Strykar didn’t reply but scanned the field in front of him, watching the comical sparring of some, the cautious but inept attempts at technique by others. One of the monks was desperately yanking at the grip of his sword with both hands, having buried it deeply in a pell.
“Yes, I can see that from here. I suspect the fruit will be a long time ripening on the vine though.”
Captain Cortese grinned. “And perhaps a bitter harvest.”
Acquel bore it as well as he could. “No one knows better than me what a long road it will be, Coronel. But every journey begins with the first step as is often said. We will make good progress.”
Strykar nodded. “That you may. You have surprised me before. I have come to tell you that I am heading south again on the morrow. To see the Count of Malvolio and the Duke.”
Acquel cradled his blade in his arms. “And what will you counsel them?”
“The towns on the eastern border must be garrisoned. Beginning with Palio and Istriana. They are already fortified and putting in troops there may discourage the Torinians from making more mischief. Any march on Livorna would by necessity take the road that runs past both of them.”
Acquel quickly saw what was coming next. “Then you will leave me no men of the Company to guard the Ara?”
Strykar fixed him with a stern gaze. “No. I’ll not divide my force. If the Torinian armies strike in any great numbers in the coming weeks then I will need every one of my men. And Livorna is not the frontier despite what you may think.”
Acquel watched Poule raise his eyebrows and shuffle his now empty mug on the table.
“I see,” said Acquel, hiding his disappointment. “When will you depart?”
“First thing in the morning. I will advise the Duke to send the entire Company of the Black Rose back to the north—the cavalry and all the men-at-arms they can scrounge to send up here. Preferably under the command of Malvolio himself, the better to keep his overfed knights on their toes. We should be able to muster some two-thousand lances.”
“And Lieutenant Poule?”
Strykar nodded. “Poule can remain and work with your brothers. I suppose I owe you that much. I cannot tell you how long it will be but I expect to be back in less than a month.” The mercenary pulled on his gloves and gestured for the horses. He then turned again to Acquel. “Brother Acquel, I do wish your enterprise well. It is a bold one. But if war is coming—and I believe it is—your efforts will be but a drop in the ocean, however well-meaning. You should not lose sight of that.”
Acquel gave a curt bow. “I thank you for giving me the service of your officer. I would ask that you take a letter from me to the Duke thanking him for the gift of the armour and weapons. I will have one of the brethren take it to your camp tonight.”
“I will see that he gets it, Brother Acquel.” He took up his own reins as Captain Cortese mounted his horse. “Poule—keep your nose clean!”
The lieutenant pressed his thumb to his brow and nodded. “Rest assured of that, my Coronel!”
Acquel stood by Strykar’s horse and patted its neck. He looked up at the man who had saved his skin a year ago but who now probably blamed himself for having done it. “This war that is coming. It is about more than just a contest between two dukes. It is about saving the kingdom from falling into a terrible darkness, one as once was generations ago. You yourself saw a tree of death. In Ivrea. Torinia is but a pawn to the forces that serve that tree and the others that have taken its place.”
Strykar cinched up on his reins and Acquel stepped back. “That is what the coming war is about,” he continued. “It is what Timandra fought and died for. She saw what was happening around us. I for one will not let her death be in vain.”
The commander of the Black Rose looked up and out over the field, avoiding his eye. “Don’t presume we are not in agreement, Brother Acquel. But my road is a different one than yours. That said, I will consider your words—and your warning. You can be certain I will do honour by my cousin’s memory. Fare you well.”
He spurred his horse and rode out, Captain Cortese at his side. Acquel watched him go, saddened for a friendship that unequal and doomed as it may have been, was now as good as lost.
AS HIS DREAMS went, it was not a bad one. Acquel was with Timandra again, the sutler’s widow, sitting cross-legged in the trampled long grass outside her wagon. Laughing without care and discoursing upon the fate of dukes and kings. Suddenly he felt himself pulled up and out of the dream and wide awake. He pushed himself up in this bed, wondering what time it was. The darkness outside his window told him the moon had set a while ago. It was either near to or just passed the hour of Vigil where whiterobes and greyrobes would be attending at the Temple, giving silent prayer. But something was wrong. In the blackness of his chamber his mind’s eye flashed disjointed images: the corridors, a colourful tiled floor smeared with blood, and then a fleeting glimpse of a golden casket surrounded by holy relics in their various receptacles of silver and gold. It was but a moment upon him, a rush of scenes, then it was gone. Yet he had glimpsed the treasury of the Ara, he was sure of it.
Just as soon as the vision passed he felt the amulet grow hot upon his chest. He grasped it and it seemed to be pulsing. Warning him as it had done nearly a year gone by. For months he had sometimes hoped, sometimes dreaded, the guiding hand of Elded would come to him.
He climbed out of his bed and groped to strike his flint to fire the rush-light on the little table. He hurriedly dressed by the dim glow, pulling his robes on over his head followed by his tabard. He slipped on his shoes and lastly, reaching to a hook on the wall, wrapped his sword belt about his waist, fumbling with the double-tongued buckle.
Outside in the long corridor, a lone torch sputtered, shedding imperfect light across the stone floor. At the far end, where the colonnaded loggia began, he saw one of his Templars on watch. He was leaning against the wall, hands resting on his sword pommel and head down. Acquel walked briskly down the corridor, his shoes slapping loudly. The young monk snapped upright at the sound, turning to recognize the face of his Captain-General.
“Brother, come with me!” said Acquel quietly as he reached him, grasping his elbow. “I think something is amiss at the Temple.”
Too stunned to utter a word, the youth nodded and followed as they marched down the long covered loggia to the staircase leading to the ground and cloisters. The breeze that blew across them was chilly, the cloudless sky a canopy of stars. Acquel could feel the amulet burning his chest. Without stopping, he reached inside his robes and shirt and pulled it out, letting it drop on the outside, bouncing upon the golden sun embroidered on the tabard. They descended the great staircase, pace quickening.
“Brother Acquel!” called the Templar in a raised whisper. “Where are we going? What is wrong? Are we under attack? Thieves?”
Acquel’s heart was racing as if he had already seen what threatening them. “We’re going to the Temple, to the treasury chamber!” he called out, breaking into a slow trot, hand on his sword grip. They were now making their way along the flagstone walkway that led to the eastern entry of the Temple, its huge tympanum now visible by the lit torches along the wall of the monastery. They were alone and Acquel reasoned that it was too soon for Vigil, for no other brethren were to be seen. He reached the great oaken door—ajar—and drew his arming sword. A quick glance from Acquel and the young Templar did the same, the lad’s eyes now grown huge with alarm.
They entered, cautiously, moving along the soaring stone columns by the light of a brazier left burning after the prayers at Nocturne. The treasury lay at the south end of the Temple Majoris on the east side, entry gained through a large doorway which in turn led to a second door of oak and iron. There was silence in the cavernous Temple except for the jangle of their swordbelts. Acquel held up his hand as they reached the doorway. Like the eastern portal, this too was open—wide open. Acquel moved cautiously forward and his foot shot out from under him. He had slipped. Reaching down he wiped
his fingers on the tiles. In the dim orange glow he could see it was blood, sticky on his fingers.
The youth had a hand on Acquel’s shoulder. “Sweet Lord, is that—”
Acquel raised his hand again to silence him. He was listening. Laboured breathing could be heard in the antechamber beyond but the darkness was absolute. Acquel turned to the brother behind him. “Quickly, grab a torch and light it from the brazier.”
Acquel’s fingers reached for the amulet. He flinched; it was near to scalding. The intruders had either come and gone or were yet within. But someone was hurt and still inside. The young Templar returned and handed over the burning willow bundle to Acquel.
“What is your name, brother?” asked Acquel.
The young blackrobe swallowed hard, his voice sticking in his throat. “I am Carlo.”
“Carlo, stay by me. But not behind. Move off to the side as we enter. Do you remember your low guard—the plough?”
Carlo nodded. They moved inside at a crouch, ready to defend. Acquel held his sword low, the torch in his left hand. As they entered the antechamber, the light of the brand spilled across the floor and walls. Carlo gasped. Upon the floor, off to one side, lay a monk, sprawled, his robe slashed and covered in blood. Acquel could see the gore smeared like a trail from the entry way to where the poor brother now lay, but he was not dead.
Acquel handed the torch back to Carlo and bent down. It was the new Magister of the Temple Majoris, Brother Lodi. The wound across his stomach looked grave. He was babbling, eyes wide in terror, darting madly from one side to another and then toward the treasury. As he recognised Acquel, he tried to lift a hand.
“Lie easy, brother! We shall find help.”
Behind him, he heard the sound of claws scrabbling, like a dog running across a stone floor, followed half an instant later by Carlo’s painful cry suddenly cut short. It all happened in the time it took Acquel to wheel around. Shadows rippled across the chamber as the torch flew to the ground and Acquel had a fleeting glimpse of a large figure driving into Carlo and sending him flying back out into the temple. Acquel gripped his sword with both hands, poised to spring to Carlo’s aid, but another sound stopped him. Something else emerged from the portal to the treasury, a creature of the likes he had never seen in his life. His heart flew into his mouth and he began backing away. It was partly human—a woman from the waist up, a muscular torso of grey with pendulous, swaying breasts. From the waist below it was a bird-like thing, feathered thighs ending in huge yellow talons, three enormous claws on each foot. Behind it he could see its wings, now folded, rising up over its back and head. They brushed the archway as it stepped into the room, talons clacking on the hard tiles.
Acquel could not take his eyes from its face. Lucinda della Rovera. At least it had appropriated her features, but the womanly beauty had been twisted, elongated such that it was not human anymore. Its hair was a wild riot of blonde locks that shook as it made its almost hesitant progress into the chamber. Somehow, it had not seen him. It was clutching something in one of its long thin black-nailed hands: a shining gold and silver reliquary garishly embellished in dozens of tiny gemstones that sparkled in the torchlight. The object looked almost a living thing: a splayed metallic hand and forearm. Acquel recognised it instantly—the hand of Saint Ursula, one of the most sacred artefacts of the Ara. The creature’s head jerked and swivelled, searching. He froze as it stared directly at him. The Magister groaned behind him and the thing’s attention immediately snapped to the wounded monk.
Acquel only then became aware of Carlo’s desperate cries without, as he battled this thing’s companion. If he could put himself between the creature and the entry way, he could bar its passage. His feet slid across the tiled floor as he moved, still half in a crouch, sword held out before him. The creature turned its attention back to him, its eyes moving. It hissed in frustration. Somehow, he realized, it could not actually see him. It could hear him and no doubt smell him, but he was invisible to it. Yet it was clear to him that these creatures could see. They had pounced upon the Magister and Carlo and were here to search out and steal the sacred relics of the Ara—their vision was keen enough. It was the Saint who was shielding him and him alone.
Carlo cried out again and he heard the sharp metallic ring of sword on stone. No time to hesitate, he thought. Elded save me. His thrust, unsteady as he was, ran along the outside of the thing’s left arm, piercing its bicep. It howled, and kicked. Acquel found himself lifted off his feet and landing hard on his backside, his hip in agony, robe ripped wide. He scrambled to rise, his blade scoring the tiles as he staggered up, arms moving into an unsteady guard. The creature clutched the reliquary to its chest with one hand and lashed out with the other blindly. Acquel watched as it tilted its head listening for his movements. He raised his sword in preparation for a downward cutting blow. He would have to make this blow with all his strength, driving the sword deeply into the thing’s neck and shoulder. And then it spoke. In her voice.
“Where are you, holy man? Beloved of Elded.” The voice was husky, unnatural, half-human and half the rasp of an animal.
He raised his arms higher—and his scabbard and belt shifted on his waist, the sound barely perceptible, but she heard it. As he brought the sword down, the creature had leapt to one side and the blade cleaved air. She had moved, closer to the Magister’s prostate form. Acquel turned and ran through the door back out into the side aisle of the Temple, while behind him he could hear the terrible sound of those huge talons scratching the floor as she pursued. Carlo cried out again and Acquel ran towards the sound. The soldier monk was swinging wildly at his foe as its great wings beat frantically, holding it aloft. It dropped down, trying to rake him but somehow the youth was keeping it at bay, his garments ripped and blood-stained from the slashes the creature had already inflicted.
Acquel joined him and thrust with his sword as the thing dropped down again, screeching. He saw its face but a moment, reflected in the light of the single brazier. It too, had the likeness of Lucinda della Rovera. The creature kicked his blade away but a thrust from Carlo bit, slicing into its thigh. A thin, high-pitched howl echoed across the holy place as it beat its black-feathered wings faster, rising out of harm’s way. The other creature had now also taken to the air, landing on the cornice of one of the massive stone columns of the Temple. Acquel could see the reliquary glinting in its arms. He grabbed Carlo by the shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
The monk held up his hand, his fingers covered in his own blood. His face appeared unbelieving of what was happening. “I am cut, Brother Acquel,” he said quietly. He leaned against the column and slowly slid down onto the flagstones.
“Brother Carlo!” Acquel raised his sword again to defend them both. The creature above them flew to the other pillar and joined its companion. Acquel watched them, dark shadows high above. His heart was beating hard, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his hands as he gripped his sword. The beating of huge wings again sounded and Acquel tensed, ready to receive their attack. He then heard a scream from the east portal. He dashed to where he had entered, sword ready. There in the porchway, stood a greyrobe, his lantern held limply at his side. He saw Acquel and dropped the lantern to the floor.
“Harpies,” he said breathlessly. “They were harpies.”
SOME TWO HUNDRED miles away, in the ducal palazzo of Torinia, Lucinda della Rovera crouched naked on all fours in her locked bedchamber. She raised her head and closed her eyes for a few seconds before opening them again. She breathed deeply and brought her legs up, pulling herself into a seated position on the bare but ornately tiled floor. She was angry, frustrated, and confused. She had felt the blackrobe’s presence but her gift could not perceive him, unlike the other monks there. It had been like trying to swat a quickly moving shadow, or seize a will o’ the wisp. Despite seeing through the eyes of Andras’s servants it was as if she were peering through some dense black gauze. She rubbed at her left arm, still painful though it had not a mark on i
t. Bastard, she thought. That was not the first time such a thing had happened where Brother Acquel was concerned, but she had not thought it would be an issue this time. Yet it had been. She hoped that Berithas would not withdraw favour for her failure to kill the blackrobe. But the reliquary was on its way to her even now, carried through the moonless night high over the plains of Torinia. And the Ara would be needing yet another Magister she was sure. But once the One Faith discovered what had been lost to them then that would seem like a small problem indeed.
Six
HE HELD HER in his embrace, tightly, but with no fear it would crush her. She returned it, giving equal strength, her long arms grasping his back, pulling him in towards her. Their mouths touched again. Danamis was surprised that his passion for Citala had not diminished in the past few months. Perhaps it was all the voyaging, the weeks away to the northern shore of the kingdom that fired his desire for her. But deep down, he knew it was more, and that he knew also presented somewhat of a problem.
Citala’s lips pulled away from his, but her deep violet eyes lingered upon his face. “I must leave now, Nicolo. I have been here for more than a day and a night.”
He understood she needed the sea. The memory of last summer’s adventure in Ivrea and her near death there had never left him. She would always need the water. Without it her body would wither like a flower left in an empty vase. He nodded, trying to smile. Somewhere across the cavernous palazzo halls, alive with newly painted frescoes, his father was bellowing at a servant.
“I do not think he likes my visits here,” she said.
“Not altogether sure he appreciates my presence either. Despite my attempts to placate him.”
“It is because I do not please him.”
Danamis squeezed her. “I care not what he thinks, and he usually thinks of only himself. He wants me to marry so he may make a match that serves his plans. He has suggested the daughter of the High Steward of Ivrea.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 6