“Unless they didn’t believe our tales,” Bahdlahn replied. “I cared little for that Abbot Chesterfield, and less still for some of the townsfolk I met.”
“Redshanks,” Talmadge said.
“Aye,” Khotai agreed. “Redshanks knew to believe us, and he’s a convincing fellow.”
“No,” Talmadge interrupted, and when the others looked at him, he pointed to the north, to the fire, and smiled. “Redshanks.”
Following his lead, the others, too, spotted the distinctive old man, limping before the bonfire, playing with the embers with his cane.
“Ah, so they’ve sentries about after all,” said Catriona.
“Not very good ones,” Bahdlahn remarked.
“For all we know, Redshanks knows of our approach and is tending the fire for a warmer welcome,” said Khotai, and she started for the man.
With a smile on their faces, the four came into the light before the man, who seemed not at all surprised to see them, bolstering Khotai’s thought.
“Ah, the way was closed,” Redshanks said.
“Aye,” said Talmadge, and he felt uneasy suddenly, noting that this whole meeting seemed off kilter somehow. He started to go on, but paused and looked closely at the old frontiersman. “What do you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Redshanks replied. “I know that I’m sorry.”
Before he could explain, before any of the four could ask him to explain, other forms, tall and lean, walked into the firelight, some with spears, some with those deadly tooth-edged paddles.
As one, the four reflexively crouched and moved quickly to form some defensive posture.
But they heard the hissing of huge lizards in the darkness all about them, and more xoconai came into view at the edges of the light.
Staring at them helplessly, Redshanks shook his head.
A female warrior walked up beside him. “I am Tuolonatl,” she said, “who commands the army of light. If you choose to fight, we will kill you here and will go back into the town and kill a child to avenge any xoconai who has bled. This is your choice.”
“They got us all,” Redshanks told the four. “They got us all.”
Talmadge was the last to drop his weapon to the ground but the first to get the back of his legs buckled by the whack of a macana, which drove him to kneel. He closed his eyes and let go of hope as enemies fell over him, yanking his arms painfully to bind them behind his back. He was barely aware of the movement as he was roughly hoisted to his feet and shoved away. Each of the four was pushed in a slightly different direction, each moving with xoconai escorts toward a different building.
The veteran frontiersman, who had escaped death so many times, believed that he could hold on to this resigned internal surrender, could simply let go and let happen whatever might.
He might have done that, until he noted Khotai being handled roughly, the monsters pulling at her belt.
Talmadge didn’t fear his own death nearly as much as he feared seeing his beloved once again cast down to crawl about in the dirt.
11
MORAL BOUNDARIES
The morning came bright and warm, the summer sun finding just enough clouds to duck behind now and then to keep it all quite comfortable.
Still haunted by his decision to let Aydrian leave, King Midalis bade his wife good morning and left their tower suite, moving out onto the parapets that ran the whole of the high wall enclosing the capital city of Honce-the-Bear.
The castle was set near the southeastern corner of the city, so Midalis walked the eastern wall first, enjoying the orange and pink glows of sunrise, catching the bottom of the clouds in long runs of color. It had been a long time since he had traveled to the east, years since he had looked upon the seaport of Entel, his kingdom’s most populous city, with its blend of Honce and Behrenese architecture. He should go there as soon as whatever business Aydrian was speaking of had been settled, he thought. Entel was a city of two minds, reflecting the colorful culture of the desert people of Behren as much as the more stoic and somber mood of Honce-the-Bear. The city was only a short sail around the edge of the Belt-and-Buckle from the greatest Behrenese city of Jacintha, after all, a sprawling collection of tents and painted buildings forming a vast city larger than both Entel and Ursal combined.
Most of Entel’s commerce flowed up and down the coast, with far more goods coming and going from Behren than from the interior of Honce-the-Bear, including Ursal.
Even with regard to the Abellican faith, Entel remained of two minds. It was the only city with two major monasteries, ever rivals, and bitterly so since the war, when the brothers of St. Bondabruce, loyal to the throne, had sided with King Aydrian and had routed the less traditional monks of St. Rontelmore—an abbey with many brothers, whose families had come to Honce-the-Bear from Behren.
Yes, he should go there to see the great city, and perhaps find his way to Jacintha, as well. He would like to look upon the sands of Behren and to see again Brynn Dharielle, the great ranger warrior who had ridden the great dragon in the war that had deposed Aydrian.
“King Aydrian?” the man muttered under his breath, the question lingering. He looked back to the sunrise, soaking in the glow. The war seemed like a million years ago and yesterday all at once.
As he neared the northeastern edge of the city, the king’s focus shifted to the great Masur Delaval, the river running north and east to the Gulf of Corona. The docks were awake below him, with hands scrambling all about to ready the ships that wanted to catch the morning “breath” of the river, whose flow depended to no small degree on the tides of the gulf.
Midalis slowed as he crossed the midpoint of that northern wall, past the great waterfalls that flushed the city’s waste, past the huge warehouses of the docks. He tried to keep his focus as he headed back into the city, which was now awakening. The people would grow uneasy, if they hadn’t already—so many innocents depending on him to make the right choices in these dangerous times.
When the sun climbed higher in the eastern sky, the shadows shortening, he caught a glimpse of the long, golden glow in the west and all thoughts of the past, of the war, of Entel and Behren, of Aydrian even, were washed away.
For there loomed the wall of light, a wash of golden glare, as if some great mirror were scattering the reflection of the sun into a defined and tangible barrier.
Unable to delay or deflect his concern, King Midalis picked up his pace, moving swiftly to the large guard tower anchoring the northwestern corner of the city.
The soldiers snapped to attention when he entered, the lone Allheart Knight, Sir Julian of the Evergreen, coming swiftly to greet him.
“It seems closer this day,” Midalis said to the strong young man, all splendid in his shining breastplate, fine sword on his left hip, helm tucked under his right arm.
“Whatever is causing it has advanced, my king,” agreed Julian, whose mouth and cheeks always seemed to be smiling, whose eyes always seemed lost in wonderment, whose curly brown locks always bounced, even when he was standing still.
Midalis paused a moment to allow himself the chance to bask in the youthful energy and joy of this young man, much as he had taken in the sunrise when first he had stepped onto the wall. Even among the Allhearts, the greatest fighters of Honce, loyal and dedicated, this one stood out to Midalis. He was of the new generation of Allheart Knights, who had been children during the dark days of the war and had come to the call of new King Midalis to serve the people of Honce-the-Bear with courage and mercy, an ethical grounding, and a determination that the darkness that had befallen the kingdom in the days of the demon dactyl would never again take hold.
These were the Allheart Knights of King Midalis alone, different than those of his uncle and of the bloodline before him, and far different than those who had served in the court of King Aydrian. For many generations, the Allheart Knights had been simply the sons and daughters of the various dukes and earls of Honce-the-Bear, a collection of scions from the families that lorded ove
r the various counties from their hilltop castles across the land—families with the wealth to fashion fabulous weapons and suits of armor and to hire the proper instructors in the etiquette and battle prowess required of such an elite order. There still were many in the order, particularly the older Allhearts, who had chosen to remain in service when Midalis had dethroned Aydrian, but these newest recruits had been formed “more of the heart than of the coin,” as Midalis had put it in his decree—which had been met with more than a little consternation. It took more than generational wealth to become an Allheart Knight during the reign of King Midalis dan Ursal than during times previous.
It took merit with the sword and with the heart. It took empathy.
Julian of the Evergreen might prove be the greatest of this generation of Allhearts, Midalis had often thought. He had been recommended to the Allheart Order by Master Viscenti of St.-Mere-Abelle, dear and valued friend to both King Midalis and Father Abbot Braumin Herde. His title, “of the Evergreen,” referred to the fact that Julian had joined the Abellican Order, recruited into St.-Mere-Abelle to become a monk. But while his heart and temperament had shown the proper humility and grace, his piousness had proven … less. Still, Master Viscenti and the father abbot had remained so enamored of the young man that they would not simply dismiss him back to the small village of his birth and had gone to great lengths to keep him in service to the people of Honce.
“What is it, Julian? What is it?” Midalis leaned on the sill of a west-facing window and stared hard at the golden wall of light far in the distance.
“The monks haven’t been able to see through it yet,” the young knight replied.
“I’m not asking the monks,” Midalis said, standing tall and turning back to stare into Julian’s gray-green eyes. “I’m asking you. What do you think it is?”
“I’ve met the refugees from the far west,” the young knight answered. “I’ve no reason to doubt their words. So it is the front rank of a great army, I believe.”
“What did you think of those refugees, with their strangely shaped heads?” Midalis asked.
Julian smiled and shrugged.
“Difficult to look at, yes?”
“At first,” Julian admitted.
“So what did you think of them when you got past that obvious distraction?”
“I believed them,” he answered. “And so I find them extraordinary, and brave. They walked halfway across the world, and then kept walking, because they knew that we should be warned.”
“Perhaps it is in their interest, too, that we should know,” Midalis dryly offered. “There is an army chasing them.”
“There is an army coming for us, so they claim.”
“But they were between that army and us,” Midalis reminded. “Their choice to enlist us in the fight seems prudent.”
“They could have turned aside, north into the valleys and dark holes of the Barbacan, and let the invaders pass them by.”
“Ah, but I don’t know,” Midalis replied, leaning back on the windowsill and staring out to the west once more. “So much I don’t know. If that is the leading edge of the invading army, Sir Julian, then where are the rest?”
“The rest?”
“The rest of the refugees,” Midalis explained, not looking back. “That line of light stands before the Wilderlands and most of Westerhonce. How many towns? Dozens of settlements, scores, hundreds even. Why are there not lines of subjects rushing to our gates ahead of the pursuit?”
When no answer came forth, he glanced back at Julian, who stared blankly and again could only shrug.
“So much we do not know,” King Midalis muttered. “I do not like not knowing.”
* * *
Tuolonatl found Ataquixt at the church in Appleby, arguing with an augur. As she neared the heated discussion and recognized the man behind the vulture-skull condoral, she grew less surprised, for this particular augur, Matlal of Ixquixqui, was perhaps the most disagreeable person she had ever met, worse even than the old augur who had become High Priest Pixquicauh. At first, she had thought Matlal’s constant shrieking and running about with his arms flailing no more than a facade, a tactic, a bargaining technique to get his way, and also a display of passionate devotion as he tried to ingratiate himself with the high priest. Matlal was certainly an ambitious young man, and a smart one, though damaged in the heart and soul.
Yes, very damaged, she reminded herself, as she physically interjected herself into the conversation, stepping between the two.
“Commander,” the augur greeted, with obviously feigned respect, offering just enough of a bow to fulfill his obligation.
“This is not a holy place of Scathmizzane,” Tuolonatl replied. “If you wish to speak with me, remove your condoral.”
“This is a symbol of our god. Would you disrespect—”
Tuolonatl turned her back to him and addressed Ataquixt directly. “There is a problem, it seems. Explain.”
“Commander!” Matlal interjected, before Ataquixt could begin.
Tuolonatl turned on the augur with such a scowl that he backed away a step. “Another word…” she warned.
Matlal reached up and grabbed his condoral by the beak and pulled it from his head.
Such a homely man, she thought, and almost said aloud, and she wondered how much his appearance contributed to his wretched attitude, or how much was influenced by his inner ugliness. He had a huge forehead, his hairline receding far back on his skull despite his young age. His nose was more pink than red, and the blue lines beside it were blotchy in appearance, not a beautiful uniform hue, and seemed as if they were two different shades, stealing the typical marvelous symmetry of a xoconai face. His ears were too low on the side of his head, their top edge barely even with the bottom of his droopy, always-sad eyes, and he always had his mouth opened into some weird mix between a scowl and a smarmy smile.
It occurred to Tuolonatl that if Matlal became the next high priest, the xoconai skull Scathmizzane affixed permanently to his face might well be an improvement.
Tuolonatl felt ashamed by her own judgment of the man for his appearance, but not too badly, for if Matlal hadn’t been in a state of such continual whining, she knew that she would judge even his appearance more generously.
She turned back to Ataquixt, who motioned to the back of the church, and only then did Tuolonatl notice a bare foot sticking out from behind the block altar of the place. She moved with the other two to the altar and found a large human, the one they called Abbot Chesterfield, lying behind the stone, sobbing in pain. He had been shaved head to toe, and a thousand small cuts showed on his skin. The broken bindings on his wrists told Tuolonatl that the man had thrashed himself off of the altar, almost certainly under the extreme agony of Matlal’s torture.
“The humans of this town see this man as a leader,” Ataquixt explained. “If they learn of this, controlling them…”
“Will be easier,” Matlal insisted. “They are monsters, the children of Cizinfozza. All they understand is strength and punishment.”
Another scowl from Tuolonatl caused the man to shrink back from her.
“Why was he being punished?” she asked.
“Because Augur Matlal took pleasure in it,” said Ataquixt.
“As an example,” the augur corrected. “He is a holy man to the humans and their false god! He serves Cizinfozza.”
Tuolonatl stepped around the altar and crouched down beside the trembling, crying man. She held her hand up passively, trying to calm him, but he gasped and shied away—as much as he could in his pained and broken state.
“What god do you serve?” she asked quietly.
“Scathmee … Scatterrme…” he stumbled.
“Who did you serve?” she corrected quietly and calmly. “Who was your god before you were told who you must serve?”
The man shook his head, eyes wide with terror.
With a frustrated sigh, Tuolonatl stood up and moved back to the two men.
“He sa
id that he served Cizinfozza?” she asked, and Matlal nodded. But Ataquixt insisted, “He did not know the name.”
“He said there was only one true god, the all-god, the creator of all,” Matlal said.
“Did he name Cizinfozza? Did he invoke the god of darkness and death?”
“No!” Ataquixt insisted when Matlal hesitated. “None of them have. Not here, not in any of the villages we have conquered, from what I have heard.”
“They are the children of Cizinfozza, by the words of Scathmizzane,” Matlal insisted, trying hard to keep his voice beneath the level of a shriek, but only barely succeeding. “That they have forgotten the name, or use some other name in their strange language, is irrelevant!”
“You will stop,” Tuolonatl pointedly told Matlal.
“Cochcal?”
“End your torture, of this man or any other. These are our prisoners now, and so in our care. They will not be mistreated in any way unless they take action against us.”
“My great commander?” the augur asked in blank disbelief.
“In any way,” Tuolonatl reiterated slowly and emphatically.
“They are the children of Cizinfozza!”
“And we are the children of Scathmizzane!” Tuolonatl shouted back in his face. “Of Glorious Gold, of the Light and the Truth and the Joy. Why would you have us behave as we would expect the children of Cizinfozza would act? Why would you have us emulate the worst of their ways?”
“We killed one in four of them in taking the town,” the augur reminded.
“And these remaining have surrendered and are thus in our care. We will show them the mercy and the beauty of Glorious Gold, for the sake of our souls—and, you fool, because it will make our task easier as we press on. Would you leave thousands of desperate and angry prisoners behind as we move forward, where our numbers about them will not be enough to control them, should they revolt?”
“I would leave thousands of corpses of the children of Cizinfozza,” the augur replied with conviction.
Song of the Risen God Page 20