Acquel knew before long that this was not the spot where he had faced the mantichora. It was too steep for one. He looked about and discovered a small hollow of ground where the trees thinned, more level than what surrounded them. “Let us make camp over there,” he said. “And we shall see if your knowledge of these creatures is accurate.”
Volpe nodded. “Sensible. Besides, we’ve made enough noise in the past hour to let anything within five miles know we are coming.”
They tied their horses up a short distance away, close to a trickle of a stream they had crossed. Then, pulling off their sacks of food and their bedrolls, they returned to the spot Acquel had chosen. They threw down their supplies and then set off to gather wood. Volpe set about building the fire after he had first gathered up some rocks with which to ring it. They spoke little as they went about their work, Acquel’s mind racing between thoughts of being leapt upon by the mantichora and by his remembrance of Timandra and her last confession to him under the trees. Volpe, his work done, wiped his hands on his black robes and found a comfortable spot at the base of an oak. He reached into his sack, pulled out a loaf of bread, and tore off a chunk before offering it to Acquel. “Fetch the wine off the saddle bow, brother. And sit down. No point in fretting.”
Acquel knew he was right. He knew in his heart that the creature would come to them. It was as if he had no will of his own in the matter; his life of the past year was but one headlong rush into events that seemed ordained. He unloosed the winesack from the saddlebow and found a place next to the old Saivonan, near last monk of his holy order at Astilona. He heard and felt the pungent bed of last year’s acorn cups, twigs, and leaves crush under his weight as he settled himself on the damp earth at the base of the tree, his hand gripping his sword hilt, a small comfort in itself.
“Will Livorna be taken?” he asked quietly.
Volpe took the winesack and uncorked it. “I cannot say, in truth, my brother.” He took a long swig and handed it back. “What matters is that we fight. With everything we have.”
“Kodoris has changed. Since what happened in the crypt. He has withdrawn into himself. Lost faith somehow. He will not lead us.”
Volpe sighed. “He’s a conflicted man. Always was. Not centred in himself. Was always afraid of losing control—losing the order of things. It has led him down the wrong path.”
“I think he has seen something in his visions. Something he has not confided. Whatever it was it has unnerved him. Drained him.”
Volpe twisted his portly torso to face Acquel and waved a chunk of white bread at him. “You are the Magister of the Ara now. Leave the esoteric concerns of the Temple to the High Priest. Your duties are earthly. The defence of Elded’s people from those who would raise up that which has been cast down. That is why we are here. If not to find allies then to find knowledge.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I did but Elded has stopped guiding me. The brethren said I was his voice—champion of his will. Even his visions have died away.”
“Bullshit,” mumbled Volpe, as he chewed and swallowed a chunk of bread. “What do they know. Who says you’re a saviour? Maybe you’re just a sentinel. The one who stands upon the tower. I told you my belief once before. That the Lord gives us the tools but how we use them is down to us, and free will.”
Acquel leaned back, his head against the rough bark. The sun was now much lower in the sky, its rays obliquely piercing the forest and casting even more shadow as the evening drew nearer. “I will need your help. All that you can give me.”
Volpe chuckled. “And you shall have it, my brother. Fear not. And fear nothing.”
They lit their fire with tinder and flint just before the sun, dull orange, disappearing entirely. The smell and crackling hiss, the rising warmth, all lulled Acquel. He drank some wine and contemplated the flames. Just what was a sentinel to do then, once the enemy was in sight? Volpe got up and searched through his battered leather satchel. The monk pulled out his coil of strange, thin rope, decorated with ribbons. And Acquel knew what would happen next. Without a word, Volpe uncoiled it and gently laid it around their camp, an irregular circle beginning and ending with the tree they backed up against.
“We must be frugal now with our firewood,” said Volpe ominously. “We may no longer forage once the sun has set.”
They sat inside the circle, a thin braided cord standing between them and whatever lay outside. The old monk had taken out his comical wooden sword and laid it on his lap. Acquel had drawn his steel and done likewise. There had been the normal increase in birdsong and chittering of small creatures at dusk, falling away to the occasional rasp of crow and coo of dove bedding down above them. They conversed sparingly and in hushed tones of war, of battle. Acquel asked and Volpe answered, the latter’s memories coming out in brief but vivid anecdotes that all led to sad lessons.
“And so the Duke of Saivona, having won his war, discarded us. The monastery fortress was seized by his own soldiers and we, we who had bled for him, were scattered to the winds. The rest you know.”
Acquel nodded, his grave face lit by the low flames. There was silence again for a minute or two.
“When will the mantichora come?” asked Acquel. Before Volpe could hazard a guess, a voice boomed out around them like rolling thunder.
“I am already here, little priest!”
Acquel fell forward, his heart leaping in his chest and Volpe rolled into and across the fire, stopping just short of the edge of the magic rope before righting himself and thrusting out his sorbo blade.
Acquel was still on his back as he saw a familiar face, massive and glistening brown, peer down from behind the tree that he had been leaning against. The mantichora silently padded from behind the oak, giving them, for the moment, a wide berth. Dark and mottled brown in the firelight, it warily eyed them as it moved, its huge green orbs glinting, almost human in aspect. Acquel scrambled to retrieve his sword and crouched next to Volpe. The old monk looked grim but not frightened by the sight of such a creature. But Acquel could hardly breathe. It was as tall as a warhorse and longer than two, with a lion-like body, muscular and lithe, ending in a swishing tale. But the monstrous nature of the thing, its great saturnine human head mounted upon an animal body, made it horrible to behold, an abomination. Volpe’s words of a few days earlier, that the absence of good did not imply the presence of evil, entered his head again. If they survived the next few moments he would have to put that again to the old monk. The mantichora turned to face them straight on and Acquel watched, frozen, as he saw it move a paw towards the rope upon the ground. He could hear Volpe’s laboured breathing as they waited. The booming voice of the thing, a rumbling male bass, tumbled out again.
“I smelled you an hour gone by. And I remembered your scent. Not like other men. Different.”
Just as before, Acquel’s amulet had not warned him. Did that mean he did not face something evil? Suddenly he heard Volpe speak, addressing the beast.
“We have sought you out. We seek your knowledge.” His voice was strong but even so it quavered slightly. Acquel looked past the creature to where the horses were tied a short walk from their fire. Remarkably, they were still there, dozing. The mantichora had come upwind upon them.
“Fat priest. I don’t know you, it seems.” The mantichora swivelled its shaggy, matted head towards Acquel. “And where is the she-marten you last had with you? I liked her. Probably would not have eaten her. Not straight away.”
Acquel could barely find his tongue. “She is dead.”
“Ah, cruel news.” It lowered its head a little and inched forward. One paw, larger than a bear’s, touched the rope. It pulled back quickly, as if it had touched a hot iron. The mantichora growled and tensed, lowering the front half of its body, nostrils flaring. “What’s this then? A charm to protect you?” Neither Volpe nor Acquel gave answer. The mantichora broke into a grin, revealing a wide mouth of many sharp teeth. It then slowly raised the same paw and placed it full upon the
rope, leaving it there. Acquel drew back, shocked. “Sweet God!”
The mantichora let out a laugh that seemed to well up from some deep abyss, otherworldly and chilling. Volpe stood up straight, holding out his sword. They had no barrier. Acquel gripped his blade in both hands and held it in a guard despite his trembling thighs. But the creature stepped back and regarded them, its eyes filled with mirth. It saw the sorbo sword in Volpe’s hand—not shaking as was Acquel’s. It snorted and then gave a loud petulant sniff.
“Rowanis wood. Fat, clever priest.”
Volpe waggled the wooden blade. “I say again. We have sought you out. For wisdom.”
The mantichora’s thick fleshy lips parted in a smile and it sat on its haunches. “I so seldom converse with other creatures,” it rumbled. “So lonely here. But to find two holy men of the One Faith in my forest! What good fortune this night!”
Acquel began to find his courage. “You once told me that which was sleeping was waking. Speaking upon the wind. Gathering strength.” He paused to swallow the lump in his throat. “We would know more.”
The mantichora nodded. “Fat priest understands. I was never young and am yet to grow old. I smell things and I hear things. Sometimes I see things too... far away.” Its emerald eyes, the size of a man’s fists, grew larger as it spoke, perhaps remembering experiences from its long and unnatural life. “And it is your wish that I tell you what is on the wind?”
Volpe didn’t hesitate. “It is. Tell us of the followers of the old ways, of Andras and his servants Belial and Beleth.” Acquel shivered at the mention of the foul names.
The mantichora tilted its head and its throat issued a noise like a heavy millstone grinding away. “It is customary to bring a gift is it not? For the granting of favours.” And it looked sideways towards the horses and made a show of wrinkling its nose and giving a loud sniff. Volpe took a step forward, his sword held out. To his own amazement, Acquel found himself moving forward as well to support the old monk.
“You shall not have our horses,” said Volpe quietly.
The mantichora lowered its head and narrowed its eyes. “Not even one, holy man? That seems mean of you. Considering I could eat both of them if I choose to. And you both as well.” Its tail swayed rhythmically. That would be the signal that it was to pounce. As Volpe had narrowed the distance so too had the mantichora slowly moved backwards, its rump brushing a tree trunk. “You, young priest, had a stronger sense of Elded about you when last we met. Perhaps you have washed since. It does still mark you though. I saw Elded once. He had a high opinion of himself. Expected much of others. Maybe too much.”
Acquel knew the creature was toying with them, teasing and cajoling. Whether from boredom or maliciousness he did not yet know. “We need our horses to return from whence we have come. What else do you desire?”
The mantichora’s wide tongue wetted its lips. “Ah, my choice, is it?”
Acquel quickly regretted his haste. Volpe gestured with his sword. “Tell us, then. We will promise it if we can deliver upon it. We seek to know what to use against those that come from afar into our world. That which the Tree of Death gives unholy life to.”
The mantichora stood up on its hind legs and wrapped its massive paws around a beech as it smiled down on the two men, tolerant and mildly amused. The horses were now skittish, stamping and snorting in alarm.
“Very well,” the mantichora replied. “I am not particularly hungry having feasted on wild pig this morning. That goes in your favour.”
Volpe walked forward again, brandishing the sword, and Acquel saw how the beast recoiled slightly. The sorbo wood was keeping it at bay as much as its own desire for amusement. “Then tell us what we wish to know, and what you wish in return.”
“Are you willing to pay the forfeit for the knowledge you seek? If so, I will defer it for the moment. But sometime, sometime in future, I will collect.”
“So be it!” answered Volpe.
“Not good enough,” teased the mantichora. “Your companion must give his bond as well. Swear on the bones of all your saints.”
“We swear,” said Volpe, cautiously.
The mantichora swivelled its huge head towards Acquel. “You must give your oath, little priest.”
“I do not yet know your price,” said Acquel.
The creature smiled at him. “Does that matter?”
Acquel paused for a moment. “I suppose it does not. I swear. Upon all that is holy.”
The mantichora gave a great sigh, its claws scoring the tree trunk deeply as it lowered itself. “What you fear is already here in Valdur. That which does not belong. That which disguises itself. That which opens the gate for others to come. Creatures not as beautiful as I but far more terrible.”
“How do we slay them?” demanded Acquel. “That is what you must tell us!”
“Brave little priest!” the mantichora chuckled. “Your companion already holds one such talisman. Rowanis. Purest of trees. There are others... maybe... better.”
“We wish to know them,” replied Acquel.
The creature focussed its glare upon him, nostrils flaring. “And my price may grow higher, little priest. Have a care.”
Volpe gave a dismissive bark. “You’ve told us nothing we do not already know. Perhaps that is because you know nothing more.”
The mantichora was fast. Its paw lashed out at Volpe as the old monk instinctively raised the wooden blade. The mantichora batted it aside but the cry of pain that bellowed out was deafening as the crack of cannon.
It drew back, snarling and Acquel could see a wisp of smoke rising up from the creature’s claws; there was the reek of burnt fur. When it spoke again all playfulness was gone from the mantichora’svoice. “My price will be the higher, holy men,” it said. “And I will prove my wisdom to you.” It paused, contemplating its singed paw. “Ah, gentle rowanis. It will not abide my touch.”
“Tell us what you know,” said Volpe, “and we will leave your forest.”
It scowled back at the two men. “I know all. The second thing that I tell you is another you already know. Your circle. Such a charm works not upon me but will upon others. You may seek protection also in the endless knot if worn upon your person. The third and final thing that I tell you is a potent weapon indeed against all fell creatures. A leaf evergreen, ever shining, as if soaked in the dew of night. It is as venom to that which does not belong. Litalas leaf... myrra to some.”
Acquel felt his heart skip.
“I know it,” said Volpe, his voice almost a whisper. “It is exceedingly rare.”
The mantichora swelled its tangled chest and shook its mane. “But I will not tell you where to find it!”
Acquel found his voice again, stronger than before. “I know someone who will!”
The mantichora frowned and Acquel found himself breaking into a sly smile. A moment later the creature tilted its huge head as if realizing something, as if it had seen something in its mind’s eye. Its slow nod was filled with dire certainty. “The forfeit is now set. Set hard as stone and as heavy as iron. You will find you have paid dearly for what you seek.”
Acquel felt his grin evaporate even before the mantichora had finished its prediction.
Nineteen
THE CAMPAIGN TENT of Ursino, Duke of Torinia, had many rooms. Enough to make a rich merchant jealous and a peasant weep. Under the canopy of stout canvas, walls of silk and gossamer in a myriad of colours waved gently in the draught that crept in from outside. Woollen carpets with swirling designs from the finest weavers in Valdur covered the ground, an indulgent comfort for feet tired of road and trail.
And it was delicate, milky pale feet that silently padded across the plush floors of the tent in the dead of night. Lucinda’s hand swept open the curtain to the inner bedchamber where Ursino awaited her, naked except for his silk Sinean gown of indigo. She smiled as she saw him and he extended his hand to take hers.
“It seems as if I have awaited you for years, my lady.”
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br /> She hid her nervousness as best she could, lowering her eyes. He gently grasped her chin and raised her head. Ursino was amused by this sudden coyness on her part but in this he was mistaken. Lucinda had put off this moment for months, enflaming his desire even more, but his advances could no longer be resisted. Soon, in the moment of disrobing, she would face questions, questions that she would have to answer. Worse, she would have to keep Berithas at bay. Even as Ursino gathered her to his chest, her mind raced.
Can He hear my deepest thoughts when He comes to me? Will he take Ursino?
She yielded to his kiss, deep and passionate, losing her concentration, the fear of the Redeemer receding in her mind. In spite of everything—her devotion to the Old Faith, her hatred of the New, her mission to remake the world—she had lost her heart to this man. Would she still be able to make him king and save his soul at the same time? Her arms reached up Ursino’s back as she returned his embrace. Her tongue teased his, searching. Slowly, Ursino peeled her away, caressing her long golden locks and running the back of his hand over her cheek. His eyes drank in her beauty, her ankle length gown of green velvet. He guided her by the hand and turned to a long table where silver ewer and goblets were placed. He lifted one, already full, and handed it to her as he took the other.
“To have had you there, by my side, blazing in your glory. It filled my heart.” He tipped the goblet towards Lucinda. “To our first victory and to the ones that will swiftly follow.”
She swallowed hard and took a sip. She felt powerless as her heart overwhelmed her calculating mind, ever filled with the next steps of her mission. And these melted away as desire filled her. “To our love,” she whispered. He smiled and raised the cup again to his lips.
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