The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  “Your monk and the widow were rather quiet this morning before we left the ship,” said Danamis as he watched the ambassador’s parasol bounce off the dangling branches.

  Strykar nodded. “Aye, but I expect they’ve had enough of sitting tight, waiting for God knows what to happen. We ought to be back in Maresto.”

  “I need more time with the king,” replied Danamis. “To work on his sense of honour and loyalty.”

  Strykar shook his head. “For a pirate you are truly an optimist when you ought to be an opportunist.”

  The lead huntsmen sounded the horn; a long baleful note, followed by the baying of the hounds.

  “About fucking time,” said Strykar. “Give me three men and crossbows and we would have had venison on the plate an hour ago.”

  Danamis laughed as he ducked a low branch that his mount had guided him under, likely quite intentionally. “I think you’re missing the point of the hunt, my friend. Let’s ride ahead and catch them up.”

  Strykar lifted his reins and pulled out in front while Danamis followed, crashing past rhododendron thickets ten feet high. They overtook the dukes and their men and Danamis found it difficult to take his eyes from the Sinaens, their looks and clothing wholly strange in Valdur. Up ahead they could clearly see the king and his party, halted in a small clearing. The hounds were close by, and green-clad huntsmen were running back to report to the king.

  The two rode into the clearing but held back from the king and his bodyguard. Sempronius, his flabby cheeks flushed bright red with excitement, spotted their arrival.

  “Lord Danamis! Captain Strykar! Come, join Captain Polo and myself. We are about to go in for the capture, gentlemen.”

  Danamis bowed to the king and acknowledged Piero Polo with a nod.

  “Glad to see that you are well enough to ride with us today, Danamis,” said Polo, a broad smile on his face. “I knew you were fashioned of sterner stuff, my lad!”

  “Indeed,” echoed the king. “we are well pleased and happy that Lord Danamis survived such a foul attack.” He tilted back the weighty coils of the elaborate felted wool chaperon that wound about his head and neck.

  “I thank you for your concern, sire,” said Danamis. “It was but a scratch.”

  The king turned in the saddle to look for the rest of the hunting party. “Not really joining in the spirit of things, these Sinae,” the king grumbled. “My dukes are not much better. But my lord Xiang Liu Bo looks positively bored.”

  Piero Polo leaned over towards the king. “He is a bo, sire. What we would call a count here. And I don’t believe he has hunted before.”

  The king made a face. “Never smiles either. None of them do. But at least he speaks some Valdurian.”

  “I am sure they are enjoying the sport, sire. Have no concern.” Polo turned his mount around. “I shall suggest they join you, sire. Yes?”

  The king nodded, obviously annoyed with the affair. “Yes, do ask them to close up the ground. We can’t keep our great stag waiting.”

  As the others finally joined them in the glade, Danamis and Strykar set off and the entire group rode on to where the kennelmen and dogs had the animal penned in. They soon entered another clearing with few trees, but many laurel bushes and a large granite outcropping rising up from the forest floor. At its base, a thicket of laurel on either side, a massive red stag pawed the ground, snorting, head lowered and its rack of horns shaking with defiance. It was a giant, nearly as tall as a man at the shoulder and with an array of antlers that towered and spread like some monstrous bony claw. The greyhounds, mouths foaming, were being restrained from pouncing on the creature as the royal party came forward.

  The king whooped and threw up a gloved hand. “By almighty God, it is a prodigious fine beast!” The Duke of Milvorna edged his horse close to the king’s, as did the Duke of Colonna. Danamis knew little of the protocol of the hunt but he did remember that someone would be nominated by the king himself to dispatch the stag should he not wish to do so himself. The dukes both added their praise of the animal and urged the king to claim the honour of the kill. The king raised himself in his stirrups and looked around the hunting party, a playful look in his eyes.

  “My lord ambassador,” he called, “would you do us the honour of slaying the beast?”

  Danamis smiled to himself. The right thing to do, for form’s sake. But he doubted the delicate Sinaen would have either the skill or the will to wield a hunting sword or a spear. Strykar hung back, knowing that he had intentionally been handed a spear and afraid that the honour might go to him next.

  But it was Xiang Liu who spoke up. “I am most humbled to be offered this great honour, your majesty,” he said, in accented Valdurian. “And I accept.”

  Danamis smirked and even Piero Polo raised his eyebrows. But rather than dismounting, Xiang barked an order to one of his guards and gestured to the stag. The soldier bowed and strode across the clearing towards the creature where it stood its ground, stamping its hoof. The kennelmen whistled and shouted for their animals and the Sinaen took their place, moving towards the huge beast, his spear balanced in both hands. The king frowned and looked over to Polo who appeared just as surprised.

  The Sinaen guard went into a slight crouch and extended his spear, lightly rapping the antlers. The stag brought its front legs up and then rammed forward. The Sinaen jumped backwards and spun his spear about, flourishing it in a series of rapid arcs as it twisted through both his hands. He paused and then lunged forward, carving off a section of antlers before pulling back his leg. The stag lowered its head and charged again. The Sinaen rapped it square on its forehead with the flat and then lopped off a section of horn on the right. The creature shook itself again, a spray of snot flying around it, and rose up on its hind legs in defiance and rage. The Sinaen, as fast as any man Danamis had seen in his life, gave another whirl of his spear at full arm’s length, stepped in, and shot a straight thrust into the stag’s chest, burying the spearhead full up to its tassel. The hart fell forward, crumpled onto its front legs and slowly rolled to its side. The Sinaen had withdrawn his weapon before it hit the ground.

  There was a long and awkward silence in the clearing. The king motioned sternly to the master of the hunt who in turn signalled the horn. A blast sounded announcing the death. Danamis fidgeted in the saddle and looked at Strykar who seemed to be suppressing a belly laugh. The king began to applaud, a muffled lonely sound for his thick leather gloves. But he was quickly joined by the dukes and the others and a few cries of “Bravo!” burst forth.

  “Well thrust, my dear Count! Your man is an excellent spearman.” The king turned his horse to face the ambassador. Xiang in turn gave a bow of his head under his parasol. The king turned again to the hunt master. “Undo the beast and reward the hounds!”

  The party returned to the first clearing to find tables assembled and draped in fine brocades; a sumptuous spread of smoked hams, cheeses, quail eggs, roast pheasants and silver ewers of wine. The king sat at table with the ambassador and the dukes while Danamis and Strykar hovered at the fringe with some of the lesser nobles. The master of the hunt returned with a silver charger bearing the slashed heart of the stag and all applauded as he knelt before the king before bearing it away.

  “Watching that Sinaen dispatch the beast was worth the wait, I do confess,” whispered Strykar as he eyed the food and drink. “But that is one less trophy mount for the king, I’m afraid.” A retainer approached and offered them both a cup of wine. Danamis rubbed his side.

  “I could have done without being rattled for half the morning on horseback,” he muttered. “Probably have opened the wound again.”

  “Bah, the widow will stitch you up on ship. You had better think about getting the king’s ear while you have the chance.”

  Danamis nodded. “Yes, but not here.” He took a long swig of wine.

  The musicians had finally caught up with the hunt and now began serenading the party with lute, flute, and shawm. Strykar had managed to lib
erate half a pheasant and found a tree to lean against while he ate. Danamis watched Piero Polo as he walked amongst the king’s guests, the most famous man in the kingdom, laughing with the noblemen in attendance. Was Strykar right to distrust him? Had he ordered the assassins? That Tetch could track him so quickly seemed unlikely. But what motive would Polo have for doing away with him?

  Danamis became aware of the greyhounds, still out in the woods. Their barking had suddenly intensified and he thought perhaps they were fighting over the scraps. But the master of the hunt suddenly dashed across the clearing and bowed low to the king. He was breathing heavily, eyes large and shaking as if he had been chased by a bear.

  “Sire, the hounds have cornered something! We’re keeping it at bay but, it is not…”

  The king dropped his napkin on the table. “It’s not what? What is it then?”

  “Sire, it appears to be a satyr.”

  The king stood up and the rest with him, though it was not clear as to why the sovereign had risen.

  “By all the Saints. A satyr has not been sighted in this forest since I was a boy. Take me!”

  The table was in an uproar as the dukes rushed after the king and his bodyguard, who were already halfway across the clearing and into the woods. The Sinaens looked confused and began exchanging words while Polo tried to explain what was happening.

  Danamis ran to Strykar who had just tossed the pheasant to the ground. “We must follow!”

  No one had bothered to remount, all made a pell-mell dash into the trees and towards the sounds of vicious barking. They did not need to go far, for the satyr had been cornered at the same granite outcrop as the stag. Danamis looked and saw a crouching figure, backed up against the lichen covered rocks, its dark waxy face a pitiful mask of fear as it recoiled from the snarling greyhounds. The satyr had backed itself up against the outcrop as far as it could go, its hooves scrabbling for purchase on the crumbling stones. Its large head of thick black curls, two curling horns rising from the top, twisted about as it saw the new arrivals. Danamis watched as the creature’s face changed from terror to anger. It had probably never been trapped before. Now it found itself surrounded by soldiers and dogs. Did it blame itself for wandering too close to the domain of men?

  Two of the king’s bodyguard raised crossbows and took aim but the king raised his hand to stay them from shooting. Danamis edged a little closer, Strykar alongside.

  “I’ve never even glimpsed one of these creatures before,” he whispered.

  Strykar nodded. “I did, once, in the forests of Ivrea. They are fleet of foot. So why was this bugger stealing through the forest and how did he get himself caught?”

  The satyr’s visage melted again into one of abject fear. To Danamis, it seemed almost childlike in its swirling frustrations. It turned again as more arrived. The Sinaens and Captain Polo entered the clearing, and even the ambassador was gaping at what he saw. The satyr tilted its head, seemingly in bemusement, at the ambassador’s party. It suddenly made a move to the side, but a black greyhound lunged and snapped, the huntsman straining to keep it in check upon its lead. The satyr recoiled.

  “Who are you, beast-man, to come into the royal wood?” shouted Sempronius. “What is your business here?”

  The satyr tucked an ear into its shoulder at the voice of the king.

  “Damn you! Can you not speak?”

  The Duke of Milvorna spoke up from where he stood near to the king. “Make him sing, sire! Sing for his life and his liberty!”

  Sempronius smiled and nodded. “An excellent suggestion, your Grace.” He put his hands on his hips and stood square as he turned back to the satyr, its brown chest glistening with sweat. “You heard him! Sing us a song and entertain us. I know you know our tongue.”

  The satyr gave the king a cold stare, its mask changing to one of defiance.

  The king tapped the elbow of one of the crossbowmen. The man walked forward and brought the bow up to his shoulder. This elicited such a cry of frustrated anguish from the creature that the assembled nobles exchanged worried glances. It was unnaturally loud, reverberating through the ancient oaks. Sempronius was not deterred.

  “Sing! I command you!”

  The satyr looked around itself, at all of the noblemen. For an instant, his eyes seemed to settle upon Danamis, almost as if it recognized him. Danamis felt his shoulders tense. But the satyr moved its dark eyes elsewhere, to the rolling canopy of green over its head. It seemed as if it was giving up its anger, submitting to fate. A few seconds later it opened its mouth and the most pitch perfect, aching melody poured from its throat. It was a sad strange song that none there had ever heard, the words sounded in clear Valdurian but with a trilling lilt that echoed across the clearing. It was a song of the forest, of the reign of nature unbound. Danamis watched the alarm on the king as they heard the creature evoke names not spoken except in hushed tones, the names of the banished pantheon: Belial, Beleth, and Andras.

  But the melody itself was haunting and beautiful and all there stood transfixed, enchanted by the song but also frightened by the pagan flood of emotion. The song rose and fell and the satyr fell into silence. The greyhounds barely whimpered. Not even a bird could be heard. The king appeared frozen in confusion; amazed and alarmed in the same instance. The crossbowman lowered his weapon and looked at the king.

  Sempronius lifted his arm and gestured. “Begone! I give you your freedom!”

  The huntsmen backed off with their hounds, giving the creature space. It blinked a few times and then hesitantly edged sideways along the outcrop and away from the hunting party. Then it leapt like a deer and plunged into a thicket of greenery as the dogs strained and barked. For a moment, no one spoke. Danamis and Strykar exchanged looks and Strykar raised his eyebrows. Someone laughed and then, like a small stream widening to become a river, others shared the laugh. Even the king broke into a smile.

  A voice sounded, crisp and booming, and all looked up to see the satyr perched on the very top of the rocky outcrop, looking down on them. It held out a hairy arm, its extended finger singling out the king.

  “Men of Valdur! War is coming! A war to swallow all your lands!”

  Both crossbowmen raised their weapons high but the king raised his hand, his face set hard. The satyr jabbed the air.

  “And you, mighty king of Valdur… you will not live to see its end!”

  The king brought his arm down sharply and both bows snapped. One quarrel bounced off the top of the outcrop, the other sailed past where the satyr had stood an instant before. It was gone. And for the second time, there was silence in the clearing.

  “AYE, WELL,” SAID Strykar, “at least we didn’t have to suffer any more of the nobility after that little entertainment.” They had returned their horses to the grooms and were walking back through the palace, following the main corridor down towards the outer courtyard. Danamis didn’t reply. He knew that his chance to speak with the king was now ruined and it only remained for him to return to the ship and hope for an audience on the morrow. As they entered the great open courtyard and its raised fountain of carved stone, they saw the chamberlain and two soldiers waiting for them.

  “My lords,” said Raganus, as they emerged into the open, “you were not planning on taking your leave just yet, I trust.”

  Danamis stopped in front of him. “It seemed a safe assumption that the festivities were at a close.”

  “And any word of which would be best left unsaid outside the palace. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would. But many people witnessed it—including our Sinaen guests.”

  Raganus smirked. “That is not your concern. But we have other matters to discuss before you leave today. My men will escort Captain Strykar to the gatehouse.”

  Strykar moved a hand to his hilt and looked at Danamis.

  “Do what he says,” Danamis told him, his voice quiet. “I will meet you at the gate.”

  Raganus led Danamis back to the residence and its chequered tile floors an
d ugly tapestries. They entered a doorway off one of the corridors and entered a room packed with stacks of books and rolls of parchment, all piled on heavy refectory tables, much too large for the size of the chamber.

  Raganus shut the door while the soldiers remained outside. “Lord Danamis, there is unfinished business I know you are anxious to resolve. I am directed by the king to discuss this now.”

  Danamis folded his arms. “Here? Now?”

  “It is as good a place as any.”

  “And the king is not to see me?”

  Raganus attempted a look of sympathy. “Alas, he is not now. Particularly in light of what you witnessed this afternoon. But we have discussed his views at length prior.”

  “So tell me.”

  “The king believes the status of the Palestro fleet is secure. You and Captain Tetch must work out your disagreements between yourselves. It is not the king’s concern except that he have allegiance and the service of the fleet.”

  Danamis felt his anger well up anew, his throat tightening. “You don’t even know that you have Tetch’s allegiance!”

  Raganus smiled. “But we do, Lord Danamis. He delivered a chest of gold coin to the palace yesterday along with a letter addressing the situation.”

  Danamis closed the distance between him and the old man. “You’re saying Tetch is here in Perusia?”

  “I don’t believe that he is. Nevertheless, the treasure—a gift to the king—was delivered by his messengers. The High Prelate of Perusia and his priests.”

  Danamis could ill conceal his dismay. The priesthood had helped Tetch? He looked out across the room and the years of records, treaties, and agreements it held on its shelves and groaning tables. His father’s bargain with the House of Sempronius was probably buried under the dust here too.