The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery

by G. D. Falksen

  “A very fine mixture, Luka,” Zawditu said, exhaling a few smoke rings toward the dark red sky.

  “I am glad that it pleases you, Strategos,” Luka replied. “I live to serve, in smoking as in war.”

  Zawditu scoffed at this, but she chuckled. She took another puff of smoke and said, “I like you, Luka. You are loyal, brave, ruthless. And you are very capable. I think I shall make something of you one day.”

  “One day,” Luka agreed, humorously but not disrespectfully. “Two hundred years is not a very long time.”

  Zawditu looked at him, amused but admonishing.

  “No,” she agreed, “it is not. But...you have grown from that young vagabond who brought a pack of Russians to our doorstep.”

  “I do apologize for that,” Luka told her. “They were led by a man from Kartli. I was feeling generous.”

  Zawditu laughed. “He only spoke like he was from Kartli.”

  “Near enough, surely.”

  “You did not only bring Russians, you brought Brother Iosef,” Zawditu continued. “And Iosef has made Sophio very happy. He has been the light of the sun in her darkness, and this pleases me. It is good for her and good for the House.”

  Luka exhaled his own series of smoke rings and smiled.

  “I...know my duty, Strategos,” he said, “and I do it well.”

  “Modesty is still not one of your virtues,” Zawditu noted.

  “In time, I will surely develop it,” Luka replied.

  “No, you will not,” Zawditu answered frankly. She looked toward the sky again. “You remind me of myself, Luka. Modesty is not in your nature.”

  “As you say, Strategos.”

  They smoked in silence for a little while. Presently, Zawditu spoke again:

  “Luka, I have been asked to make a report on the House’s state of readiness before the Council in a few days’ time. It will be very routine: lists of armaments, the number of troops, things of that sort.”

  “Of course,” Luka said.

  “I would like you to join me,” Zawditu continued, exhaling a puff of smoke. “There will be nothing for you to do, of course, but it will be good for you to see how it is done.”

  Luka considered this for a moment, puzzled.

  “Are you...grooming me, Strategos?” he asked.

  “Grooming involves combs, Luka,” Zawditu said. “I am teaching you to make you ready for command. I will not be Strategos forever, and Mata Kaur will need an aide of her own one day.”

  “I am...honored, Strategos,” Luka said, stunned by the announcement.

  Zawditu scoffed but then she smiled.

  “Do not get ahead of yourself, Luka,” she replied. “I said that I am training you not that you had been selected. That will fall to Mata Kaur when I retire...in a few centuries’ time.”

  “Of course, Strategos.”

  “First,” Zawditu continued, “let us see if you can stand in a room with politicians, listen to what they have to say, and keep your mouth shut.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  •

  Christmas Morning (Gregorian calendar)

  On the appointed night, Luka went to the Council chamber as he had been instructed. At Zawditu’s request, he brought Seteney and Movses with him, so they might “better appreciate the tedium of soldiering”. He noticed different guards in place outside the door, though when they had been changed, he did not know. The last time he had been anywhere near the Council chamber was when he gave his report on the fanatics in the woods, and before then it had been years since he had even walked past the doors.

  Inside, he saw fresh faces among the soldiers there as well, standing against the back wall of the room. That surprised him, but when he exchanged looks with Zawditu—who waited patiently inside the door—she conveyed no concern about the fact. To be expected, he realized: the soldiers could not have had their positions changed without Zawditu’s authorization.

  Luka and his troops settled in at the back of the room and watched the proceedings. Zawditu had been right to call him to observe the meeting. Standing through the talk and discussions and itemized lists of unimportant minutia required more fortitude than marching over rough ground with only two hours of sleep and a bullet in his chest. He glanced at Zawditu and saw her watching the meeting not with disinterested perseverance but with genuine attention to detail. Luka sighed inwardly. He did not relish the thought of command authority if it came with such bureaucracy.

  After waiting through the ordinary business of the evening—the availability of supplies in winter, how the villagers fared during the season, the sudden influx of returned books that had slightly overwhelmed the archivists—Zawditu was called forward by Sister Margaret, the de facto head of the Council in Sophio’s absence.

  “Thank you for coming, Strategos,” Margaret said. “I understand that you have been conducting a full inventory of troops and resources for our benefit, and this council is pleased to hear of your progress.”

  Across the table, Marie of Toulouse took another look around the chamber and asked, “Have the guards been changed? So many new faces, I am certain I do not recognize them.”

  “That was my doing,” Zawditu answered. She respectfully did not comment on when it had taken place or the fact that most of the Council seemed not to have noticed.

  “For what purpose?” asked Xasan of Mogadishu.

  “It is my policy to do so regularly, you will recall,” Zawditu said, “so that more of them can have experience with such important duties.”

  “Ah,” Xasan replied, sounding only partly convinced. “Of course.”

  “And as Strategos, it is entirely within your authority to do so,” Margaret said pleasantly. She laughed softly. “I had thought they looked different. So many things of which to keep track.”

  “Indeed,” said Sister Philippa. “Thankfully we have you to manage such concerns for us, Strategos.”

  “Simply my duty,” Zawditu answered.

  “Now then,” said Margaret, “let us be to business. A full accounting of our readiness, Lady Zawditu, if you please.”

  “Of course,” Zawditu replied.

  She moved to the center of the room and nodded to either side of the table in turn. Having offered her respects to the Council, she began a lengthy and detailed outline of the readiness of the valley in the event of war: the status of supplies, the availability of foodstuffs, armaments, ammunition, and horses.

  Midway through, Margaret raised a hand to halt Zawditu and asked, “Who is the quartermaster at present?”

  “Boris the Muscovite,” Zawditu replied.

  Margaret considered this and nodded.

  “A very good choice, I think,” she said.

  “A very good choice,” agreed Iese of Kartli.

  Luka was inclined to agree. In his mortality, Boris had been an architect and military engineer at the court of Ivan Grozny. Luka had served with Boris several times—for they both still walked in the Shadow of Death—and he had found Boris to be a capable organizer and a fine companion in battle.

  “Please continue, Strategos,” Margaret told Zawditu.

  Zawditu nodded and returned to her accounting. Luka listened patiently, acknowledging the importance of it all while at the same time gaining a greater appreciation for the tedium of command. He had never seriously considered a position of leadership, but now the idea had drawn even further from his thinking. A captaincy might do: he certainly enjoyed authority in the field, and he did believe that he exercised it well. But he had come to realize that the exalted position of Strategos carried with it a number of distasteful duties of a bureaucratic nature.

  When Zawditu had finished, Margaret stood and nodded to her.

  “Thank you, Strategos,” Margaret said.

  “Of course, Sister Margaret,” Zawditu replied, and she withdrew a few
paces.

  Margaret looked from her left to her right in a long arc that encompassed the entire Council.

  “Well,” she said, “the business of the evening would seem to be concluded. But there remains one final matter to be addressed.”

  As if by some secret signal, Thoros, Caroline, and Iese all stood as one, causing the other Council members to turn and look at them in surprise.

  “Sophio is gone,” Margaret continued, “and it is likely that she will never return. In the absence of a clear succession, we must now make preparations for the future.”

  “What is this?” demanded Xasan of Mogadishu. “To talk of succession! We have the Council, and the Council shall suffice until Sophio returns.”

  “Sophio will not return,” Margaret said. “She is in the world after five hundred years. She has vanished from us like Shashava, and like Shashava, she will never rejoin us.” She spread her arms toward the Council and spoke cheerfully, her tone conveying the thought of joyous news. “But let us not dwell upon what is past. I welcome you all to pledge your oath of loyalty to me and to follow me into a glorious future.”

  “You would proclaim yourself Vicar of Shashava?” exclaimed Marie of Toulouse.

  “No,” Margaret replied coldly. “Not Vicar. I am the Eristavi and the Eristavi alone. Shashava is gone and will not return to us. Why should we bow to the memory of a king that none of us ever knew? I proclaim myself the sole Prince of our order, both Caesar and Pope, until such time as one greater than I arrives to receive the mantle of authority from my hands.”

  She closed her hands into fists and spoke like a demagogue addressing the mob:

  “Let us be of good cheer, friends. For too long we have hidden in the shadow of ourselves, bowing to foolish laws that restrain our greatness and our glory. Let us cast the memory of Shashava aside and walk proudly into a new dawn. I declare that we are Shashavani no longer, for Shashava has no power here. We are Basilisks, all of us, and proudly so!”

  And with a baleful gaze, she looked at each seated member of the Council in turn, her voice now transformed into a growl that threatened retribution as much as it promised reward:

  “Throw off the shackles of Shashava’s laws and swear your loyalty to me as your comrades have already done. Convert...or die.”

  Silence fell over the chamber as the soldiers and the Council members alike stared at her in astonishment. The very though of claiming Shashava’s throne was outrageous enough, but the command to abandon Shashava’s laws was simply unthinkable. Luka was stunned into silence as surely as the Council, but he knew what was to come. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and looked at Zawditu. He saw that she had done the same.

  Slowly, Sister Philippa rose to her feet and addressed Margaret with a tone of outrage and contempt.

  “What folly is this?” she demanded. “You have the arrogance to claim Shashava’s chair, and worse, the madness to demand that we reject the very principles that have guided and kept safe our order for eleven centuries? You have lost your mind, Sister Margaret, and I fear that you shall never find it again.”

  “I will take that as a refusal of my offer, Philippa,” Margaret said, the corner of her mouth twisting into a smile. “Alas, you are lost. Fortunately for the rest of you, I address you all individually, not as one.”

  “How could such a brilliant mind be so stupid?” Philippa asked, almost conveying pity despite the anger in her voice. “You are outnumbered, Margaret. This council of the Living is divided, six over four. By that count alone, you will lose. And what is more, we have the loyalty of the Strategos and of the Army.”

  Philippa extended her hand toward Zawditu to indicate her. After a moment’s silence, she looked toward Zawditu and asked, with only a slight measure of hesitation:

  “We do, do we not?”

  Zawditu smiled a little and said, “I am loyal to the Vicar of Shashava, whose throne you seek to usurp, Margaret.”

  At her words, clearly indicating where the Army’s loyalty lay, the guards in the chamber drew their swords and held them out toward the four conspirators. Luka did the same, and his movements were copied by Movses and Seteney.

  “It would seem that you are quite outnumbered, Sister Margaret,” Philippa observed.

  “Perhaps...” Margaret replied.

  Her apparent lack of concern made Luka shiver. If it was mere bravado, it was convincingly done.

  “Margaret of the Hebrides,” Zawditu said, walking forward, “Thoros of Yerevan, Caroline of Burgundy, Iese of Kartli...as Marshal and Strategos of the House of Shashava, I arrest you on the charges of conspiracy, treason, and the attempted usurpation—”

  She was interrupted by a loud knocking on the Council chamber doors.

  “Just in time,” Margaret said, smiling.

  “Luka, secure the door,” Zawditu instructed, without looking away from Margaret.

  Luka snapped his fingers. “Mosves, Seteney, quickly!”

  His two soldiers ran for the doors and made to bar them, but it was too late. With a tremendous crash, the doors were flung open, and a party of soldiers forced their way inside. They were fitted with armor of plate and chain, and they carried swords, axes, and muskets, which they pointed toward Luka and the guards. The loyalists, though outnumbered, addressed the newcomers with their own weapons, and an uneasy standoff began.

  As the soldiers parted to secure the room, their leader entered and advanced toward Zawditu. Luka recognized him immediately as Boris the Muscovite. He carried one of the Winchester shotguns Luka had brought back from America, which had been kept under lock and key in the main armory.

  “Boris...” Luka began, suddenly hot with anger.

  “Easy, Luka,” Boris replied, keeping his weapon pointed toward Zawditu. “You will see: this is the right decision. You will be with us soon enough.”

  “This is treason,” Luka snarled.

  “I like you, Luka,” Boris said. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  Across the room, Margaret smiled and addressed Zawditu and the guards:

  “Brethren, as you can see, many of your comrades have already seen wisdom and come to our side. They know what is best for them. They realize what the future holds for us...and what it holds for our enemies.”

  “Lower your weapon, Boris,” Zawditu said, glaring at him.

  “My humblest apologies, Strategos, but no,” Boris replied. “Not until you have sworn allegiance and proven your loyalty. You are too wily a fox.”

  “I must confess that I was concerned by the change of guard,” Margaret said. “You certainly caught me by surprise with that, Lady Zawditu. But fortunately, I managed all the same.”

  Rusudan of Tbilisi, the Georgian linguist and geometrist, scoffed at Margaret.

  “Your reinforcements still are few, Margaret,” she said, “and they all walk in the Shadow of Death. You remain outnumbered by the Living.”

  “And the Living are more important than the dying?” Margaret mused, almost laughing. Her eyes narrowed. “How many of you have kept up your vigor, I wonder? How many have taken the time to build your strength? None, I suspect.” She motioned to her allies with a single sweep of her hand. “While we have kept ourselves in readiness for this very moment for over five hundred years. So, I ask again, who among you will swear loyalty to me and receive salvation?”

  Zawditu looked to Luka and an unspoken agreement passed between the two of them.

  “None of us,” she said.

  At the look, Boris glanced momentarily in Luka’s direction, perhaps on instinct, or perhaps anticipating an attempt to flank him. The moment that his eyes looked away from Zawditu, she grabbed the barrel of his shotgun with her free hand and thrust it upward, ducking down and leaning away as she did. Boris’s eyes snapped back toward her and he fired, but it was too late: the shot went off into the ceiling.

  A
nd then chaos fell upon the room.

  The guardsmen and Boris’s soldiers fell upon one another, steel striking against steel in a flurry of sword blows. Stunned by violence they had not known in centuries, the Council sat in confusion, staring at the melee surrounding them with a stunned horror that should have been unknown to ones so powerful. Even the conspirators were slow to act, though this seemed more from complicity than shock.

  Only Margaret and Philippa reacted accordingly, each leaping up almost in a mirror of the other. Philippa bounded to her feet as one of the soldiers lunged for her. She struck him twice in the face and tore the sword from his grasp. Across the room, Margaret similarly countered the first strike of a loyal guard who came at her, shattering the woman’s sword arm and flinging her into the wall.

  As Margaret retrieved her own assailant’s blade, Philippa bounded onto the table and leapt for her. As Philippa hurtled across the chamber toward her, sword upraised, Margaret turned and in one motion flung her blade. The weapon caught Philippa in the chest at the top of her arc, penetrating almost to the hilt somewhere around her heart. Philippa jerked violently and blood spurted from her, watering the table and floor like rain. Philippa tumbled to the floor and lay there, twitching slightly as the paralysis of blood loss took her.

  Having missed his first shot, Boris drew back a pace from Zawditu and pulled on the lever of his shotgun to chamber a new shell. Zawditu advanced on him, lunging with her blade in a series of strikes that were both furious and coldly precise. Boris did his best to deflect her sword with his shotgun, using it like a staff, but Zawditu had only a little difficulty in scoring cuts across Boris’s face, arms, and legs—his throat and torso too well protected by his steel cuirass and gorget.

  Snarling, Boris struck at Zawditu with the stock of his weapon, managing a hard blow to her chest that momentarily halted Zawditu’s attack and forced her back, gasping for breath. Seizing his opening, Boris shouldered his shotgun and aimed it at Zawditu. A moment later, he fired.