The Kingdom

by Bryan M. Litfin

  It was a thunderous boom, like something heavy striking something equally resistant. Several of the kitchen workers let out a cry and huddled together. Ana told them to wait in the kitchen until she had discovered what was happening.

  The boom came again, and this time it was followed by a terrible splintering sound. Ana felt a chill of fear grip her stomach. This wasn’t some kind of accident. The convent was under attack. Its front door was being battered down.

  “Grab those knives!” she shouted to the frightened sisters. When one of the wide-eyed girls picked up a mixing spoon with a trembling hand, Ana realized they were all in deep trouble. She snatched a meat cleaver and ran from the room.

  Shouts resounded from the convent’s main entryway—male voices, aggressive and harsh. Ana ran to a window, then froze as she looked out. Two ships were anchored a short distance offshore. Boats had landed on the beach. Raiders were running toward the convent in the driving rain, weapons in hand.

  Exterminati.

  “Deu, help us,” Ana whispered.

  Women’s screams now mingled with the shouts of the attackers. A man rounded a corner and glanced down the corridor. Instead of loose robes he wore black fitted trousers and high boots. He held a club in one hand and manacles in the other. His expression was full of malice. Ana gripped the meat cleaver in her strong, sweaty hand. The shamans would not take her without a fight.

  When the man charged at Ana, she spun away and ran. She assumed that was what all the sisters were doing, but she had a different plan. The man’s club and manacles told her this was a kidnapping raid, not a mass murder. Ana knew her pursuer wasn’t going to run a blade through her back; the clubs were for knocking the women to the ground where they could be chained into submission. As she dashed past a decorative vase on a pedestal she tipped it over behind her. The shaman cursed as he stumbled on the broken shards. Ana turned. Off balance, the man tried to bring his club around in a wide arc. Ana stepped inside the attack and buried her cleaver in the shaman’s skull.

  The blow hurled him backward, wrenching the cleaver from Ana’s grasp. The shaman’s eyes bulged in surprise. The thick blade had sunk deep, so the handle protruded from his forehead like the horn of a grotesque beast. Surprisingly, there was little blood. He clawed at the handle as if to pry it from his cloven skull. Then his eyes closed, and he fell to the floor.

  Someone shoved Ana hard. She went flying across the hallway, careening off a wall before hitting the ground. Another shaman ran at her, brandishing his club. Ana shielded herself with her arms.

  “Not the head!” shouted an authoritative voice. “No visible marks!”

  “But this one killed one of ours!”

  “You heard me!” the first voice roared. “No marks!”

  The club whacked Ana across the shoulders. It hurt, but she bit back her cry. A boot pressed her roughly to the floor. Her arms were pinned behind her back, then manacles were slapped on her wrists. Ana was hauled to her feet.

  “You’ll die soon enough,” said the sneering shaman who gripped her arm, “by a death far worse than a club to the head.” He forced her to march into the chapel.

  Most of the other sisters were there, whimpering as the shamans harassed them. A few women still screamed in the halls, but gradually they were rounded up and brought to the chapel with the rest.

  Ana spotted Vanita across the room. Like everyone else she was bound with chains. A shaman was making lewd faces at her and tickling her chin with his finger. Vanita turned away, repulsed. Ana edged toward her in the mayhem.

  A lightning bolt flashed outside, accompanied by an explosive thunderclap. The room fell silent as the babbling voices died away one by one. The only sound now was the rain drumming on the chapel’s roof. Everyone stood still. No woman dared moan, no man dared speak, for the Iron Shield stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  He stalked into the room, his booted footsteps loud in the hush. Suddenly his hand shot out and grabbed a shaman who was locked in a lusty embrace with one of the sisters. The tall warrior wrenched the man’s arm, forcing him into a submissive posture. Staring down into the shaman’s face he asked, “You dare to assault a bride of Mulciber?”

  “N-n-no, my lord. I was . . . arresting her escape.”

  The Iron Shield uttered a growl and hurled the shaman away from the terrified nun. He turned and surveyed the room. “How many are there?” he demanded.

  One of the shamans stepped forward. “Twenty-three, master.”

  “Listen! Any man who violates one of these women will answer to me! They are devoted to the god and must be kept as virgins.”

  Vanita moved to Ana’s side and leaned close. “It’s been a while since I’ve been called that,” she whispered. “Think they’ll let me go?”

  Ana gave her friend a rueful smile, admiring her defiant spirit.

  “Round them up and take them to the ships,” the Iron Shield ordered.

  “What about this one?” A shaman pointed to the housemother.

  The Iron Shield took the woman’s jaw in his hand and examined her. “Mulciber does not wed old hags like this.” He pushed her face away so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

  “What is to be done with her then?”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  No!

  Ana was horrified. The housemother was a righteous woman. Ana worked herself through the crowd and tried to intervene, but with her arms cuffed behind her back there was nothing she could do. Two men seized Ana and pulled her along. Meanwhile the housemother was dragged to a different room. Though she did not speak aloud, her head was bowed, and her lips moved in silent prayer.

  A martyr for Deu, Ana realized. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Feeling weepy, are you?”

  Ana whirled to confront her tormentor. The Iron Shield’s one good eye was locked on her face.

  “Fiend!” she accused.

  “No. Fiends,” he answered, then laughed in a strange, echoing way.

  “You disgust me. I reject you in the name of—”

  The Iron Shield seized Ana’s face, squeezing her cheeks in his gauntleted fist. “Don’t say it,” he snarled.

  Ana couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. The Iron Shield’s tight grip on her face puckered her lips shut.

  “I killed him, you know.” The dark warrior’s voice was arrogant.

  What?

  “That’s right. I captured Teofil in the wilderness and made him suffer. He screamed for you, and every time he did I hurt him worse. He wasn’t even a man anymore by the time I was finished with him.”

  No! He’s lying!

  “I’m not lying,” the Iron Shield said. “Teofil died the most horrific death imaginable—just like the one I have planned for you.” He released Ana’s cheeks, then turned to address the crowded room. “To the ship now, brothers! Quickly!”

  The Exterminati led the women into the pouring rain. As a shaman dragged Ana to the waiting boats, she found her will to resist had dissolved. The gruesome killing of her attacker . . . the housemother’s plight . . . the Iron Shield’s taunts . . . it was all too much. Raindrops mingled with Ana’s tears as she plodded across the beach.

  Teo isn’t coming?

  It can’t be true . . .

  Can it?

  The Midnight Glider barely had time to drop its gangplank onto the dock before Teo went ashore at the head of a fully armed war party. Rumors would no doubt fly along the waterfront of Roma’s harbor, but Teo didn’t care about that. He only wanted to reach the convent before the Exterminati.

  It took an hour to round up thirty horses from the hostlers at the local taverns. Brother Thomas gladly paid the fees. Though the Knights at Marsay might be lacking in piety, the monastic order seemed to have no shortage of money. By the time the party of warriors set out, a gray dusk had begun to gather.

  The convent lay a few leagues south of Roma’s port. Teo led the men through the overgrown ruins of the Ancients until he came to a rusty sign that marked t
he turnoff. “Lido di Ostia,” it read. Teo had just guided his mount onto a faint trail when he smelled something that caused the weight of dread to settle on his shoulders.

  Smoke.

  He urged his horse into a gallop with Marco close behind. As Teo raced down the trail, the smoky stench grew stronger.

  Must be cooking fires, Teo decided. It’s chilly and rainy today . . . the sisters are keeping warm.

  But Teo knew he was kidding himself. When he reached the convent his worst fears were confirmed. The building was a smoldering ruin, a complete devastation. Nothing remained but scorched stone walls. The roof was gone, and soot smudged every gaping window. A column of black smoke rose to the sky as if from a pagan altar.

  “No!” Teo screamed, leaping from the saddle. He ran to the convent. Its stones were still hot to the touch.

  Marco stared at Teo with a stunned expression. “Are they . . . dead?” His eyes were large and round.

  Teo pushed away his shock and grief, forcing himself to think like the wilderness scout he was. The first thing he noticed as he scanned the ruins was the lack of charred corpses. “They’re not dead,” he told Marco, pointing to the churned-up sand of the beach. “They’ve been taken away in ships.”

  “Where?”

  Teo sighed heavily. “The sea leaves no tracks.” A feeling of helplessness washed over him as he realized Ana had gone where he could not follow.

  Marco picked his way through the blackened debris. “Let’s go up to their room.”

  “Careful. Everything is unstable.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  The two men made their way to the stairwell, where the stone steps had not been destroyed by the flames. In several places the upper floor had caved in, but the fire had burned erratically, so other parts of the convent still stood. Most of the dormitory rooms were intact, though their furnishings had been consumed in the blaze.

  “This is it.” Teo kicked aside the remains of the door and entered the women’s bedroom. Everything reeked of burnt wood. The two beds were reduced to ashes, and the roof gaped open to the evening sky. Tendrils of smoke wafted in the breeze.

  “Gone! Everything is just . . . gone.” Marco clasped his forehead in his hand.

  Teo crossed to a closet and peered inside. The remains of a burlap sack lay on the floor. As he knelt and inspected its contents, a new wave of grief struck him. His books were there, crumbling in his hands like dried leaves. The lexicon he had used to translate the Prima was no great loss, but underneath it was a book whose ruined pages made tears rise to Teo’s eyes.

  The Sacred Writing, written and preserved in the Fluid Tongue.

  Teo’s mind flashed back to the day he had discovered it with Ana. They had broken into a mysterious cathedral in a lost city of the Ancients. A secret message encoded in wall murals had led them to the roof. There they found the holy scriptures of Deu, hidden long ago by a man named Jacques Dalsace. That discovery had launched Teo and Ana on an incredible adventure—not only a physical journey, but an odyssey of the soul.

  Treasure, they had called the book that day.

  And now it was destroyed.

  Horrified, Teo let the charred volume slip from his hand. It fell apart. His eyes caught a flash of pale yellow in the midst of all the blackness.

  “A page in the middle has survived,” Marco said.

  Teo plucked the sacred page from the ashes. Though its edges were singed, the words were still legible. Having spent all winter speaking the Fluid Tongue at Marsay, Teo could read the text as easily as if it were his native speech.

  “What does it say?” Marco asked, his voice touched with awe.

  “It’s Hymn 143,” Teo replied, then began to translate:

  The enemy pursues my soul, he tramples my life to the ground.

  He makes me live in the darkness like those long dead.

  My spirit is slaughtered within me, my heart is troubled in my breast.

  I remember the days of old,

  I meditate on all your deeds,

  I reflect on the work of your hands.

  I spread my hands toward you; my soul thirsts for you like a dried-out land.

  Hurry to answer me, Eternal One! My spirit is consumed.

  Do not hide your face from me, or I will be like those who descend into the pit.

  Let me hear of your goodness in the morning, for I confide in you.

  Let me know the road I must walk, for I lift up my soul to you.

  Deliver me from my enemies, Eternal One.

  I seek refuge next to you.

  Teach me to do your will, for you are my God.

  May your good spirit lead me the right way.

  Teo raised his eyes to the night sky. “May your good spirit lead me the right way,” he repeated.

  Outside, Brother Thomas’s voice rang out. “Heads up, men! Someone’s coming!”

  C H A P T E R

  7

  Stratetix carried an armload of firewood up to the quiet bedroom. He knelt in front of the hearth and arranged the logs, then added some kindling. A box of the little fire sticks made by the priests of Vulkain was on the mantel. But Stratetix didn’t need any matches—not yet anyway.

  “What are you doing?”

  The voice startled Stratetix. He turned to see his lovely wife standing in the doorway. She was in her midforties but still as beautiful as the day he married her. Helena’s ash-blonde hair and delicate features gave her a youthful appearance. She smiled at him, amused and perhaps intrigued by his actions.

  “I thought I’d better lay a fire,” he said.

  “Just in case?”

  “Yeah . . . you never know . . . today could be the day. It’s still chilly this time of year. Can’t hurt to be prepared.”

  Helena entered and sat down on the sleigh bed. Ana’s room was furnished simply: a carved dresser with a ewer and bowl on it, a wardrobe in the corner, a mirror on the wall, a wooden bathtub. Green shutters were at the window, and a door led to a balcony that overlooked Edgeton’s village square.

  “It actually seems real now, doesn’t it?” Helena remarked.

  Stratetix straightened from the hearth and nodded. “Ever since Teofil came back, a gloom has lifted from me.” The Chiveisian farmer recalled the words he had found carved into his shed: we will return. Since then, not a day had passed that he hadn’t cherished the promise.

  Helena’s eyes twinkled as she glanced at her husband. “You’d better save some wood for heating water. She’ll probably want a long soak.”

  “She can have all the wood she wants! Never again will I complain about how much hot water that girl uses!” Stratetix and Helena chuckled, sharing the kind of joke that only parents can understand.

  After a bit Stratetix’s mood grew more serious. For the past several days he had been considering some matters he wanted to discuss with his wife. Now things were quiet, and the subject of Ana had come up. Stratetix decided the moment was right.

  “We denied Deu,” he said.

  Helena’s gaze fell to her lap. She frowned and nodded but didn’t speak.

  “I’m not proud of that,” Stratetix continued, “but we did what we felt we had to do. Perhaps it was weakness on our part. Perhaps it was necessity. In any case, I’d like to do what I can to make it right.”

  “We’ve begged Deu’s forgiveness many times.”

  “I know. And I’m sure he has forgiven us. But I want to be able to hold my head high when Ana comes home. I want to regain my honor before Deu.”

  Helena’s face grew uneasy. Stratetix knew she was a courageous woman, yet the times were evil and caution was required. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “The men of the Fifth Regiment are growing dissatisfied with the current regime.”

  Helena rose from the bed and went to the window. After closing the shutters she sat down again. “That’s dangerous talk, love.”

  “I’m not trying to incite a rebellion. I’m not even saying we should mention t
he name of Deu in public.”

  “Good. Because I think you know where that would lead us.”

  “I do. But maybe we could drop a few well-placed hints about recent encroachments on civil freedoms. You know how patriotic the soldiers are. They signed up to protect the people of Chiveis, not to enforce a theocracy on behalf of the High Priestess. They have to be frustrated by what’s been going on lately.”

  “I believe there is some unrest in the Fifth Regiment,” Helena agreed.

  “Exactly! All they need is a spark.”

  “But would they listen to you, Stratetix? You’re a respected villager, a loyal farmer of Chiveis, but that doesn’t mean the soldiers would pay you any mind. The military has its own way of doing things.”

  “They might not listen to me, but they would listen to . . . ”

  “To who?” Helena pressed.

  “The daughter of Armand.”

  “Oh, Stratetix . . . no.”

  “Why not? There are men in the Fifth who hold your father in the highest regard. The name of Armand would open some doors.”

  “I’ve lived in anonymity all these years. When I married you I left the military world behind.”

  “Your father’s name isn’t forgotten though.”

  Helena sighed, turning her face toward the wall. Stratetix thought he saw her lip quiver, which surprised him. He knew his suggestion was audacious, yet he hadn’t realized it would strike such a deep emotional chord in his wife. He sat down on the bed and took her hand. “What is it?”

  “There are some things you don’t know. Things I’ve never told you.”

  Helena’s ominous words and the tears that had gathered in her eyes made Stratetix’s heart begin to thud in his chest. He swallowed. “Can you . . . tell me what they are?”

  Helena removed her hand from her husband’s and stood up. She kept her back to him with her head bowed for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she turned around again, her face laden with emotion. “I think it’s time I told you about my youth.”

  Stratetix nodded nervously. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “Some things happened to me before I met you, when I was just a girl.” Helena lifted her chin and wiped her eyes as she regained her composure. After taking a deep breath she said, “I was seventeen when I met a man. He was more than a decade older than me. His name doesn’t really matter, but what I can say is, he was a rising star in the army. He had climbed quickly through the ranks of the Second Regiment.”