The Kingdom

by Bryan M. Litfin

  Teo approached the animal slowly, not wanting to startle it. The stallion was even-tempered and did not spook. It stood still, regarding Teo with what seemed like a dignified expression.

  “Easy, boy,” Teo said, grasping the reins. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. “We’re going to have to see what you’re made of today.”

  “He’s stealing the master’s horse! Seize him!” A bevy of shamans crashed through the underbrush. Two had bows. They halted and knelt. Others charged across the grass with their blades held high.

  Teo loosed an arrow from full draw toward the shaman at the head of the pack. The man grunted and dropped to his knees, his sword slipping from his hand. His other hand clutched his chest. Directly behind him, a second shaman stumbled to the ground with the arrow protruding from his gut.

  Thwock! The sickening sound of an arrow’s impact against flesh was accompanied by an anguished squeal from the horse. It shivered, then bounded into the forest. Teo guided his mount onto a deer path and let it run.

  For several minutes Teo rode the galloping stallion through the trees. No sounds of pursuit came to his ears. Teo had seen no other horses, and he assumed his enemies were unable to pursue.

  At last the horse slowed. Teo turned in the saddle to examine its rump. An arrow had passed clean through the muscle. Teo led the animal to a river and let it drink while he washed the wound and packed it with moss. Although the chestnut stallion wasn’t yet at the end of its strength, it couldn’t travel much farther.

  Hunger pangs rumbled in Teo’s stomach. He unbuckled the saddlebags to see what was inside. The beef jerky and hardtack he found were welcome, but even more intriguing was a leather map case. Teo opened it and pulled out the map.

  The crinkled paper was faded and brittle. Teo thought the words were probably in the Fluid Tongue, though it was hard to tell from place names. Colored lines that appeared to be roads were marked with letters and numbers. The topography was indicated by shading. Teo’s eyes went to a large, crescent-shaped body of water called Lac Léman. At its western tip was a city: Genève. Teo sucked in his breath as he realized what he was reading.

  Leman Sea.

  Jineve.

  A map of the Ancients!

  He scanned the page, fascinated by the discovery of so precious a document. A smaller pair of lakes lay north of Lac Léman. One of them had a long, thin peninsula jutting into it. The depiction on the map triggered a memory.

  No . . .

  Teo slapped his forehead.

  It can’t be!

  He had seen such a lake before. When Ana was abducted by outsiders in the Beyond, he had followed her through a lake just like that.

  I entered the lake from a river on its eastern shore.

  The river was on the map.

  It flowed from the southeast . . . around a great bend . . . out of two other lakes.

  Those features were on the map as well. One of the lakes was labeled, “Thunersee.”

  The Tooner Sea?

  Teo swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he dropped the map.

  “Almighty Deu,” he whispered. “You’ve led me to Chiveis.”

  C H A P T E R

  4

  Do it quickly.” The Iron Shield clenched his jaw. The man kneeling at his foot grasped the stake. All the other shamans stared, fascinated and horrified. The only sound in the forest was rough iron scraping against bone.

  When the stake was clear of his foot, the Iron Shield demanded to see it. The gray spike was stained with his own blood. He raised it behind his head, intending to hurl it into the brush, then reconsidered. I will keep it as a reminder of my hatred, he decided. Teofil of Chiveis has injured me twice. It will not happen again!

  The tall warrior turned his glare on his Exterminati henchmen. None of them spoke, fearing the rage about to burst from their master. The Iron Shield, however, was calm. Wild emotions did not drive him, unlike so many of the rabble. He was a man who controlled his fury, channeling it for his purposes. Yet those purposes now ran in opposite directions.

  The shaman with the red armband broke the silence. He was a good lieutenant, quick-thinking and eager to please. “We will divide into two contingents. One will follow the blood trail. That injured horse cannot go far. The other will sail down the shoreline and set an ambush. Teofil can only go west if he expects to return to Jineve.”

  The Iron Shield did not answer right away. Instead he drew his knife and beckoned his lieutenant closer. Apprehension flickered in the man’s eyes, but he approached. The Iron Shield grabbed a handful of the man’s robe.

  “My lord, I—”

  The knife flashed. The shaman flinched. A hiss arose from several of the watching Exterminati.

  The Iron Shield held up the swatch of coarse black material he had slashed from the shaman’s garment. Wrapping it around his index finger, he bent down and tucked it into the bloody hole in the top of his boot. When the lieutenant backed away, the onlookers released their tension in a collective sigh.

  “We will not be pursuing Teofil of Chiveis,” the Iron Shield said.

  “My lord,” the lieutenant countered, “we can still apprehend him if we move now. All the trails converge along the shore to the west—”

  “He will not go west.”

  The shaman stared at him. “But . . . there is only wilderness in every other direction.”

  “Do not argue with me! Teofil is well acquainted with wilderness travel. He knows we would lie in wait for him on the way back to Jineve. And even if he is inclined to return to the city, the map in the saddlebag will entice him away. He is gone from us! To pursue a mounted man while we are on foot would be folly. And besides, I cannot walk with this injury. Our mission’s goals have now diverged. We must choose the greater desire of my mistress.”

  “The brimstone,” said the lieutenant, finally understanding. He turned to the rest of the Exterminati. “Prepare the boats! We depart for Jineve at once.”

  “No. We will pass through Jineve by night. The circumstances surrounding Teofil’s disappearance have surely raised suspicions against us.” But that doesn’t matter, the Iron Shield reminded himself. The next time I come to Jineve, it will be to conquer!

  Most of the men scurried away to begin packing, but one shaman remained behind with a medical kit. The Iron Shield sat on the ground and let the man remove his boot. The cloth that had plugged the wound was dragged free, starting the blood flow again. The shaman lit a small fire of twigs, then began to pick debris from the wound with tweezers.

  As the Iron Shield endured the procedure, the lieutenant with the red armband knelt at his side. “Send me in pursuit of Teofil,” he urged. “I will find him and kill him.”

  “More likely he would kill you,” the Iron Shield answered through gritted teeth.

  “Never!”

  “Regardless, I have a different mission for you.”

  “Then name it, master.”

  “We will return to Marsay. From there I shall sail to Sessalay. My mistress must have her brimstone.”

  “Very good. And what is my role in the mission?”

  “To oversee a great host. The homing pigeons aboard my caravel will fly to the chiefs of the Exterminati in every land. I intend to summon all my warriors to Marsay. You must meet them there. Assemble them in the hidden marshes of the Camarg, and keep them in a state of readiness until my return from Sessalay.”

  The lieutenant could see it was a heavy responsibility, which seemed to please him. “I will do exactly as you command. And for what purpose shall I prepare our brothers?”

  “Prepare them for battle. The Society of the Exterminati must join the Chiveisian army in making war on Jineve. With the High Priestess’s brimstone weapon, we will be invincible.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes lit up. “Excellent! It will be a glorious victory! All your plans will succeed, for the gods favor you!” He hesitated, glancing into the deep woods. “I only wish—”

  “What?”<
br />
  “I wish Teofil of Chiveis had not escaped. It galls me. I share your hatred of him, and I wish to see him suffer.”

  The Iron Shield stared at his lieutenant for a moment, then reached out and clasped his shoulder. “Do not fear. Soon enough we shall draw Teofil out. It will not be difficult. All we need is the right—”

  “I’m sorry, master,” interrupted the shaman with the medical kit, “but the bleeding inside the gash must be stopped.”

  Nodding, the Iron Shield said, “Do it.”

  Excruciating pain exploded in his foot as a hot spike was thrust into his wound. The stench of burnt flesh assailed his nostrils. His fingers clawed the earth, gouging ruts in the dirt. He held his breath and squinted until the cauterization was over. For several minutes the Iron Shield could only pant, struggling to regain his composure. At last he turned back to his lieutenant.

  “As I was saying,” he explained with forced calmness, “we can lure Teofil out of hiding quite easily.”

  “But . . . how?” The lieutenant’s face was pale, and his voice quivered.

  “All we need is the right bait.”

  Shaphan the Metalsmith was tired of making nails. And horseshoes. And ax heads. Nevertheless, he kept doing these things because he needed to make a living—without being noticed.

  It was more than a year ago now that Teofil and Anastasia were exiled and the community of truth-seekers broke up. The Sacred Writing had gone with the captain, so only the few translations he had completed before leaving Chiveis remained. Sometimes the former members of the house community met in the woods to be encouraged from the precious scrolls. Yet this was extremely dangerous. The run-in with the pair of guardsmen two months earlier proved that well enough. The High Priestess held King Piair II in her grip. Through him, she was running the kingdom as a theocratic police state in which only Astrebril and the lesser triad of Vulkain, Pon, and Elzebul could be worshipped. The one true God had been defeated in Chiveis.

  Shaphan quenched a horseshoe in cold water. Steam arose as the metal rapidly cooled and hardened. He tossed the shoe onto a pile and arched his back, wiping sweat from his forehead. There was a time I thought I’d have a different future than this. But everything had changed when the High Priestess confronted the worshippers of Deu head-on. Though Shaphan was never accused of being a heretic, he had been Teofil’s student at the University, and his wife, Lina, was Anastasia’s cousin. To make matters worse, Lina’s uncle Stratetix and aunt Helena had been forced to recant their faith to survive the persecution. Because of these suspicious connections, Shaphan couldn’t pursue a career that would put him in the public eye. He had quit his university studies and resorted to everyday metalwork in the clifftop hamlet of Vingin. The village had burned down, so there was plenty of work to be had making nails and tools for rebuilding. But Shaphan longed for more.

  Lina entered the smithy with a jug of ale and some bread and cheese. “Ready for lunch?”

  Shaphan smiled at his beautiful wife with the white-blonde curls. She was a thin, pale creature with luminous blue eyes. He thought of her as a flower, perhaps the mountain-star flower that was the symbol of Chiveis. Like Lina, the ehdelveis was lovely and white and ever so delicate.

  “I’m parched,” Shaphan said, taking a mug from her hand. “Sit and eat with me.”

  They sat on a bench with the platter of bread and cheese between them. Shaphan cut off great slabs of the brown, grainy loaf and smeared it with brie. He sighed as he took a bite. “A simple life with my bride,” he said with his mouth full.

  Lina glanced at him. “Is it enough?”

  “It’s heaven’s purpose, I suppose.” Shaphan intentionally referred to Deu without using his name. One never knew who was listening, and rewards were available to informants.

  “Do you think things will ever change?” Lina’s words were vague too, but Shaphan knew what she meant. She was asking if Deu would come to Chiveis.

  “Anything is possible if it’s the divine will. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Lina removed a fat pear from her apron pocket, then cut off a piece and handed it to Shaphan. As she did, she leaned close to him. “Do you think Ana could still be alive?”

  The couple instinctively glanced around though the smithy was empty and they weren’t near a window or door.

  A depressing scenario ran through Shaphan’s mind: Teofil and Anastasia climbed to a frozen wasteland during a storm. Lacking food and shelter, they faced death from exposure if the crevasses didn’t swallow them first. The corpse of Lina’s cousin was probably locked in the ice of a glacier right now. But of course Shaphan didn’t say those things to his wife. A believer in Deu should never despair. “Anything is possible if it’s the divine will,” he repeated, though he didn’t feel very confident.

  Lina’s countenance turned gloomy. As Shaphan put his arm around her shoulder, unexpected anger rose within him. Captain Teofil had been his mentor, and Anastasia was Lina’s closest friend. Why should they be excised from the face of Chiveis like a cancer? Deu isn’t an evil God—it’s Astrebril who’s evil! Curse the High Priestess! And curse the cowardly young king who won’t stand up to her!

  Frustrated, he rose from the bench and picked up an ax. He brandished it while Lina stared at him. “What this kingdom needs is—”

  “Hush, Shaphan! Don’t say it!”

  “Obedient, docile peasants? Is that what you want me to say? That this kingdom needs unthinking slaves to go along with every whim of a corrupt—”

  “Stop!” Lina pleaded. She went to Shaphan’s side. “It’s okay to be angry,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m angry too. But you can’t say it out loud.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need you.”

  “And Chiveis needs . . . the divine one.” Shaphan used the ambiguous term for Lina’s sake. Her face looked so desperate.

  “We do have him,” she said. “You and I, in our hearts. Let’s be patient, okay? In his timing he may come to our land.”

  Shaphan uttered a profanity. “And I suppose your cousin is coming back too! She’s going to ride in on a stallion and everything will be glorious!”

  “Shaphan, please . . . ” Lina’s voice trembled as she spoke.

  “What this kingdom needs is radical change! A rebellion, if necessary!” Shaphan slammed the ax into the wooden stump that supported his anvil.

  Lina was sobbing now. Shaphan gathered his wife into his arms and held her for a long time, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  “There can be no more talk like that.” Lina separated from Shaphan and gave him a hard look through red-rimmed eyes. “The sacrifice would be too great.”

  “What do you mean? Why can’t we make the kind of sacrifice that . . . they did? Couldn’t we find the strength to follow in their footsteps?”

  “Maybe you and I could, Shaphan,” Lina acknowledged. She grasped her husband’s hand and placed it on her belly. “But what about your baby?”

  The wounded horse hung its head, exhausted from its exertions and the loss of blood. Teo had ridden north on a deer path that followed a river, but for the past few leagues he had walked beside his mount, trying to conserve its strength. The noble beast had given its best, but now it could go no farther.

  Up ahead a campfire twinkled in the evening shadows. Though Teo had no idea who it was, he knew it wasn’t the Exterminati. They couldn’t have gotten ahead of him—not to the north, at least.

  The thought of those evil shamans repulsed Teo. He patted the horse’s nose as it wheezed, angry that the men had inflicted such suffering on the beast. The arrow wound in its rump had stopped bleeding, but the animal was clearly in pain.

  Teo thought back to the helpless feeling he had experienced when the men stretched him out for torture. There was no underlying purpose in their cruelty; they wanted no information from him. The Iron Shield only wished to see Teo suffer before murdering him. What a fool I am, he thought. He had pushed the limits
of bravery and nearly came out on the losing end. It was clear now that the Iron Shield’s lies were nothing but a trick to persuade Teo to leave Jineve quietly so he could be killed in secret. Teo hoped Marco and Brother Thomas would raise the alarm back in the city. A kidnapping might convince Mayor Calixte that the strange visitor with the glass eye wasn’t the reputable merchant he claimed to be.

  The sorrel nickered softly, snapping Teo’s thoughts back to the present. The animal needed rest, and grain if possible. Teo figured he had no choice but to see who was camping along the river ahead. He gathered the reins and walked forward, feeling naked without his sword.

  “Hail, the camp!” he shouted, using the speech of the Chiveisi.

  A long silence greeted him. Then: “Who goes?”

  “Just a friend looking for company over a warm fire.”

  “Come in nice and easy.”

  Teo entered the campfire’s circle of light. No one was visible, so Teo seated himself by the fire and removed the lid of the pot that hung over the flames. “Looks delicious,” he called as he stirred the stew. “I have a flask of fine whiskey to share with anyone who can cook something that smells this good.”

  Cautiously a man emerged from the shadows. He was middle-aged and scrawny, though his finger was plenty strong enough to trigger the crossbow in his hands. The man aimed it a Teo, eyeing him, taking his measure.

  “I’m unarmed,” Teo said, “and I can spin some great stories for someone who shares a meal with me.”

  At last the man seemed convinced of Teo’s goodwill. He approached the fire and sat down. Soon the two forest wanderers were devouring the venison stew.