“Find out what happened,” he said to Prince Arkády.
“At once, sire,” the prince said, his own mind reeling.
Fra Jánisar, the king’s physician, was already running to the body, which he began examining as soon as Timotheos was finished administering the sacrament. Arkády ordered the guards to clear the area so the doctor could work.
Jánisar motioned with his hand to Arkády.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
He pulled back the right sleeve of Ismaêl’s vestment. “See here?” The physician pointed to a small red dot just above the metropolitan’s elbow.
“What is it?” Arkády asked.
“A bite, perhaps,” Janiser said, “or maybe the prick of a needle. I’ve noticed something similar on two of the other bodies, and I suspect it was present on some of the earlier ones, as well. Perhaps a serum or drug is injected by the attacker to weaken the victim’s resistance to a mental probe. This direct physical contact may be a necessary prelude to whatever he eventually does with their minds.”
The prince examined the arm more closely.
“What about Otakar’s body?”
The Doctor shook his gray head.
“After considering the circumstances, I find nothing similar in the way the count died to the attacks we’ve been experiencing against members of the court.”
“Can you isolate the substance from this new attack?” the prince asked.
“No,” came the reply. “I have no means of identifying the drug without a usable sample, and even then, I strongly suspect it’s something I’ve never seen before. I don’t know of any Psairothi potion that would have precisely this effect. However, whenever we return to Paltyrrha, I’ll be able to consult with several of my colleagues in the east. They may have some better idea of what this is and how it can be countered.”
“What else can you tell me?” asked Arkády.
“Well,” the doctor said, sighing, “I still believe that the individual involved is one of us. The methodology being employed suggests that some kind of personal contact between killer and victim is essential to the perpetration of these crimes. That in turn implies regular access to the king and his councilors, a knowledge of official etiquette that is fairly sophisticated, and the ability to appear non-threatening or at least familiar to everyone at court.”
“Then....” the prince blurted out.
“Yes!” Jánisar said, “absolutely yes. The victims all knew their murderer. I don’t know what frightens me more, the idea of some monster harvesting us like so many helpless sheep, or the fact that somebody at court is at this moment methodically planning the destruction of his next target.”
He gazed down at the inert body of Metropolitan Ismaêl.
Arkády shuddered.
“Ján, you mentioned earlier today that you had a plan....”
“Just an idea, Highness,” the doctor said. “I haven’t worked it out completely yet.”
He snorted, and nodded his head at the body.
“Too much to do, sire. Just give me a few days. Please.”
“Very well,” the prince said. “Do your usual necroprobe, not that I expect it to tell us anything more than before. And keep quiet about this, if you will.”
“Of course, sir,” Jánisar said.
Arkády returned to the king. “Biliousness,” he muttered. “The man had a bad stomach.”
No one much believed him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THE DARK FIRST, AND THEN THE LIGHT”
That same morning at Tighrishály Palace in Paltyrrha, the Princess Dúra was comfortably seated in a sunny corner of the solar with several of her ladies, knitting a shawl for Queen Brisquayne’s new great-grandchild, when one of her maids came dashing in unannounced.
“It’s Prince Ari!” she screamed, as the women looked up in surprise. “Come quickly, princess!”
Dúra dropped the shawl and ran out of the solar as fast as her short, plump legs could carry her. Prince Arkády’s quarters were located several floors above, and she was perspiring and breathless by the time she reached the entrance to their apartment. Even before she entered, she could hear the pitiful moans of her son.
“Oh, God,” she prayed, steadying herself for the worst, “please give him life. Please take away his pain.”
As she entered the children’s rooms, she immediately looked for the signal bell in its customary place, but it was nowhere to be seen, and she frantically began to scan the room for it, impatiently pushing away her eldest daughter, who was pulling at her sleeve to get her attention.
“Mamá, Mamá!” Rÿna cried out, “I rang the bell already. I’m sorry, Mamá, but it called out to me, and I sent for Melánty. He’s on his way, I’m sure of it.”
Dúra finally understood what her daughter was trying to tell her, and bent down and hugged her close, kissing away the frantic tears.
“It’s all right, little one,” she murmured. “You did well.”
Then Dúra turned to her son, and took his hand in hers, trying to comfort him while they waited. It seemed as if an eternity passed before the shadowy figure of Doctor Melanthrix finally appeared at the doorway.
“We heard Rÿna call,” he whispered, “and so we came as quickly as possible. My dear boy,” he said, hurrying to the young prince lying pain-wracked in his feather bed, “whatever do we have here? My poor, poor lad. We brought you your medication. This will make you feel a bit better.”
Then he forced a drop of the liquid down Prince Arión’s throat.
After the boy had fallen into a deep sleep, Doctor Melanthrix sat back, his face creased with lines of weariness.
“My dear lady,” he said, “we may not be available regularly in the future, due to prevailing conditions in the west, and so we must instruct you in the use of this preventative. There are two classes of elixir, one dark, one light. When the boy suffers one of these attacks, give him two drops—no more, mind!—of the dark, until he sleeps. When he wakes, give him one sip of the light, and another later that same day, at about the dinner hour. Then he will recover from the spell.”
“What about the needles?” she asked.
“He has passed the point where that technique might prove effective,” the old philosopher said. “What we have supplied you with now will last you for some months, and we shall replenish the stock when we return from battle. There is no permanent cure for this affliction, although the attacks will diminish when he finally reaches adolescence.”
“Will he live?” Dúra asked.
“Who can say, madame, who can say?” the old philosopher said. “‘Man born of woman has but a short life to live,’ sayeth the Scripture. All of those whom we knew in our youth are gone now, save one or two. This much only can we say, that your son will not perish from this illness. Of that you may rest assured. Now, we must depart. Remember: the dark first and then the light.”
She thought to ask him something else, and hurried to the corridor after the man, but he was nowhere to be found, despite the fact that he had just exited the room. When she returned to Ari’s side, Princess Grigorÿna was seated near her brother, still holding the silver bell in her right hand.
“Rÿna,” her mother said.
“Yes, Mamá,” the girl said.
“I love you very much, my first-born child.” Dúra smiled. “I’ve decided to make you the official Custodian of the Bell. We shall keep it here, of course, in case you’re playing outside when it’s needed. But when you’re here, you shall be the one to ring it, and no one else.”
Rÿna was beside herself with joy. The bell seemed part of her now, and she couldn’t imagine being without it.
“Did you hear that, Ouisa?” she told her old rag doll a little later. “I’m the chief bellkeeper now.”
“Oh yes, dear Rÿna,” Louisa said. “And it’s such a lovely bell, too, isn’t it? We’ll keep it with us always.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“FOR KING KIPRIYÁN A
ND KÓRYNTHIA!”
Shortly after midnight on the morrow, the Feast of Saint Pêrêgrinos the Beknighted, Prince Nikolaí gathered an elite squad of two hundred of the King’s Rangers, and led the way out of Myláßgorod Camp. A few miles north of town, they turned to follow the Liyépaya Fork of the Myláß River, as it slowly entered the eastern flank of the Carpates or Trans-Oxian Mountains. They met the scout Sir Léka d’Örs at the base of the Skopélosz Pass.
“Highness!” Sir Léka saluted.
“Is everything ready?” Nikolaí asked.
“I have the extra horses here,” the scout said, motioning to a line of mounts tethered to one side.
“Then let’s proceed,” the prince said, turning and shouting to his men: “For King Kipriyán and Kórynthia!”
“For King Kipriyán and Kórynthia!” two hundred voices agreed.
Each of the rangers grabbed the reins of another horse, and trailed it behind him. Then the troop started up Skopélosz Road at a trot, led by Sir Léka and Prince Nikolaí. The light of the half-moon was more than sufficient to show them the way, and they proceeded rapidly up the slight incline.
The valley of the Liyépaya was broad and easily traversed, even during flood season. One permanent stone bridge was located near the bottom of the canyon to assist the traveler over the widest part of the river, and beyond that point several easy fords were passable much of the year ’round.
Each of the soldiers changed mounts at the halfway point. A little further along the gorge the river split again, and once more they took the left-hand branch, now reduced to a mere creek, called the Corgátha. Their well-defined road proceeded southwest through the mountains, bypassing a series of green meadows covered with beaver ponds. The way was fringed on either side with blueberry bushes, ferns, and the hulks of giant evergreens. Occasionally they would hear a deer bounding away, or an owl hooting in the distance, or a night hawk calling at them as it circled in the cold air high above.
Near the top of the pass the air became crisp and cool, and they could see the breaths of their horses snorting out in front of them. They dismounted a few hundred yards short of the summit, where a small strongpoint, called Fort Bürnhoff by the Kórynthis, was located, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. Sir Léka quietly pointed out the weaknesses that he had scouted some days before, and then Prince Nikolaí took command, using ring-glow signals to deploy his men around the poorly-guarded structure.
The archers carefully notched their arrows, holding several others at the ready; at the prince’s mark, they silently began dropping the Pommerelian guards patroling the wooden palisades some ten feet above them, shooting as fast as they could draw. All died quietly, and no alarum was given.
Then, a specially trained squad used knotted ropes to catch the pointed wood posts making up the outer wall of the fort, and the rangers quickly pulled themselves up and over, silently invading the compound, like an army of ghosts capturing a long-dead ruin.
It was all over within moments. Most of the defenders were surprised in their bedrolls, and never even had a chance to draw their weapons before they were confronted with long, pointed blades at their throats. The majority surrendered without even being asked.
“What are our casualties?” Nikolaí asked.
“Two dead, eleven wounded,” Sir Léka said.
“And the enemy?”
“At least forty dead, about the same number wounded, and over two hundred taken prisoner.”
“Then post our standard,” the prince said, and watched as the crouching ochre tiger of his house was raised over the eastern gate, just in time for the first light from the rising sun to catch its fluttering waves.
“Sir Léka,” he continued, “I want you to ride to the king, and report that Fort Kipriyán has been taken.”
There was a rousing cheer all around as the men heard the name of their rechristened fort.
“Sir Yáros,” he added, “take ten men down the west side of the pass into Borgo Canyon, check the approaches to Borgösha, and warn us of any reinforcements being sent up the mountain.”
“Yes, sir,” both men echoed, and rushed to their respective duties.
The rangers had just captured the only obstacle blocking Kórynthi access to the city of Borgösha.
Meanwhile, the main army was preparing to depart its camp outside Myláßgorod. The previous afternoon, King Kipriyán had confirmed the new Count Zygmunt in his rank, accepting his obeisance, and then ordered him to remain at home. Someone had to be present there to organize the reinforcements coming from other parts of the kingdom, including the much-delayed Arrhéni Brigade.
At the same time, Patriarch Avraäm had appointed Timotheos, the Metropolitan of Örtenburg and All Nördmark, as the new Locum Tenens of the Holy Church to replace the deceased Ismaêl; he had already returned to Paltyrrha to assume his office.
The largest military force ever assembled in Kórynthia moved out of camp not long after sunrise, heading towards the same pass traversed by the rangers earlier that day. Shortly after they entered the canyon, a horseman was spotted riding fast down the road. Several men drew their weapons until they recognized the familiar face of Sir Léka. He was immediately escorted to the king.
“Sire,” he said, “I have the great pleasure to announce that Prince Nikolaí has taken Fort Kipriyán, and is waiting for you at the top of the pass.”
The news swept the army instantly, prompting spontaneous cheers up and down the line. All of the seasoned soldiers knew that Borgösha was dominated by the heights, and control of the pass ultimately meant control of the city. They proceeded up Skopélosz Road with renewed vigor.
About that same time, the Pommerelian commander in Borgösha, Gajus Count Thulden, sent a supply wagon with twenty guards up the road through Borgo Canyon to Fort Bürnhoff. They never returned. Late in the afternoon, having become concerned by the lack of communication, the count dispatched an experienced scout named Claret to investigate. He quietly reached his destination after dark, heard the enemy soldiers enjoying the provisions that the Pommerelians had so generously donated to them, and just as silently withdrew, making his report to his master later that night, after moonrise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“LAST NIGHT I DREAMT I WENT TO KÓRYNTHÁLY AGAIN”
It took two full days for the initial units of the Kórynthi force to traverse the Skopélosz Pass, and another to assemble five great catapults on the heights jutting out over the city, where they perched like a row of giant mantises ready to feast on their defenseless victims.
On the morning of the Feast of Saint Poudentiana, they began lobbing huge stones over the city walls of Borgösha, smashing soldiers and civilians alike, together with their animals, houses, wagons, and anything else that got in the way. Count Gajus could do nothing. Indeed, while he was inspecting the battlements in mid-afternoon, he was suddenly crushed by one of the giant rocks, together with several of his officers and advisors. His unexpected passing utterly demoralized the defenders.
On the morning of the twentieth day of May, the Feast of Saint Vasilla, Borgösha was abandoned by the army of Pommerelia. A half-hearted attempt to burn the citadel was extinguished by the townsmen who chose to remain, and the gates of the city were thrown open to the invaders.
King Kipriyán promptly accepted the gift.
At the hour of hektê the first regiments of the Kórynthi force began entering the city in columns of four, deploying rapidly throughout the streets. Squads were dispatched to clean up the débris caused by the recent bombardment. After the King’s Guard had taken their positions, the town was thoroughly searched by trained Psairothi for spies and sympathizers to the Pommerelian cause. These were executed where they were found, together with any family members associated with them, and their heads posted on pikes along the city walls. The row of blankly-staring faces seemed to work wonders for the maintenance of discipline.
Outside the town the rest of the army began setting up camp, with units being dis
patched in all directions to scout the region, requisition foodstuffs, and provide advance warning of any attacks from local partisans or the remnants of Thulden’s army. The nearby farmers proved most willing to contribute to the cause, particularly when prompted by the possible drafting of their sons into the army or their daughters into the officers’ bedchambers. It took five full days to get the entire Kórynthi force over the mountains and organized back into some semblance of a military structure.
King Kipriyán ordered a ceremony to be held later that afternoon in the main square of Borgösha, to establish an official government for the region. At the hour of enatê, which is called none in the west, Kipriyán again proclaimed Humfried V the rightful King of Pommerelia, and placed upon his head a thin golden crown. Humfried in turn bowed his knee before King Kipriyán, and officially and publicly acknowledged him as overlord of the kingdom. Humfried’s absent son, Prince Pankratz, was then declared Hereditary Prince by his father, who also created him Duke of Balíxira. The father of the new king, Prince Ezzö, was given the additional title of Duke of Einwegflasche. General Rónai was ennobled as Lord of Borgösha, and General Reményi as Lord of Karkára.
As Humfried started to work through a long scroll detailing the awards and honors to be granted to his now numerous supporters and followers, a storm began building back over the spine of the Carpates Range, a common enough occurrence in these parts during the warm afternoons of the spring and summer months. Distant grumblings were soon filtering down over the foothills. As Humfried droned on with his cloying statements of self-congratulation, the skies continued to blacken, and Prince Arkády nudged his father to get his attention.
“Sire,” he whispered, “it’s going to rain soon. Shouldn’t we retire to the main hall?”
Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two Page 7