by Paul Kearney
“My lady,” Shahr Baraz said. “Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, and then said calmly, “Do come in, Shahr Baraz.”
The old Merduk looked concerned. “His displeasure is like a gale of wind, lady. Soon over, soon forgotten. Do not let it trouble you.”
She smiled at that. “What do you think of Mehr Jirah’s findings?”
“I am surprised no-one else has noticed such things in the five centuries Merduk and Ramusian have co-existed.”
“Perhaps they have. Perhaps the knowledge was always buried again. It will not be this time, though.”
“Lady, I am not sure if you wish to set us all at each other’s throats, or if you are genuinely crusading for the truth. Frankly, it worries me.”
“I want the war to end. Is that so bad? I want no more men killed or women raped or children orphaned. If that is treason then I am a traitor to the very marrow of my bones.”
“The Ramusians also do their share of killing,” Shahr Baraz said wryly.
“Which is why the monk Albrec must be released and allowed to return to Torunn. They are sitting on this information there as they would like to do here.”
“Men will always kill each other.”
“I know. But they at least can stop pretending to do it in the name of God.”
“There is that, I suppose. I would say this to you though: do not push Aurungzeb too far.”
“I thought he was a gale of wind.”
“He is, when he is crossed in what he thinks is a small thing, but he did not become Sultan by sitting on his hands. If anything threatens the foundation of his power, he will annihilate it without regret or remorse.”
“Including me?”
“Including you.”
“Thank you for your frankness, Shahr Baraz. It’s strange. Since coming to live amongst the Merduks I have met more honest men than I ever did in my life before. There is you, Mehr Jirah, and the monk, Albrec.”
“Three men are not so many. Were folk so dishonest in Aekir, then?” Shahr Baraz asked with a smile.
Her face clouded. She looked away.
“I’m sorry, lady. I did not mean to—”
“It’s nothing. Nothing at all. I will get used to it in time. People can grow accustomed to all manner of things.”
There was a pause. “I will be outside the door if you need me for anything, lady,” Shahr Baraz said at last. He bowed and left the room, when what he wanted to do was take her in his arms. As he resumed his post outside her door he scourged himself for his weakness, his absurdity. She was too fine to be a Merduk broodmare, and yet he thought there could be a core of pure steel behind those lovely eyes. That fellow she had loved in Aekir, who had been her husband: he must have been a man indeed. She deserved no less.
SIXTEEN
B ARDOLIN squatted on the stone floor and rubbed his wrists thoughtfully. The sores had dried up and healed in a matter of moments. The only evidence of his suffering that remained were the silver scars on his skin. He felt his shaven chin and chuckled with wonder.
“My God, I am a man again.”
“You were never anything else,” Golophin said shortly from his chair by the fire. Have yourself some wine, Bard. But go easy. Your stomach will not be used to it.”
Bardolin straightened and rose from the floor with some difficulty, grimacing. “I’m not yet used to standing upright, either. It’s been three months since I was able to stretch my limbs. God, my throat is as dry as sand. I have not talked so much in a year, Golophin. It is good to get it all out at last. It helps the healing. Even your magicks cannot restore me wholly in a moment.”
“And your magicks, Bardolin: what of them? You should have recovered from the loss of your familiar by now. What about your own Disciplines? Are they still there, or has the change stifled them?”
Bardolin said nothing. He sipped his wine carefully and eyed the pile of junk at one side of the circular tower room. His chains lay there, with his blood and filth still encrusted upon them. And the splintered fragments of the crate they had transported him here within. Six brawny longshoremen terrified out of their wits as the thing within the crate roared and snarled at them and beat against the walls of its wooden prison. They had tumbled the crate off the end of their waggon and then urged the frightened horses into a gallop, fleeing the lonely tower with all the speed they could whip out of the beasts.
“It comes and goes without any reason or rhyme,” he said finally. “As every day passes it grows more uncontrollable. The wolf, I mean.”
“That will pass. In time you and the beast will mesh together more fully, and you will be able to change form at will. I have seen it before.”
“I’m glad one of us is an expert,” Bardolin said tartly.
Golophin studied his friend and former pupil for a while in silence. He had become a gaunt shade of a man, the bones of his face standing out under the skin, his eyes sunk in deep orbits, the flesh around them dark as the skin of a grape. His head had been shaven down to the scalp to rid him of the vermin which infested it, and it gave him the air of a sinister convict. The wholesome, hale-looking soldier-mage Golophin had once known seemed to have fled without a trace.
“You touched my mind once,” the old mage said quietly. “I was scanning the west on the chance I might find some trace of you, and I heard you cry out for help.”
Bardolin stared into the fire. “We were at sea, I think. I felt you. But then he came along and broke the connection.”
“He is a remarkable man, if man is indeed the word.”
“I don’t know what he is, Golophin. Something new, as I am. His immortality has something to do with the black change, as has his power. I am beginning to fathom it all. Here in the Old World we always thought that a shifter could not master any of the other six Disciplines—the beast disrupted some necessary harmony in the soul. But now I think differently. The beast, once mastered, can lead one to the most intimate understanding of the Dweomer possible. A shifter is in essence a conjured animal, a creature owing its existence entirely to some force outside the normal laws of the universe. When a man becomes a lycanthrope, he becomes, if you like, a thing of pure magic, and if he has the will then it is all there waiting for him. All that power.”
“You almost sound as though you accept your fate.”
“Hawkwood brought me here thinking you could cure me. We both know you cannot. And perhaps I do not want to be cured any more. Golophin, have you thought of that? This Aruan is incredibly powerful. I could be too. All I need is time, time to think and research.”
“This tower and everything in it is at your disposal, Bard, you know that.”
“Thank you.”
“But I have one question. When you unlock this reservoir of power, if you ever do, what will you do with it? Aruan is intent on establishing himself in the Old World, perhaps not tomorrow or this month or even this year, but soon. He intends some kind of sorcerous hegemony. He’s been working towards it for centuries, from what you tell me. When that day comes, then it will be the ordinary kings and soldiers of the world versus him and his kind. Our kind. Where do the lines get drawn?”
Bardolin would not look at him. “I don’t know. He has a point, don’t you think? For centuries we’ve been persecuted, tortured, murdered because of the gift we were born with. It is time it was stopped. The Dweomer-folk have a right to live in peace.”
“I agree. But starting a war is not the way to secure that right. It will make the ordinary folk of the world more fearful of us than ever.”
“It is time the ordinary folk of the world were made to regret their blind bigotry,” Bardolin snarled, and there was such genuine menace in his voice that Golophin, startled, could think of nothing more to say.
H AWKWOOD had not ridden a horse for longer than he could remember. Luckily, the animal he had hired seemed to know more about it than he did. He bumped along in a state of weary discomfort, his destination visible as a grey finger o
f stone shimmering in the spring haze above the hills to the north. There was another rider on the road ahead, a woman by the looks of things. Her mount was lame. Even as he watched, she dismounted and began inspecting its hooves one by one. He drew level and reined in, some battered old remnant of courtesy surfacing.
“Can I help?”
The woman was well-dressed, a tall, plain girl in her late twenties with a long nose and a wondrous head of fiery hair that caught the sunshine.
“I doubt it,” and she went back to examining her horse.
His appearance was against him, Hawkwood knew. Though he had bathed and changed and suffered a haircut at the hands of Donna Ponera, Galliardo’s formidable wife, he still looked like some spruced-up vagabond.
“Have you far to go?” he tried again.
“He’s thrown a shoe. God’s blood. Is there a smithy hereabouts?”
“I don’t know. Where are you heading for?”
The girl straightened. “Not far. Yonder tower.” She gave Hawkwood a swift, unimpressed appraisal. “I have a pistol. You’ll find easier pickings elsewhere.”
Hawkwood laughed. “I’ll bet I would. It so happens I also am going to the tower. You know the Mage Golophin then?”
“Perhaps.” She looked him over with more curiosity now. He liked the frankness of her stare, the strength he saw in her features. Not much beauty there, in the conventional sense, but definite character. “My name is Hawkwood,” he said.
“I am Isolla.” She seemed relieved when her name elicited no reaction from him. “I suppose we may as well travell the rest of the way together. It’s not so far. Is Golophin expecting you?”
“Yes. And you?”
A slight hesitation. “Yes. You may as well dismount, instead of staring down at me.”
“You can ride my horse if you like.”
“No. I only ride sidesaddle anyway.”
So she was well-born. He could have guessed that from her clothes. Her accent intrigued him, though. It was of Astarac.
“You know Golophin well?” he asked her as they walked side by side leading their mounts.
“Well enough. And you?”
“Only by reputation. He is looking after a sick friend of mine.”
“Are you all right? You have a strange gait.”
“I have not ridden a horse in a long time. Or walked upon solid earth for that matter.”
“What, do you possess wings that take you everywhere?”
“No, a ship. She put in only this morning.”
He saw a light dawn in her eyes. She looked him up and down again, this time with some wonder. “Richard Hawkwood the mariner—of course! I am a dunce. Your name is all over the city.”
“The very same.” He waited for her to give some fuller account of herself, but in vain. They strolled together companionably enough after that, the miles flitting by with little more conversation. For some reason Hawkwood was almost disappointed when they finally knocked on the door of Golophin’s tower. There was something about this Isolla that finally made him feel as though he had come home.
I’ve been at sea too long, he told himself.
“C URIOSITY,” Golophin said, annoyed. “In a man it is a virtue, leading to enlightenment. In a woman it is a vice, leading to mischief.” He looked at Isolla disapprovingly, but she seemed unabashed.
“That’s a saying dreamt up by a man. I am not some gossiping lady’s maid, Golophin.”
“You should not be behaving like one then. Ah, Captain Hawkwood, I thank you for delivering our princess safe and sound, since she was pig-headed enough to come out here.”
“Princess?” Hawkwood asked her. Some absurd little hope died within him.
“It’s not important,” she said uncomfortably.
“You are looking at the next Queen of Hebrion, no less,” Golophin said. “As if the world needed another queen. Make yourself useful, Isolla. Pour us some wine. There’s a jug of it cooling in the study.”
She left the room, undismayed by the old wizard’s disapproval. And indeed, as soon as she had left the room a smile spread across his face.
“She should have been a man,” he said with obvious affection.
Hawkwood disagreed, but kept his opinion to himself.
“So, Captain, we meet at last. I am glad you came.”
“Where’s Bardolin?”
“Asleep. It will speed his healing.”
“Is he . . . has he—?”
“The beast is dormant for now. I have been able to help him control it.”
“You can cure him, then?”
“No. No-one can. But I can help him manage it. He has been telling me of your voyage. A veritable nightmare.”
“Yes. It was.”
“Not many could have survived it.”
Hawkwood went to the window. It looked out from the tower’s great height over southern Hebrion, the land green and serene under the sun, the sea a sparkle on the horizon.
“I think we were meant to survive it—Bardolin was anyway. They allowed us to escape. I sometimes wonder if they even guided our course on the voyage home. Bardolin told you of them, I suppose. A race of monstrosities. He thinks some of them are in Normannia already, and more are coming. They have plans for us, the wizards of the west.”
“Well, we are forewarned at least—thanks to you. What are your own plans now, Captain?”
The question took Hawkwood by surprise. “I hadn’t thought about it. Lord, I’ve only been back on dry land a day. So much has happened. My wife died in Abrusio, my house is gone. All I have left is my ship, and she is in a sorry state. I suppose I was thinking of going to the King, to see if he had anything for me.” He realised how that sounded, and flushed.
“You have earned something, that much is true,” Golophin reassured him gently. “I am sure Abeleyn will not be remiss in recognising that. Your expedition may have been a failure, but it has also been a valuable source of information. Tell me, what think you of Lord Murad?”
“He’s unhinged. Oh, not in a foaming-at-the-mouth kind of way, but something has gone awry in his head. It was the west that did it.”
“And the girl-shifter, Griella.”
“Bardolin told you of that? Yes, perhaps. That was a queer thing. He felt something for her, and she for him, but it harmed them both.”
Isolla came back with pewter mugs of chilled wine. “Your Majesty,” Hawkwood said as he took his, eyes dancing.
She frowned. “Not yet.”
“Not for several weeks.” Golophin grinned. “I think she grows impatient.”
“With you, yes. Sometimes you are like a little boy, Golophin.”
“Is that so? Abeleyn always thought of me as an old woman. I am a man for all seasons it seems.”
Hawkwood dragged his gaze away from Isolla and set aside his tankard after the merest sip. “I’ll be going. I just wanted to make sure all was well with Bardolin.”
“I’ll speak to the King on your behalf, Captain. We’ll see you are recompensed for your losses, and your achievement,” Golophin promised.
“That won’t be necessary,” Hawkwood said with stiff pride. “Look after Bardolin; he’s a good man, no matter what that bastard wizard turned him into. I can take care of myself. Goodbye, Golophin.” He bowed slightly. “Lady.” And left.
“A proud man for a commoner,” Isolla said.
“He is not a common man,” Golophin retorted. “I was a fool to phrase it so. He deserves recognition for what he did, but he’ll turn his back on it if he thinks it smacks of charity. And meanwhile Lord Murad is no doubt standing on his hind legs as we speak, relating the marvells of his expedition and reaping as much of the credit as he can. It’s a filthy world, Isolla.”
“It could be worse,” she told him. He glanced at her, and laughed.
“Ah, what it is to be in love.” Which made her blush to the roots of her hair.
“You’ll make him a grand wife, if our stiff-necked Captain doesn’t steal you away first.�
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“What? What are you saying?”
“Never mind. Hebrion has her King again, and will soon have a worthy Queen. The country needs a rest from war and intrigue for a while. So do I. I intend to immure myself here with Bardolin, and lose myself in pure research. I have neglected that lately. Too much of politics in the way. You and Abeleyn can run the kingdom admirably between you without my help. Just be sure to keep an eye on Murad, and that harpy, Jemilla.”
“She’s finished at court. None of the nobles will give her the time of day now.”
“Don’t be too sure. She still bears a king’s child who, although illegitimate, will always be older than any you have.”
“We had best hope she has a girl, then.”
“Indeed. Now get back to the palace, Isolla. There is a man there who has need of you.”
She kissed the old wizard on the cheek. In Hebrion she had found a husband, and a man who had become like a father. Golophin was right: the worst was over, surely. The country would have its rest.
PART TWO
DEATH OF A SOLDIER
Soon a great warrior
Will tower over the land,
And you will see the ground
Strewn with severed heads.
The clamour of blue swords
Will echo in the hills;
The dew of blood
Will lace the limbs of men.
Njal’s Saga
SEVENTEEN
T HE Papal palace of Macrobius had once been an Inceptine abbey, and was now bursting at the seams with all manner of clerics and office-seekers, armed guards and inky-fingered clerks. Their numbers were augmented today by richly dressed Torunnan soldiers, a bodyguard fit for a queen. And in their midst, like a scarlet spearhead, eight Cathedrallers in all their barbaric glory. The military tailors had quickly run up some crimson surcoats for them—it would not do for them to tramp into the Pontiff’s presence in their battered armour—and though they were, sartorially speaking, smarter than they had ever been before, their tattooed faces and long hair set them apart.
Queen Odelia and her commander-in-chief had come to call upon Macrobius, and they must needs be received with all the pomp and ceremony that embattled Torunn could muster. Two thrones had been set up—that reserved for the Queen noticeably less ornate than Macrobius’s—and to one side there was a stark black chair for the sable-clad general.