Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two

by Robert Reginald

  “I just wish we could send a little bit of our happiness your way, Rhie. My prayer is that you could find someone one day who would give you even half of what Kásha gives me.”

  “I’m perfectly content as I am, Drúsha,” Arrhiána said. “I’m really not turning over the stones, hoping to find a suitable prince lurking under one of them. I’d be more likely to uncover a toad!” She chortled. “If it happens, it happens, and you’ll be the first to know, I promise. Right now, there are other things I want to do with my life.”

  “Other things? What other things?” Dúra asked.

  Arrhiána brushed her fair hair back from her face.

  “I was thinking of writing a book about the family, our family, I mean. It’s such a fascinating group of people, really, and no one has ever written a history focused entirely on the Tighrishi. Oh, there’ve been chronicles aplenty published, and the usual, very dull, over-embellished accounts of this king or that, or this war or that. But no one’s ever done what I have in mind. Something honest.”

  “Honest!” Dúra laughed out loud at the suggestion. “Your Papá would never let the ink dry on a page before tearing it all to shreds. Besides, who would read such a thing? People want romance, not reality. They want to escape their cares, not listen to someone else’s troubles.”

  “Oh, I think there’d be a lot of people who’d pay the scribes for copies of what I have in mind.” Arrhiána joined her sister-in-law with a chuckle of her own. “Although, I dare say, it might be for reasons other than they usually buy such things. This book might actually get read!”

  Outside, they could hear Rÿna playing happily with her dolls in the Hanging Garden, her tinkling laughter bubbling up like Mösza’s old fountain in Land’s End.

  “She’s such a good little soul,” Arrhiána said. “I do hope she....” But she stopped herself, leaving unspoken what was really on her mind.

  “Come, Dúra,” she continued, offering her arm, “it’s time we went to see how Mamá is doing with poor Aunt Tréssa.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “IT’S THE DARK-HAIRED MAN!”

  That evening, King Kipriyán prepared for bed as usual, rubbing his teeth with a solution of horsepiss to keep them white, and then rinsing his mouth out with wine.

  “Gad, that stuff tastes awful,” he said to his servant, Siméon. “Be glad you’re not a king, Sim.”

  “Yes, majesty,” said his aide. “Is there anything else you wish for this evening?”

  “No, that’s quite enough for one day, I think.” The old man sighed. “I wonder where Ferdinand is tonight.”

  He pulled on a simple white nightshift trimmed in purple.

  “You may leave,” he said.

  He knelt on the bare ground next to his bed, and said a prayer to Almighty God, begging for His forgiveness and for His support of their enterprise, and also praying for the soul of Duke Ferdinand, if he were really dead. Finally, he asked God to vanquish the Dark-Haired Man. Amen, he finished, and crossed himself.

  Then he pulled back his cover, and screamed, long and loud.

  Within a moment his tent was crowded with guards, sons, courtiers, and metropolitans.

  “What is it, sire?” Arkády asked.

  “L-look,” the king said, stammering, and then pointed at the bed.

  There, where his head would have lain, was a six-inch lock of dark, shaggy hair, like the leavings of some savage beast. The prince picked it up, and rolled it between his fingers.

  “I don’t know what this is,” he finally said, passing it around to the others.

  But no one could identify the animal from which it had come.

  “It’s the Dark-Haired Man!” the king cried.

  They all looked back and forth amongst each other, afraid that he might be right.

  “Majesty!”

  Bishop Varlaám was standing just beyond the princes.

  “This is the Devil’s work. You should be exorcised.”

  The old patriarch, who was roused from his bed, wearily and reluctantly agreed. Exorcisms, once begun, had a way of leading to other things much less palatable. Varlaám was delegated to perform the ceremony. The king consented to have all of the leading men of the court, all of the royal family, and all of the generals, also included.

  Varlaám made them wait for two full hours while he gathered together the necessary implements and special prayer-books. The ceremony itself took another three hours, so that, by the time they all had been cleansed of Satan’s pernicious influence, they had also lost much of their night’s sleep.

  The king was in a foul mood by the time he finally got back to bed. He spent the rest of the night tossing back and forth under the covers, being chased through his dreams by the Dark-Haired Man. Only once did he sleep undisturbed, when his granddaughter Rÿna somehow distracted the beast’s attention.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “YOUR WAR IS OVER”

  Three days later, on the Feast of Saint Genesios, Prince Kiríll led a force of five hundred men up the canyon of the River Vá’al to attack the walled city of Karkára high in the Carpates Mountains. At the same time, Prince Nikolaí moved five thousand Kórynthi soldiers into position before the main gate of the citadel to take advantage of any diversion or opening that Kiríll might be able to create.

  Kiríll’s men traveled half the distance through the gorge during the afternoon, then stopped to rest. They started again just after sundown, using the light of the near full moon that was coming up over the horizon to show them the way. The prince had ordered them to fashion makeshift, single-strut ladders in sections that could be broken down and then retied together at will; these had been strapped to their backs, causing several of the riders to lose their seats when the protruding pieces caught on bushes along the narrow trail. One man toppled into the gorge with his mount, dutifully choosing not to scream as he fell to certain death.

  As the stream began to peter out, Kiríll finally called a halt to their procession, ordering them to dismount and proceed the rest of the way on foot.

  “Çévik,” he called to his scout, “what’s up ahead?”

  The man pointed to the ridge above them.

  “Just beyond the heights,” he whispered, “is the Valley of the Gáll. Karkára lies about three miles southwest, near a small lake called Örr. The main road runs right through the city, but we’ll be coming out on the north side. Although the north wall is relatively open, it’s inaccessible except by this back route, unless you cross the lake by boat, or climb a sheer rock face on the other side. They won’t be expecting us.”

  “Very good.” The prince turned to his chief officer. “Commander Willibald, let’s proceed,” he said.

  And so they started up the winding trail, which crossed back and forth several times before they reached the top. Then they proceeded quietly until they approached the last cove of trees before the open field in front of the north wall of Karkára Castle.

  “Can you see any of the guards?” Kiríll whispered.

  Çévik silently motioned to several points along the twenty-foot-high stone walls, where the prince could pick out a half dozen enemy soldiers dutifully marching up and down the palisades, watching the empty ground below them. The moon lit up the field as brightly as if a ball had been scheduled there.

  “Damn!” Kiríll muttered to himself.

  To Willibald, he whispered: “Quietly begin assembling the ladders. When that’s finished, order the men to rest.”

  They would have to wait for the moon to set to have any realistic chance of penetrating the citadel.

  Around them the men unpacked their burdens. Each “ladder” consisted of a single piece of wood crosshatched with wooden slats. One end of the piece was beveled, and the other incut to match. In theory, the various ladders could be lashed together to form a structure stable enough to get an army over the walls of Karkára. In practice, some of the sections wouldn’t fit together no matter what they did, and were discarded, while others
, although they fit, wouldn’t remain stable. In the end, they had just seven workable ladders.

  A few hours before dawn, the moon finally slipped behind the protruding peaks looming all around them, and the assault was ready to begin. Prince Kiríll ordered Willibald to prepare for the attack. In the blackness following moonset, they hoped at least to reach the wall before they were detected by the watchers above.

  As quickly and quietly as possible, they ran the few hundred yards across the open field. One man tripped over a root, and fell with a jangle. Above them, they heard one of the guards ask another, “What’s that!” Then the ladders were going up, and five hundred men were climbing them hand over hand as fast as they could go.

  Kiríll and Çévik were the first over the wall, and immediately encountered two of the enemy right in front of them. Instinctively, the prince parried the blow directed at him, and ran the soldier through with his own sword. Then began a flurry of blow and counterblow, as the Kórynthi force poured over the battlements in a wave of flashing weapons.

  The half dozen Pommerelian guards were swept away immediately, without an alarum being given. Kiríll and his men were already heading around the palisades toward the guardhouse controlling the main gate before anyone there knew they had been invaded. Suddenly, there was a shout down below, and a clanging as the sergeants began rousting their men. Still, no one managed to reinforce the battlements before Kiríll reached the gate.

  A desperate battle was fought there between the fifteen Pommerelians in the control house, and the twenty or thirty Kórynthi soldiers immediately trailing the prince. Kiríll took a blow to his head that left the world swimming, but continued to push forward. His left arm was red with blood from his shoulder down. Then the Pommerelian guards were dead, all of them!

  Kiríll ordered Çévik to help him, and placed the others behind them to ward off the expected attackers. Together with the scout, and using his right arm only, he began to turn the great wheel that wound the cable that lifted the main gate. Slowly they winched it up, and as soon as it had reached the two-foot level, Kórynthi soldiers from Nikolaí’s brigade began sliding under it, and wedging huge pieces of wood around the bottom sides to keep it from accidentally releasing on top of them. Now it was going faster, and the press of troops into the city became a flood.

  Karkára officially fell an hour later, when Pommerelian General Conradin was killed defending the central citadel. The rest of his men promptly laid down their arms and surrendered.

  King Kipriyán found his son still propped against the wall of the control house, being treated by a physician.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, fearing the worst.

  “He’ll live,” was the response from Fra Tibor. “I don’t know how soon he’ll be able to use his left arm again, but unless it festers, he’ll survive to sire a dozen grandsons. I’ve done all I can do for the moment,” he said, turning to another wounded man nearby.

  Kipriyán gazed upon his third son with pride.

  “You’ve done well, my boy,” he said. “I wish I’d been there myself.”

  “Thank you, father.” Kiríll’s voice was weak. “Would you give me a hand, please.”

  “Of course,” said the king, happy to assist. “You’ve earned your rest, Kir. Your war is over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “NOW THAT’S A DAINTY TREAT!”

  A week later, on the Feast of Saint Barnabas the Beggar of Barstö, the two halves of the Kórynthi military pincers finally met at Saint Paulinos’s Abbey on the southern Töklos Plain. King Kipriyán’s force had slowly wheeled north around the protruding point of the Läuterung Hills, while the Bolémi soldiers of the Princes Ezzö and Pankratz had marched south by southwest through the very heart of Einwegflasche, meeting only scattered opposition. Their combined forces were now poised to strike a deathblow directly into the heartland of Pommerelia.

  Kipriyán’s men had arrived first on the previous day. Thus, that monarch was standing with King Humfried in front of the monastery gates when the first units of the northern army appeared.

  “All hail to the Kings of Pommerelia and Kórynthia,” Prince Ezzö said, bowing his head.

  He seemed more himself than he had in months.

  “We greet the conquerors of Lockenlöd Castle,” Kipriyán returned.

  Prince Pankratz reached into his saddlebag, pulling out a leather sack.

  “We bring you a present, Cousin,” he said, “a rare boor from the north country.”

  He shook the container upside down, and out popped the grisly, blood-stained head of Iselin late Count of Einwegflasche. It bounced once on the dusty ground before coming to rest on its side. The empty eye sockets were crawling with maggots.

  King Kipriyán laughed.

  “Now that’s a dainty treat,” he joked.

  “Siméon,” he ordered his aide, “put it on a pike and anchor it to the gate, here,” pointing out the exact spot where he wanted it placed for best viewing.

  “Humphy!” came a yell, as Queen Pulkhériya stepped out of her carriage, the Princesses Minérva and Salentína trailing behind.

  “Cherie?” King Humfried said. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” she said, “we just had to come and see your great victory over the Walküri.”

  “Daddy!” came the second call, as little Salentína rushed over and hugged her father.

  “Tína?” Then, glaring at his son: “Pánky, can I see you for a moment?”

  Humfried briefly ignored his wife and daughter and dragged his heir to one side.

  “What is this?” he asked. “You know better than to bring these women into a war zone. Whatever possessed you, son?”

  “Father, they insisted on coming,” Prince Pankratz said. “What could I do?”

  “You could have said ‘no’,” the king said. “Now, we’re stuck with the ladies, and I’m going to have to detail a company of men just to guard them. I’ll have to see if I can persuade them to transit back home. I’m greatly disappointed, Pankratz.”

  “I’m truly sorry, father,” the prince said, hanging his head. “I can see now that I made a poor decision. I’ll try to do better.”

  “Enough said,” Humfried replied. “Still, it’s good to see you, lad. I hear you’ve done well up north. How’s father?”

  “He seems somewhat better,” Pankratz said. “I think being where he can do something physical has helped him quite a bit. And he’s more cheerful than I’ve seen him in the last year.”

  “So he seems,” the king said. “Well, we’d better get back to the women, or they’ll be the next ones declaring war!”

  They both chuckled at the idea.

  After celebrating the unification of their forces with a dinner that evening in the abbey house, the two kings called a joint meeting of the War Council, to discuss strategies for the final phase of the conflict.

  As usual, it was Prince Arkády who made the initial presentation.

  “Highnesses,” he said, “the combined Kórynthi army now consists of approximately thirty thousand cavalry, infantry, and support troops, organized into four corps under the leadership of Prince Pankratz, Prince Nikolaí, Prince Zakháry, and myself. We are being supplied by three separate trains of wagons coming through the Kultúra, Skopélosz, and Karkára Passes, as well as from local sources that we’ve managed to scavenge ourselves. Although our supply lines have been attacked by partisans, as expected, we have managed to get regular shipments through in sufficient quantities to feed our men.

  “We have confirmed,” he said, “that Duke Ferdinand is missing and his army destroyed”—there were groans from around the table—“and that Prince Walther’s force survived the battle largely untouched. Our scouts report that the prince has returned to Balíxira. He and his men have rejoined his father’s main army.”

  “How many men do they have?” Prince Nikolaí asked.

  “Sir Léka estimates somewhere around seventeen to twenty thousand soldiers,
” his brother said. “The number is difficult to assess, because their corps operate semi-independently from each other, and because the irregular forces that provide an adjunct to the Pommerelian army often fade in and out of the Läuterung Highlands.”

  “Can we count on the Arrhénis for any additional help?” Humfried asked.

  “Probably not.” Arkády sighed. “The last word we had, yesterday, is that Count Sándor’s men were just approaching Myláßgorod. They’ll need to rest for at least a day or two before assaying the pass. The Skopélosz Road is packed with wagons, soldiers, messengers, and wounded coming and going, making transit very slow. Realistically, they won’t get here in time to make any difference.”

  “What’s the terrain like between Saint Paulinos and Balíxira?” Prince Kiríll said.

  His left arm was bound in a sling and healing nicely, but he had been relieved of command until he was completely well again.

  Prince Arkády turned to face his brother.

  “Léka tells me that it’s mostly rolling green hills,” he said, “if we stay west of the Läuterungs, which are more treacherous and full of rugged canyons. All we need to do is follow the Falling Water River south until we hit Balíxira.”

  Nikolaí raised his hand again.

  “Is there any place where the Pommerelians can gain some material advantage?” he asked.

  Arkády shook his head.

  “Not if we stay out of the highlands,” he said. “In my estimation, they’ll have to try stopping us before we reach Balíxira. They just can’t afford to lose their oldest and most prestigious city.”

  “How far away is their main army?” Nikolaí asked.

  “Léka says two or three days at most. Of course, they could very easily move closer or further away as we march towards them.

  “Now,” he continued, “we do have a number of small problems that need to be addressed immediately. The joining of the armies has created some temporary shortages of beef, feed, and medications. King Humfried’s men are tired from marching across the great plain, and both of our forces need to be integrated smoothly under one command. Therefore, I suggest that we wait here a day or two before proceeding south.”