Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two Read online

  Arkády questioned Jánisar for a bit longer, but there was nothing more to be gained from the conversation, and each man had important tasks yet to be accomplished. As he hurried back to the city, the prince wondered in his own mind where this investigation would eventually lead before the great wheel of fate turned turtle once again, throwing them all into another cycle. Perhaps, he mused, it was best not to worry overmuch about such matters. There was an old saying among the commonfolk that fit the situation well:

  “Man proposes, but God disposes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “IS THIS NORMAL?”

  Hundreds of miles to the east, deep within the rolling hills of Arrhénë, the Archpriest Athanasios was beginning to develop a real hatred of rain. It had poured without relief now for at least three days, ever since he had transited to the count’s palace in Aszkán, and he could not imagine a more miserable existence. One of the servants told him they hadn’t seen the sun in two weeks.

  “Is this normal?” the hieromonk asked, making ordinary conversation.

  “We had one spring thirteen or fourteen years ago where it rained, off and on, for two months,” came the reply.

  No wonder the place was always so green! he thought, regarding his damp, moldy gear with disgust.

  Athanasios had been sent by the War Council to check the inventories of foodstuffs and materiel supporting the Arrhéni levies, which were supposed to gather here in another week for the trek to Paltyrrha. From what he had already seen, however, he doubted that they would be ready to march until mid-May.

  Only a thousand men had straggled into the capital thus far, and they were a wretched lot: wet, tattered, and poorly armed with old, rusty weaponry. The higher regions of the county were still snowbound, the rivers were overflowing their banks, and the mud was ubiquitous, in one’s footwear, clothing, bedrolls, and food. He had seen one man lose his boots that very afternoon to the sucking grip of the grasping goo, which ofttimes had the consistency of sticky clay pudding, and which in some places reached two or three feet deep.

  The boy Count Valentín was doing his best, he supposed, but something more was clearly required.

  “Count Sándor,” he shouted, as he spotted the commander of the regiment hurrying by, “I still need to talk to you about those supplies....”

  But he was ignored. Again.

  Why had they sent a cleric to deal with these country rubes? He sighed most heavily, and went back into the storehouse. There wasn’t enough food here to keep three thousand Arrhénis happy even for the trek to Paltyrrha, much less for an entire campaign. He looked out the door again, and spotted Lord Valentín Senior, the ruling count’s uncle and the commander’s younger brother, who was visiting from Susafön.

  “Your Excellency!” he yelled.

  The baron, a powerful man in his early thirties, slid to a stop, and saluted the archpriest, water dripping from his hand.

  “Father Athy,” he said, “how goes the quartermastering trade?”

  “Not well, sir,” the monk said, “not well at all. I’ve tried to convey to Count Sándor that this just won’t do. There’s not enough food here, there’s not enough variety of victuals, and what goods we have are rotting from the damp and being devoured by rats.”

  “Hmmm. And what did he say?” the baron asked.

  “I don’t know what he said,” Athy shouted in frustrated anger, “because he won’t talk to me. I can’t get an appointment to see him, and he doesn’t respond otherwise. What am I supposed to do?”

  Valentín scratched his bushy sideburns, idly popping a flea between thumb and finger.

  “Well, father, it’s like this, see. We had a bad winter here, and there aren’t any crops in yet. Nobody in these parts has much in the way of food stocks left after all the cold, wet weather, and we can’t just strip the peasants of their last supplies. We’d have a revolt on our hands. So, this is basically all we’ve got or are going to have. However, don’t worry about it: the men’ll make do. They always have. They’re used to getting by on minimal rations.”

  Suddenly Athanasios heard his name called, and Count Valentín Junior came bounding up, cheerful as a new pup.

  “Father Athy, how are you?” said the enthusiastic voice.

  “Count Val,” the archpriest said with real pleasure, “it’s good to see you again, sir.”

  The lad had been his student at the Scholê for two years, one of his more promising pupils there.

  “How’s your new life?” the priest asked.

  He gestured at the camp.

  “It’s great, father,” the boy said. “I just wish I could join this expedition with all the rest of you. But the king says I have to stay in Aszkán to guard the eastern frontier, so stay I will, I guess.”

  He sighed.

  “Uncle Sándy and Uncle Tine will get all the fun, and there won’t be any Walküri left for me to kill.”

  Athanasios snorted.

  “Oh, I think there’ll be plenty of enemies for you to fight, Val. We never seem to run out. But will you be ready to march on time?”

  “Uncle Sándor says we’ll be a week or two late,” the count said, “but ‘we’ll get there just the same.’ He says we’ll try to march for Paltyrrha by the first of May, two weeks from now.”

  Athanasios looked up at the dark skies threatening even more rain, and shuddered.

  “I think it’s time I returned to the capital,” he said. “I should attend the council meeting scheduled for this afternoon, and I have to report to them on the conditions here. Can I carry any messages from you to court?”

  The boy scrunched his face into a grimace.

  “I was supposed to write to Stepmamá,” he said, “and tell her how I’m doing, but I’ve been so busy these last two months trying to get the troops organized that....”

  “I understand. Do you want me to speak to her?” Athanasios asked.

  “Oh, would you?” Val said, much relieved. “I don’t want her to worry about me.”

  “I’d be happy to, sir.”

  The priest pulled his hood up over his head, and shivered.

  “Now, lead me to a dry place with a viridaurum transit mirror, if you please, and let me out of here. I’ll never complain about the heat again.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “EVERY HAND WILL BE TURNED AGAINST US”

  “...And so, sire,” Arkády concluded, speaking before the assembled council members, “we see the same hallmarks as before: an inexplicable death, an empty mind, and faint signs of tampering, with no indication of who did this or why, or even how it was done.”

  “Thank you, Highness,” Gorázd Lord Aboéty said. “Are there any questions?”

  The king motioned with his hand, and looked suspiciously around the room with his good eye.

  “I want to know who’s behind this. And I want him stopped. Now!”

  Arkády just stared at his father.

  “Sire,” he said, picking his words carefully, “I’m sure we all share your sentiments, but what do you propose we do? We’ve exhausted our resources.”

  “I don’t want excuses,” Kipriyán shouted back, glaring at each one of his ministers in turn. “I don’t want to hear excuses from any of you. Someone’s been tampering with the minds of my men. It’s the Dark-Haired Man, I’ll warrant. And if you’re not capable of finding him, maybe I’d better get someone who can. Well, I know what to do, even if you don’t. All of my ministers and all of my men must be checked regularly again for signs of mental interference.”

  “What?” several of the council members shouted in unison.

  “Who’ll do it?” asked another.

  “Since we can’t trust any of your minds,” the king said, looking furtively around the room, “Melanthrix can validate each of you.”

  “That charlatan!” Lord Vydór said. “He’s not even Psairothi. I can’t agree to this.”

  “You’ll do what you’re ordered to do,” Kipriyán said.

  Vydór slumped in his
chair, his skin pale. Finally, he raised his head and looked the king straight in his good eye.

  “No, sire, I shall not. I will not continue to participate in this charade, which is contrary both to the laws of God and the laws of man. If that doesn’t meet with your royal approval, then you can have my resignation from this council, effective immediately.”

  He rose from his chair, threw his badge of office on the table, and headed toward the door.

  “Arrest that man!” Kipriyán thundered.

  Two guards surrounded the baron, who shook off their arms. He turned back to the table.

  “So,” he said, “now it’s come to this. Those who render their advice honestly are to be called traitors. My king, I have followed you loyally for these past twenty years, through battles and tempests and even the thickets of political strife. Twice I saved your life on the field, once in the Åvarswood, once in Tretélgia. No one has been more steadfast than I. No one. And you’ve had no truer friend, my lord. But I’ll not have my mind tampered with by a non-Psairothi.”

  Arkády rose in his place.

  “Sire,” he said, seeking a compromise, “surely there must be another way to settle this. Let Fra Jánisar and his trained associates do the checking. They’ve investigated all of these recent deaths, they’re familiar with the hazards, and they’ll do an excellent job.”

  Metropolitan Timotheos hurriedly broke in to second Arkády’s proposal.

  “A sound idea, sire,” he said. “I assure you that the Church would frown on a non-Christian being involved in such a delicate procedure, particularly when it might affect the innermost workings of the government.”

  As others around the council room began to chime in with their agreements, Kipriyán was forced to back down.

  “Very well, I can see the wisdom of having more than one person involved in the scanning,” the monarch said, “although Jánisar himself could also be tainted. Therefore, to provide security against that possibility, Doctor Melanthrix will be present as an observer. That’s my final word on the subject. Lord Gorázd, order it done. Father Athanasios, record my words. Guards,” gesturing to the hapless Lord Vydór, “take the prisoner away.

  “Now, let us turn to more positive matters,” Kipriyán continued in a more normal voice. “I have confirmed Commander Rónai as General of the Army ad interim, pending your recommendations on a possible replacement. We should probably appoint a high-ranking nobleman as a titular leader, since Rónai comes from common stock. I’ll expect some suggestions before our next meeting. What I need to know now is the general readiness of our forces to meet the May deadline.”

  Prince Arkády had been preparing for this moment. Once more he rose in his seat, cleared his throat, and began his summation.

  “As of today, sire,” he said, “we have approximately five thousand infantry and cavalry gathered west of the city, with another two thousand troops and mercenaries in Bolémiagrad, and perhaps a thousand men each at Myláßgorod and Aszkán. I expect these forces to double within the next two weeks. Equipment has been harder to assemble, given the state of the roads; I would guess we’re at one-third complement. Another third may arrive by the first of the month, or it may not. I doubt whether we’ll be able to reach our overall target of fifteen to twenty thousand soldiers by then.”

  He wet his lips with a sip of water.

  “The core of the army,” he said, “about eight thousand men, consists of the battle-hardened remnants of the forces that fought the northerners over the last two decades. These soldiers are both well-trained and -disciplined, and should provide us with very few problems. We have a similar corps of highly experienced line officers. The remainder of the troops, perhaps half, consists of raw recruits who have never fought an engagement, and who only have a barest idea of which end of the sword to grasp. We’re in the process of providing some semblance of instruction to these men, but it’s minimal at best.”

  The prince looked up from his notes.

  “I have personally examined all of the major units over the last month, and I worked closely with Lord Feognóst in assessing their effectiveness. His recommendation to you today—I know this for a fact—would have been either to postpone the enterprise, for lack of readiness, or to cancel it altogether. I must concur with his evaluation.”

  There was a gasp from around the table as the councilors realized what the prince was saying.

  “No!” the king roared, rising in his seat. “Never! I won’t hear of it. We haven’t come this far just to retreat. Whatever problems we face are nothing to what the Walküri must be experiencing. This is our best chance in a hundred years. I’m determined to go forward with the expedition as quickly as possible, proceeding with our grand exit from Paltyrrha, as planned, on the first day of May.”

  Arkády lowered his head and looked at the pattern of the growth rings on the oaken table. He traced one of the whorls with his finger tip, as he pondered his next move.

  “Father,” he said, looking up again, “I beg you to reconsider. The Walküri may indeed be having similar problems in readying their forces; in fact, I’m sure they are, because I’ve been receiving assessment reports from our scouts and spies in Pommerelia. But there’s a difference.

  “When the barbarians invaded Kórynthia,” he continued, “our nation was rightfully outraged at the burning of Sevyerovínsk and the murder of thousands of innocent merchants and farmers there and in Arrhénë. They responded with an outpouring of men and materiel that was unprecedented in our history, because they realized that the very existence of the land was at stake. We waged war for an entire generation, finally destroying the barbarians at Åvargorod.”

  The prince sipped again from the cup of water in front of him.

  “But this is our enterprise, our doing, and we can expect the people of Pommerelia to react in the same way as we did years ago. Every farmer will be our enemy, every merchant a spy, every boy who can lift a pitchfork will dream of becoming a hero. Every hand will be turned against us, and they will nibble at our heels like a pack of mad dogs. And when we turn to kick them back, they’ll scamper away just out of our reach. Sire, I have no doubts about the bravery of our men. I have no doubts about the courage of our leadership. But I do doubt the justice of our cause. The signs are not good. The morale of our men has been lowered by the bizarre suicide of their commander. Cancel this expedition, or at least postpone it until we can get our forces together.”

  The king’s face turned a furious red, and he had to gasp for breath several times, before he could finally force himself to speak.

  “I never thought to hear my first-born son utter such nonsense,” he said. “If any one of my sons wishes to remove himself from the succession”—he looked in Arkády’s direction—“speak now, so another may be appointed in his place. If any one of my officers wishes to run away home before he soils his pretty dress uniform in battle, let him step forward now, and be retired by the scorn of all the brave men assembled at Katonaí. And if there are any cowards present in this room, let them remove themselves without penalty, save one thing only, that I shall not speak to them ever again upon this earth. The enterprise shall be launched on schedule.”

  The prince gazed back at his father with great sadness.

  “Sire,” he said softly, “I have always been loyal to you, and I will follow you unto the ends of the earth, as your ever-faithful hound. Should you doubt this my word, which is spoken with all of the honor of a member of the House of Tighris, then tell me now, and I shall renounce my rights in favor of my eldest son, Prince Arión.”

  Again, there was a gasp of disbelief from the assembled lords. No one there had ever heard such acrimony between the royals aired so publicly.

  The king began to say something, then paused a moment, obviously in confusion.

  “Damn the Dark-Haired Man!” he suddenly bellowed, “damn him, damn him, damn him, damn him,” pounding the table in counterpoint with his hands till it shook.

  The councilor
s looked back and forth to each other in consternation.

  “This meeting is adjourned!” Kipriyán finally said, beating both of his hands upon the hard oak surface, “adjourned, adjourned, adjourned!”

  And so it was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “PRAY FOR US ALL”

  Later that afternoon the Holy Synod of the Church of Kórynthia met in formal assembly in the annex of Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in Paltyrrha, presided over by the octogenarian Avraäm IV Kôrbinos, Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the old man said, bowing his head. “Let us pray.”

  After some small time spent in contemplation and self-examination, the secretary of the synod, the Protopresbyter Varlaám Njégosh, introduced the matter which had prompted this meeting. Varlaám was a man of about forty years, distinguished by the prominent hawk nose and widow’s peak of his ancient noble family, which hailed from Érskeburg east of Arrhénë.

  “My lords spiritual,” he said, wheezing, “metropolitans and archbishops, Thrice Holy Patriarch”—he bowed unctuously in the direction of their leader—“a matter has been brought before us that requires your most urgent attention. Permission has been sought by the king to bury the late Lord Feognóst, a suicide, in hallowed ground, something that is clearly forbidden under canon law. Because this is a matter of great import, involving one of the leaders of state, the Archbishop of Paltyrrha”—he again nodded in the direction of Avraäm—“has asked for your advice in synod before rendering a reply to King Kyprianos. What say you?”

  Ismaêl Metropolitan of Myláßgorod, whose beard reached down almost to his broad waist, spoke first, being the senior serving member of the group.

  “The law is clear on this matter. If Lord Feognóst died by his own hand, then he must not be interred in hallowed soil.”