Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  ‘There’s still time for that. Save your congratulations for when we are safely back at Sendric,’ Merren told him, but with a smile. ‘Are you still thinking you made the right decision in coming with us?’

  Romon grinned. ‘I regretted it from the first. But I would rather be anywhere than debasing my noble profession for the glory of Gello.’

  ‘I see you have the bard’s gift,’ Merren said wryly.

  ‘I want to find out the truth, and tell people what is really happening in their country, as I have always done,’ he said simply.

  ‘Then you will be welcome. And now, perhaps, you could try to get some water into the wounded?’

  ‘A pleasure, your majesty,’ he bowed.

  Merren was pleased with the cheerful activity around her. The trick was now not to think too much about what she was going to do when she returned to the north without the help her rebellion so desperately needed, what she was going to say to Wime’s wife Louise, Forde’s wife Gia and the families of the other dead men—how Martil was going to free the Archbishop when there was no possibility of help from Barrett.

  Tiera brought them the news while Martil was reading another sickly saga about a girl whose soldier doll came magically to life and helped her defeat an army of evil mice. It had taken surprisingly very little to appease Karia—she had been happy that he had wanted to read to her. Martil was not interested in finding out why she had calmed down so quickly, but he was keen for Nott to see that he and Karia did get along well. If only Nott had seen them together back at Sendric’s keep, he thought bitterly.

  Karia, for her part, had been afraid he would just leave and not come back. When he offered to read her a story, she had leaped at the chance. If he was thinking of leaving, it would not do to upset him further.

  ‘I have passed the messages to the Archbishop, the Bishop and a handful of others,’ Tiera reported. ‘They are all ready. But one thing. The Berellian ambassador, along with two guards, has arrived and is dining with Prent now. Lilith is serving them in Prent’s apartments.’

  ‘This could be a complication,’ Nott mused.

  ‘I don’t like Lilith being alone with Prent. Perhaps we should change the plans and go for Prent first…’ Milly said.

  Martil laughed. ‘This is not a complication—it is a bonus! We will snap up a Berellian along with Prent! No, we keep to the plan. Once we have the priests with us, there is nothing Prent can do. But if we get him first, what’s to say an alarm is not sounded for the guards to start killing the priests and priestesses? Besides, what is Prent going to do in front of the Berellian ambassador?’

  Nott and Milly reluctantly agreed.

  ‘So when do we go?’ Tiera asked.

  ‘I just have to finish this saga—three more pages.’ Martil held up the book apologetically. Karia was sitting comfortably on his lap and showed no signs of wanting to move.

  ‘I’ll get Kesbury and your men then, shall I?’ Milly said with a smile.

  ‘And this will solve my problem?’ Prent asked, half hopefully, half suspiciously.

  Ezok spread his hands. ‘It is the only thing that can possibly help you, my friend. You are an educated man, you know about the power of opposites. If Aroaril has used His power on someone or something, then there is only one being that can oppose that.’

  Prent shifted his grip on the knife nervously. ‘But, still…’

  Ezok controlled his anger through the ease of long practice. ‘My friend, you heard the words from the mouth of the girl. One of the priestesses here has placed a charm on you. You cannot perform with a woman until it is removed. And there is only one God who can break a charm from Aroaril. So you can either wait here impotently—’ Ezok added a heavy emphasis to that word ‘—or you can do this.’

  Prent was sweating now, and he licked his lips before glancing down, to where the naked young servant girl was tied across his desk, her mouth gagged, her terrified eyes pleading up at him.

  ‘Think of it. The power to break the charm that ensnares you, the power to do what you will. He grants His loyal followers many abilities. You will be even stronger than if you had been the Archbishop of the weaker god.’

  Prent groaned. ‘I don’t know if I can!’

  ‘Then you will go through the rest of your life humiliated, as half a man, mocked by the women of Aroaril,’ Ezok said coolly.

  ‘Stop!’ Prent almost shouted. His hands were shaking but he used the sharp knife to open a vein on the servant girl’s wrist. Fumbling a little as she thrashed and tried to cry out, he caught the steady drip of blood in a silver bowl that had once held fruit.

  ‘Seal the cut now, we don’t want her to bleed to death too soon,’ Ezok ordered. ‘Now give me the bowl and we shall begin.’

  Guard duty was boring—and Ward loved that. The more boring it was, the better he liked it. Chasing rebels through forests, forming up in the battleline to take on a regiment of ravening Rallorans—these were excitements he could do without. No, he was content with a row of cells filled with quiet prisoners, three good meals a day and a warm bed. Better yet was when he was on guard duty with men who shared his love of gambling. He was three silvers up—and tomorrow was his day off. Now, if he could just win a couple more, he would have enough for drinks all night and the best whore in the tavern. He chuckled to himself—he had been dealt three queens. Carefully he pushed a pile of coins towards the middle of the table.

  ‘This will be the killer, lads,’ he told the other five men.

  ‘No, this will be,’ a cold voice interrupted and Ward looked up to see the guardroom was full of armoured men, led by a warrior with a shining sword. ‘Stay where you are if you want to live.’

  ‘It’s the Rallorans!’ One of Ward’s friends, a lean man called Tam, the furthest from the door, started to rise.

  Another of the armoured men swung his sword once, viciously, and Tam slumped back, his head half severed.

  ‘Anyone else?’ the big warrior snarled.

  Ward, spattered with Tam’s blood, kept his hands on the table and prayed everyone else would do the same.

  ‘Sergeant Kesbury! Even men to watch these guards, odd men on me,’ the leader snapped. ‘Where are the keys to the cells?’

  When nobody moved, he hefted his sword. ‘Don’t make me do this the hard way,’ he warned.

  ‘There!’ Ward pointed to the thick bundle of keys on a nail beside the door.

  ‘Thank you.’ The leader took the keys and walked out, followed by every second man.

  ‘Just sit quiet now, lads, and you’ll be fine,’ the big warrior called Kesbury announced.

  Ward had no intention of moving. He could see his luck had changed—although at least it was not as bad as Tam’s luck.

  Martil hurried down towards the cells, ripping the keys off the ring as he went, handing them to his men. This had been easy so far. Thanks to Tiera, they had been able to slip down here unseen. But speed was vital. Just one man escaping onto the street could ruin everything. Gello could not know that they were here.

  ‘Spread out and start unlocking doors! Soon as we find the Bishop or Archbishop, let me know. Once we have a couple of cells clear, we start bringing the prisoners down,’ he ordered.

  ‘Captain Martil! Over here!’ a fine voice called out and Martil peered down the dingy passageway. These old cells were dry enough—otherwise they would have been useless for storing produce—but Prent had obviously decided not to worry about spending much on lamps. All he could see was endless stone walls and solid metal doors, each with a small grate with bars set close together.

  ‘Archbishop? Where are you? I can’t see!’ Martil called in frustration.

  Next moment the passage was as brightly lit as day and Martil and his men had to cover their eyes for a moment until they could adjust.

  ‘Does that help?’

  Martil now saw a cell door two down on his right had a hand poking out of it.

  ‘Thank you!’ he called as he hurried over.

/>   Within moments the Archbishop was free, shaking Martil and his men warmly by the hand and stretching. His robes were grubby, his face unshaven and his hair greasy but he looked well enough and was smiling broadly.

  ‘I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to be free,’ he said warmly. ‘I understand your plan is to seize this building and hold it until there is an opportunity to escape north?’

  ‘Absolutely, your grace.’ Martil nodded. ‘But we must hurry…’

  ‘Of course, my son.’

  The Archbishop closed his eyes for a moment, murmured something and, next moment, the keys flew out of Ralloran hands to the doors. With a giant click, every door in the passageway swung open and a collection of dirty and dishevelled priests and priestesses poured out, smiling and embracing each other and the Rallorans. Martil noticed they tended to be either women or old men.

  ‘Those cells weren’t built for comfort, but at least we had some time to pray, and reflect.’ A white-bearded priest patted Martil on the back.

  ‘Is everyone out?’ the Archbishop called.

  A quick check later and it was confirmed. Martil guessed there were almost one hundred priests and priestesses now crowded in the corridor.

  ‘Then let us go and find the false archbishop, there is a great deal Prent needs to account for,’ the Archbishop called, which brought a rumble of approval.

  ‘He will have guards, as well as the Berellian ambassador,’ Martil warned.

  ‘So much the better!’ A plump man in the dirtied robes of a bishop joined them. ‘I understand my old friend Father Nott is behind all this?’

  ‘Well, the Queen is also behind this,’ Martil said carefully.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Queen! I am sorry to say I did not do much to keep her on the throne—but I can make up for that now!’ Archbishop Declan was rubbing his hands together. ‘Let us waste no more time! I have spent far too long in that damned cell. What say we keep it for Prent, eh, Gamelon?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, your grace.’ Gamelon grinned.

  Borne along on a tide of excited priests and priestesses, Martil frantically signalled for Kesbury to bring out the prisoners.

  ‘Let’s move!’ he called. ‘We’ll take the guards on the doors next, then visit Prent!’

  Securing the building was ridiculously easy. Archbishop Declan asked Aroaril for the power to hold the guards, then a couple of Rallorans walked out and carried them in, before taking their place. The unfrozen guards were then marched down to the cellars. The freed priests and priestesses, with the able assistance of Bishop Gamelon and the guidance of Father Nott and Sister Milly, were removing Prent’s new students from their rooms and taking them down to the cellars. Martil judged that barely half a turn of the hourglass passed before the chapter house was entirely theirs—except for the Archbishop’s quarters, where a pair of guards still stood, and where Prent and his guest were no doubt enjoying afternoon tea.

  ‘That was easy enough! Now for the fun part!’ Declan announced. ‘Coming, my dear bishop?’

  ‘Me too!’ Karia, who had been waiting upstairs with Tiera, was determined not to be left out. The whole enterprise had turned into something of a joke. There were so many priests and priestesses there, all eager to call on Aroaril for His power, that Martil could not bring himself to refuse her.

  11

  Prent had, at first, been terrified when Ezok had rasped out strange words in a guttural language—and when a Fearpriest had appeared in the bowl of the girl’s blood. But what the man said began to drive the fear from his mind and replace it with heady thoughts of glory.

  ‘You have opened the door to a world of unimagined power. Whatever you want can be yours—and there will be no useless guilt or pointless conscience to stop you. If you want strength and power, all you have to do is follow my instructions,’ the Fearpriest, who introduced himself as Onzalez, told Prent. ‘Follow my instructions and then call upon Zorva for whatever you will. He will grant it.’

  Fascinated, Prent had nodded assent.

  ‘You must sacrifice the girl to Zorva. I will preside over the ceremony, but you must make haste. This gate you have opened to me will not last long.’

  Prent looked down at the girl, whose terrified eyes almost bulged out of her head. He felt his spirit quail again. Seizing power was one thing, telling people to do things on his behalf was another. But to actually sacrifice a young woman by his own hand…

  ‘You must cut out her heart, then hold it over the ceremonial cup while I speak the words of the initiation rite. Then you must drink the blood from her heart and offer both her heart and your soul to Zorva. It is a simple process,’ the Fearpriest went on. ‘You will then be initiated into Zorva, as is Ezok. I shall also speak the words that induct you into the priesthood but to seal that, to actually begin to wield power on His behalf, He will then need at least another death, preferably more. You must offer lives in exchange for power. Virgin girls are best and priestesses of Aroaril would be better yet. Ezok will be able to help you again. The men with him are pledged to Zorva and will help you prepare any of the captives that you require.’

  But Prent was having second thoughts. Certainly, he had perhaps bent a few of the church’s rules over the past few years—particularly in the last few months. But to actually convert to Zorva and kill, not just a frightened girl but more…

  ‘You have to act now,’ Onzalez told him. ‘The magic that allows me to talk to you is running out.’

  ‘Prent, if you want to be a man, you must commit to Zorva,’ Ezok urged.

  But Prent was unable to act. He opened his mouth to say so, when his guards burst through the door, one racing over, the other slamming the locking bar into place.

  ‘Rallorans! In the building! And they have freed the Archbishop and all the priests! Now they’re coming up the stairs for us!’ the guard shrieked.

  Prent gaped at him, unable to comprehend how that could have happened.

  ‘Rallorans! They’ll kill us all, even if the Archbishop does not!’ Ezok gasped. ‘Prent, you are the only one who can save us!’

  The words cut through the terror, and Prent’s mind cleared. The choice was simple—there was no choice. ‘Begin the ritual,’ he said crisply.

  ‘Once you have done this, you must sacrifice more lives to begin to use power. Every life you give to Zorva, he will return to you as power, the magic to use as you will. Ezok, your guards—they will have to be sacrificed. Prent, use their hearts—call upon Zorva and they will be infused with His power, and become mighty weapons to turn on the servants of Aroaril. Finally, call upon Him to turn the sacrifices into unholy warriors,’ Onzalez said urgently. ‘If all else fails, call on Zorva’s protection. May He be with you.’

  Then he began to chant something in the same language Ezok had used to summon Onzalez. Prent was barely listening to the words anyway. Instead, he gripped the knife.

  Ezok’s two bodyguards clubbed Prent’s pair of guards down and dragged them over, ripping open their tunics to expose their torsos.

  ‘Sacrifice them, then we will offer ourselves up next,’ one of the bodyguards stated, as if he were talking about going out for a walk.

  Prent wiped sweat from his eyes and focused on the bound, thrashing young woman who would be his first victim. As Onzalez spoke, Prent could feel a definite chill in the air, and the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows now seemed to be dull, clouding over almost, as the room darkened. Beneath him, the girl was desperately struggling, trying to scream through her gag. Prent ignored her. His future, his survival, was more important.

  ‘It is done! Strike now, then lift the heart high, offer it and your soul to Zorva!’ Onzalez cried out.

  Prent gripped the long dagger tightly, then brought it high above his head.

  The walk up the stairs to the Archbishop’s quarters seemed more like a triumphal procession to Martil. His instinct would have been to creep up the stairs and surprise the guards but Declan had taken over. And he seemed to want to
make a statement about retaking his position.

  ‘The time for hiding is past—we must show everyone Aroaril’s true power,’ Declan declared grandly.

  The Archbishop led the way, priests and priestesses laughing and chattering behind; it was the strangest military advance Martil had been in. But Martil’s only involvement since freeing Declan had been to insist Gamelon, along with a score of priests, Kesbury and half the Rallorans, go around the back way to block the other exit. He was thankful he had insisted on that when Prent’s guards spotted this parade. As soon as they glimpsed the implacable advance up the stairs, they turned and ran. Martil cursed when they vanished into the room, slamming the doors behind them.

  ‘Not to worry, my son, we can open any locks,’ Declan announced confidently.

  ‘But they’ll warn Prent and the Berellian—they could escape!’ Martil growled.

  ‘They’ll just run into Gamelon. There are only two ways out of the room—and the street is a long way down!’

  Martil bit his lip. This all went against his instincts, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  ‘Do you feel that?’ Declan asked suddenly, as his slow, triumphal march up the stairs stopped.

  ‘What?’ Martil knew he was on edge.

  The other priests and priestesses had also stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ Martil asked again.

  ‘I can feel a great evil gathering. There is something dark going on in that room!’ Declan exclaimed. ‘Quickly!’

  Martil ignored the temptation to point out he had been right and simply followed the Archbishop as he bounded up the last few stairs to the doors.

  ‘Open in the name of Aroaril!’ Declan said grandly and Martil heard the locking bar clatter to the floor on the other side, watched the huge, gilded doors glide gently open.

  To reveal a scene from a nightmare.

  Declan gasped in horror, while Martil just gripped the Dragon Sword tighter.