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

by G. D. Falksen

  “Neatly done, Luka. Little resistance, it seems.”

  “Little enough, Strategos,” Luka agreed. “And it may interest you to know that they stood guard over the cisterns rather than the drain. Perhaps they expected a greater threat from within than from the outside.”

  Zawditu nodded. “An intriguing possibility.” She glanced back down into the pit. “I must confess, I feel much less secure now that I know the tunnel can be breached, even if it is only by the Living. It will have to be attended to once the Council is back in control.”

  “Of course, Strategos,” Luka said.

  Zawditu rested one hand on the pommel of her sword and drummed her fingertips against the hilt.

  “Once we have arrived in force, we will advance into the castle and make for the nearest armory. As memory serves, there is a small one several floors above us.”

  “There is,” Ekaterine said. “Four floors up. And we can go the entire way by a single staircase, if you’re willing to risk confined quarters.” Then, realizing that she had interrupted, she quickly covered her mouth with her hands. “Uh...I mean...forgive me.”

  Zawditu laughed and said, “We are advancing blindly, my girl. Any intelligence is of use. You are Ekaterine, are you not? Luka’s cousin?”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Ekaterine replied, bowing her head.

  “It is thanks to you we know of this route,” Zawditu said, “and for that I am grateful to you. It was brave of you to accompany us.”

  “Oh, thank you, My Lady, but I couldn’t not come,” Ekaterine explained. “My friend, Doctor Varanus, was trapped inside during the...misfortune. I must find her before something happens to her.”

  Luka cleared his throat. “I have already explained to my cousin that the Doctor is surely dead. Explained repeatedly,” he added.

  “Indeed?” Zawditu asked. She looked at Luka and placed a hand on Ekaterine’s shoulder. “But she has hope, Luka. And we must all have hope.”

  “As you say, Strategos,” Luka said, though he did not seem happy about it.

  “I for one hold the hope that there may yet be people still alive in the House of Shashava,” Zawditu said, “and your friend the Doctor among them.”

  * * * *

  They reached the armory in short order, moving in a series of large packs that kept a few dozen feet of distance between one another but still held enough cohesion for mutual reinforcement. Ekaterine had the good sense to keep back from most of the fighting, though she did pull her weight once upon the stairs when a party of Margaret’s soldiers ambushed them on one of the landings, and she was the closest person to the doorway.

  As expected, the armory was guarded but only by five soldiers. They put up a token fight but surrendered almost immediately once Zawditu presented herself. Zawditu left a party of her own troops to safeguard the room and to watch the prisoners, while the rest of her forces equipped themselves with a better selection of arms and armor. Luka seemed greatly relieved at being able to take one of the rifles, even joking that they should have stopped by his own chambers, which were even better supplied. Ekaterine shook her head at him.

  “Aim the volley gun at the door,” Zawditu told one of the guards she had assigned to the armory, directing the placement of the weapon while the others made ready to depart. “If the enemy comes to displace you before you can be relieved, you must hold as long as you are able.”

  “As you command, Strategos,” the guard replied.

  “Where do we go now, Strategos?” Luka asked, as Zawditu rejoined him and Ekaterine.

  “To the next armory,” Zawditu replied. She paused a moment to check the fit of the armor one of her soldiers had appropriated from the stores. She turned back and said, “And the next one after that and so on. Our first step must be to deprive the enemy of their weaponry. Once that is done, we shall have to move through the castle floor by floor and bring Margaret’s forces to heel.”

  “Shall we make to capture the gates as well?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “No, there is no need for it,” Zawditu said. “We control the only entrance that we require, and so long as the enemy holds the gates, their numbers will be spread thin.” Zawditu took a look around the armory to see that her soldiers had finished arming themselves. “Enough. Let us continue. I would have this castle in hand before the traitors realize we are here.”

  “As you command, Strategos,” Luka said.

  It certainly sounded sensible enough to Ekaterine. She had a rifle and a sword that had been taken from the armory, and she kept them at the ready as she followed Zawditu and Luka into the hallway. They advanced onward, making a circuit of the house on their way to the next store of arms. Again they met some resistance in the corridor, though it was light. Most of the place seemed deserted. But Ekaterine did not fail to notice the periodic stains of blood that here and there covered the floor and walls along their path. The House of Shashava had seen even more violence since the coup, and some of it was very recent indeed.

  As they passed through a quiet gallery, Ekaterine suddenly heard footsteps approaching from an adjoining passage. So did the others, and Zawditu quickly motioned for her troops to take up positions securing the area. Ekaterine shouldered her rifle and took aim. A moment later, a party of some dozen Shashavani rushed into view before them, their own weapons—swords and firearms—outstretched. Then two more groups rushed into the gallery from opposite ends. The newcomers had been stalking them, despite their many precautions.

  Not that a small army can really be all that stealthy, Ekaterine reminded herself.

  “Halt! Drop your weapons!” shouted one of the strangers, a woman with dark hair who carried a spear. Ekaterine recognized her as Joan the Breton. Joan stood beside a Persian man who appeared to be the group’s leader. At her other side was a tiny figure in tattered leather clothes, whose face was concealed behind a plague doctor’s mask.

  “You drop yours!” snapped Luka.

  There was a short pause and suddenly the masked figure cried, “Ekaterine?”

  That voice!

  “Doctor?” Ekaterine asked, pushing her way forward.

  The figure tore off its mask to reveal Varanus, her face haggard from starvation. Ekaterine handed her rifle to Luka—who gave an exclamation of surprise—and she ran to embrace Varanus, holding her friend tightly for what seemed to be ages and was still not nearly long enough.

  Ekaterine had to confess that some part of her had actually wondered if Varanus was still alive. It was such a relief to see Luka proven wrong about that.

  “My God, Ekaterine,” Varanus said, “I was worried sick about you! Where did you disappear to? I needed you, you know.”

  “I am so sorry, Doctor,” Ekaterine answered. She took the opportunity to embrace Varanus again, which took Varanus by surprise, having foolishly assumed that the hugging was over. “I had to rescue a bunch of archivists, and then I fell in the river and caught a chill, and after that it was two days past, and they said I couldn’t go looking for you.”

  “How beastly of them,” Varanus agreed. “But from now on, whenever there is an unprovoked attempt on my life, you are forbidden from being more than twenty feet away from me. It’s just not the same killing people without a friend.”

  “Killing people?” Ekaterine asked.

  Zawditu cleared her throat and stepped forward. At the sight of her, several of the strangers who had kept their weapons raised now lowered them.

  “My Lord Reza,” she said to the leader of the group.

  “Strategos,” Reza replied, stepping forward and exchanging nods with Zawditu.

  “We feared that we had lost you,” Zawditu said.

  “For a time, I feared that I had lost myself.” Reza frowned slightly and studied Zawditu’s forces. “What are you doing here?”

  “We are retaking the castle, My Lord,” Zawditu answered. “And if
you will pardon my asking, what are you—any of you—doing here?”

  “Well may you ask,” said Reza. “Having escaped slaughter and conversion, we have been in hiding these past two weeks. Now we go to make war upon Margaret.”

  Zawditu frowned and asked, “Conversion?”

  “Margaret demanded pledges of loyalty from the members of the House in exchange for their lives,” explained Joan. “It seems she wishes to convert the whole House of Shashava into Basilisks. Those who refuse die.”

  Zawditu nodded and asked, “Marie of Toulouse?”

  “Among the first to be executed,” Reza said grimly.

  “Margaret shall be punished for this,” Zawditu said.

  “Indeed she shall, Strategos, and you and your army are welcome to join us in the endeavor,” Reza told her. “Indeed, your numbers and skill at arms will be most welcome. For our part, we assumed...we assumed that we would not return from this effort.”

  “Thankfully that no longer need be the case,” Zawditu replied. “Where is Margaret hiding herself tonight?”

  “In the Great Hall.” It was Varanus who answered, joining the conversation without much concern for matters of seniority. To Ekaterine’s surprise, neither Reza nor Joan seemed to mind it, while Zawditu smiled slightly at Varanus’s candor. “She is holding a Christmas feast to prove that she is the new Sophio.”

  “That’s...peculiar,” Ekaterine said.

  “Margaret is a madwoman,” Varanus replied, “and I for one am growing impatient with the time we are spending not killing her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  •

  Bolstered by Reza’s survivors, Zawditu’s forces went in search of Margaret. Several smaller contingents were dispatched to capture the remaining armories, but if the conspirators could be taken all in one place, it would make for a much easier recapture of the castle. Luka again was at Zawditu’s side, and he was himself flanked by Seteney. He was relieved to see Koba and Anuka both alive and well, and they followed close behind him. Both were saddened by the loss of Movses, but it only made their little band all the more determined to exact vengeance.

  As they neared the Great Hall, Zawditu motioned for the wings of her force to spread out and encircle. Some went on the ground floor, others to the balconies above. There were guards aplenty in the surrounding halls, and they could not be allowed to maintain their positions. Luka and his force remained with Zawditu as she went directly to the main doors of the hall, which stood open to them. There were guards posted at the door, but as Zawditu’s company advanced against them, they went pale and fled back into the main chamber, shouting with alarm.

  Luka started to rush after them, knowing that it was too late to avoid attention. Zawditu held up a hand to stop him.

  “Orders, Strategos?” Luka asked.

  “We are still outnumbered, especially by the Living,” Zawditu said, approaching the doors. “It would be desirable to avoid a pitched battle with the whole population. I intend to induce their surrender through words, if possible. Then I will behead Margaret and her fellow conspirators as traitors, and afterward I shall have a cup of my favorite coffee, which I have sorely missed these past days.”

  “And if words prove ineffective, Strategos?”

  “Then I shall induce their surrender through other means,” Zawditu answered.

  They stepped across the threshold and into the Great Hall. The chamber was lit with great fires upon the hearths, with torches, and with candles upon candelabra and chandeliers. The household of the Shashavani had all turned out for the feast, it seemed, and the many tables were filled with people, most of whom hunched over their plates with sullen and fearful expressions. The Great Hall was also filled with Margaret’s soldiers, all bearing arms in case the crowd of scholars became unruly. They were already on their way to meet Zawditu’s forces at the door.

  At the far end of the hall, Luka saw Margaret seated in Shashava’s chair, a goblet raised high into the air. Iese of Kartli and Thoros of Yerevan sat on either side of her, and none of them seemed quite aware of the alarm being raised. Directly behind Margaret’s chair stood Fairfax, the former Master-At-Arms, a halberd resting against her shoulder.

  Decorations decked the walls and tables, and colored glass lamps cast shades of crimson and blue across the hall, but Luka felt his stomach turn when he saw that there were other adornments as well. Severed heads had been placed on spikes throughout the Great Hall, with their headless bodies left to hang from the upstairs railings. Their stench filled the room, and it was as sickening as the sight of the desiccated faces gazing upon the diners like watchmen. Luka recognized the countenance of Marie of Toulouse, which held a position of prominence just behind Margaret. Luka saw others as well: Vaclav the Moravian, Amadeus of Savoy, and a dozen more that he had last seen passing in the corridors of the House, alive and well.

  “Dear God...” he whispered.

  “God is no longer in this place,” Zawditu said. “And I mean to correct that.”

  She advanced to the main table. A Shashavani seated nearby bolted from his chair at the approach of armed men and women, and Zawditu used his seat to step up onto the table without breaking stride. Luka advanced parallel to her on the ground, holding his sword out toward the soldiers who came to meet them. Seteney, Anuka, Koba, and the others crowded around him, and they met the approaching enemy halfway across the room. Boris the Muscovite pushed his way to the front, holding a bardiche axe.

  “Luka?” Boris exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “We have come for your head, Boris,” Luka answered.

  Across the chamber, Margaret dropped her goblet. It fell onto the table and spilled its contents: blood rather than wine, and likely not given willingly by whatever mortal had contributed it.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, climbing onto her chair for a better look.

  “Margaret of the Hebrides,” Zawditu announced as she advanced along the table, “Thoros of Yerevan, Iese of Kartli...justice has come for you.”

  Margaret gasped at the sight of Zawditu and shouted, “Guards! Seize the traitors! And bring me the head of the False Strategos! She serves the usurper Philippa!”

  Margaret’s soldiers stood off against Zawditu’s, their weapons held high and ready. Many were firm in their conviction, but Luka saw that several appeared hesitant. They looked exhausted and haggard, and doubt had set in. The scholars at the tables began to rise, exchanging words with one another. None of them seemed eager to attack Zawditu, but neither did they seem eager to disobey Margaret.

  Zawditu reached the middle of the table and stood, one hand upon the hilt of her sword.

  “Hear me now,” she announced to the assembled company. “I am Zawditu, daughter of the House of Solomon, Lioness of Judah, Marshal and Strategos of the Shashavani. I come before you in the name of Sophio and the Council. Those of you who serve under arms know me well. Those of you who serve with letters are, I trust, familiar with my reputation, whatever attempt the traitor Margaret has made to sully it. She is the usurper, and I have come for her head.”

  “Kill her!” Margaret repeated, climbing onto the table in a rage. Behind her, Thoros and Iese drew their swords, and Fairfax raised her halberd, though she seemed more intent upon watching the situation of the common soldiers than attending to Zawditu.

  “The punishment for treason and usurpation is death,” Zawditu said. “It has already been administered to Caroline of Burgundy, and it will be levied against any who tonight stand with Margaret.” She held up a hand to silence the fearful cries of the scholars, who began to push against each other in panic. “Hear me! The fate of the usurpers is sealed, but your fates are not. I have been authorized to give clemency to any who surrender to me now. If your only crime has been the unwitting support of these traitors, then throw down your arms and beg mercy and you shall be spared.”

&
nbsp; Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the shuffling of feet, the creak of leather, and the clinking of mail. Then, with cries of “Mercy! Mercy!” the scholars ran from their seats, some crowding around Zawditu, throwing their hands toward her and professing their innocence, while others pushed their way against Margaret’s soldiers in an effort to escape the chamber. Suddenly the room was in chaos, knocking apart the cohesion of the defending ranks.

  Boris began shouting for his troops to hold their positions and attack, and this seemed to settle things for the soldiers. In scattered pockets, but with growing numbers, some of the soldiers threw down their weapons and began to shove their way past their comrades, professing their loyalty to the House of Shashava.

  “Hold your positions!” Boris demanded. “Do not throw down your arms! Any who throw down their arms are to be slain at once!”

  He grabbed for the nearest deserter and threw the man to the ground. He brought his bardiche down to cleave the man’s head in half, and Luka lunged forward, driving his sword into Boris’s arm. The bardiche struck the stone floor, cutting the deserter’s shoulder but not killing him.

  The order to kill their comrades further galvanized the soldiers, and several began fighting their way through the others, shouting their loyalty to Shashava and to Sophio without bothering to disarm.

  Luka grinned at Boris and said, “I think you have lost your war, Brother. Perhaps you should surrender as well.”

  “I have not lost!” Boris roared. “I have not even begun!”

  Boris and what remained of his force rushed at Luka, screaming blood and death. Luka smiled grimly, suddenly remembering Movses in the moment the boy had died.

  “For Shashava and the Eristavi!” Luka cried, and he met Boris’s charge with steel and with hatred.

  * * * *

  Varanus watched the chaos below from one of the upstairs balconies. Ekaterine was with her, as were the soldiers who had secured the position and who were now watching the fighting with muskets raised, patiently waiting for an opening to fire upon the enemy without risking either their comrades or the ones who had already surrendered.