Besieged (38 page)

Zabier was out cold. Oskane could hear men shouting, metal striking metal, and the soft thunk of weapons striking unprotected flesh.

Oskane shoved the lad off him and reached out. ‘Matxin?’

But Matxin lunged to grab Nitzel. Moving with surprising speed, the old baron twisted free and made a run for it. He tripped over Zabier and fell across Oskane.

The impact almost made Oskane pass out.

Matxin leant forward, caught Nitzel by what was left of his hair and spoke so that only the three of them could hear.

‘Yesterday, I replaced the sacrificial plait with one that had no gift residue, and I primed your stupid grandson with talk of how unfair it was that a carpenter’s son, a half-blood at that, had the honour of communicating with the gods. Everything that happened here tonight, happened because I planned it. I’ve waited half my life for this day; now don’t you wish you’d let my sister live?’

And he snapped Nitzel’s neck.

‘See, that is how it is done, Uncle.’ Matxin calmly knelt and looked into Oskane’s face. His eyes widened. ‘You look terrible.’

Oskane caught his arm. ‘I’m sick, I need–’

‘I don’t think anything but a god’s intervention is going to help now, Uncle. At least you lived long enough to see Sorna avenged and Nitzel’s line ended. None of his blood will leave this place alive.’

‘Izteben...’

‘Taken. But he served his purpose. You lost sight of it, Uncle. You lived with Wyrds so long you forgot True-men would never accept them as the gods’ messengers.’

Matxin sprang to his feet. Nearby, a woman sobbed uncontrollably.

‘Someone shut her up!’ Matxin ordered. The woman fell silent abruptly. ‘The rest of you, sit down and be quiet.’

Oskane was having trouble seeing, but he identified the bodies of Nitzel’s supporters sprawled on the steps. Their spilled blood looked black in the moonlight. The terrified church leaders returned to their seats as directed, while a score of men-at-arms awaited Matxin’s next order.

‘Tonight you saw the gods in action,’ Matxin said, his voice echoing around the amphitheatre. ‘You saw them claim a half-blood as their sacrifice. You saw them take the unworthy prince and strike down his grandfather. The gods have chosen me to rule Chalcedonia. My first promise? No more unfair taxes.’

His men cheered but it was not a happy sound. It held the eager edge of greed and ambition.

‘No more gold squandered on a palace to rival the Wyrd palaces.’

More cheers.

Zabier groaned.

‘The gods spared this boy’s life.’ Matxin leant down and helped him to his feet. Sweet-faced, biddable Zabier. The baron leant close. ‘What was that? You’ve had a vision? Praise be the Seven!’ He turned to the watchers. ‘This is the Father’s-voice.’

His supporters cheered again.

Matxin knelt beside Oskane, who could no longer feel his legs or his hands.

‘We need your ring, Uncle, as a sign that the leadership of the church passes to the lad,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Oskane could not have stopped him.

Matxin raised his voice. ‘What was that, Uncle?’ Pause. ‘Why, thank you.’

He stood, holding up the ruby ring. ‘My uncle, High Priest Oskane, gives his blessing to High Priest Father’s-voice Zabier, along with his ring.’

And Matxin’s supporters cheered once more. But the sound faded as a wave of numbness travelled up Oskane’s body. He had time for one last thought –
I’m dying
...

PART TWO

Chapter Thirty-One

Year 308

S
ORNE FELT HELPLESS.
‘Can I get you anything?’

‘What do you think?’ Franto snapped. His body might have betrayed him, but his mind was as keen as ever. ‘There’s a lump under my ribs and it’s going to kill me.’

It was true. The king’s healer, Baron Etri, had examined Franto and shaken his head.

Dying was one thing, dying by degrees in agony...

For three days now, Franto hadn’t eaten. He’d had the shakes and a high fever, and had vomited repeatedly.

And for the past three days they’d been camped below the Khitan ruler’s summer palace in the foothills of the mountains, waiting for him to surrender; he had nowhere else to run.

Franto grimaced and groaned in pain. His breath came in short, sharp gasps and his skin shone with sweat. Sorne wished he could do something, but Baron Etri had run out of pain relief. In fact, he’d run out of most of his medical supplies when the flux had swept through the camp.

Now Sorne hardly ever left Franto’s side. They ate only food they had personally washed and prepared according to Franto’s strict instructions. They were just as scrupulous in their ablutions and, when Sorne did venture out, he went hooded, with his mouth and nose covered. But none of this would help the little True-Man. He was close to death now.

If this was what happened when you became old, Sorne never wanted to grow old. He would be eighteen this winter’s cusp and he’d much rather die on the battlefield than in a camp tent, bathed in sweat and reeking of illness.

He’d seen glorious triumph when King Charald claimed Port Khitan; he’d been there to see them raise the symbol of the Seven above the Khitite gods. On that day, Charald had insisted Sorne personally thank the Warrior god for the vision that prompted all this. The rest of the time he’d travelled in a closed cart.

Franto shuddered.

‘Wine,’ Sorne suggested. ‘Lots of wine...’

‘There is one thing you could give me. A knife with a keen edge.’

Sorne flinched. Franto had always been fair and, from a purely selfish point of view, Sorne did not want to lose him. He didn’t see how he would manage without Franto’s advice.

But Sorne couldn’t bear to see him suffer anymore.

Going to his chest, he retrieved the ceremonial dagger Oskane had given him. He examined the edge and decided there was no need to get out the whetstone. Returning to Franto’s side, he placed the knife in the old man’s hand and closed his fingers around it. ‘You can’t get much sharper than this.’

Franto spoke in a rush. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here to help you. Beware the king when he gets in one of his states. It’s not natural to go days with almost no sleep. When he’s like that, his temper is dangerous. The moment he’s crossed, he’ll turn vicious.’

‘I’ve seen it... well, heard it.’ They’d both been in the back of the king’s tent when a messenger had arrived with the news that Baron Uldarvo had failed to cut off the Khitite king’s retreat to his summer palace.

‘Tell Oskane I was faithful to the last. Now, go see if there is a message from him.’

That seemed unlikely, and Sorne was about to say so, when he realised what Franto was doing. ‘Which god do you want your soul entrusted to?’

The little man’s mouth twisted with contempt. ‘We both know there are no gods.’

‘Then why serve...’

He shook his head and waved Sorne off.

Blinded by tears, Sorne wrapped a scarf around his lower face, then threw his hooded cloak over his shoulders.

‘And Sorne?’

‘Yes?’

‘Charald likes warring. It makes him feel powerful because underneath, he secretly fears he is not worthy.’

Sorne blinked. The king not worthy?

‘When Charald crushes an enemy, he feels like a god,’ Franto whispered. ‘Remember this and you have the key to him. Now go.’

Sorne made his way out into the night. Above him, the summer palace perched on the end of a high spur.

Meanwhile, the army was like a plague of rats, devouring everything in its path. The longer they remained in one place, the further they had to range to find food and the more men came down with the bloody flux. He’d heard the men talking. They worried they would not live to sail home this winter.

Home... He missed Izteben and Zabier, missed Hiruna’s singing and little Valendia’s cheeky smile.

Nearing the king’s tent, he heard men arguing.

‘I won’t do it,’ one of the night-watchmen said. ‘You saw what the king did to the baron’s messenger.’

‘Someone has to tell Charald.’

‘Tell the king what?’ Sorne asked.

They turned to Sorne with relief, which made him distinctly uneasy.

‘Warrior’s-voice.’ One of the men acknowledged his status, though he still made the sign to ward off Wyrd power.

Sorne spotted a brass cylinder, the sort that contained news from Chalcedonia; bad news, no doubt. Nitzel’s death? Had Oskane struck already? Sorne felt a stab of disappointment. He resented being here in Khitan while events unfolded back home. ‘You have a message for the king?’

‘I do, Warrior’s-voice.’

‘I’ll deliver it.’

The man handed it over to him. This must be very bad news, indeed. But knowledge was power. Sorne returned to his side of the royal tent.

‘Franto?’ he called.

The little True-man had climbed out of his bedroll and dressed himself in his simple white robe before taking his life. He lay on the carpet on his side. There was surprisingly little blood; he was as efficient in death as he had been in life.

Sorne let his breath out slowly. He was on his own now.

With some trepidation, he sat cross-legged next to Franto’s body and took off the cylinder’s cap, to find two scrolls inside. One had the royal seal and one was addressed to him in Zabier’s handwriting. This he opened first, wondering why Izteben hadn’t written.

Because, as Zabier wrote, Izteben had been claimed by the gods.

Anger sliced through Sorne like a blade. Heart hammering, he forced himself to read the message again from the beginning.

So much to take in... Baron Nitzel and Prince Cedon dead. All of Nitzel’s sons dead. Sorne’s uncle, Matxin, the new king; Oskane dying after handing Zabier the ring and naming him the next high priest and Father’s-voice.

How had the offering gone so wrong? Izteben knew the danger. He read Zabier’s message again, but could find no reason for the ceremony to fail.

Hot rage rolled through Sorne, swelled in his throat threatening to choke him. Tears of angry loss scalded his cheeks.

When he could think again, Sorne glanced to the other message. Perhaps he could glean more from it. He held a knife in the flame, then slid it under the wax seal and unrolled the scroll, to find an official proclamation.

King Matxin of Chalcedonia had decreed Charald’s rule illegal, and the eight barons who’d sailed with him traitors. Their sons or younger brothers had been offered the choice of banishment, or swearing allegiance to him. It did not say, but Sorne suspected they’d chosen the latter.

The document went on to explain that only untainted True-men could rule Chalcedonia, and since Charald had shared the womb with a half-blood twin he was tainted. As proof of this, the Father’s church held the official signed confession of former High Priest Oskane, who had been present at Charald’s birth. So Oskane had always intended to bring Charald down along with Baron Nitzel.

Sorne swore softly. Chalcedonia must be buzzing with the news. No wonder the messenger did not want to be present when the king read this.

But Oskane’s sudden death left Sorne in a difficult position. He was stranded halfway across the known world, with a dethroned king and a flux-ravaged army with no support, no supplies and nowhere to call home.

‘Seven save us,’ Sorne whispered, then heard what he’d said. No one was going to save him. When the king got the news, he would want to know why the gods hadn’t foreseen it. He may even come to the conclusion that Sorne was not the Warrior’s-voice, and his patron god had deserted him.

Panic made Sorne’s stomach churn.

The king would want to sail right back to Chalcedonia and retake his kingdom.

Oskane had handed Matxin the throne.

It was Sorne’s duty to give his uncle time to consolidate his rule. But how?

By convincing Charald this was all part of the Warrior god’s plan. Why would the Warrior make Charald suffer in this way?

Oskane had assumed the gods were testing him. The Warrior could be testing Charald. Four more mainland kingdoms lay between them and Chalcedonia. Sorne could claim that this was a sign from the Warrior, and Charald’s duty was to conquer the heathen kingdoms. Only then would the Warrior consider him worthy to rule Chalcedonia.

This would require another vision, so he could do nothing until season’s cusp. In the meantime, Charald could consolidate his hold on Khitan, which would give them time to find a suitable place for the offering.

Sorne’s loyalty was to his uncle, not to King Charald, the father who had repudiated him. He could not return home until Charald got himself killed in battle. The king was old, nearly forty-five. Few True-men lived past fifty. Charald would not live to see Chalcedonia again.

As Sorne considered the enormity of the plans he was about to set in motion, he stared at Franto’s slack face. ‘You picked a fine time to die.’

Which gave him an idea.

He melted the underside of the wax seal and resealed the royal decree, returning it to the message cylinder, before burning the message from Zabier.

Slinging the message cylinder over his shoulder, Sorne carried Franto’s body through to the king’s chamber and arranged him on the carpet in front of the king’s favourite chair, as though he had delivered the message then killed himself.

Sorne placed the brass cylinder in front of Franto.

Then he retreated to his alcove, put out the lamp, stripped naked and lay down on his bedroll to wait. His mind raced as he listened for Charald’s return.

A little later, the king and his barons enter the tent. He heard Charald’s exclamation of surprise, followed by his curses, calling on the Seven. Then the king called for the Warrior’s-voice.

Sorne rolled out of bed, tugged on a pair of breeches and was lacing them up as he answered the king’s summons.

‘What’s this?’ Charald pointed to Franto and the brass cylinder.

‘Dead?’ Sorne dropped to his knees to examine Franto. He looked up, pretending to be devastated. ‘He killed himself. His stomach was giving him trouble, but... why would he...’ Sorne’s gaze fell on the message cylinder. ‘Seven save us. What could it say?’ Very gingerly, he picked up the cylinder and offered it to the king.