The Second Empire: Book Four of The Monarchies of God

by Paul Kearney

  “Majesty, I did not disobey them—truly. But resistance was so minimal up there that I thought the time ripe to establish a firm foothold. That is . . . that is what the army of Khedive Arzamir was to accomplish. None of our patrols reported the presence of regular Torunnan troops. Not one! Still less those accursed red horsemen and their Fimbrian allies. So I—I exceeded my orders. I told Arzamir that if resistance did not stiffen he was to push on and try for Charibon. It was a mistake, I know.” Shahr Johor drew himself up as if awaiting a blow. “I take full responsibility. I gambled, and I lost. And we are ten thousand men the poorer for it. I have no excuses.”

  The room was very still. It might have been populated by a crowd of armoured statues. On the riverbanks below they could hear a Merduk subadar haranguing his troops, and beyond that the regular clink of a thousand hammers as the last remnants of the Long Walls were demolished stone by stone.

  Aurungzeb seemed to slump, the rage which had ballooned his frame leaking out of him. He ground his teeth audibly and then hissed, “What manner of man is he? Is he a magician? Can he read our minds? I would give half my kingdom to have his head on a spear. Batak!”

  There was a leathery flapping sound, and a pigeon-sized homunculus swooped down from the rafters to land on the table in the middle of the room. Several of the officers present backed away from it; others wrinkled up their noses in disgust. The tiny creature folded its wings, cocked its head to one side, and spoke with the voice of a full-grown man.

  “My Sultan?”

  “Damn it, Batak, cannot you be here in person? How much longer must you hole up in that tower of yours with your abominations?”

  “My researches are almost complete, my lord. How may I be of service?”

  “Earn the gold that has been showered upon you. Rid me of this Torunnan general.”

  The homunculus picked up a discarded quill from the table, nibbled on it and then cast it away, spitting like a cat. The glow which infested its eyes wavered, then grew strong again.

  “What you ask is no light thing, my Sultan. The assassins—”

  “Have declined my offer. Apparently one of their number has been lost in Torunn already, and they have no wish to hazard more. No, you are the wizard, the great master of magic. Your late master Orkh had every confidence in you, else he would not have made you court mage after him. Now fulfil his confidence. I want this man dead, and soon. The final assault on Torunna will begin within weeks. I want this paladin of theirs cold in the ground ere it begins.”

  “I will see what I can do, my lord.” The glow in the homunculus’s eyes went out. It glared at the men who surrounded it, baring its miniature fangs. Then it took off, the wind from its wings sending papers flying from the table. It bobbed in midair for a moment, and then flew out of the open windows and disappeared.

  “Such creatures are inherently evil, and should not be utilised by a follower of the Prophet,” a voice said harshly.

  Aurungzeb turned. It was Mehr Jirah, and beside him was Ahara, a vision of veiled midnight-blue silk. To their rear stood the austere figure of Shahr Baraz. Silent attendants closed the doors again behind the trio.

  “In time of war, all means must be utilised,” the Sultan mumbled uncomfortably. “Is there something we can help you with, Mehr Jirah? This is a closed indaba of the High Command. There is no place for mullahs here. And Ahara, my Queen, what brings you here at this time? We are a gathering of men. Women—even queens—do not appear at such gatherings. It is not fitting.”

  Ahara remained silent, but looked at her companion.

  “We wish to speak with you, my Sultan—both of us,” Mehr Jirah said. “Our matter, however, is of the greatest importance, not something to be blurted out in haste—thus it can wait until the indaba has run its course.”

  His calm certainty appeared to subdue Aurungzeb. He seemed about to speak, but thought better of it, and turned back to the table, one hand toying with the hilt of the curved dagger he wore tucked into his belt sash.

  “We were nearly done, at any rate. Shahr Johor, you made a grave error of judgement, but I can see what led you to it. For that reason I am willing to be clement. I will give you one more chance, and one only. Tell me of your plans for the final campaign. A swift outline, if you please. I can see that Mehr Jirah and my Queen are impatient.”

  This last was said with obvious curiosity.

  The Merduk khedive unrolled a large map on the table and weighted down its corners with inkwells. “The planning is already far advanced, Majesty, and is completely unaffected by our losses in the north. As you know, we have had to bring forward the date of our advance due to the loss of the seaborne supply line—”

  “Nalbenic bombasts. They swore they could sweep the sea of Torunnan ships, and what happens? They lose half their fleet and keep the other half cowering in port.”

  “Quite. Our logistics are slightly more precarious than I could wish, which means that—”

  “Which means that this is our last throw.”

  “Yes, Majesty. This is likely to be the last chance we will have to take the Torunnan capital. We simply do not have the resources, or the men, to continue this campaign for another year.”

  There was a long, almost reverent silence in the chamber at these words. They had all known this, of course, but to have it stated so baldly, and in the presence of the Sultan, brought it home to them. The Ramusians might view the Sultan’s forces as illimitable, but the men around the table knew better. Too many troops had died in the heavy fighting since the fall of the dyke, and their lines of supply had been whittled down to a single major road: a slender thread for the fate of any army to hang upon. The reconstruction of a Merduk Ormann Dyke now seemed foresight, not pessimism, but for the victors of Aekir it was a bitter pill to swallow.

  Finally Aurungzeb broke the stillness. “Go on, Shahr Johor.”

  The young Merduk khedive picked up a dry quill and began pointing at the unrolled map. Depicted upon it in some detail was the region between the Torrin river and the southern Thurians. Once a fertile and peaceful land, it had become the cockpit for the entire western war.

  “The main army will advance in a body, here, down the line of the Western Road. In it will be the Minhraib, the Hraibadar, our new arquebusier regiments, the elephants, artillery and siege train—some hundred thousand men all told. This force will pitch into any enemy body it meets, and pin it. At the same time, the Ferinai and our mounted pistoleers, plus the remnants of the Nalbenic horse-archers—twenty-five thousand men in all—will set off to the north and advance separately.”

  “That second force you mention is entirely cavalry,” Aurungzeb pointed out.

  “Yes, Majesty. They must be completely mobile, and swift-moving. Their mission is twofold. Firstly, they will protect the northern flank of the main body, in case the red horsemen and their allies are still at large in that area. If this proves to be unnecessary—and I believe it will—they will wait until the main body has engaged the Torunnan army, and then come down upon the enemy flank or rear. They will be the hammer to our anvil.”

  “Why do you believe this enemy force in the north is no longer in the field?”

  “They freed a large quantity of female captives that our troops had rounded up. I am certain they will escort these back to the Torunnan capital. It was, I believe, only due to the presence of these captives that any of Khedive Arzamir’s army escaped intact at all.”

  “Hammer and anvil,” Aurungzeb murmured. “I like it.”

  “It’s how he caught the Nalbeni in the Torunn battle,” one of the other officers said, an older man with a scarred face.

  “Who?”

  “This Torunnan general, Majesty. He halted them with arquebusiers and then threw his cavalry at their flanks. Decimated them. If it worked against troops as fleet as horse-archers I’ll wager it will against Torunnan infantry.”

  “I am glad to see we are learning lessons from the behaviour of the enemy,” Aurungzeb said wryly, b
ut his brow was thunderous. “Very well. Shahr Johor, when will the army move out?”

  “Within two weeks, Majesty.”

  “What if this vaunted general of theirs does not come out to meet us, but stands siege in Torunn? What then?”

  “He will come out, my Sultan. It is in his nature. It is said he lost his wife in Aekir, and it has taught him to hate us. All his strategies, even the defensive ones, are based on the tactical offencive. These scarlet-armoured cavalry of his excel in it. He will come out.”

  “I hope you are right. We would win a siege, no doubt of that, but then the war would drag through the summer, perhaps later. The Minhraib must be returned to Ostrabar in time for the harvest.”

  “By harvest time, Your Majesty, you shall be using the throne of Torunna as a footstool. I stake my life upon it.”

  “You have, Shahr Johor—believe me, you have. This is very well. I like this plan. The Torunnan army numbers no more than thirty thousand. If we can pin them down in the open and launch the Ferinai into their rear, I cannot see how they will survive. If Batak’s magicks do not put paid to him first, I shall have this Torunnan general in a capture-yoke. I will walk him to Orkhan, where he will be crucified.” Aurungzeb chuckled. “Having said that, if he meets his fate upon the field of battle, I shall not be unduly displeased.”

  A rustle of laughter flitted about the room.

  “That will do for now. You will all leave, but for Mehr Jirah and his urgent errand. Ahara, my sweet, seat yourself. Shahr Baraz, are you a complete boor? Find my Queen a chair.”

  The Merduk officers filed out, bowing in turn to Aurungzeb and Ahara. The door clicked shut behind them.

  “Well, Mehr Jirah. What is so urgent that you must enter an indaba unannounced and, though I am not one to prate about protocol, why is my Queen at your side?”

  “Forgive me, Sultan. But when something momentous occurs which impinges upon the very faith of our people and the manner of their belief, then I deem it necessary to bring it to your attention at once.”

  “You intrigue and alarm me. Go on.”

  “You recall the Ramusian monk who has come to us from Torunn?”

  “That madman. What about him?”

  “Sultan, I believe he is not mad.” Mehr Jirah’s face grew stern and he rose to his full height as though bracing himself. “I believe he speaks the truth.”

  Aurungzeb blinked. “What? What are you telling me?”

  “I have been conducting researches in our archives for the last two months, and I have had access—which you so graciously granted—to all the documents that were saved from the ecclesiastical and historical sections of the Library of Gadorian Hagus in Aekir. They tally with a tradition that my own Hraib hold to be true. In short, the Prophet Ahrimuz, blest be his name, came to us out of the west, and it now seems certain that he was none other than the western Saint Ramusio—”

  “Mehr Jirah!”

  “Sultan, the Saint and the Prophet are the same person. Our religion and that of the westerners are products of one mind, worshipping the same God and venerating the same man as His emissary.”

  Aurungzeb’s swarthy face had gone pale. “Mehr Jirah, you are mistaken,” he barked hoarsely. “The idea is absurd.”

  “I wish it were, truly. This knowledge has shaken me to the very core. The monk whom we deemed a madman is in fact a scholar of profound learning, and a man of great faith. He did not come to us out of a whim—he came to tell us the truth, and he bore with him the copy of an ancient document which confirms it, having fled with it from Charibon itself. The Ramusian Church has suppressed this knowledge for centuries, but God has seen fit to pass it on to us.”

  There was a pause. Finally Aurungzeb spoke, unwillingly it seemed.

  “Ahara, what part have you in this?”

  “I acted as interpreter for Mehr Jirah in his conversations with the monk Albrec, my lord. I am able to confirm what Mehr Jirah says.”

  “Do you not think, Sultan,” the mullah continued, “that it is a strange twist of fate which has brought a western queen and a Ramusian scholar to you at this time? I see the hand of God at work. His word has been corrupted and hidden for long enough. Now is the time to finally let it see the light of day.”

  Aurungzeb’s eyes flashed. He began pacing about the room like a restless bear. “This is all a trick—some ruse of the Ramusians to divide us and mislead us in the very hour of our final victory. My Queen: she was once a Ramusian. I can see how she was taken in, wishing to reconcile the faith of her past and the true faith which she has had the fortune to be reborn into. But you, Mehr Jirah: you are a holy man, a man of learning and shrewdness. How can you bring yourself to believe such lies? Such a blasphemous falsehood?”

  “I know the truth when I hear it,” Mehr Jirah retorted icily. “I am not a fool, nor yet some manner of wishful thinker. I have spent my life pondering the words of the Prophet and reviling the teachings of the western imposter-saint. Imagine my shock when I look more closely at these teachings, and find in some cases the same phrases uttered by Ramusio and Ahrimuz, blest be his name, the same parables . . . even the mannerisms of the two men are the same! If this is a Ramusian trick, then it is one that was conceived centuries ago. Besides, the Ramusian texts I studied antedated the arrivall of our own Prophet. Ahrimuz was there! Before he ever crossed the Jafrar and taught the Merduk peoples, he was there, in Normannia, and he was a westerner. His name, my Sultan, was Ramusio.”

  Aurungzeb was manageing to look both frightened and furious at the same time.

  “Who else knows of this discovery of yours?”

  “I have taken the liberty of gathering together the mullahs of several of the closest Hraib. They agree with me—albeit reluctantly. Our concern now is in what manner we should disseminate this knowledge amongst the tribes and sultanates.”

  “All this was done without my knowledge. On whose authority—?”

  Mehr Jirah thumped a fist on the table, making the map of Torunna quiver. “I am not answerable to you or anyone else on this earth for my actions or the dictates of my conscience! I am answerable to God alone. We do not ask your permission to do what we know to be right, Sultan. We are merely keeping you informed. We will not sit on the truth, as the Ramusians have for the past five centuries. Their current version of their faith is a stench in the very nostrils of God. Would you genuinely have me commit the same blasphemy?”

  Aurungzeb seemed to shrink. He pulled himself up a chair and sat down heavily. “This will affect the outlook of the army—you realise that. Some of the Minhraib are unwilling to fight as it is. If it gets out that the Ramusians are some kind of—of co-religionists, why then—”

  “I prefer to think of them as brothers in faith,” Mehr Jirah interrupted grimly. “According to the Prophet, it is a heinous crime to attack one whose beliefs are the same as one’s own. Eventually, Sultan, we may have to see the Ramusians as such. They may be riven with discord, but they revere the same Prophet as we do.”

  “Belief in the same God has not stopped men from killing one another. It never will. Take a close look at your brothers in faith, Mehr Jirah. They are busy cutting one another’s throats as we speak. In Hebrion and Astarac—and even Torunna—they have been fighting civil wars incessantly, even while we hammer at their eastern frontier.”

  “I am not näıve, Sultan. I know the war cannot be halted in its tracks. But all I ask is that when the time comes to make peace—as it will—you keep in your mind what you have been told here.”

  “I will do so, Mehr Jirah. You have my word on it. When we have taken Torunn I will be merciful. There will be no sack, I assure you.”

  Mehr Jirah looked long and hard at his Sultan for several tense seconds, and then bowed. “I can ask no more. And now, with your permission, I will leave.”

  “Are you intent on disseminating this news amongst the troops, Mehr Jirah?”

  “Not quite yet. There are many points of doctrine which remain to be clarified. I would
ask you one favour though, my Sultan.”

  “Ask away.”

  “I would like the Ramusian monk released into my custody. I tyre of skulking around this fortress’s dungeons.”

  “By all means, Mehr Jirah. You shall have your little maniac if you please. Tell Akran I said he was to be freed. Now you may leave me. Shahr Baraz, you also.”

  “Sultan, my lady—”

  “Can do without her shadow for five minutes. Escort Mehr Jirah out, will you? Your mistress will be with you presently.”

  Mehr Jirah and Shahr Baraz both bowed, and departed. Heria had risen to her feet when Aurungzeb held up a hand. “No, please my dear. Sit down. There is no ceremony between Sultan and Queen when they are alone together.”

  As she resumed her seat he padded close until he hulked above her like a hill. He was smiling. Then one hairy-knuckled hand swooped down and ripped off her veil. The fingers grasped her jaw, their pressure pursing up her lips like a rose. When Aurungzeb spoke it was in a low, soft purr, like that of a murmuring lover.

  “If you ever, ever do anything like this again behind my back, I will have you sent to a field brothel. Do you understand me, Ahara?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “You are my Queen, but only because you have my son in your belly. You will be treated with respect because of him, and because of me—but that is all. Do not think that your beauty, intoxicating though it is, will ever make a fool of me. Do I make myself clear? Am I transparent enough for you?”

  Again, the silent nod.

  “Very good.” He kissed the bloodred lips. As his hand released her face it flushed pink, save for the white fingermarks.

  “You will come to my bed tonight. You may be with child, but there are ways and means around that. Now put on your veil and return to your chambers.”

  W HEN Heria had returned to her suite in the austere old tower she let her maids disrobe her, sitting passively upon her dressing stool like a sculpture. Her evening robes donned, she dismissed them and sat alone for a long time, utterly still. At last there was a knock at the door.