The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  “My lady, we are making good time after all. I know of a stone temple just ahead said to be the oldest in Valdur. Would you not like to visit and take some rest while we have the time? We can water the horses and still make the town by nightfall.”

  She turned her long neck to face him again and nodded pleasantly. “In these matters, Captain Flauros, I am at your disposal!”

  He kicked his horse and shot ahead up the road to tell Demedrias to look for the next crossroads and a small trail that would lead off to the left.

  WHEN THEY REACHED the ancient temple, Lucinda dismounted effortlessly before Flauros could assist her. “What charming disarray!” she said. Large rectangular grey blocks of stone lay strewn around the overgrown grass, as one side of the temple had collapsed long ago. Only two walls and the tiny bell tower remained.

  The soldiers had all dismounted and were leading their horses to the cool of the nearby trees. Flauros could not take his eyes from her adventurous garb. She was half lady of the court and half huntress. Her long dress was divided front and back and as she walked one could clearly see the hose she wore underneath. No slippers on her feet but instead soft doeskin boots that climbed to her knees. She was dressed for the pursuit. And he noticed that Demedrias was staring again at the canoness like some besotted youth. He shook his head and smiled. Hope against hope.

  “Timus! There’s a well over by the temple. Draw some water and see if it is still sweet.” The large cypress grove beyond the temple wafted its beautiful scent through the clearing. He inhaled deeply and arched his back.

  “You say this is the oldest temple in the land?” remarked Lucinda, strolling towards him. “Pity it has fallen into ruin. Not an indication of the devoutness of the local people I would hope.”

  Flauros shrugged. “Don’t have any idea of that, my lady. Nor is it my concern. But it is a good place to stretch the legs and take some water. I will get Timus to fetch some for your horse.”

  She nodded her thanks. “And I will take my necessary, Captain, if I may.” And she turned and walked off towards the cypress trees, her skirts held off her ankles in either hand.

  THE SOLDIERS HAD spread out to tie off the horses, relieve themselves and to fetch water. Relan was already spread-eagled on a mossy patch that lay in the shadow of the grove. A few yards into the trees, Demedrias had finished shaking his member of its last few drops as the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of red. It was Lucinda making her way deeper into the grove. He hurriedly laced his hose and moved quietly to follow her, his boots sinking into the spongy undergrowth. She was moving carefully, warding off low branches as she made her progress deeper in. She stopped and Demedrias moved behind a tree and stood motionless, his small deep-set eyes locked on her. His mouth opened slightly as she pulled down her hose, hiked up her skirts, and squatted down. He wanted her. More, too, he knew she wanted him. He could feel himself becoming aroused as he stared, and before he knew it, he was creeping towards her.

  He was a few feet behind when she became aware of him, half turning to face the intruder. She gave a low gasp and then pulled up her hose. “You oaf! Turn around this instant!”

  Demedrias flexed his hands, and for a moment, indecision gripped him. If he could only have her just this once it would be worth it. And he would ride on alone, make a run for it and sign on with a good company of aventura. Fuck the Temple guard. In her anger she was even more beautiful than ever—and more than he could bear. Lucinda took a step back and her eyes bored into him.

  Her voice was quiet and measured, but laced with ice. “Turn around now, you fool. Or I shall have Flauros kill you here and now.”

  His left hand reached up and he pulled off his felt hat, crushing it in his hand. “No disrespect, my lady! But no one need know.”

  Lucinda concentrated, locking her eyes onto his, and pushed into his mind. And as she did this he was upon her, one meaty hand over her mouth. She clamped her hands onto his doublet to fend him off as he bore down on her, his weight pushing her to the peaty floor of the grove. She tried to hold him off even as she felt him ripping at her hose, pulling them down her thighs. She tried reaching for the slim dagger she wore in her narrow leather girdle but he caught that movement and pinned her hand. He was talking softly, telling her to be still even as she pushed deeper into his mind. But to no avail. His lust was overwhelming, a shield to her influence.

  In desperation, she bit into the forearm that was pinning her shoulder down. Demedrias grunted, lifted his meaty hand from her, and then ripped the neckline of her dress, exposing her breasts. She was losing, her concentration crumbling. Now fear filled her as she felt him stabbing at her loins. He was too powerful for her and too simple of mind for her to dominate. But she suddenly felt him hesitate as he looked at her collarbone, and her wound.

  “What? A harlot’s mark!” he whispered, half to himself. Lucinda gasped as he entered her, the scream in her throat stifled by his hand. But someone else spoke. Demedrias pulled back as the livid lips of the wound between her collarbone and breast seemed to part, to move. And to utter words.

  Hadrothna vog! Hadrothna vog!

  The voice was neither man nor woman. It was a strange mix of both, lilting, almost musical.

  Arbora Vitalis! Arbora Vitalis!

  Demedrias’s eyes grew large as the horror spoke but as he tried to push himself off of the canoness he felt her hands seize his doublet and hold him fast. And just as quickly, he felt his body weaken, his thighs and biceps shaking, twitching. It was as if his life was pouring out like the sands of an hourglass. He fell upon her, gasping for breath, his heart pumping ever faster. The voice changed to the Valdurian tongue.

  Drink him, drink him, my daughter!

  His prick felt as if it was in a vise. His head swam as everything began to swirl around him, his stomach sick. He lay his head on her shoulder for he no longer could hold it up, nor could he summon the will to scream. The last thing he saw as his eyes rolled up into his skull, the flesh on his face tightening and pulling, was the quivering lips of the ghastly mouth as it sang.

  Hadrothna vog!

  Demedrias shrank and shrivelled upon her body, his clothes draping her. Soon there was nothing left of him except a caul-like blanket of translucent skin, every last bone dissolved to nothing. His scabbarded sword and belt slipped down over her thigh and tumbled onto the soft earth.

  Lucinda shoved the grisly bundle off of her and sat up, breathing heavily. She felt strong and vibrant despite the violation. Whole. The wound had shut, silent now, and she pulled up the neckline of her dress. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You will guide me and I will follow.” She stood up and arranged her hose and her dress, moving a clasp from her cloak to secure and conceal the rip in her dress. She took a deep breath and smoothed her long hair with both hands, arranging it around her shoulders. Retrieving her veil and circlet this too she put back on. She looked down at the pile of skin and clothes at her feet and gave it a little kick with the toe of her boot.

  “Bastard.” Anger welled up inside her even as she felt new strength course through her veins. Anger for failing to defend herself and her honour. She was no maid and had not been for years, but she had never been ravished and violated. He had saved her though, and the ravisher had become the ravished. She wet her lips and stepped away from the spot, making her way back to the temple ruin.

  As she stepped into the clearing, Flauros came towards her, almost at a run.

  “My lady, we were beginning to think you had gotten yourself lost.” He reached her and his quick eye settled on her garment, mud-stained and dishevelled. “Are you unwell?”

  “Unwell? I just fended off one of your men. That large beast.”

  Flauros blanched and stuttered a reply. “Demedrias? He attacked you?”

  “Pushed me to the ground but I kneed his cods and he stumbled off.” Lucinda didn’t wait for his reply but stormed towards her horse. Flauros hurried after her and tugged at her elbow but she brushed him off.

 
; “Are you… hurt, my lady?”

  She turned to him. “Thank the saints, no I am not. But I expected you to know the mettle of your men, Captain.”

  Flauros dipped his head. “I am most sorry, Lady della Rovera. We will catch him. He won’t get far on foot.” He shouted to his men who were readying to resume the ride. “Tobias! Get the others and find Demedrias! He has attacked the canoness. No, you dolt! Mount up and find him!” Flauros could feel his face reddening. If she shared this with Kodoris later he would be flayed.

  Lucinda put foot to stirrup and swung up into the saddle. “I will join them. But we shall not waste too much time on looking for that miserable creature. We must get back on the road and to Cameri by nightfall. Let the wolves take him tonight if we do not!”

  Flauros bowed again. “As you wish, my lady.” He untied his mount and threw the reins over its head. He watched her as she jerked her reins and followed Tobias, Elkan and the others. Flauros slowly shook his head, slightly in awe of her resolve. Any other woman would have been a quivering wreck. But there was something more in her demeanour, he thought as they swung past the ruins of the temple. Something that was not quite right.

  Seventeen

  GREGORVERO LOOKED UP from the small oaken coffer, wearing an expression like a starving peasant contemplating his last two crusts of bread. He pushed a meagre stack of silver lire across the table towards Danamis.

  “Here. That should get you a new set of clothes to see the king in. Don’t reckon it will go as far as new shoes though.”

  Danamis palmed the coins. “It will have to do. Better we use what’s left to get the ship refitted and to find more crew. At least we’ve paid the men for now—and kept the rondelieri reasonably happy.”

  “Not all of them,” grumbled Strykar from his bench. “There’s a sizeable hole in my ledger book under your name, my friend.” They were huddled together in the stern cabin, the Grace now safely tucked into one of the ancient docks that stretched like long wooden fingers out into the harbour of Perusia. The trip there had been uneventful, refreshingly so, and it took them just two days sailing to reach the royal enclave. But the galley captains that escorted the battered carrack had now had more than enough time to puzzle out Danamis’s predicament. Indeed, they had fairly guessed at it from the outset. Captain Nicolo Danamis would never have ventured out across the Sea of Valdur in just one ship unless he had to. Danamis had danced around the tale of the hasty departure from Palestro and the word mutiny never passed his lips. But he was no fool and he knew that soon the rumours would fly, starting in the crammed stinking harbour taverns. And once word came from Palestro, all in Perusia would know what had happened to him.

  “I always pay my debts, Julianus. And to my friends first. And I promise to get you and your men back to Maresto.”

  Strykar took a swig of sharp Milvornan wine from his cracked wooden cup. “I don’t doubt your intentions, Nico. Just your means. And now I have to find lodgings in town for a gang of ill-tempered aventuri. Lodgings that would be willing to take them in, that is.”

  Danamis gripped his wine cup with both hands, grinding it into the scored tabletop. “The king will help me. First, he’ll declare Tetch an outlaw. Then, I’ll convince him to loan me the ships and men I need. We can lure the bastard out into open waters and then take him.”

  Strykar nodded. “Easy enough then. So what is your plan, admiral?”

  “Gregor and Bassinio will get the Perusian shipwrights in to make repairs and they’ll set about recruiting for the voyage back.” Gregorvero gave a silent nod of confidence.

  Strykar laughed derisively. “Interesting how this washtub is still afloat even after a few days at sea. Did you think you would put that one past me? But do go on.”

  Danamis ignored the remark and pressed on. “First I will go to the tailor—”

  “Yes, a tactical priority—cunning too.” Strykar was smiling broadly. “The barber next I assume?”

  Danamis leaned towards the mercenary. “Yes! You think I can go begging to the king—or my banker—”

  “First priority,” interjected Strykar, raising a finger.

  “Or my banker,” repeated Danamis, “looking like some bilge rat. If I do not look like the king’s admiral then I am not the king’s admiral and my chances will be next to nothing. And before I seek an audience, I will find an old merchant adventurer and friend of my father—Piero Polo. He runs the greatest trading house in the land and nothing escapes his ears. I just pray he’s here and not out at sea.”

  Strykar drained the last of his wine. “I have not met the king but from what I’ve heard tell he is not terribly interested in anything unless it be hunting, eating, or drinking. And maybe women at the bottom of that list.”

  “And Polo can tell me what is his latest amusement—or vexation. We need that intelligence before going to the palace.”

  “We?”

  “You don’t expect me to arrive unescorted like some pedlar going door to door? I would ask you and your men to come to the palace gates. I will bring some of my men too.”

  Strykar smiled again and shook his head. “You do have some balls, Nico.”

  Danamis looked hard at Strykar. “That is what I propose. And now you can tell me what it is about this monk you keep within an arm’s reach all the time. A personal confessor? And he’s hardly dressed for his role in life.”

  The smile on Strykar’s face evaporated. His eyes drifted to the cabin doorway then came back to settle on Danamis. “Aye. Him. Well… he near enough fell out of the sky a week ago.” He absently ran his hand over the bump on his head and winced. “We damn near rode him down on the road near Livorna. He was being chased by the Temple guard. We got to him first and then I refused to give him over. Mainly to piss them off. So now… he’s with the Black Rose.”

  “Heart-warming. He must have a treasure horde somewhere no doubt?”

  Strykar started forward, indignant. “What? You think me that mercenary?” He paused, frowning. “Bah! You know what I mean. Self-interested.”

  “So why did you save him then?” said Danamis, glancing over to Gregorvero.

  Strykar was gnawing the inside of his lower lip, weighing up whether to mention the amulet. “He is accused of murdering some blackrobes. He’s no killer to my eyes and I told that trumped-up captain of the guard to fuck off back to the Temple.”

  “So you risk angering the High Priest and his Magister over this monk and potentially embarrassing the Duke of Maresto? I am sorry, my brother, but that story has a whiff of fish about it.”

  “You should hear his story,” replied Strykar, his voice quiet.

  “Go on, then.” Danamis refilled Strykar’s cup with the raffia jug from the table.

  “First, you must swear to me you will tell no one about this. You too, Master Gregor. Not a word. Upon your lives not a blessed word.”

  They did so, and Strykar told them.

  ACQUEL STOOD AT the fo’c’sle railings, arms leaning over the side that faced the dock. Timandra stood next to him, watching the bustle of the quayside: porters heaving bundles, cranes squeaking as their pulleys strained to offload cargo, and a myriad of little boats scuttling between larger vessels as they delivered and took away passengers and provisions. He had not left the ship since their arrival the previous day. And though he wore no leg irons he was just as much a prisoner of the aventuri as he had been over a week ago. But even if Strykar would have personally rowed him ashore, where could he go? He was utterly alone, marooned in a world that offered no answers.

  Timandra had unwrapped her headdress and wore it as a silken veil. She had been silent for some time, even though they stood side by side, shoulders touching.

  “You have been here many times?” asked Acquel.

  She turned to look at him, a wan smile on her lips. “Twice before. And I wish we were not here again. We ought to be in Maresto. But now that pirate has cozened my cousin into helping save his arse. That’s the loyalty of friendship—or half-fr
iendship.”

  Acquel looked down at the lapping waters of the battered wooden dock, rubbish and flotsam bobbing on the surface. “Do you think the king will help him?”

  Timandra chuckled quietly. “Well if he doesn’t that’s the end of his quest for revenge. And we’ll be stuck here in Perusia penniless. He damned well better help.”

  Acquel gestured downriver. “And that is the palace?”

  Timandra looked and nodded. The great outer wall of the king’s palace began near the water, its crenelated battlements soaring up fifty feet; the walls stretched inland for half a mile. Acquel could just make out the high red stone towers of the castle itself, four-square and each capped in copper roof plates, now long covered in verdigris that oozed down the dark stones. From several of the towers he could just discern the flapping royal standards of Valdur: deep blood-red, the golden griffons emblazoned on them nothing more than yellow blots.

  “And does he keep an army in there with him?”

  “He maintains a guard of a few thousand I believe. But it’s the duty of the dukes and stewards to support him with armies when he demands. But he hasn’t asked for years and the aristocracy now just squabbles amongst themselves. Still, more work and money for the Black Rose….”

  Acquel’s gaze turned to the right, beyond the town with its bleached sandstone buildings and high-rising towers stacked tightly one to another, and over to the tall green hills beyond. “The king rules Perusia directly. But nowhere else in Valdur. I’ve never understood that. But we’re simple up in Livorna so maybe there’s more to it.”

  “You’re looking at the answer to that,” said Timandra. “Those hills hold the royal mines. All the gold in Valdur comes from there and virtually none anywhere else. That’s why the kings rule this enclave directly. It’s the source of Valdur’s wealth, and Sempronius sprinkles enough gold around the land to keep all the wolves happy, and away from his throat.” A flock of jeering gulls descended across the docks and made for the cobbled square and stone fountain just beyond, scattering some foraging pigeons.