The Hidden City (25 page)

‘Vanion? You wouldn't understand. You couldn't even begin to comprehend it.' She stood, her face defiant. ‘Do whatever it is you have to do and leave. The very sight of you sickens me.'

‘Very well,' His face was suddenly as cold as stone.

She was not really surprised when he drew a long bronze dagger out from under his jerkin. In spite of everything, he was still Styric enough to loathe the touch of steel. ‘You have no idea of how much I regret this,' he told her as he came closer.

She tried to struggle, clawing at his face and eyes. She even felt a momentary sense of triumph when she seized his beard and saw him wince with pain. She jerked at his beard, sawing his face this way and that as she called out for help, but then he jerked free, roughly shoving her back from him. She stumbled back and half-fell over a chair, and that was what ultimately defeated her. Even as she struggled to regain her feet, he caught her by the hair, and she knew that she was lost. Despairing, she drew Vanion's face from her memory, filling her eyes and heart with his features even as she attempted again to claw at Zalasta's eyes.

And then he drove the dagger directly into her breast and wrenched it free again.

She cried out, falling back and clutching at the wound, feeling the blood spurting out between her fingers.

He caught her in his arms. ‘I love you, Sephrenia,' he said in a broken voice as the light faded from her eyes.

‘I can't find anybody willing to stay in one place long enough for me to ask him any questions,' Komier growled when he returned late one cloudy afternoon with his scouts. He looked sourly back across the empty, winter-fallow fields all neatly bordered with low stone walls, carefully shifting his broken right arm. ‘These Astellian serfs all take one look at us and bolt for the woods like frightened deer.'

‘What's ahead?' Darellon asked him. Darellon's helmet hung from his saddlebow, one side so crushed in that it no longer fit his bandaged head. His eyes were unfocused, and his bandage was blood-soaked.

Komier took out his map and studied it. ‘We're coming to the River Astel,' he replied. ‘We saw a city over on the other side – Darsas, most likely. I couldn't catch anybody to tell me for sure, though. I'm not the prettiest fellow in the world, but I've never had people flee from me in terror like this before.'

‘Emban warned us about that,' Bergsten said. ‘The countryside's crawling with agitators. They're telling the serfs that we've all got horns and tails and that we're coming here to burn down their churches and ram assorted heresies down their throats at sword-point. This fellow called Sabre seems to be the one behind it all.'

‘He's the one I want,' Komier muttered darkly. I think I'll run him down and set him up as the centerpiece in a bonfire.'

‘Let's not stir up the locals any more than they already are, Komier,' Darellon cautioned. ‘We're not in any
condition for confrontations at the moment.' He glanced back at the battered column and the long string of wagons bearing the gravely wounded.

‘Did you see any signs of organized resistance?' Heldin asked Komier.

‘Not yet. I expect we'll find out how things really stand when we get to Darsas. If the bridge across the Astel's been torn down and the tops of the city walls are lined with archers, we'll know that Sabre's message of peace and goodwill's reached the people in authority.' The Genidian Preceptor's face darkened, and he squared his shoulders. ‘That's all right. I've fought my way into towns before, so it won't be a new experience.'

‘You've already managed to get Abriel and about a third of the Church Knights killed, Komier,' Bergsten told him pointedly. ‘I'd say that your place in history's secure. Let's try a bit of negotiation before we start battering down gates and burning houses.'

‘You've had a clever mouth ever since we were novices, Bergsten. I should have done something about it before you put on that cassock.'

Bergsten hefted his war-axe a couple of times. I can take my cassock off any time it suits you, old friend,' he offered.

‘You're getting side-tracked, gentlemen,' Darellon said, his speech slightly slurred. ‘Our wounded need attention. This isn't the time to pick fights – either with the local population or with each other. I think the four of us should ride on ahead under a flag of truce and find out which way the wind's blowing before we start building siege-engines.'

‘Am I hearing the voice of reason here?' Heldin rumbled mildly.

They tied a gleaming white Cyrinic cape to Sir Heldin's lance and rode ahead through the cheerless afternoon to the west bank of the River Astel.

The city beyond the river was clearly Elene, an ancient town with soaring towers and spires. It stood proudly and solidly on the far shore of the river under its snapping pennons of red and blue and gold proclaiming, or so it seemed, that it had always been there and always would be. It had high, thick walls and massive, closed gates. The bridge across the Astel was blocked by towering, bronze-faced warriors wearing minimal armor and carrying very unpleasant-looking weapons. ‘Atans,' Sir Heldin identified them. ‘We definitely don't want to fight those people.'

The ranks of bleak-faced infantry parted, and an ancient, wrinkled Tamul in a gold-colored mantle flanked by a vastly-bearded Astellian clergyman all in black came forward to meet them. ‘Well-met, Sir Knights,' the hairless old Tamul greeted the armored men in a dry, dusty voice. ‘King Alberen's a trifle curious as to your intentions. We don't see Church Knights in this part of the world very often.'

‘You would be Ambassador Fontan,' Bergsten said. ‘Emban described you very well.'

‘I thought he had better manners,' Fontan murmured.

Bergsten flashed him a brief smile. ‘You might want to send word back to the city, your Excellency. Assure His Majesty that our intentions are entirely peaceful.'

‘I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that.'

‘Emban and Sir Tynian came back to Chyrellos a couple months ago,' Bergsten continued. ‘Sparhawk sent word that things were getting out of hand here. Dolmant dispatched us to help restore order.' The huge Patriarch made a sour face. ‘We didn't get off to a very good start, I'm afraid. We had an unfortunate encounter near Basne and we have many wounded in need of medical attention.'

‘I'll send word to the nearby monasteries, Sir Knight,' the bearded clergyman standing at Fontan's elbow offered.

‘Bergsten's not a knight any more, your Reverence,' Komier corrected him. ‘He
used
to be, but God had other plans for him. He's a Patriarch of the Church now. He prays well enough, I suppose, but we haven't been able to get his axe away from him yet.'

‘My manners must be slipping,' Fontan apologized. ‘My friend here is Archimandrite Monsel, the duly anointed head of the Church of Astel.'

‘Your Grace.' Bergsten inclined his head politely.

‘Your Grace,' Monsel replied, looking curiously at the warlike clergyman. ‘Your friend Emban and I had some very stimulating discussions about our doctrinal differences. You and I might want to continue those, but let's see to your wounded first. How many injured men do you have?'

‘Twenty thousand or so, your Grace,' Komier answered bleakly. ‘It's a little hard to keep an exact count. A few score die on us every hour or so.'

‘What in God's name did you encounter up in those mountains?' Monsel gasped.

‘The King of Hell, as closely as we can determine, your Grace,' Darellon replied. ‘We left thirty thousand dead on the field – mostly Cyrinics. Lord Abriel, their Preceptor, led the charge, and his knights followed closely behind him. They were fully engaged before they realized what they were up against.' He sighed. ‘Abriel was nearing seventy, and he seemed to think he was leading his last charge.'

‘He was right about that,' Komier grunted sourly. ‘There wasn't enough of him left to bury.'

‘He died well, though,' Heldin added. ‘Do you have any fast messengers available, your Excellency? Sparhawk and Vanion are counting on us to reach Matherion as soon as possible, so we'd probably better let them know that we're going to be delayed.'

* * *

‘His name's Valash,' Stragen told Sparhawk and Talen as the three of them, still wearing their tar-smeared sailor's smocks, stepped out of the noisy, torch-lit street into a dark, foul-smelling alley. ‘He and his two friends are Dacites from Verel.'

‘Have you been able to find out who they're working for?' Sparhawk asked him as they stopped to let their eyes adjust to the darkness and their noses to the smell. The alleys of Beresa were particularly unpleasant.

‘I heard one of them mention Ogerajin,' Stragen replied. ‘It makes sense, I guess. Ogerajin and Zalasta seem to be old friends.'

‘I thought Ogerajin's brains were rotting out,' Talen objected.

‘Maybe he has lucid moments. It doesn't really matter who sent them, though. While they're here, they're reporting to Krager. As closely as I can make out, they've been sent here to assess the damage we did to them during the Harvest Festival and to pick up any bits and pieces of information that fall to hand. They've got money, but they don't want to turn much of it loose. They're in this strictly for gain – and for the chance to seem important.'

‘Does Krager come here to get their reports?' Sparhawk asked.

‘He hasn't recently. Valash communicates with him by messenger. These three Dacites are seriously out of their depth here. They want to hold on to as much of the money Ogerajin gave them as they can, but they don't want to miss anything important. They aren't professionals by any stretch of the imagination. They spend most of their time trying to figure out some way to get information without paying for it.'

‘A swindler's dream,' Talen noted. ‘What did they do for a living back in Verel?'

‘They sold children to people whose tastes run in that
direction,' Stragen replied in a disgusted tone. ‘As I understand it, Ogerajin used to be one of their best customers.'

‘That puts them right at the bottom, doesn't it?'

‘Probably even lower than that.' Stragen glanced around to make sure they were alone. ‘Valash wants to meet you two.' Stragen pointed toward the end of the alley. ‘He's just up those stairs. He's renting a corner in the loft from a fellow who deals in stolen goods.'

Talen smiled a rather nasty little smile. ‘If these Dacites happened to pass too much erroneous information and false rumors on to Krager, he might just decide that they've outlived their usefulness, wouldn't you say?'

‘Probably,' Stragen shrugged.

‘That sort of stirs my creativity.'

‘Oh? Why's that?'

‘I don't like people who sell children. It's a personal sort of thing. Let's go meet this Valash. I'd like to find out if he's as gullible as you say.'

They climbed a rickety outside stairway to a door that was flimsy and patched and showed some signs of having been kicked in a few times. The loft beyond the door was incredibly cluttered with all manner of worn clothing, battered furniture, and dented kitchen utensils. There were even broken farm tools gathering dust in the corners. ‘Some people will steal anything,' Talen sniffed.

A lone candle guttered on the far side of the room, and a bony Elene sat drowsing at a table by its uncertain light. He wore a short, green brocade jacket of a Daconian cut, and his sparse, mud-colored hair stood almost straight up, looking much like a thin, dirty halo round his gaunt head. As they crossed the loft toward him, he stirred himself and quickly picked up some papers and began to shuffle them in a self-important manner. He looked up with feigned impatience as they approached.
‘You're late, Vymer,' he accused in a high-pitched, nasal voice.