Dolmant held the five Patriarchs who had so recently returned to his ranks in reserve. Disguised in mismatched armour, they sat with a platoon of Church Knights in a squadroom not far from the audience chamber.
After the Hierocracy had come to order, Patriarch Makova rose to his feet and placed the name of Primate Annias in nomination for the Archprelacy. His nominating speech went on for almost an hour, but the applause greeting it was not particularly fulsome. Then Dolmant rose and nominated Ortzel. Dolmant’s speech was more to the point, but it was followed by more enthusiastic applause.
‘Do they vote now?’ Talen whispered to Sparhawk.
‘I don’t know,’ Sparhawk admitted. ‘That’s up to Makova. He’s holding the chair at the moment.’
‘I’d really like to see a vote, Sparhawk,’ Talen said urgently.
‘Aren’t you sure of your numbers?’ Sparhawk said it with a certain apprehension.
‘Of course I am, but numbers are only numbers. A lot of things can happen when you get people involved in something. Take that, for example.’ Talen pointed at a page hurriedly carrying a note from the nine uncommitted Patriarchs to Dolmant. ‘What are they up to now?’
‘They probably want to know why Dolmant suddenly stopped offering them money,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Their votes are worthless at this point, although they probably don’t fully understand that as yet.’
‘What do you think they’ll do now?’
‘Who knows?’ Sparhawk shrugged, ‘and who cares?’
Makova, standing at the lectern, glanced over a sheaf of notes. Then he looked up and cleared his throat. ‘Before we move on to our initial vote, my brothers,’ he began, ‘a matter of great urgency has just come to my attention. As some of you may be aware, the Zemochs are massing on the eastern border of Lamorkand with obviously warlike intent. I believe that we may expect with some certainty that Otha will invade the west – possibly within the next few days. It is, therefore, vital that the deliberations of this body be concluded with all possible haste. Our new Archprelate will be faced almost immediately upon his elevation with the direst crisis to face our Church and her faithful sons in the past five centuries.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Sir Bevier whispered to Sparhawk. ‘Everybody in Chyrellos knows that Otha’s already in eastern Lamorkand.’
‘He’s stalling,’ Sparhawk said, frowning, ‘but he doesn’t have any reason to stall.’
‘What’s Annias up to?’ Tynian asked, glaring across the audience chamber at the Primate of Cimmura, who sat smiling smugly.
‘He’s waiting for something to happen,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘What?’
‘I don’t have any idea, but Makova’s going to keep talking until it does.’
Then Berit slipped into the audience chamber, his face pale and his eyes wild. He half-stumbled up the stairs and pushed his way along the bench to where Sparhawk sat. ‘Sir Sparhawk!’ he burst out.
‘Keep your voice down, Berit!’ Sparhawk hissed. ‘Sit down and pull yourself together!’
Berit sat and drew in a deep breath.
‘All right,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Speak quietly and tell us what’s happening.’
‘There are two armies approaching Chyrellos, My Lord,’ the novice said tersely.
‘Two?’ Ulath said in some surprise. Then he spread his hands. ‘Maybe Wargun split his forces for some reason.’
‘It’s not King Wargun’s army, Sir Ulath,’ Berit said. ‘As soon as we saw them coming, some Church Knights rode out to find out just who was approaching the city. The ones coming down from the north seem to be Lamorks.’
‘Lamorks?’ Tynian asked, puzzled. ‘What are they doing here? They should be on the border facing Otha.’
‘I don’t think these particular Lamorks are interested in Otha, My Lord,’ Berit told him. ‘Some of the knights who rode out were Pandions, and they identified the leaders of the Lamork army as Adus and Krager.’
‘What?’ Kalten exclaimed.
‘Keep it quiet, Kalten!’ Sparhawk grated. ‘And the other army, Berit?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.
‘Mostly Rendors, My Lord, but there are a fair number of Cammorians as well.’
‘And their leader?’
‘Martel, My Lord.’
PART TWO
The Archprelate
Chapter 10
Patriarch Makova’s voice droned on and on as morning sunlight streamed into the audience chamber through the foot-thick, triangular panes of leaded crystal in a large round window high up in the wall behind the shrouded throne of the Archprelate. Dust motes hovered golden in those morning streams of light, tracing the elongated outline of each perfect triangle in the still, unmoving air. Makova spoke at great length about the horrors of the Zemoch war some five centuries ago and then went into a detailed analysis of the failures of Church policy during that period of turmoil.
Sparhawk scribbled a brief note to Dolmant, Emban and the Preceptors to advise them of the armies approaching the Holy City.
‘Will the church soldiers defend Chyrellos?’ Bevier whispered.
‘I think the best we can hope for is some token resistance,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘What’s keeping Wargun?’ Kalten demanded of Ulath.
‘I can’t even begin to guess.’
‘Might this not be a good time to make our apologies and leave quietly?’ Tynian suggested. ‘Makova’s not really telling us anything we don’t already know.’
‘Let’s see what Dolmant says first,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I don’t want to give Annias any clues about what we might do at this point. We know why he was stalling now, but let’s see what he does next. It’s going to take Martel a while to deploy his forces anyway, so we’ve got time yet.’
‘Not very much,’ Tynian muttered.
‘The usual course of action in such circumstances is to demolish the bridges,’ Bevier advised. ‘That would delay the approaching armies.’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘There are ten different bridges across those two rivers, Bevier, and we only have four hundred knights. I don’t think we dare risk those men just for the sake of a few hours’ delay.’
‘Not to mention the fact that the Lamorks coming from the north won’t have any bridges to cross at all,’ Tynian added.
The door to the ornate audience chamber opened, and an excited monk hurried to the lectern, his sandals slapping on the polished marble floor and the breath of his passing setting the illuminated dust-motes hanging in the sunny triangles to swirling and dancing. The monk bowed deeply and handed Makova a folded sheet of paper.
Makova quickly read the message, and a thin smile of triumph crossed his pock-marked face. ‘I have just received some important information, my brothers,’ he announced. ‘Two sizeable bodies of pilgrims are approaching Chyrellos. While I know that many of us are other-worldly and abstracted from current events, it’s no secret that certain tensions exist in Eosia at this time. Mightn’t it be wise of us to adjourn so that we may use such resources available to us to gather more information about these men so that we might better assess the situation?’ He looked around. ‘Without objection, it is so ordered. The Hierocracy stands in recess until tomorrow morning.’
‘Pilgrims,’ Ulath snorted contemptuously as he rose to his feet.
Sparhawk, however, sat staring hard across the chamber at the Primate of Cimmura, who looked back at him with a faint smile on his face.
Vanion had risen with the other Patriarchs and looked quickly up at Sparhawk. He made a curt motion with one hand and moved towards the door.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Sparhawk muttered to his friends over the sound of the excited conversation in the chamber. The black-robed Patriarchs were filing slowly towards the door, their progress impeded by knots of their brothers who had stopped to discuss the matter. Sparhawk led his armoured friends out to the stairway and then down to the marble floor of the audience chamber. The big Pandion resisted his impatient i
mpulse to shove assorted clergymen out of his way as he descended.
He encountered Annias near the door. ‘Ah, there you are, Sparhawk,’ the thin, grey-faced Primate of Cimmura said with a faintly malicious smile. ‘Do you plan to visit the city wall to witness the approach of the throngs of the faithful?’
Sparhawk kept a very tight rein on his temper at that point. ‘Interesting notion, neighbour,’ he drawled in a tone hovering on insult, ‘but I thought I might go and have a bite of lunch instead. Would you care to join me, Annias? Sephrenia’s roasting a goat, I think. Roast goat thickens the blood, I’m told, and you’ve been looking just a bit watery of late, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘So kind of you to invite me, Sparhawk, but I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. Church business, you understand.’
‘Of course. Oh, by the way, Annias, when you speak with Martel, give him my regards. Tell him how eager I am to continue the conversation we began back in Dabour.’
‘I’ll be certain to tell him, Sir Knight. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ There was a faint look of annoyance on the Primate’s face as he turned and went out through the wide doorway.
‘What was that all about?’ Tynian asked.
‘You have to know Sparhawk a little better,’ Kalten told him. ‘He’d have died before he gave Annias any satisfaction right there. He didn’t even blink when I broke his nose. He just gave me a friendly smile and then kicked me in the stomach.’
‘Did you blink?’
‘No, as a matter of fact, I was too busy trying to get my breath back. What are we doing, Sparhawk?’
‘Vanion wants to talk with us.’
The Preceptors of the militant orders were talking together tensely just to one side of the huge door. Patriarch Emban of Ucera was with them. ‘I think our major concern at the moment is the condition of the city gates,’ Preceptor Abriel was saying. Abriel’s burnished armour and his gleaming white surcoat and cloak gave him a deceptively saint-like appearance, but there was not much of saintliness in his face just now.
‘Do you think we can count on the church soldiers at all?’ the blue-cloaked Preceptor Darellon asked. Darellon was a slender man and seemed not quite robust enough to carry his heavy Deiran armour. ‘They could demolish the bridges at least.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ Emban said bluntly. ‘They take their orders from Annias, and Annias isn’t likely to put any impediments in the way of this Martel person. Sparhawk, exactly what are we facing out there?’
‘You tell him, Berit,’ Sparhawk told the raw-boned young novice. ‘You’re the one who actually saw them.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ Berit agreed. ‘We have Lamorks coming down from the north, Your Grace,’ he told Emban, ‘and Cammorians and Rendors coming up from the south. Neither army is actually massive, but in combination they’re serious enough to threaten the Holy City.’
‘This army to the south,’ Emban said, ‘how are they deployed?’
‘The Cammorians are in the van, Your Grace, and covering the flanks. The Rendors are in the centre and bringing up the rear.’
‘Are they wearing those traditional black Rendorish robes?’ Emban pressed, his eyes intent.
‘It’s rather difficult to say, Your Grace,’ Berit replied. ‘They’re beyond the rivers and there’s a great deal of dust out there. They seemed to be dressed differently from the Cammorians, though. That’s about all I can really say.’
‘I see. Vanion, is this young man any good?’
‘Very good, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk answered for his Preceptor. ‘We have high expectations for him.’
‘Good. Can I borrow him? And I think I’ll want your squire Kurik as well. I need something, and I want them to go and get it for me.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Go with him, Berit. Kurik’s at the chapterhouse. You can pick him up there.’
Emban waddled away with Berit close behind him.
‘We’d better split up, My Lords,’ Preceptor Komier suggested. ‘Let’s go and have a look at those gates. Ulath, you’re with me.’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Sparhawk,’ Vanion said, ‘you come with me. Kalten, I want you to stay close to Patriarch Dolmant. Annias might try to take advantage of the confusion, and Dolmant’s the one he has to worry about the most. Do your very best to keep His Grace inside the Basilica. It’s a little safer in here.’ Vanion put on his plumed black helmet and turned with a swirl of his inky cloak.
‘Which way, My Lord?’ Sparhawk asked when they emerged from the Basilica and started down the marble steps to the broad court below.
‘We’ll go to the south gate,’ Vanion said grimly. ‘I want to have a look at Martel.’
‘Right,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I’d be the last in the world to say “I told you so”, Vanion, but I did, you know. I wanted to kill Martel right from the start.’
‘Don’t push it, Sparhawk,’ Vanion snapped tersely as he hauled himself up into his saddle. His face became grimly set. ‘The situation’s changed, though. You have my permission now.’
‘It’s a little late,’ Sparhawk muttered as he mounted Faran.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing, My Lord.’
The south gate of the city of Chyrellos had not been closed for over two centuries, and its condition was painfully obvious. Many of its timbers showed signs of dry rot, and the massive chains that operated it were thick with rust. Vanion took one look and shuddered. ‘Totally indefensible,’ he growled. ‘I could kick that thing down all by myself. Let’s go on top of the wall, Sparhawk. I want to see these armies.’
The top of the city wall was crowded with citizens, artisans, merchants and common labourers. There was an almost holiday air in the colourfully-dressed throng as they milled about atop the wall, gaping at the approaching army.
‘Watch who you’re shoving,’ one workman said belligerently to Sparhawk. ‘We got our right to look the same as you.’ He smelled strongly of cheap ale.
‘Go somewhere else and look, neighbour,’ Sparhawk told him.
‘You can’t order me around. I got my rights.’
‘You want to look, is that it?’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
Sparhawk seized him by the front of his canvas smock, lifted him out over the edge of the wall and dropped him. The wall was about fifteen feet high at that point, and the breath whooshed out of the drunken labourer as he hit the ground. ‘The approaching army’s out that way, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said pleasantly, leaning out over the edge and pointing southward. ‘Why don’t you stroll on out there and have a closer look – just to exercise your rights?’
‘You can be very abrasive when you set your mind to it, Sparhawk,’ Vanion chided his friend.
‘I didn’t like his attitude,’ Sparhawk grunted. ‘Neighbours,’ he said then to those crowded around them, ‘would anyone else like to assert his rights?’ He glanced over the wall. The drunken labourer was scrambling towards the questionable safety of the city, limping, gibbering with terror and with his eyes starting from his face.
A place on the top of the wall immediately opened for the two Pandions.
Vanion looked out at the approaching force of Cammorians and Rendors. ‘That’s sort of what I’d hoped,’ he said to Sparhawk. ‘The bulk of Martel’s forces are still marching up from the rear, and they’re piling up behind the bridges.’ He pointed at the vast dust-cloud rising for several miles to the south. ‘He won’t be able to get those men here until almost dark. I doubt that his deployment will be complete before noon tomorrow. That gives us a little bit of time at least. Let’s go back down.’
Sparhawk turned to follow his Preceptor, but then stopped and turned back. An ornate carriage with the emblem of the Church prominently embossed on its sides had just emerged from the south gate. The monk who was driving it had a suspiciously familiar set to his shoulders. Just before the carriage turned west, a bearded man wearing the cassock of a Patriarch peered
briefly out of the carriage window. The carriage was no more than thirty yards away, so Sparhawk could easily identify the supposed clergyman inside.
It was Kurik.
Sparhawk started to swear.
‘What’s the matter?’ Vanion asked him.
‘I’m going to have a long talk with Patriarch Emban,’ Sparhawk grated. ‘That’s Kurik and Berit in that carriage.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’d recognize Kurik a hundred yards away on a dark night. Emban had no right to endanger them like that.’
‘It’s too late to do anything about it now. Come along, Sparhawk. I want to go and talk with Martel.’
‘Martel?’
‘Maybe we can surprise an answer or two out of him. Do you think he’s arrogant enough to honour a flag of truce – just to demonstrate his advantage at this point?’
Sparhawk nodded slowly. ‘Probably. Martel’s ego’s a vast open sore. He’d go through the motions of being honourable even if it involved walking through fire.’
‘That’s more or less the way I see him too. Let’s go and find out if we’re right, but don’t get so caught up in exchanging insults with him that you forget to keep your eyes open, Sparhawk. What we really want to do is to get a closer look at his army. I need to know if it’s just some rabble he’s scraped together from country fairs and roadside taverns or something more serious.’
A commandeered bedsheet – although Vanion did offer to pay the frightened innkeeper for it even as Sparhawk was stripping it from the bed of an upstairs room – provided them with a flag of truce. It popped and flapped quite satisfyingly from Sparhawk’s lance as the two black-armoured knights thundered out through the south gate towards the approaching army. They rode to a hilltop and stopped there. Sparhawk turned Faran slightly so that the stiff breeze caught their improvised flag and blew it out for all to see. Though they were some distance from the van of Martel’s army, Sparhawk could hear distant shouts and commands. The army gradually undulated to a stop, and not long after, Martel, accompanied by one of his soldiers, rode out from the midst of their troops. Martel also carried a lance, and a white cape that looked suspiciously like that of a Cyrinic Knight flapped from it. Sparhawk squinted at him. ‘I wonder,’ he mused. ‘Bhelliom brought Ehlana back from the brink of death. I wonder if I could persuade it to do the same for Martel.’