The king swept his heavily mailed arm around, including his officers and soldiers in the gesture.

  “We are most pleased to arrive here, Cousin,” he intoned, “and we look forward to several days of rest before proceeding through the pass into Pommerelia.”

  He publicly embraced the count, their mail shirts clanging against one other. There were huzzahs of approval from the assembled brigades.

  Otakar motioned for silence.

  “Milord,” he said, “I invite you and your family and officers to join me for a banquet of celebration this evening. We have also prepared quarters in the city for the higher ranking members of your staff, and hope you will take advantage of this respite to shake loose some of the dust of travel.”

  And with that they adjourned to the privacy of the citadel within the town.

  An hour later the War Council assembled in the count’s meeting room to receive an updated assessment of their progress. As had become customary, it was Hereditary Prince Arkády who gave the initial presentation.

  “My king, my lords, my generals,” he said, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “Twenty-two thousand men are now encamped around Myláßgorod, or soon will be. Six thousand more have gathered in Bolémia, and will be supplemented shortly by another thousand mercenaries. Another four or five thousand soldiers are still in transit here, and may or may not reach us in time to be useful.

  “Our main problems seem to be lack of supplies and sanitary facilities. Our chief quartermaster, Navkráty Blagoslávovich, and the King’s physician, Fra Jánisar Cantárian, are both available to give you additional details, should you need them. However, I can provide the following summation.”

  He cleared his throat before continuing. “Many of our supply wagons have been delayed by the awful weather conditions, and at least some of the food they carry has been spoiled by the damp. The first spring crops are only barely starting to come in, and the Myláßi and Susaföni warehouses are almost empty. We’re attempting to bring additional supplies upriver on barges from Südmark and Faülniß, but as you know, the Myláß River is only navigable for a short distance after it splits from the Drúna. We’ve even had to move some crucial foodstuffs through the few transit mirrors, which are already heavily clogged with official travelers.

  “Now, as to our second problem,” Arkády said, “we lack sufficient sanitation pits to accommodate this many men, and digging additional latrines is almost impossible in these muddy conditions. Already, we are seeing cases of both the typhous and the typhoidous grippe, as well as many other infectious diseases. Fra Jánisar tells me that these will worsen unless we can relocate quickly. More disturbing to me are the ever-increasing reports of foot rot, which the wet weather seems to be fostering. I don’t have to tell you, milords, that an army mostly marches on its feet, and if those feet are hurting, our pace will be significantly reduced.”

  The prince took his seat, inclining his head towards his father’s chief minister, the grand vizier.

  “Thank you, highness,” Lord Gorázd said. “Are there any questions? Yes, Prince Nikolaí.”

  “I was wondering,” the burly warrior said, “if we have any current reports on the situation in the Skopélosz Pass. Just what are we facing at Borgösha?”

  Sir Léka d’Örs, the king’s Chief Scout, fielded the query.

  “The pass is clear of snow and lightly guarded,” he said. “Only a thousand Pommerelian soldiers, possibly less, hold Borgösha, under the overall command of Gajus Count Thulden. He’s been unable to get supplies from Körvö, due to the Spargö River being over its banks, and very little has trickled down from the north. I hear that Iselin Graf von Einwegflasche is holding on to everything he’s got, waiting for Prince Ezzö and Prince Pankratz to dare the Kultúra Pass up north.”

  “I see.” Nikolaí stroked his beard. “And is Prince Pankratz ready to move?”

  “I can answer that,” King Humfried said. “My father and my son have already positioned their forces at Körösladány on the east end of the Kultúra Pass. They’re just waiting for the word from Myláßgorod to proceed. They’re ready, all right!”

  “Then the enterprise will proceed on schedule,” King Kipriyán boomed. “Arkásha, where in the bloody halls of Hadês are those dam
n’d Arrhénis?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “THEY STILL RIDE COWS THERE”

  Where, indeed?

  That same morning 3,500 soldiers from Arrhénë were just in the process of being ferried across the Paltyrrh River, which was now running dangerously high from the spring runoff.

  Princess Arrhiána was watching the proceedings from the Quai de Saint-Basile. She was clothed in a rough leather riding habit and cloak, topped by a bright red felt cap with a jaunty pheasant feather plume. Suddenly one barge capsized, drowning twenty or thirty men in the process.

  She shook her head. Those poor soldiers. What will I tell their widows?, she thought to herself.

  “Sándor!” she called out as loudly as she could.

  The commander of the Arrhéni Brigade immediately broke free of the group he was instructing, and came trotting over.

  Aleksándr Count of Yevpatóriya, or “Sándor,” as everyone called him, was about thirty-five years of age, with a florid complexion, broad shoulders, and heavily-muscled arms. His shaggy, auburn hair hung down the back of his neck in knotted strings, although he knew he would have to trim it before going into battle. At present he was totally concerned with the formidable task of getting his brigade across the river. He understood only too well how late they were, and it was a matter of pride to him that his forces make a good showing in the upcoming battle.

  “Milady,” he said, saluting his sister-in-law politely in front of her guardsmen.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side.

  “Sandy,” she said, gesturing at the swiftly-running water below the crossing, “I want you to string some additional cables to stabilize the ferries. We just can’t continue taking these kinds of losses. We’re having problems with almost every trip.”

  “Yes, princess,” he said. “I was about to order the same thing myself. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  Making a small bow in her direction, he ran off downstream to carry out her instructions.

  While the new ropes were being lashed to either side of the river bank, Arrhiána heard a contingent of riders galloping rapidly down the Avenue du Saint-Constantine behind her. She turned just in time to greet Prince Nikolaí, who dismounted with a flourish, and handed her an official dispatch from the king.

  “Nicky!” she squealed with delight, her feather bobbing, “what a pleasant surprise. How are father and our brothers? What news?”

  “Sister,” the burly prince responded, practically lifting her off her feet with his giant bear hug, and pecking her rather sloppily on both cheeks. He glanced around to make sure that none of his men were watching this unseemly display of affection.

  “Can’t stay long,” he said. “Kásha has ordered me to check on the progress of the Arrhénis, and to report back to him later today.”

  She turned away from him and pointed at the river.

  “Well,” she said, grimacing, “there they are in all their glory, and unless we can get more barges and ropes and experienced men to run them, there they’ll stay for another couple of days. Even using bonfires to light up the night, we can’t get more than a thousand men across in one day. And that’s not even counting their horses and equipment, such as they are.”

  “God’s breath!” he said. “Father’s not going to be happy about this. All he ever wants to know is, ‘Where are those blasted Arrhénis?’”

  “Well, why don’t you discuss the problem with Sandy yourself.”

  She nodded her head at the commander conferring with his men a little further down the jetty. Calling an aide, she ordered that he fetch Count Sándor posthaste.

  Breathing heavily, the nobleman joined the prince and princess a few moments later.

  “Nicky! Great to see you, cousin!” he said, wrapping the prince in a bear hug of his own, and clapping him on the shoulder soundly. “How goes it in Myláßgorod?”

  Before answering, Nikolaí suggested they take their discussion to a nearby quay-side tavern, where they settled out front at a rough outdoor table and bench protected from the elements, where they could still keep an eye on the river crossings.

  A pretty young serving wench rushed out, wiping her hands on a bright homespun apron. Nikolaí and Sándor called for ale, while Arrhiána opted for hot mulled cider. They were quickly served with drinks and crusty bread, sharp cheese, garlicky sausages, and tiny pickled onions, which the proprietor was only too happy to provide gratis.

  The prince settled back to give them both a brief summary of the army’s slow trek cross-country, and an account of the difficult conditions in Myláßgorod. He soon had them both laughing uproariously with his tale of the wretched hieromonk and his donkey.

  “No!” said Arrhiána, laughing and wiping the tears from her eyes. “The poor man! Why on earth did they put him on such a beast in the first place?”

  “Maury thinks it was a joke someone was playing on him,” Nikolaí said. “No one knows who assigned that particular animal to Father Athanasios. To give the man credit, he stuck with it and finally mastered the ass, with Maury’s help, of course.”

  The prince took a final swig of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then added pointedly:

  “All joking aside, father keeps asking what’s holding you up, Sandy. That’s why he sent me here.”

  The count threw up his hands in frustration.

  “Everything and nothing,” he said. “If you can believe it, the roads are even worse in Arrhénë than they are out west. The provisions have been terrible. You can see the difficulties we’re having just getting across the Paltyrrh. We’re coming as fast as we can, Nick, but it’s going to be at least two weeks before we reach Myláßgorod, maybe longer. I can’t keep pushing the men this way without giving them a few days’ rest at Katonaí Field. As it is, we’ll have to reprovision and regroup here, and I don’t even expect us to start from the city for another four days. I hear the Voróna and Velyaminóli Brigades are having similar problems; they’re still stuck somewhere southeast of us in the hills on the other side of the river.”

  Nikolaí shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell father, or how he’ll react. He’s been very difficult of late. One moment he’s ready to charge off to war, full of energy and ideas, and the next he’s hiding away in his tent, speaking to no one except that thrice-damn’d charlatan, Melanthrix, and blaming everything on ‘the Dark-Haired Man.’ People are beginning to talk, Rhie. Kásha’s doing all he can to maintain control, to give the war effort some kind of direction, but even he’s had a few clashes with Papá. I’m really beginning to worry about the king’s state of mind.”

  “I know, Nicky,” Arrhiána said. “Kásha and I are concerned, too. That ‘doctor,’ as he calls himself, has completely taken over father’s life with his tales of ghosts and goblins. I just can’t believe that Papá would place such credence in....”

  A yell and a splash quickly turned their attention back to the river, where another barge had tipped under a swell of the rapid current, dumping several men and horses into the fast-flowing water.

  “Sorry, cousins, got to run,” shouted Sándor, pelting off at full speed toward the ferry post.

  Several of his men were heading downstream to rescue the soldiers. Nikolaí and Arrhiána watched one half-drowned man being pulled onto the bank, while the body of another sank out of sight.

  Nikolaí sighed and rose from the table, placing several bronze chalkoi in the hands of their protesting host.

  “Nice fellow,” he said, gesturing toward Sándor. “Is he married?”

  “Nicky! Stop it!” Arrhiána said. “I’ve already been wed to one of those boys, and I don’t have any desire to marry another. Besides, he’s more like a brother to me than anything else.”

  “Ah,” Nikolaí said. “That’s why he kept looking at that pretty little cap of yours.”

  Arrhiána took a half-hearted swipe at her brother, but he ducked in time.

  “I suppose you have to leave, too,” Arrhiá
na said, her voice sad.

  “As much as I hate to go, big sister,” her brother said, “I have my duty.” He managed a tight smile. “When all else fails, I still have the Tighris honor to uphold.”

  “Just don’t get yourself killed trying to satisfy that honor, Nicky,” Arrhiána said, and then hugged him to her tightly. “I do miss you.”

  “And I you,” he said. “But now I have to go and find you a spouse in Pommerelia, since you obviously don’t have enough things to do here, and certainly need the firm guidance of a very stern husband. Let’s see, now,” he said, “I could probably capture that limp-wristed cleric, Prince Magnus Walküre, or maybe his younger brother, what’s his name, Prince Jerkin? He’s probably not even potty-trained yet.”

  “Oh, cut it out,” his sister said. “I get enough teasing from Kásha. When I marry again, if I marry again, you’ll be the last one I tell. And you should talk: you’re betrothed to that empty-headed sprite from Mährenia. Oh, I grant you, she’s a pretty little thing, if you like the type, but there’s absolutely nothing upstairs but straw. How could you be happy with that!?”

  The prince laughed long and loud.

  “Big sister,” he said, “our standards for potential mates are a wee bit different. I think the Princess Rosanna will suit me quite well, thank you, and more to the point, so will the Kingdom of Mährenia that comes with her. And, should I find her company less palatable than that of my worthy sister here, we’ll just dwell in separate quarters, and I’ll spend my time associating with someone else more to my liking.”

  “Mährenia?” Arrhiána smiled. “You want to live in Mährenia? You might as well fall off the edge of the earth. I hear they still ride cows there.”

  “Then I’ll show them what bulls are for. Or headstrong princesses!”

  He smiled again.

  His sister blushed a bright red, nearly as bright as the cap on her head.

  “Enough of that now, Nicky,” she said. “It’s clearly time for you to go. But do take care, brother. And watch over Papá and Kásha for me.”