“Admiral Danamis!” one of the men shouted over. “May we come aboard?”
Danamis leaned over the side. “And who are you, my worthy brothers?”
The lead man gestured to his comrades with a sweep of the wide sleeve of his squirrel fur-trimmed robe. “We are from the Council of Decurions. And we would speak with you.”
Danamis nodded and pointed the way to the gangplank as his sailors moved aside to let the party aboard. What business could these Decurions have with him? Unless it was to stir up trouble with the High Steward, if Leonato was to be believed. Or worse yet—countermand the permission to export the arms and guns he had just shipped. As the Decurions clambered up, Danamis saw Strykar’s large bear-like head emerge from the hold. He whistled down and caught his attention.
“Captain Strykar! Join me in my cabin if you please!”
He ushered his visitors into the stern cabin and bade them sit at the table while he shouted out the hatchway for Talis to bring in some drink. The three Council members were wealthy, that was clear from their garb, all of some age, every one with greying hair. But they were also twitchy and suspicious, reluctant to state their business. After some minutes of empty cordiality, Danamis took another drink, set down his cup, and levelled his gaze at the three.
“If you desire something of me, gentlemen, I pray that you speak plainly. And as much as I enjoy a drink, I am preparing my ship to make voyage. What is it you want?”
They looked from one to another until one, Ugo Aratino—long-nosed, thin, and balding—cleared his throat and found his courage.
“You were at the palazzo two days ago. We are anxious to learn if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. You see… the High Steward has refused any of the Council entry there for months.”
Danamis looked over to Strykar who stared back at him with a look that would wither a field of standing corn.
“I saw nothing,” said Danamis. “But the Count spoke of your intransigence in matters of state. So it seems you don’t get along very well.”
One of the Decurions sat back and harrumphed. Signore Aratino nodded. “That is true. But it is not why we ask you what you have seen. In the last year, six women in the city have disappeared. Women of good families. The last, two months ago, a tailor’s daughter.”
A feeling of dread began to creep slowly into Danamis’s stomach. “And you suspect the Count and his household in this?”
Aratino looked quickly to his comrades. “We do. Screams have been heard at the palazzo. His guards seldom venture out and never consort with the city militiamen. All is secrecy and stealth. That is why we ask you if you have seen or heard anything while you were there.”
“We did not,” said Danamis. “And a bit of shouting that someone may have overheard seems a weak reason to accuse him.”
“Bartolo, show him.”
One of the others, a short fat man, pulled out a small leather-bound book from a pocket of his robes. He handed it to Danamis.
“This was found beneath the palazzo walls last week. It had fallen from a window above where the Count’s apartments lie. We do not know where it was printed.”
Danamis picked it up and flicked through the pages. It was in a strange tongue he could not read yet it was the images that it contained that focused his attention. Leaping horned demons, savage ancient beasts, and women and men being nailed to strange-looking trees. He swallowed and turned the pages further. He stopped when he saw a picture of a living woman having her heart plucked from her breast. Danamis pushed it back to Aratino.
“He says he is writing a history of Valdur. This must be an old book he is using.”
“You don’t understand,” protested the fat man. “This book is not old. It was recently made. And it is a manual of the Old Faith. It is of the worship of Andras, and Belial. The banished ones.”
Strykar took a deep breath and pursed his lips. “I’ve heard enough. I knew Leonato had the stink of evil on him. And you damned well left her with the man.”
Aratino looked at Danamis. “Who is this you speak of with the Count now?
Danamis looked down. “An ally… and a friend.”
“You must go back there and bring her out. She could be in grave danger.”
Strykar was on his feet, his face flushed. “Danamis, will you wait any longer?”
Danamis pushed his stool back and looked up at the bristling mercenary. “I’ve not been blind, my friend. Why do you think I asked the forgemaster for a petard? Just in case.”
Strykar shook his head and gave a grim smile. “You bastard. I knew you were planning something in that devious head of yours.”
Danamis placed his hands on the table. “Gentlemen. Will the Council support me if I storm the palazzo?”
The Decurions looked hesitant, then nodded their agreement. Aratino cleared his throat. “You are the king’s admiral of Palestro and a High Steward of Valdur. We will sanction you.”
Danamis nodded. “And I will hold you to that, gentlemen. As we are going to blow his gate in tonight, you had better be right. We have no real proof and this is one very big wager.”
CITALA STOOD AT the arched window in her chamber, shivering in her kirtle and mantle. The sun had set an hour ago, and the chamber had grown increasingly cold. Two candles guttered on a small table, the only other piece of furniture was the tall bedstead. Her skin was so dry it felt as if beetles were crawling all over her body. Looking at her arms she saw that tiny fissures had erupted on them, oozing clear liquid. She could feel herself growing weaker by degrees. She had lied to Danamis. She had never spent more than one day out of the sea in her life. Danamis would have been shocked to learn that execution among the mer consisted of the guilty being tied to a tree and left to dry out like a landed fish.
For nearly two days she had humoured the Count and in that time she had grown ever more suspicious of him. He prattled endlessly of his studies, delving into the ancient past of Valdur. He asked of life among her people but only in passing. As if he actually already knew what he wanted. He spent far more time lecturing her on the war against the Old Faith and of how Elded’s disciples and followers, aided by the merfolk, had driven the old gods down, killing their followers throughout the island kingdom. When Citala had enquired of his family, he had only said that the contessa had died a year ago and then changed the subject. The handmaiden provided for her was a withered crone who said little, merely bringing her food to her chamber (half of which she could not stomach). After she had refused wine she was brought brackish water instead. And now, as she had grown ill, she had finally requested to take her leave. Leonato had come up with a raft of excuses why she had to stay until the next day. Most telling of all, Strykar’s swordsmen had disappeared from her door. When she had asked after them, she was told they were down in the buttery, having a meal. That was hours gone.
It was time to go. And she hoped that by now, Danamis would have his guns and supplies. Her door was unlocked but the crone was always lurking. When she opened it, she had decided upon a ruse to enable her to get to the main hall of the palazzo.
“I have remembered something that the Count asked of me,” she said to the woman. “Something that he was very keen to know. Something urgent.”
The woman had risen from the chair outside, her face set in stone. “Then I will call for a retainer to tell him,” she said. “And he can decide if he wishes to see you now.”
Citala blinked rapidly. She could feel the panic rising up inside her. For some reason, she was no longer a guest but a prisoner. That which made her mer suddenly took hold. Without a sound, she lunged forward and her long fingers wrapped around the throat of the woman, stifling her attempt to cry out. Although she was weakened, she pushed the crone across the corridor, nearly lifting her off the floor. They ran into the far wall, the woman’s eyes wide in horror as her head struck the harsh rag stone. With a loud exhalation she sank down into a heap at Citala’s feet.
Citala was breathing heavily, arms sh
aking. She knew she had to find her way out but these great houses of stone, structures she had only just encountered in the last days, were alien to her. She at least knew how to find the staircase to the next level. Down she went, the wide stairs spiralling around and around. She passed two more floors, and, disorientated, she kept moving, afraid that she would run into some of the guardsmen. She heard men’s voices and laughter and ran the other way, trying to remember the way to the gate of the palazzo. A mastiff sitting on the floor regarded her as she passed it and she prayed it would not attack. She saw a large studded door on the left side of the corridor that was partly ajar. Men were now approaching and without thinking, she pushed the door open further and entered.
The chamber was cavernous, a vaulted undercroft of sorts. She now realized she had gone too far down and that she was below ground. The space was lit by wall torches and as she looked across to the opposite side of the vast chamber, she saw—rather impossibly—a tree. It grew from a break in the flagstone floor, tiles pushed up all around its trunk. It was like no other tree she had ever seen. Its leaves were of many different shapes, waxy and green-black. The trunk was smooth and grey, almost flesh-like, and it soared up, the branches brushing the brick ceiling. Citala walked down a flight of steps into the chamber, agog at the strange sight. How could such a thing grow and flourish under the earth? And then she heard a moan, a weak cry of pain. It was only then that she saw a person at the base of the great tree.
It was a woman. Naked, dirty and deathly white. Citala ran to her and knelt. She gasped when she saw that the woman’s legs and hips were inside the tree, the tree which was consuming her. Citala reached out and tried to lift her but she cried out in agony, held fast in the breach. As Citala set her down again the tree seemed to shiver, its leaves trembling. A hundred small whispering voices filled the air, and as Citala looked up she saw the fruit that the tree bore. Small heads, the size of apples, dangled from the branches, faces like unborn babies with eyes closed and button noses. Their lips moved continually and the chamber began to fill with their strange insistent hissing. Citala recoiled, not believing what she was seeing. Beyond the base of the tree and near the far wall she now spied a pile of yellow bones, ribcages and a skull.
“Is it not magnificent?”
Citala pushed herself up off the floor and saw Leonato standing at the doorway, one of his retainers at his side. She shook her head and began backing away from the shivering monstrosity.
“You have no right!” she said, “Let me go from here.”
The Count smiled. “You have spoiled your surprise, Citala. I was going to introduce you to this place soon enough but here you are.” He took a few steps forward, motioning for the guardsman to remain where they stood. “You know, the tree has grown remarkably since I discovered the tiny shoot coming through the stones. I had prayed and prayed to Andras, and it grew. As you can see.”
Citala unlaced her mantle and took a few slow steps towards him. “What have you done here? How many have you killed?”
“Killed? Sacrificed. And your exotic flesh will be offered as well. A fitting tribute to the Tree of Life for the perfidy of the merfolk in the war against the Old Faith.”
Citala whipped the mantle from her shoulders as she sprang at him. She whirled it and tossed it over him but the Count sidestepped and brushed it away. She raked him once with her left hand but he delivered a backhanded blow that sent her sprawling to the flagstones. Her head was spinning as she pushed herself up into a crouch. She could taste blood in her mouth. “Lord Danamis is coming,” she rasped, her rage undiminished.
Leonato shook his head and bent over her. He seized her hair and yanked her head upwards. “Your pirate lord will need more than a few rondelieri to take this fortress. But that won’t happen, as you will write him a note to say you are staying here with me.”
Citala spat at him and he shook her like he was chastising a child. “Behave now, my mermaid! Accept your fate and you shall have a sleeping draught such as we gave your bodyguard. No more suffering than necessary.”
DANAMIS AND STRYKAR stood well back in the shadows across the cobblestoned piazza that led to the palazzo doors. Behind them, twenty-five rondelieri stood, their round shields unslung and swords unsheathed. None spoke, but the sound of jangling harness and the rasp of chain mail on helms carried across the street telling its own story to those who listened at their shutters. Danamis watched intently as Aratino and two other Decurions addressed the militiamen guarding the keep. They were ordering them to withdraw in the name of the Council. Danamis could see arms waving and hear raised voices as the discussion grew hot and then calmed. He nodded to himself and smiled as he watched the five guards follow the Decurions back across the piazza, leaving the door unguarded.
Strykar whistled sharply and two of his men came forward, orange torchlight reflecting off their steel sallets. They carried a large square board with iron rings. Sitting at its centre, like some sugarloaf on a feasting trestle, was a bronze bell, drilled and bolted on. Strykar and Danamis sprinted forward across the distance up to the doors. Danamis winced as his side wound, still tender, gave a twinge. Swinging a sword this evening wouldn’t help that, he thought. The two of them worked quickly, helping the soldiers affix the board to the grandly engraved bronze knob at the centre of the door and hanging it there. Danamis gave the signal to Strykar who touched his glowing taper to the fuse at the top of the bell. And they ran.
The explosion reverberated across the piazza and was quickly followed by the sound of chunks of oak and iron pinging and clinking as they rained down on the cobbles. A great gushing cloud of smoke billowed out in the torchlight from the doorway and without waiting, Strykar gave a battle cry and rushed forward, his rondelieri at his heels. The door was still on one hinge and standing, but four rondelieri put their shoulders into it and it collapsed inwards, a smoking wreck. Strykar was inside first and took on an advancing pole-arm man nearly as wide as the door they had just blown. Strykar brought his shield up, deflected the thrust of the glaive while instantly stepping in past the shaft and hacking down into the collarbone of its wielder.
Just ahead, he could see a dozen more armed men forming up to engage them, covering the width of the hall. Danamis moved up alongside Strykar, hefting his falchion in both hands.
“Are you ready Captain Strykar? Looks like we have started a war.”
“Then let’s end it in our favour,” said the mercenary, and the rondelieri charged.
CITALA COLLAPSED AS Leonato released her hair. She looked across the floor and saw the poor girl writhing, her arms helplessly flailing. It appeared as if the tree was sucking her in little by little. Citala tried to crawl past the Count and towards the stairs. Her struggle had nearly sapped her of her last strength. She looked up at the High Steward who was observing the death throes of the woman with a curious detachment.
“Why?” demanded Citala, her voice a croak of frustration and anger.
Leonato turned to her. “Why? Because the earth is waking again, my dear. Those that have been silent for centuries are arising to take what was theirs. To right the wrong. To wipe clean the works of Elded the usurper.” He let out a loud sigh and drew a dagger from his belt and pointed it at the dark tree.
“This is testimony to my faith, and to the old ways.” Skirting Citala, he walked to where the woman lay. He knelt, lifted her up by her hair, and drew his blade across her throat. A red cascade splashed the roots around her and Citala watched, her mouth agape, as they pulsated and throbbed at the pooling lifeblood, relishing the liquid.
Citala closed her eyes. “Help me,” she whispered. “Help, me. I beg you. Come to my aid.” She opened her mind despite her terror, reaching out as she would reach out to her dolphins and whales in the deep. “Please, please, help me.” She could see the mastiffs in her mind’s eye. She focused all her entreaties, her desperate pleas, on the beasts that sat outside in the corridor.
“Are you saying your prayers to your sky god? To Eld
ed’s spirit?” Leonato wiped his knife and re-sheathed it. “Their time has come to an end, my beautiful creature.” He gestured to the guard who stood in the doorway, his face filled with adoration of the Tree of Life. “Help me lift her up. She must be tied to the tree. A very special offering.”
Citala’s lips moved rapidly, repeating her call, eyes tightly shut. And then she opened them again. At the doorway, a large square brown head and short muzzle pushed between the frame and the door. It padded into the chamber and down the stairs. A second mastiff followed. Their eyes, black and glassy, bore into Citala’s with heightened sentience. The great dogs both stopped, rigid as statues.
“Help me,” said Citala.
Leonato roughly grasped her by her armpit, her kirtle tearing, and she cried out in pain. The guard bent down and yanked her forearm up, jerking her into a sitting position. And without a sound, the dogs sprang. One took the guard out, clamping its huge jaws into the meat of his thigh and bowling him over. The other leapt high and tackled Leonato with its paws on his chest, bringing him down to the floor. Citala heard the dog growl deeply as it sank its jaws into Leonato’s throat and shook its head savagely, ripping the Count’s neck and showering the flagstones with his blood. The other dog had the guard’s head in its mouth as it bit at his face, the man screaming. It released him and dived in again, ripping his throat out. As quickly as they had attacked, the mastiffs retreated without looking back, loping out of the chamber.
Count Leonato’s hands clawed at his wound as he tried to stop the pulsing flow, his life ebbing. His eyes were large, fixed in shock, and looking straight at Citala. He tried to form words but nothing came. Citala hauled herself up again to her knees, swaying.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 34