by George Hatt
Alcuin handed the vambraces to Garthus, his valet, and picked up the helm. As the young mercenary wrapped the pieces carefully and packed them away, Alcuin took the sallet to the window and inspected its graceful curves and domed crown in the morning light. He lifted and lowered the visor, which made no sound but an assertive click when it snapped into the up position. Garthus had taken good care of the armor, which was worth more gold than the trooper had probably seen in his life. Alcuin had certainly never handled the likes of it when he was the valet’s age.
“You are doing an excellent job, Garthus,” Alcuin said as he handed him the helmet. “It will be a shame to lose you when it’s time for you to go back to the line.”
“I’m honored to be on your detail, sir,” Garthus said.
“How have you liked the duty?”
“May I speak freely, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Sir, I’m tired of being a bitch boy, even for you,” Garthus said as he carefully wrapped the helm and put it in the baggage. “I’m ready to go back to my platoon. This has been punishment enough.”
Alcuin smiled and shook his head. “You’re lucky you weren’t drummed out of the company for your insubordination. I suggest you make the best of this situation. If you keep your eyes and ears open, you’ll learn quite a bit that will serve you when you become an officer someday.”
Garthus stopped polishing and looked up. “An officer?”
“You’ve got more brains than the average mule, and you aren’t afraid to speak truth to your superiors,” Alcuin said. “Those unfortunate character flaws will continue to make you so fucking miserable you’ll have no choice but to rise through the ranks. Or quit this profession altogether.”
Alcuin left the rest of the packing to Garthus and went to the door. “Don’t fuck up my armor. I don’t want one of these milk-drinking princelings to land a blow on me and make us all look like a bunch of cunts,” he said and made his way down the spiral staircase. He went down the three floors of the main donjon until he reached the private conference quarters on the ground level of the castle. He strode through the door and into the great hall, a seemingly chaotic den full of maps, field tables, and scurrying officers. But the chaos was only an illusion. Alcuin kept his staff busy tracking the movements of every military unit in the Empire on a portable wooden wall painted with a map of the Mergovan Empire. The device separated into four pieces for traveling and was perforated with a grid work tiny holes. In these, officers stuck nails hung with painted chits representing the various armies that were afield at any given time.
Alcuin glanced at the board and stopped. “When did Lord Stoddard go on the march?” he asked the officer on duty.
The officer looked in the log book. “He left his hold two weeks ago to collect taxes. The dispatch just came in this morning.”
“He’s awfully close to Brynn territory,” Alcuin said. “Twenty crowns says he ‘accidentally’ strays across the border and collects from the wrong villages.”
“Do you reckon you will come back from the tournament with a new contract?”
“Why the hell do you think I go to these things? Just to beat the piss out of noblemen?”
“There are plenty of noble ladies to fuck after the lists,” the officer said.
“Yes, but I’m not married to any of them, and Livy would knife us both in our sleep,” Alcuin said. “Then where would that leave you blackguards? A leaderless, demoralized mob. Keep me informed on Stoddard’s antics while I am away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alcuin ordered one of the other officers to find someone to help Garthus carry his armor down the winding stairs, then left the hall to find his mother and say goodbye. The commander walked out the massive double doors of the great hall and into the sunny morning air, crossing the yard to the apartments where she stayed. The living quarters Alcuin selected for his mother were built into the wall of the inner keep next to the chapel. She hadn’t been religious for a long time, but the placement kept her close to Stefan, the company’s chaplain. Alcuin heard the argument through the door before he entered.
“I know where he’s going, and I want to go with him,” the old woman yelled at Stefan, partly out of anger and partly because she was too hard-of-hearing to regulate her volume.
“But, my lady, the journey is long and dangerous,” the cleric said patiently. “The road is…”
Alcuin walked in, cutting off the chaplain’s explanation. “It’s very dangerous, Mother. You could get abducted by bandits and raped.”
The old woman looked up at her son and made a sound that was somewhere between a cackle and a giggle. “That would be fun.”
“Not for me,” Alcuin said. “I’d never get another contract when word got around that I let a band of scurvy robbers make off with my own dear mother. The company would never live it down.” He sat down in a chair across from her.
“I want to see you in the tournament. Your father went to tournaments and never won. He was the worst jouster in the county.” She made the same cackling sound. “Do you remember?”
“He landed a few good blows when it counted,” Alcuin said. “And he never lost on the battlefield.”
“I guess he didn’t. Oh, well. What day is it?”
“Shadrach’s Day,” he said. “We’re halfway through Mistmonth.”
“Oh. Good. I want to go to the tournament with you.”
The chaplain interjected. “We have talked about this before. The road is too dangerous…”
“I want to go!” she screamed, and began sobbing. “You keep me locked up in my room like I’m some senile old woman. I can’t do anything anymore…”
“Mother.” Alcuin’s platitude was drowned out by his mother’s sobbing. “Mother.”
Alcuin hugged her and stroked her head until the crying subsided. He looked up at the chaplain. “Find a wheelhouse, Stefan. Borrow or buy one from one of the local chevaliers, or the Count himself if need be. Let’s take her.”
“Alcuin, is that wise?” the chaplain asked.
“Fuck it. She remembered I’m off to the tournament. I didn’t have to remind her of that again.” Alcuin said. “Maybe watching the scenery go by will do her more good than sitting around in this dreadful pile of rocks.”
“She will need a guard detail.”
“And caretakers,” Alcuin said. “And extra provisions, a doctor and a page. I know. I am personally the richest mercenary lord in the Empire. I think we can transport a cranky old woman to the tournament so she can watch me kick the miserable shit out of a lot of swinish little noblemen.”
“Commander Darkwood,” the chaplain said, standing straighter, “she will be vulnerable to your enemies, and therefore you will be vulnerable.”
“Noted, chaplain. I’ve made my decision.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll arrange it.”
“Good. And if anyone lays a finger on her, I will gut him like a fish.”
“Save some for me,” the chaplain said. “Mahurin save me, I love this dear lady. I will break my vows to defend her.”
“What day is it?” the old woman asked.
CHAPTER TEN
Mithrandrates
“I trust the Primus appreciated you returning his blade,” said Garon, Black Rod of the Imperial Court. He stood on the dais before Mithrandrates.
The Emperor stroked his beard and shifted in the spare marble throne. “Indeed. I think he was surprised I knew which of my guards were on his payroll. Have you arranged to have them all transferred to the Primus’ guard detail?”
“It is done. Shall I have our men stationed in the Holy See pulled back to your guard?”
“Yes,” the Emperor said. “But keep one or two embedded with the Primus. I want to show him that I harbor no ill feelings toward him with this transfer, but I don’t want to give up all of my advantage doing it.”
“Very good. I will see to it.”
“Speaking of vipers, do any of the governors deign to leave their cast
les and attend the Imperial Council?”
“No, Emperor. They send proxies in their stead.”
“Ah. Tell me about these proxies. The usual preening sycophants?”
“Not all of them. Governor Drucilla sends Duke Grantham to represent Brynn Province.”
The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Grantham is her most competent man. Drucilla must be planning some mischief. Who else?”
Garon named them off and handed the Emperor a scroll case containing information on the representatives each of the governors would send. Duke Hardaris would represent Aternis Province this year; Duke Gaxara, Draugmere; Duchess Betina, Relfast; Duchess Minerva, Balgroth; and Duke Philo, Hastrus.
“What do we know about them?” the Emperor asked.
“Duke Hardaris coddles the guilds in Aternis and works to keep trade running at a brisk pace. He hasn’t taken to the battlefield since he was a squire during the rebellion,” Garon said. “Gaxara is loquacious and charming—he’s actually pleasant company and is mostly harmless. Duchess Betina, on the other hand, is young and ambitious. We should watch her carefully. Duchess Minerva is a sporting woman, both at court and in the boudoir. She is a danger only to herself and whomever she drags along with her to perdition.”
The Emperor nodded and smiled. “I know this well about the duchess. Duke Philo?”
“Philo is interested only in securing his own position and income. Governor Kodric would be a fool to send him on a mission of political adventure.”
Mithrandrates nodded. “Unless the adventure came at no risk to Kodric.”
“Risk is a constant companion in Hastrus,” Garon said. “Kodric is in no position to seek any more of it.”
“Does that ever stop any of my governors from warring on each other?”
“No, Emperor. It does not.”
“Watch them all closely. It will be interesting to see which ones vote against the Accord of Peace this year.”
“My people send me reports daily on all of the envoys’ movements.”
The Emperor stood. “Good. Let us see how the preparations are coming along for the tournament.”
A fortnight later, racing chariots thundered round the coliseum in Mergova to the cheers of thousands of spectators. Centuries had passed since war mages had ridden them in battle, blasting the Empire’s foes with bolts of deadly energy and sorcerous fire, but the obsolete war machines still cut a bright swath of glory through the lore and culture of the Empire. These days, the chariot races were the opening spectacle of a week of celebrations, feasting and deeds of martial skill ushering in the month-long Imperial Council every year.
The chariot races would be followed by other contests more suitable to the modern battlefield: archery contests, cavalry demonstrations, duels and force-on-force combat complete with wooden fortresses and siege engines built in the arena. All combatants used blunted weapons lest any blood feuds erupt amidst what was supposed to be a unifying national ritual.
Each day of contests would begin with a dawn worship service culminating when the sun crested the eastern wall of the coliseum. These services filled the arena with true believers seeking blessings from Mahurin—a different crowd altogether from those who would fill the seats later in the morning to swill watery ale and cheer the contests.
Mithrandrates and the provincial representatives watched from the Emperor’s Box, a columned, roofed platform jutting out from the stands near ground level in the northern end of the great arena. It was large enough to accommodate the Emperor and the Council, their guards, and the various servants bustling about and seeing to their wants. The Emperor sat in the middle of the platform on a stone replica of the Imperial throne. The six representatives sat in portable but splendidly adorned wooden chairs, three to each side of the Emperor.
The Council passed the first morning’s races in silence save for applause at appropriate times and the Emperor’s lofty words honoring the winners. He wore a stony demeanor to make clear to the representatives that theirs was not to enjoy the spectacle, but to be part of it. They were to be living extensions of the coliseum and the embodiment of the Mergovan Empire.
After the chariot races and midday meal, Mithrandrates allowed himself a smile when the trumpets sounded for the pass-in-review. The great portcullis at the opposite side of the arena rose, and a band of pipers and drummers from the Imperial Guard led a procession of mounted warriors from each of the provinces and great mercenary companies competing in the tournament. Banners depicting each faction’s arms streamed in the clear afternoon air. The Imperial eagle led the way, followed by the golden sun of the Temple Guard, the coiled adder of Aternis, the mermaid of Draugmere, the winged sword of Balgroth, the griffin of Relfast, the axe of Hastrus and the winged horse of Brynn. Men-at-arms from the Black Swan Company, Demon Company, Radic’s Reavers and the Battle Hags, an all-woman mercenary company known for its ferocity, represented the Mercenaries Guild. The standard bearers dipped their pennons as each cavalry troop passed the Emperor and Council, and the warriors raised and lowered their weapons in salute.
Mithrandrates finally spoke to his councilors as the procession clattered its way past the Emperor’s Box. “Such a lovely display of Imperial might and chivalry. I wonder how many of these warriors will die this year on the field of battle?”
“Some, I am sure, Emperor,” said Duke Grantham of Brynn. The others looked down at their embroidered clothes or watched with feigned intensity at the passing men-at-arms.
Mithrandrates turned to Grantham. “I also wonder which battlefields they will die upon?”
“The Great God Mahurin knows,” Grantham said. “Would that those battlefields were in foreign lands, and those warriors giving their lives to reclaim the Empire’s former glory.”
“But,” Duchess Betina of Relfast interjected, “all that we do is for the glory of the Empire. In its own way.”
Mithrandrates laughed mirthlessly. “Indeed. I am fortunate to have seneschals whose desires burn so hotly for the glory of the Empire.”
“Desire burns hot, Emperor Mithrandrates, but loyalty burns long,” Grantham said.
“Yes,” the Emperor said. “But both fires burn only so long as they are fed and stoked. Let us hope that none feeding these fires get burned.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alcuin
Alcuin and his 10 guardsmen stood on one end of the arena with four other leaders and their chosen champions: Duke Grantham of Brynn—the only member of the Imperial Council to set foot in the arena this year—along with Marek of Relfast, Darien of Hastrus and the Morgane, commander of the Battle Hags. They were 55 in all, 44 men and the 11 women of the Battle Hags. Alcuin was glad he had drawn the lot with them. The Battle Hags were the most ferocious of the mercenary companies, if not quite the most powerful, and the Morgane only brought her most formidable warriors to tournament.
On the other end of the arena stood a wooden fortress built specially for the contests of mass combat. This was manned by another 55 warriors—five leaders from the provinces and great mercenary companies each with 10 men. Two lords held the ramparts of the fort, and the others were arrayed before the gate blocking the attackers’ way.
All were dismounted because this contest was too dangerous for horses. Men and women could pull the blows they delivered with their blunted weapons, but horses could easily be maimed and riders trampled in the melee. The purpose of the tournament was to test the Empire’s finest warriors, not kill them.
The spectacle of the coliseum never diminished for Alcuin, despite the many times he had sparred and bled there. The elliptical marvel held 40,000 spectators, all surrounding and rising above the combatants in the arena. The noise of their cheers thundered down from their lofty heights like the peals of a sudden, wind-laden storm. High above the crowds rose 17 spires built into the outer works of the coliseum representing the provinces of the old Mergovan Empire. Seven of the spires each flew one of the remaining provinces’ banners. The rest of the towers stood in memorial
of the 10 lost provinces across the Sunless Sea that were destroyed during the last Chaos Moon hundreds of years before.
A gate in the long side of the arena opened, and two groups of clerics entered the sandy grounds. The spectators fell as silent as a group that large can and bowed their heads. One band of clerics processed to Alcuin’s troop, the other to the warriors holding the fortress. Both sides would be blessed and given a brief homily.
Alcuin’s troop knelt when their clerics arrived. One of the holy men stepped forward to give the blessing, another held a censer smoking with incense, and the third held a 15-foot standard, gilt and ornately decorated from the butt cap to the golden Sun of Mahurin at its top. The lead cleric began the blessing just as he would before a real battle.
“Is there any among you who cannot or will not fight this day, be it on account of illness of body or frailty of spirit? If so, go in peace, for only the hale and fervent can share in the victory of Mahurin.”
All of the warriors remained, and the cleric went on. “Then let us pray. Grant, Blessed Mahurin, thy protection to these warriors as they test their skill against their brothers and countrymen. Grant them clear minds, swift arms and wise spirits. Let them remember in the heat of contest that they and their opponents strive in your name under the cleansing rays of your orb, the sun, and that all share in its light and blessings. Let the Fire Above be the flame within our souls.”
The cleric made the Sign of the Sun by raising his hand to the sky and bringing the sun’s rays down slowly, touching his forehead and sternum lightly with his fingertips. The kneeling warriors did the same.
“I despair at the bitter warfare that rends our Empire asunder,” the cleric said. “But I do not accuse our governors or their vassals of greed and abject political stupidity. That would be treason.”
So much for a boring sermon, Alcuin thought. The cleric’s bold words and stern demeanor piqued the mercenary’s interest. He noticed that the cleric had a crooked nose and a puckered scar on his cheek. The cleric also wore his hair cropped close like an Imperial soldier.