At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  “Du-chairn! Du-chairn! Du-chairn!”

  The shouts rose above the vast, indistinguishable crowd surf of the mob, and he swallowed hard.

  “Your Grace, we have to go,” Rayno said urgently.

  “Go?” Clyntahn turned back to the archbishop. “You mean run? Run away like a dog with my tail between my legs?!”

  “Your Grace, we’ve lost. For today, at least, we’ve lost. I have reports of additional Army troops moving into the city from the Holy Martyrs Training Camp. I don’t doubt more are coming from farther away. Apparently there’s been some fighting in the ranks, some resistance by men who understand where their true loyalty lies, but their resistance has been crushed. Most of the men marching into the city seem to be prepared to follow their officers’ orders even against the Inquisition, and at least a quarter, probably more, of the Temple Guardsmen we’d counted upon to support our agents inquisitor have gone over to the traitors. And between the cordon around St. Thyrmyn and what happened to our people who were caught in the streets, I doubt there are more than twenty percent of our agents inquisitor in any position to help us. Without more men, we can’t hold the Temple. We just can’t. So it’s time to get you out of Zion to someplace where you can rally the Faithful to deal with this.”

  “Someplace like where?” Clyntahn demanded.

  “This madness can’t have infected the entire Temple Lands,” Rayno replied. “There are too many Faithful out there, and they couldn’t possibly have coordinated something like this all across the Temple Lands without our picking up some indication of what was coming. They obviously believe that if they can take Zion, if they can control the Temple itself—and if they can take you—the rest of the Temple Lands will fall into line. That means this is the focal point of their entire rebellion. So if we can get you away, outside the area of their control, I’m sure we can rally forces from the other episcopates. And, in a worst case, if we can get you to Harchong—where we know we can count on the people’s loyalty and faith—God will surely show us the path to reclaim Zion in His good time.”

  Clyntahn stared at him for a handful of heartbeats. Then he nodded sharply.

  “You’re right, Wyllym,” he said crisply. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  No one knew why the tunnel had been dug in the first place. It was obviously as ancient, or almost as ancient, as the Temple itself, because it was illuminated by the same mystic panels that lit the Temple. Its walls were lined with brick, however, not with the smooth, solid stone the Archangels had used. According to the oldest rumors, it had been built after the Archangels’ servitors had withdrawn to the Dawn Star and it had departed in glory.

  Wyllym Rayno didn’t know about that, but he did know it was one of the Inquisition’s most tightly held secrets. It was over seventeen miles long, from the Temple’s cellars all the way across Templesborough and Langhornesborough to the countryside beyond, and its exit was hidden under a vineyard the Order of Schueler had very quietly owned for well over three centuries.

  The tunnel was amply large enough for the thirty picked agents inquisitor escorting him and the Grand Inquisitor to safety. Every one of those bodyguards was an experienced veteran of either the Temple Guard or the Army of God—men who’d distinguished themselves in rooting out heresy and proven their loyalty time and again. Of course, simple loyalty and zeal weren’t enough to gain a man admission to the Grand Inquisitor’s own guard. They also had to have thoroughly demonstrated their competence, and there wasn’t a man of that guard who wouldn’t have qualified easily for an officer’s commission in the AOG.

  Another seventy men waited at the vineyard, sent ahead to secure the exit and arrange horses. Rayno wished they had horses in the tunnel itself, but although it was wide enough, its roof was far too low, which was … unfortunate. The Grand Inquisitor was a poor rider, but he was even more poorly accustomed to seventeen-mile hikes, and the entire party had to pause for rest far more often than Rayno preferred. Every time they did, he worried that someone they’d believed was loyal might have betrayed the tunnel’s existence to the traitors. That they were being pursued even as they stood guard, waiting for Clyntahn’s breathing to settle back into a normal range.

  But, eventually, they reached the far end and went hurrying up the steps. They emerged into another cellar, quiet and cool, shadowed by enormous wooden vats, and Rayno heaved a vast sigh of relief. But then he frowned. He’d expected to find at least one of the men he’d sent ahead waiting to guide them to the others. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if the bodyguards surrounding him and Clyntahn weren’t fully capable of finding their own way up the stairs. Besides—

  They reached the head of the stairs, emerged into the early afternoon sunlight, and froze.

  At least they knew why there hadn’t been anyone waiting for them at the tunnel exit, a tiny corner of Wyllym Rayno’s mind thought numbly.

  All seventy of the men he’d sent ahead lay scattered about. Or he thought they were all there, anyway. It was hard to be certain, given all the blood and body parts, and he felt his gorge rise. Everywhere he looked, there was more blood, more carnage.

  There’s not even one intact body, he thought, staring at corpses which had lost heads, or arms, or legs, or some hideous combination of all three. And standing there, amid the butchery, were two people.

  Only two.

  His heart froze and his breathing stopped as he realized who—or at least what—those people were. The Inquisition’s entire intelligence apparatus reported directly to him. He’d seen more than one sketch of a so-called seijin, and especially of the two most infamous false seijins of them all: Merlin Athrawes and Nimue Chwaeriau. But neither of these were Athrawes or Chwaeriau. He didn’t know who the shorter, female seijin was, but he’d seen at least one sketch of her taller companion.

  Dialydd Mab, the seijin who’d made the destruction of the Inquisition and all its works his personal crusade.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Clyntahn bellowed. “Take them!”

  If their escort had been given time to think about it, they might not have obeyed that thunderous order. They might have paused, looked upon the bodies of their fellows, reflected that they might fare no better, and considered an alternative reponse. But they weren’t given that time, and the reflexes of their training took over.

  They charged the two seijins, half of them shouting war cries, and the seijins came to meet them.

  The seijins didn’t charge. Neither did they shout. They simply walked into the agents inquisitor, and if the fact that they were outnumbered fifteen-to-one concerned them, they showed no sign of it.

  Then the charging agents inquisitor were upon them, and the carnage began.

  Rayno’s eyes bulged in stunned disbelief. He’d read report after report about the seijins—especially about Athrawes—and their incomparable lethality, and he’d rejected them as the obvious exaggerations they were.

  But they hadn’t been exaggerations after all.

  The seijins’ swords moved so swiftly they weren’t even blurs, and they struck with deadly accuracy. They truly were capable—even the woman, despite her smaller, more delicate frame—of decapitating a man with a one-hand blow. That was one of the things Rayno had refused to believe, but he could disbelieve no longer as heads and limbs and blood exploded away from those deadly swords.

  It was over in a bare handful of seconds, before Rayno could have poured himself a cup of tea. And the only reason it had taken even that long, he realized, was because the killers had had to wait for the falling bodies to get out of the way.

  They walked out the other side of thirty fresh corpses, and Rayno swallowed sickly as he realized they’d never even broken stride.

  “Archbishop Wyllym and Vicar Zhaspahr, I believe.” Mab’s deep voice was colder than a Zion winter, and his smile was even colder as blood ran down his sword blade and pearled from its chisel-like tip. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Please,” Rayno heard someone
whimper, and realized it was him. “Please, I don’t—I mean—”

  “What’s this?” Mab arched one eyebrow. “You’re not prepared to die for your faith after all, Your Eminence? I’m shocked.”

  “I…” The archbishop shook his head and held out his hands pleadingly. “I don’t want to—”

  He rose on his toes, his mouth opening in a perfect circle of agony, as the dagger drove into his back. He went to his knees, reaching back with both hands, trying in vain to reach the wound, and looked back over his shoulder with a fresh gasp of pain as Zhaspahr Clyntahn wrenched the dagger from his flesh.

  “Traitor!” the Grand Inquisitor hissed. “You can at least die like a servant of God, you miserable, fucking excuse for an inquisitor!”

  Rayno’s mouth worked, then he collapsed forward, quivered once, and lay still.

  “That’s one sort of retirement package, I suppose,” Mab said thoughtfully, gazing down at the body. Then he raised his arctic eyes to Clyntahn. “And about the kind of loyalty I’d have expected out of you, Your Grace.”

  “Go to hell,” Clyntahn said almost conversationally, and pressed the bloody dagger to the side of his own throat. “You’re not taking me anywhere! Unlike that miserable bastard, I’m not—”

  His eyes were on Mab, not that it mattered very much. Even if he’d been watching her, he couldn’t have reacted before Gwyliwir Hwylio moved.

  He cried out, in shock as much as in pain, as a small, impossibly strong hand locked on his wrist. It twisted, and his cry of shock became a squeal of anguish as his wrist snapped and the dagger fell from his hand. He struck at her with the other hand, beating at her in clumsy panic, but her forearm batted his punch effortlessly aside, and he cried out again as three of his fingers shattered as easily as his wrist. Then he was on his knees, staring up at her in horrified disbelief, terrified by the raw demonic strength of her, and she smiled.

  She smiled.

  “I’m sure Merlin would have preferred to be here in person,” Mab said as his companion held the Grand Inquisitor effortlessly, “but not even a seijin can be in two places at once. Don’t worry, though. You’ll get your opportunity to meet him.”

  Clyntahn’s mouth worked, and Mab nodded to the woman. She lifted the taller, far heavier vicar to his feet as if he’d been a sack of feathers.

  “I’m sure you’ll be brokenhearted to hear that Vicar Rhobair and Vicar Allayn have pledged us their word to try you within Mother Church and sentence you to whatever punishment Church law decrees for your offenses. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that would mean the Punishment … as a minimum.”

  Clyntahn swallowed hard, and Mab shook his head.

  “Don’t worry, Your Grace. There’s been a small change of plan. You don’t have to worry about Mother Church at all, because you’ll be facing a rather different venue. There’s an Imperial Charisian Navy ship waiting off the mouth of the Zion River. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be aboard her. And you’ll stay there, until she reaches Siddar City.”

  Clyntahn’s normally florid face was pasty with combined shock, pain … and fear, and Mab’s smile was a razor of ice.

  “I hope you enjoy the voyage, Your Grace.”

  FEBRUARY

  YEAR OF GOD 899

  .I.

  Siddar City,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  “I’m sorry it took this long to get you back to our city, Your Majesty,” Greyghor Stohnar said, accepting a fresh wine glass from one of the efficient Charisian servants.

  “Well, I’ve been a little busy,” Sharleyan Ahrmahk replied with a smile, and looked across the informal sitting room at her husband, who—exhibiting the restrained dignity appropriate to one of the two most powerful monarchs in the world—was busy crawling around on the carpet while he tickled their daughter. Crown Princess Alahnah, who would be five in another two months, was equally busy squealing, and her mother shook her head with a smile. Then she looked back at the lord protector, and her smile faded.

  “I could wish it was a joyous occasion, My Lord, rather than simply a … satisfying one.”

  “I think all of us feel that way,” Stohnar acknowledged. “Not your daughter, of course.” It was his turn to shake his head, his lined face—several years older than it had been when Zhaspahr Clyntahn unleashed the Sword of Schueler—wreathed in a smile of his own. “Mine are all grown, but I remember that age. And I know how much Cayleb missed both of you. I don’t know whether to envy the two of you for the partnership you have or to pity you for how long and how often it takes you apart.”

  “Well, one thing about being married to a sailor, My Lord, is that you learn to deal with those lengthy separations. And—” she brushed the slight swell of her belly “—he’s always so happy to see me after them, you know.”

  Stohnar’s lips twitched.

  “I’d … ah, heard the Crown Princess is about to acquire a sibling,” he said.

  “And at least one more cousin.”

  “Really?” Stohnar cocked his head.

  “Yes. Duchess Darcos is married to a sailor, too, you know.”

  “Princess Irys is expecting another child? I hadn’t heard!”

  “It hasn’t been announced. The last time, saluting guns started going off all over Manchyr Harbor fifteen minutes after the healers confirmed her pregnancy. Flattering, but she’d prefer a little more … private time with Hektor before going public with this one. In fact, she’s decided to make the announcement right after Zhan and Mahrya’s wedding. I think she hopes it will get lost in the festivities.” Sharleyan shook her head. “I believe that’s what they call a triumph of optimism. And I happen to know Mahrya is secretly hoping the news of Irys’ pregnancy will divert some of the public attention from her.”

  “You do have an interesting family, Your Majesty.”

  “As Merlin would say, ‘one tries,’ My Lord.” Sharleyan chuckled. “And that’s especially true of Cayleb. He can be very trying upon occasion.”

  “I’m sure he can. But having him here in Siddar City made a tremendous difference, you know. And we couldn’t have had him without the way you two work together. I don’t think there’s ever been another marriage—another pair of monarchs—like the two of you.”

  “Most of the secret’s simply trusting one another, My Lord, but another part—a huge part, really—is having councilors you can trust. Ministers whose judgment is sound and who you know are both capable and loyal. And, frankly,” she dimpled suddenly, “having Maikel Staynair on your side helps enormously!”

  “And so did Merlin Athrawes’ council—and sword—I’m sure.”

  “No, having Merlin at our side didn’t hurt a bit,” Sharleyan agreed softly. “But, to be honest, the thing that really made it work was Cayleb.” She looked back at her husband, who was upright now, with Alahnah on his shoulders. She had both hands on top of his head while her heels drummed on his chest, and Sharleyan’s smile softened. “He was the one who had the courage to propose a joint crown when we’d never even met. And would you like to know the truly remarkable thing about my husband, My Lord?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I would.”

  “The most remarkable thing about Cayleb Ahrmahk,” she said, “is that he doesn’t think he’s remarkable at all. He’s never flinched, never even considered turning aside, even when Charis faced the entire world alone … and he thinks anyone would have done the same things he’s done in his place.”

  “Then I’d say you’re well matched, Your Majesty,” Stohnar said. She looked at him and she shrugged. “You didn’t do very much flinching either, from what I’ve seen. Like that business in Chisholm.”

  Sharleyan’s smile faded, and he felt a stab of remorse for having reminded her of where she’d been only three five-days ago, before Gwyllym Manthyr had borne her and her husband from Cherayth to Siddar City for tomorrow’s grim duty.

  The last of the convicted traitors had faced the headsman a month ago, and Sharleyan and Cayleb had been present for eve
ry execution. Some might believe they’d been there because Sharleyan wanted to see those traitors pay for their treason, but those people were fools. Sharleyan Tayt Ahrmahk hadn’t wanted to see anyone die, but her presence had been the final facet of the lesson she’d taught her nobles: she would never flinch from the harsh responsibilities of her crown … and she would never hide behind her ministers.

  That lesson had gone home this time. All Stohnar’s sources agreed on that.

  “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t take my brain anywhere it wouldn’t have gone anyway, My Lord.” She shook her head quickly and smiled once more. “And Cayleb and I really have accomplished a bit more than just keeping the imperial headsmen busy!”

  “That’s one way to describe redrawing the map of the entire world,” Stohnar said dryly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say we’ve gone quite that far, My Lord.” Sharleyan’s lips twitched. “Most of the borders are still where they were, after all.”

  “Oh? Would that include Tarot, Emerald, Zebediah, and Corisande?”

  “Their borders are still exactly what they were. They’ve simply been integrated into something even larger. Actually,” her expression turned thoughtful, “you’re probably in a better position than most to understand that. The Republic’s provinces have always enjoyed a lot of local autonomy, yet they’re part of a single whole. We’re a lot alike that way.”

  “You may have a point,” he agreed. “And if Grand Vicar Rhobair has his way, I suspect the Temple Lands will be a lot more like us, too.”

  “We’ll have to see how that works out.” Sharleyan’s expression was doubtful, but then she shrugged. “If anyone can make it work, it’s probably him, but he’s taken on an awfully ambitious task.”

  “I hadn’t realized what a gift for understatement you have, Your Majesty,” Stohnar said dryly.

  Grand Vicar Rhobair was clearly determined to restore order—and decency—to the Church of God Awaiting. And, as Sharleyan had suggested, he had his work cut out for him.