Wren the Fox Witch (Europa #3: A Dark Fantasy)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “What plague?”

  Wren raised an eyebrow.

  They don’t know about it. Is that because it’s too warm here for the walking dead, or just because it hasn’t reached this place yet?

  She inhaled the night air, and saw a light flurry of snow just beginning to fall overhead.

  It may be cold enough, after all.

  “Nothing,” Omar said. “It wasn’t a plague at all. Just some superstitious farmers jumping at shadows and mist.”

  The sailor nodded. “And where are you bound now?”

  “Back to Alexandria.”

  The sailor’s eyes shifted to Wren.

  “With my new apprentice,” Omar continued. “She’s from Rus.”

  The sailor gave Omar a wink and a shrug and started to leave, but as he moved on he reached out to flick the scarf from Wren’s head. She gasped and scrambled to pull it back over her hair and ears, but it had fallen all the way back to her shoulders and she needed a moment to grab it and flip it back into place. In that moment, the sailor stared at her head.

  “What the devil…?”

  Omar stepped smoothly in between them and rested his hand on his sword. “You have keen eyes, friend. Now prove that you have keen ears,” he whispered to the sailor. “I didn’t come here for some plague. I came to collect this girl, and now I’m taking her back to my masters to study her. But you saw nothing here except a doctor and his apprentice.”

  The sailor narrowed his eyes and reached for the dirk on his belt.

  Omar drew his seireiken, but only a hair, only far enough to expose a tiny sliver of the bright sun-steel blade. The light flashed on the sailor’s face, and then the light was gone. Omar said, “You saw nothing.”

  The sailor stared down at the sheathed seireiken in wide-eyed astonishment. “You’re one of…”

  “Yes.” Omar nodded. “And you. Saw. Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” the man whispered, and he darted back to his own ship. The lines were loosed and the gunboat turned away to head back up the channel to the ironclads, and La Rosa continued west into the deepening gloom of the night.

  Omar gripped the railing as he glared at the dark skyline of the southern shore. “That sailor recognized my seireiken.”

  “I noticed that,” Wren said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that there are other members of my little brotherhood here, in Stamballa, most likely advising the Eranian army.”

  “You mean the Sons of Osiris? But isn’t that a good thing? Can’t we just go meet with them? Won’t they help us get through the check points and get to Alexandria faster?”

  Omar glanced at her. “Maybe. Maybe not. Ours is not a very brotherly brotherhood. It would all depend on who exactly the commander is. He might help us, or he might torture us, interrogate us, kill us, and take our sun-steel.”

  “Oh.” Wren nodded. “Well, then, I suppose it won’t hurt us to just stay on board and wait a bit longer.”

  As they stood side by side, listening to the creak of the ropes and the rustle of the canvas, a sudden roar of thunder burst from the southern shore as a hailstorm of fire leapt into the sky and soared across the narrow waist of the Strait. Wren jerked back from the railing, but the flaming arrows and shells flew high over La Rosa and fell like a hundred thunderbolts on the face of the water. A sparkling silver spray shimmered in the air as the missiles were quenched and hissed, steaming in the night. But some of the arrows and shells fell on a group of small boats near the north shore.

  The Hellan sailors dove into the Strait, yelling orders and screaming in terror as the fire clung to their shirts. Their flapping sails roared with yellow flames in the cold wind, and were soon consumed, leaving the hulls crackling and dancing with red lights.

  “I take it back,” Wren whispered. “It may hurt us after all.”

  Chapter 5. Rumor

  Major Tycho Xenakis strode into the war room as quickly as his short legs could carry him. His Spartan dagger clung silently to his left leg, but his white Mazigh revolver clinked in its holster on his right hip with every step, announcing his entrance. As he crossed the room, the Hellan officers and Vlachian warlords glanced up from their maps and reports to cast dark looks at him. Tycho felt their unease, contempt, and fear, but he didn’t waste his own gaze on any of them.

  He arrived at the central table, which he could just barely see over, and he rapped his knuckles on the nearest leg. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.”

  They looked down at the Spartan officer. On the left stood the Vlachian prince, Vlad the Fourth, the dragon of the Black Sea, grandson of the most feared butcher in the north, the Impaler. On the right he nodded to Lady Nerissa, the Duchess of Constantia, and to the aging Italian knight Salvator Fabris, who was standing just a bit too close to the lady for Tycho’s taste.

  “Which problem might that be?” Salvator asked as he smoothed his oiled gray mustache. “The Eranian army across the Strait, the Eranian fleet in the Strait, or the Eranian artillery flying over the Strait?”

  Tycho ignored the Italian and looked to his lady. “It’s the witch.”

  Prince Vlad hissed as he straightened up and tugged at his black and red jacket. “Lady Yaga is the sainted mother of Rus. Show some respect, you malformed runt.”

  “She’s only one man’s mother, and that’s the problem,” Tycho said. “Ever since Koschei was captured by the Turks, Lady Yaga has been haunting the walls, terrifying our men with her threats, or just depressing them her ideas of what awful things the Turks do to their prisoners. She’s ruining morale on the walls.”

  “Are Hellan soldiers so fragile to be defeated by the heartbroken cries of one old woman?” Vlad asked. He grasped the short sword on his belt.

  Tycho frowned.

  We never should have gotten him that sword. Seireikens are for lunatics.

  “Prince Vlad, my soldiers have held this city against Darius’s armies for their entire lives,” Lady Nerissa said. “They were born to the clamor of battle, they were raised in shattered homes and streets strewn with rubble, and from the moment they are able, they serve to protect Constantia against the south. And it is their sacrifice that keeps the north free, from Rus to Raska to your own precious Vlachia.”

  The hawk-faced lord scowled and turned back to the maps on the table.

  But the Duchess continued, “When you pledged the support of these so-called immortals, I was led to believe they would have more to contribute to the war than the average person. But Koschei, for all his martial gifts, was merely one soldier, and his mother has been nothing but a distraction.”

  Vlad glowered up through his black brows. “I swore to defend this city against Darius and the infidels of the Mazdan Temple, and I will keep that vow. But I will not stand here and listen to you foul the names of the sainted mother and her valiant son.” He pushed away from the table and strode to the far end of the room to talk with his Vlachian commanders.

  Tycho watched him go. “He’s become more and more emotional and irrational since we brought him that damned sword.”

  “The sword isn’t the problem. He wanted proof of our commitment and we delivered it to him, as promised,” Lady Nerissa said lightly. “The real problem runs far deeper. Vlachia is a land of summer wars and sea battles. They aren’t accustomed to prolonged siege warfare. Win or lose, they want this war to end, and that may make the Vlachians a liability at some point.”

  “As distasteful as I find them,” Salvator said, “I can’t imagine they would betray you.”

  “Not willingly, no,” the Duchess said. “But in their hearts? A time may come when they don’t fight as fiercely, when the fire goes out of them, when they embrace the shadows in their hearts and admit defeat simply to end this war.”

  “I can see that day all too clearly,” Tycho said. “But what about Yaga? We need to do something about her. She’s scaring our soldiers, to say nothing of the conscripts from Italia and España.”

  “That’s not the only thing eating
away at morale,” Salvator said. “There’s a rumor in the barracks that Prince Radu has been seen on the walls of Stamballa. If the Vlachians learn that Vlad’s own brother is leading the Turks, it could split their loyalties and we might actually find ourselves behind enemy lines very suddenly.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Tycho said. “From what I’ve heard, most of the Vlachians hate Radu for converting to the Mazdan Temple, and for turning against his own people. They see him as a traitor.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Lady Nerissa said. “In the mean time, I have something special for the two of you. This afternoon one of our gunboats sank a trawler carrying an imperial courier home from the north shore.”

  Tycho frowned. “Who do you think he was visiting on the north shore?”

  “That’s what I want the two of you to find out. He’s being held in the Sunken Palace. If there are imperial troops on the north shore, or worse, a traitor among our ranks, I don’t want some common soldier to be the first to learn of it.”

  The Italian knight nodded curtly. “We understand, Your Grace. We will be the very souls of discretion.”

  Tycho nodded as well and he followed Salvator out of the war room and down the dimly lit corridor. Their boots clacked and echoed on the polished marble floors and soaring walls covered in oil portraits of dead Constantian lords and tapestries of ancient Constantian battles. The men spiraled down the wide white steps of the west stairwell to the western doors, and then strode out through the massive Hellan columns into the cold night air. Soldiers stood at attention at every gate and door, and Tycho nodded seriously to each of them. Salvator ignored them all.

  They stepped into one of the small carriages that stood ever-ready to carry a person of importance into the city and with the horses trotting briskly they soon left the grounds of the Palace of Constantine and turned southwest to pass the Cathedral of Saint Sophia. Sitting on the left side of the carriage, Tycho gazed up at the centuries-old church towering above the boulevard like a black and gold mountain shining in the starlight. The great sweeping arcs of its domed roof, heavy pillars, and elegant archways conspired in the darkness to create the image of a many-legged, many-mouthed demon looming over the tiny carriage on the road.

  “You know, I’m surprised you’re still here,” Tycho said quietly.

  “So am I,” the Italian answered. “I had planned to leave before winter set in, but this war is just a bit too interesting to leave, just yet. I mean, two brothers leading opposing armies, a pair of immortal lunatics, and the chance to observe the latest in Eranian ships and weapons. And besides, I’m sure the king of Italia appreciates my efforts here to single-handedly defeat the Mazdan Temple. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but he’s not fond of the empire.”

  “I believe you have mentioned it,” the dwarf said. “But after we brought back the seireikens from Alexandria, I assumed you would be off to investigate the Osirians again. But you haven’t mentioned the Order of Osiris once since we arrived.”

  Salvator shrugged. “I did enjoy our little escapade in the south, but it also served to remind me that I’m not a young man anymore. A duel here and there, certainly. But crawling through dark passages, lying in cramped cellars, running from legions of armed cultists? No, my little friend, I think that part of my career is now behind me.”

  “Retirement, then?”

  “Of a sort. I think perhaps I should restrict myself to sitting in grand ballrooms, playing cards, drinking wine, and explaining Italian foreign policy to beautiful young princesses.”

  Tycho snorted. “Lady Nerissa has no interest in you.”

  “I should hope not!” Salvator exclaimed. And then with a grin, he said, “She’s far too old for me.”

  Both men chuckled in the darkness.

  Tycho nodded to the Hellan soldiers as the carriage rattled through the gates of the Sunken Palace. The two men dismounted the carriage and stood in the silent courtyard, glancing around at the wide green lawn and the huge granite slabs strewn about the field. Before them stood the only building, a small stone house not unlike a mausoleum, classical Hellan architecture in miniature with a single gaping doorway flanked by Hellan pike men and Vlachian archers carrying small recurve bows.

  Tycho had only to show his face and revolver for the guards to recognize him and allow him to enter. Inside the stone doorway a row of burning braziers led down a long stone stair. Tycho signed the log book with the officer on duty, sighed, and started down the steep steps.

  Salvator clumped along noisily behind him. “My word, this is a long stair. I don’t remember it being quite so long. I hope we reach the bottom in short order.”

  “Ha. And again, Ha.” Tycho grimaced and kept his eyes on his footing.

  “Yes, you see, I’m harassing you for being short and thus for taking too long to go down the stairs,” the Italian said. “I’m being witty.”

  “I hadn’t realized,” Tycho said. “Have you learned to parry a bullet yet, old man?”

  Salvator didn’t answer.

  Tycho reached the bottom of the stair with an ache in his hip, but he merely pressed his hand to his holster to silence the uneven clinking of his gun and continued across the small anteroom they had converted to an office. After just a few paces he passed the first cistern, a vast colonnaded chamber that had once been a grand dining hall, now filled with water nearly to its vaulted roof. A distant dripping echoed eerily in the darkness as they crossed the chamber on the elevated walkway.

  They passed two more cisterns, both smaller than the first, before they came to a series of doors where four young Hellans in piecemeal armor and red cloaks sat around a rickety table playing cards. They glanced up and nodded sternly to Tycho, saying, “Evening, major.”

  “Evening.” Tycho glanced at the doors. “We’re here to see the new arrival.”

  Keys rattled, doors slammed, and Tycho and Salvator sat down in a narrow, windowless cell lit only by the small lantern that they borrowed from the soldiers and set on the floor. The man before them was just barely taller than Tycho, a lean little fellow with a shaven head and a greasy tuft of beard on his chin, and a pair of chains on his wrists.

  One of the soldiers lingered in the doorway. “He was twitchy when they brought him in this afternoon. And he’s been getting twitchier by the hour.”

  Tycho took a second look at the prisoner and saw the man’s eyes darting madly around the floor, his fingers shivering, his lips trembling with silent words. The major nodded and said, “We’ll proceed gently.”

  The prisoner leapt forward, his eyes wide and pleading, his hands reaching for Salvator’s face. The Italian smashed his fist into the man’s nose and sent him sprawling back against the stone wall. Salvator glanced at his comrade. “But not too gently.”

  Eventually, with much coaxing and a few bribes, they got the man to sit up and look them in the eye and speak in a fairly calm voice. He said his name was Tahir, and he came from a village in Turkiya just a few miles south of Stamballa.

  “You were captured leaving the north shore,” Salvator said.

  “Yes.” The Turk nodded many times.

  “Were you sent to observe our troops?” Tycho asked.

  “No.” He shook his head violently.

  “Were you sent to meet with someone?” the Italian asked.

  “No, no, no.” More head shaking.

  “All right, all right, settle down.” Tycho paused. “All we want to know is why you were on the north shore. Where did you go? Who did you speak to? And what were you going to tell your people when you got back to Stamballa?”

  For a moment, the man’s lips shook in silence. Then he said, “I saw them. I was told to look for them and I did, I saw them, a lot of them.”

  “Who?” Tycho leaned forward. “The Hellans? The Vlachians?”

  “The dead. The dead people. I saw the dead people… walking.”

  Tycho leaned back and looked at Salvator.

  The Italian sighe
d and stroked his mustache. “The dead. This again. It must be the fifth time this month. What the hell are these people talking about? Walking corpses. Bodies crawling out of their graves. First it was the farmers, then the Vlachians, and now even the Eranians are saying it.”

  “Well, they sure as hell saw something.” Tycho grimaced and leaned forward again and caught the Turk’s eyes. “All right, Tahir. Now, tell us, exactly how many of these dead people did you see?”

  “Dozens. Hundreds.”

  Salvator shook his head and muttered, “It can’t have been that many. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Whoever these dead people are, if there were hundreds of them out there, we would have had official reports of them by now. What do you think? Rus mercenaries? Or raiders from Jochi?”

  “Maybe.” Tycho cleared his throat. “Tahir. Where did you see the dead people?”

  “S… Saray.”

  Tycho’s fist closed around the grip of his revolver and he gritted his teeth.

  No! That’s impossible.

  Salvator paused. “What is that, a fort? I’ve never heard of it. Where is Saray?”

  “It’s in the province of Thrace.” Tycho turned to look into the cynical eyes of the Italian knight. “It’s less than eighty miles from here.”

  For the next half hour, Tycho and Salvator battered the Turk with questions but the shaking prisoner did not have much else to offer. He had left Stamballa less than ten days ago, crossed the Strait under cover of night, and then simply walked northwest along the main highway, apparently under orders to look for the so-called deathless army. And after he found them in Saray, he had turned right around and run all the way back to Constantia where a poorly transacted bribe with a Hellan fisherman had delivered him into the hands of the Constantian army. The last thing Salvator was about to wring from Tahir was that the officer who gave him the order wore a green uniform.

  “Well, clearly he’s lying. The Turks wear blue, not green,” the Italian said. “Lying, or colorblind, or insane. Take your pick.”

  But Tycho frowned. “No. You and I have seen green uniforms in the empire before, in Alexandria.”