“Show me what you have up on the walls. From end to end. And I must inspect the gatehouses and towers.”
Poule broke into a wide grin, his crooked teeth standing proud.
Acquel turned to the High Steward. “My lord Marsilius, when the time comes, do you wish to treat with the Ursino at the main gate?”
The Count shook his head vehemently and leaned on his castellan who in turn put a hand on the old man’s slumping shoulders. “Nay, Magister. I have devolved that duty to you and the Temple Majoris. My infirmities have sapped what strength I have remaining.” Voltera fumbled for the silver pomander and tried to thrust it under the Count’s nose but Marsilius waved him away.
“Then I will speak as Magister of the Ara, when the time comes. And we will fight them.”
“I grant you all that is in my armoury,” said Marsilius. “There is the finest plate and chain, good white harness there for you and Messere Strykar. Take what you wish.”
“I will escort you there,” added Voltera, frowning at his master’s generosity.
Acquel bowed. “Then we go to prepare for what is to come. By your leave, my lord.”
Volpe coughed, impatient. “And now, just perhaps, Messere Strykar can be so kind as to tell me more of these griffons.”
Strykar nodded gravely. “Very well, brother monk. But the tale will freeze your marrow for they kill men as easily as a lurcher shakes a rabbit. I know not how to defeat them.”
Volpe nodded in return. “You may be of more help than you believe, Coronel. Let us talk.”
Twenty-Two
LUCINDA RODE ALONE. She had left behind the bustle of the Torinian camp with its shouts, creaking wagons, and the harsh echo of axe on tree. Now she had a vantage on the high rise of ground to the south of the camp which took in the sea of canvas below her and the rising walls of Livorna further out. Between the camp and the town walls, soldiers of the Blue Boar scurried, carrying large wicker screens and preparing their emplacements just outside bow range of the defenders upon the battlements. Ursino had demanded she take an escort. She had laughed and then a moment after, he too laughed, remembering her power. She needed to clear her mind, she said, alone, before the siege began.
The canoness sat motionless in the saddle of her white palfrey and gazed on Livorna in the cool air of early morning. She concentrated her thoughts, narrowing to a dagger-point of hard focus: the Ara. Her eyes closed and she willed the Farsight to come to her. Increasingly, it was taking a greater effort to summon the power, with each passing month the Farsight grew dimmer and hazier. Even her dead sister’s scrying mirror had gone dull, now just a small useless slab of obsidian. She was but a poor vessel for Lavinia’s gift despite Berithas urging her on. She could make men do things. Lavinia had been the one to see things. Finally, through a sulphurous yellow fog, she recognized the long aisles and massive stone columns of the Temple Majoris, ghostly robed figures processing in prayer. One figure stood alone at the high altar—the High Priest Kodoris. She sought to draw her focus closer, but it could not be done.
A swirl of fog rolled across her view and she found herself in a different place—the walls of Livorna, soldiers streaming past her: boys, greybeards, militia. And there was the meddlesome monk, the new Magister: Acquel, looking tired and anxious but dressed in armour, a sword at his side. With him was another monk, old and corpulent. She had an immediate sense of his cunning, and experience of war. He was practised in the old arts, long forgotten by the smug priests of the One Faith. Who was he? Her vision began to blur and she felt herself pulling away, once again inhabiting the saddle of her impatient, snorting mount.
She was being called. She could feel it welling up inside her. Lucinda pulled down on both reins to steady the horse as she felt Berithas come to her. The voice—calm and strong, decidedly male—seemed to fill her head.
Daughter. The hour draws near.
“I hear you, Redeemer,” she whispered.
You have done well. But the tree you gave new life now withers upon the Ara. There are those who know us and work against us. They have poisoned us. Wounded us.
Lucinda nodded. “I will kill them, lord. Grant me the power to find the enemies. To reach them!”
You now rule the beasts I have delivered to you. The winged servants I sent once before will come to you again. There will be other allies to come to your command. They will come to you soon. In the dark of night.
“Lord, there is another monk on the Ara. I sense he is a threat.”
For a moment there was no reply. But when the voice came it rang with certitude and defiance. The Three will come soon into the world. The gateway beckons. But the Ara must fall to you first. The tree must be saved. You will destroy those who stand in your way.
She pushed her shoulders back, head high. “I will, lord.”
The time draws near for me to take mortal form once again. You will be my arrow to that end, daughter. Through your lips shall I enter Torinia and thence the kingdom.
Lucinda’s heart began to pound. It was as she had long feared. He would possess Ursino’s body to manifest himself in the world. In an instant her feelings became confused and she nearly cried out for fear that Berithas might know her thoughts, see her love for the Duke and her resolve crumbling. Mastering herself, she quickly tamped down her emotions.
“Your will be done, Redeemer.” And she waited for his wrath to envelop her, ripping her mind to shreds. But it did not come. Lucinda began to breathe easily again as her ears filled with a sound like the gentle tinkling of rain upon stones, the sound of Berithas and his presence.
When you take the Ara the Three shall come into the world anew.
Berithas left her mind. She felt him depart like a thunderclap and then merciful silence, the distant clank and clatter of the camp rising up to her ears once more. She could guard her thoughts and her feelings from Him. He was a powerful entity but he had begun as a man a millennia ago. He was not one of the Three. She swallowed hard and cinched up the reins, her mind already spinning with thoughts of how to save Ursino. There had to be a way.
Lucinda guided her horse back down to the camp, the fear and dread rising up in her. She had never questioned her service to the old ones before. Not even when Berithas told her to slay her own sister. The mere contemplation of any deceit made her shake.
Two riders approached her and reined in. The Duke’s men-at-arms.
“Canoness!” said one, saluting her. “He requires your presence at once.”
They were gathered at the great open area of ground at the centre of the encampment, a makeshift piazza at whose centre flew the banner of Torinia overseen by the Hand of Ursula upon its pole. Lucinda saw Ursino on horseback in conversation with Coronel Aretini of the Blue Boar and Federigo, Count of Naplona who commanded the large army that Milvorna had lent to the enterprise. There too was Coronel Michelotto of the White Company, short and fat, laughing at some jest of Aretini’s. She trotted to them and bowed to Ursino and the soldiers each acknowledged her.
“My good lady!” said Ursino, beaming at her. “The morning grows late. Are you ready to treat with Livorna? They’re probably wondering what’s happened to us by now!”
He was exuberant, confident of impending victory—almost boyish in his enthusiasm and she smiled. “My lord, I am ready to stand by your side.”
“And what of the beasts? Will they make a show if you summon them?”
She nodded. “They will come if I call.”
“My lord,” said Aretini, “The presence of the griffons might even save us the blood and cost of a long siege. They frighten the hell out of me, so God knows what the monks and townsfolk will make of them!”
Ursino laughed. “You hear that, canoness? We may win this without cost. Save the force for the might of Maresto, eh, Coronel?”
“That is a concern, my lord,” replied the mercenary. “Alonso has other companies he can march north. Better to get Livorna over quickly so we may turn south before he has time to react. Or fi
nd more allies.”
The Count of Naplona nodded in agreement. “The Boar is right. And Milvorna must keep an eye to the east as well. The Duke of Colonna has yet to declare against you but his daughter is the king’s widow so no doubting where he will come down. He’s also playing host to those Sineans and I’d rather not have to deal with them. Not yet, anyway.”
The Duke of Torinia lowered his voice. “Gentlemen, we have another card to be played—very possibly a trump—at midnight, tonight.”
Lucinda knew his secret and she watched the commanders as they leaned forward in their saddles, eager for more.
“I can tell you nothing else at present but have your best rondelieri ready at the east barbican at the hour.”
“A spy?” proffered Aretini.
“A hope,” replied Ursino. “We shall see. But let us say that the High Steward of Livorna is in no condition to lead a defence of his city. That responsibility has fallen to the holy men of the Ara.”
Ripples of laughter spread among them but Lucinda merely smiled, her mind weighed down by what payment would need to come.
“Aretini,” said Ursino, “you shall ride with the herald this morning when he delivers the demand for surrender. The lady della Rovera will accompany me, and bring forth her pets when the time is right.” He looked over to one of his footmen. “Summon the trumpeters! And where is that damned herald!”
Lucinda could see the nervous exchange of glances at the mention of the griffons. And rumours had already come to her ears across the camp in the last week; rumours that spoke of a deal with unholy powers, for how else could such creatures be brought forth much less be controlled by a woman? She knew that at some point Ursino would have to be told the source of his good fortune and that the price might be both his body and soul. And what would the armies of Torinia make of that? The splintering of the One Faith had helped the cause of the Old, but would it be enough?
The herald, in a blaze of colour, his horse caparisoned equally garishly, made his arrival and the party set out with a guard of four score men-at-arms. Aretini adjusted the strap of his sallet and sidled alongside the herald in his tall felt hat, pheasant plumes sprouting at every side. “You do know what maximum bow range is, I hope,” he said snidely.
Unperturbed, the herald glanced over to him. “It is why my man yonder also bears the white flag of truce.”
Aretini chuckled. “Oh, magical proof against arrows?”
The broken ground before them levelled out, stands of beech here and there as they ambled at a walk towards Livorna. The sun blazed down in full and a strange breeze blew across the length of the walls, stirring up the dust on the main road into little whirlwinds that danced before them even as it animated their banners. The herald, his trumpeters and Aretini were followed at a longer distance by the Duke, Lucinda and the other commanders. They were flanked by armoured horsemen. At a few hundred yards from the main turreted gate, the herald raised his hand for a halt. He then signalled to the two trumpeters to begin their blast. It carried well, a peal of staccato intensity, demanding attention.
Aretini scanned the battlements. Helmeted heads bobbed up and down its length. He had already noted the shallow dry ditch that ran along the walls, deepening where the bridge and twin towers lay. The right tower of the barbican looked patched and he remembered the earthquake of more than a year ago. But the walls were high—scaling ladders would be difficult to employ and engines would take weeks to build. He muttered a curse. He hated sieges. A waste of men and money. Indeed, a prince was likely to run out of treasure before a city would give in. Open battle was far better. He had already advised Ursino to make a half-hearted attack to gauge the defences once the city had rejected the offer of surrender, as he knew they would. But he still hoped that the High Priest and the Steward could be cowed into some form of surrender before the inevitable bloody shits and camp cough ruined his soldiers. If not, perhaps a culverin could be brought close enough to blow up the wooden gate and portcullis. Or a battering ram might do the trick. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought. It came back to the same old thing: more work and time with damned siege machines. And losing more of his soldiers at the walls while Maresto prepared and the Black Rose licked its wounds.
“Give them another blast,” he ordered the trumpeters.
It was answered by the sound of a gun being fired up on the walls. And then a voice carried over to them. Young but confident. It came from the embrasures over the barbican and Aretini’s round, hawkish eyes focussed on at least a dozen men standing shoulder to shoulder, just visible.
“Who comes to the holy city of Livorna? What is your business?”
The herald, bold as brass (and Aretini had to give him that), urged his mount forward a few yards and answered in a well-rehearsed voice, “His noble grace, the Duke of Torinia, defender of the true One Faith and rightful heir to the throne of Valdur demands your surrender and your fealty! Open your gates!”
A man stood above the parapets, raised up on something below. He wore a thigh length fluted white tabard and an open-faced helm. Aretini could make out some sort of golden device upon his breast, and he remembered what Captain Janus had told him when they took Persarola: fighting monks. Decimali.
“I am Magister of the Temple Majoris and I speak for the High Steward of Livorna. The Duke of Torinia holds no authority here and I suggest he takes his small hunting party elsewhere!” A cheer followed behind him. The herald waited until it had died before responding.
“The Temple has been given over to heretics. We will not treat with you. Show us the High Steward! Let him speak!”
There was silence on both sides. Aretini looked behind and caught a glimpse of Ursino sitting stone-faced in his saddle, the lady della Rovera next to him looking equally grim. He turned to the herald. “Bring up the Hand!”
The herald motioned to one of his men and barked an order. Up on the walls, the man yelled down to them. “And we will not treat with usurpers nor with those that harbour a sorceress!” The herald went red and shot a glance over to Aretini. But by this time a soldier had come running forward bearing the twenty foot pole and the holy relic of Ursula atop, shining silver in the sun. The herald puffed up his chest once again.
“Behold the Hand of Ursula! The Duke Ursino speaks for the One Faith and bears this holy relic before his army as the rightful heir to the throne and defender of the true religion!”
There was a pause up on the parapet, a jostling of heads and shoulders, and then a second, taller figure stood up on the wall, plate harness gleaming. Someone thrust something silver into his hand and he held it aloft as he bellowed out to them.
“This is the Hand of Ursula! And we shall not be fooled by Torinian market fair fakery!” Another cheer rose up along the wall and Aretini’s eyes grew wider. That voice, he knew it.
The soldier bellowed again. “Take your tin hand away and your witch with it! We see her there among you. You will not have this city!”
Aretini laughed and kicked his mount forward to join the herald. He stood up in his stirrups. “Julianus Strykar! More lives than a Palestro cat I see! I salute your good fortune that you have found your feet again—and your mouth!”
The herald turned and scowled at the breach of protocol. The tall man on the wall gave a flourish with his hand in recognition of his name. Aretini quickly looked to the rear again. Ursino’s face was turning the colour of a plum as he watched and the canoness had cantered off, her horse just visible through the trees. He faced front and beckoned to Strykar.
“We would have had you down here with us! Giving the city a show as we hanged you, sir! You cheated us of good sport! Lord Renaldo’s men might have a few words for you as well!”
Strykar’s voice carried strongly on the breeze. “Let them come up and have their say! I will hand them their heads!” A cheer rose up again along the wall, taken up even by those who had not heard the exchange between the two knights. The herald turned to Strykar and snapped “Enough! You a
re in the presence of the Duke.” He jerked the reins of his mount and moved a few yards closer to the walls. “Magister! If you speak for the High Steward then it will be upon your head when this city falls to your rightful ruler. Surrender now, open your gates, and all will be spared.”
The other armoured man struggled up again to the parapet. He cupped his hands and shouted down to herald. “The Holy Order of the Temple of Livorna holds this city in the name of the rightful king of Valdur—Prince Sarant! And we will break you upon these walls!”
The herald shook his head and made a sound halfway between a cough and a curse. He flicked his reins and turned his horse back towards the Duke’s entourage. A sudden roar of excited men and the neighing of horses made Aretini turn again in his saddle. From the left, up on the hill behind them, he saw the canoness returning on horseback. Behind her, two enormous griffons padded tamely along, following their mistress. The brownish-red fur of their lion bodies, muscles rippling, shone almost iridescent. A steady breeze that blew across the high walls of Livorna animated the white feathers of their enormous heads. Aretini’s hands involuntarily tightened on his reins as they approached. He watched as they passed in front of him at no more than fifty feet, heads tossing and their glistening beaks, the colour of ripe oranges, clacking in anticipation. He took a breath as one turned its head to regard him with a steady baleful eye as if deciding whether he was friend or prey. It slowly faced ahead and caught up with its companion. Aretini could feel his horse shaking beneath him, flanks twitching.
A rider plunged past him on his right. It was Ursino. The Duke, oblivious to the giant creatures behind him, reined in next to Lucinda. Cautiously, Aretini followed his paymaster, one eye upon the griffons. They were now within bowshot of the walls and he gritted his teeth at the calf-headed impulsiveness of the Duke. Ursino stood up in his saddle. “Magister of the Ara! All of you!” He thrust one arm behind him towards the griffons. “Look upon the royal beasts of Valdur who know me as their rightful king! You have heard the demands! Open your gates to me and be spared. Or else see your walls torn down around you.”
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