The Sapphire Rose

  Sparhawk felt a sudden chill. He looked around. Though he could not see it, he knew that the shadowy watcher which had followed him from Ghwerig’s cave was somewhere here in the room. Could it possibly be that merely the mention of Bhelliom’s name was enough to summon it?

  ‘But how do we know that Sparhawk will be able to follow us?’ Annias was asking. ‘He doesn’t know about our arrangement with Otha, so he won’t have the faintest idea of where we’re going.’

  ‘You are naive, aren’t you, Annias?’ Martel laughed. ‘Sephrenia can listen in on a conversation from at least five miles away, and she can arrange to have everyone in the room with her hear it as well. Not only that, there are hundreds of places in this cellar that are within earshot of this room. Believe me, Annias, one way or another, Sparhawk’s listening to us at this very moment.’ He paused. ‘Aren’t you, Sparhawk?’ he added.

  Chapter 15

  Martel’s question hung in the musty dimness. ‘Stay here,’ Sparhawk whispered bleakly to Delada. He reached for his sword.

  ‘Not very likely,’ the colonel replied, his tone just as grim. He also drew his sword.

  It was really neither the time nor the place for arguments. ‘All right, but be careful. I’ll take Martel. You grab Annias.’

  The two of them stepped out of their place of concealment and walked towards the single candle guttering on the table.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t my dear brother Sparhawk,’ Martel drawled. ‘So awfully good to see you again, old boy.’

  ‘Look quickly, Martel. You aren’t going to be seeing much of anything for very long.’

  ‘I’d love to oblige you, Sparhawk, but I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone it again. Pressing business, you understand.’ Martel took Annias by the shoulder and pushed him towards the door. ‘Move!’ he snapped. The two of them went quickly out as Sparhawk and Delada rushed forward, swords in hand.

  ‘Stop!’ Sparhawk snapped to his companion.

  ‘They’re getting away, Sparhawk!’ Delada objected.

  ‘They already have.’ Sparhawk said it with a hot disappointment souring his mouth. ‘Martel’s got a hundred men out there in those corridors. We need you alive, Colonel.’ Sparhawk whistled shrilly even as he heard the rush of many feet in the corridor outside. ‘We’ll have to defend the door until Kurik and the guardsmen get here.’

  The two of them went quickly to the rotting door and took their places, one on either side of it. At the last moment, Sparhawk stepped out into plain view a few feet back from the arched opening in the massive stone wall. His position gave his sword full play, but the soldiers rushing through the entrance were hampered in their swings by the rocks of the sides and top of the archway.

  Martel’s mercenaries discovered very quickly what a bad idea it was to rush up on Sparhawk when he was angry, and Sparhawk was very angry at that point. The bodies piled up in the doorway as he savagely vented his rage on the scruffy-looking soldiers.

  Then Kurik was there with Delada’s guardsmen, and Martel’s men fell back, defending the passageway leading towards the opening of the aqueduct into which Martel and Annias had already fled. ‘Are you all right?’ the squire asked quickly, looking in through the doorway.

  ‘Yes,’ Sparhawk replied. Then he reached out and caught Delada’s arm as the colonel started to push past him.

  ‘Let me go, Sparhawk,’ Delada said from between tight lips.

  ‘No, Colonel. Do you remember what I told you a while ago about your being the most important man in Chyrellos for a while?’

  ‘Yes.’ Delada’s tone was sullen.

  ‘That particular eminence started just a few minutes ago, and I‘m not going to let you get yourself killed just because you’re feeling pugnacious at the moment. I’ll take you to your quarters now and post a guard outside your door.’

  Delada rammed his sword back into its sheath. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just that –’

  ‘I know, Delada. I feel the same way myself.’

  After he had seen to the colonel’s safety, Sparhawk returned to the cellar. The guardsmen under Kurik’s command were in the process of mopping up and flushing out any mercenaries who were trying to hide. Kurik came back through the torchlit darkness. ‘I’m afraid Martel and Annias got completely away, Sparhawk,’ he reported.

  ‘He was ready for us, Kurik,’ Sparhawk said glumly. ‘Somehow he knew we’d either be down here or that Sephrenia could work a spell so that we could hear him. He was saying a lot of things for my benefit.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The army coming in from the west is Wargun’s.’

  ‘It’s about time he got here.’ Kurik suddenly grinned.

  ‘Martel also announced which way he’s going. He wants us to follow him.’

  ‘I’ll be overjoyed to oblige him. Did we get what we want, though?’

  Sparhawk nodded. ‘When Delada’s done with his report, Annias won’t get a single vote.’

  ‘That’s something anyway.’

  ‘Put some captain in charge of these guardsmen, and let’s go and find Vanion.’

  The Preceptors of the four orders were standing atop the walls near the gates looking with some puzzlement out at the now-retreating mercenaries. ‘They just broke off the attack for no reason,’ Vanion said as Sparhawk and Kurik joined them.

  ‘They had a reason, right enough,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘That’s Wargun over there across the river.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Vanion exclaimed. ‘Word must have reached him after all. How did things go in the cellar?’

  ‘Colonel Delada heard a very interesting conversation. Martel and Annias got away, though. They’re going to make a run for Zemoch to seek Otha’s protection. Martel’s going to send his Rendors out to destroy the bridges to give the rest of his mercenaries time to deploy. He doesn’t have much hope that they’ll be able to do much more than inconvenience Wargun. All he’s really hoping for is enough delay to give him time to get away.’

  ‘I think we’d better go and talk with Dolmant,’ Preceptor Darellon said. ‘The situation has changed a bit. Why don’t you round up your friends, Sir Sparhawk, and we’ll go back to the chapterhouse.’

  ‘Pass the word, Kurik,’ Sparhawk told his squire. ‘Let all our friends know that King Wargun’s come to our rescue.’

  Kurik nodded.

  The Patriarchs were enormously relieved to hear of King Wargun’s approach and even more relieved to hear that Annias had incriminated himself. ‘The colonel can even testify about the arrangement Annias and Martel have with Otha,’ Sparhawk told them. ‘The only unfortunate part of the whole business was that Annias and Martel escaped.’

  ‘How long will it take for word of this turn of events to reach Otha?’ Patriarch Emban asked.

  ‘I think we’ll almost have to assume that Otha will know about the change in the situation here almost as soon as it happens, Your Grace,’ Preceptor Abriel told him.

  Emban nodded with a look of distaste. ‘More of that magic business, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s going to take Wargun quite some time to regroup and start to march into Lamorkand to meet the Zemochs, isn’t it?’ Dolmant said.

  ‘A week or ten days, Your Grace,’ Vanion agreed, ‘and even that’s cutting it a little fine. Advance elements from both armies will be able to move out more rapidly, but neither main force will be able to start in less than a week.’

  ‘How far can an army move in a day?’ Emban asked.

  ‘Ten miles maximum, Your Grace,’ Vanion replied.

  ‘That’s absurd, Vanion. Even I can walk ten miles in four hours, and I don’t move very fast.’

  ‘That’s when you’re walking alone, Your Grace.’ Vanion smiled. ‘A man out for a stroll doesn’t have to worry about keeping the rear of a column from straggling, and when the time comes to sleep for the night, he can roll himself in his cloak under a bush. It takes quite a bit longer to set up an encampment for an army.’

  Emban grunted, labo
riously hauled himself to his feet and waddled to the map of Eosia hanging on the wall of Sir Nashan’s study. He measured off some distances. ‘They’ll meet about here then,’ he said, stabbing one finger at a spot on the map, ‘– on that plain to the north of Lake Cammoria. Ortzel, what’s the country like around there?’

  ‘Relatively flat,’ the Lamork Patriarch replied. ‘It’s mostly farmland with a few patches of woods here and there.’

  ‘Emban,’ Dolmant said gently, ‘why don’t we let King Wargun work out the strategy? We have our own business to attend to, you know.’

  Emban laughed a bit sheepishly. ‘I guess I’m a born busybody,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand letting anything go by without sticking my nose into it.’ He clasped his hands reflectively behind his back. ‘We’ll have everything under control in Chyrellos just as soon as Wargun gets here. I think it’s safe to say that Colonel Delada’s testimony will eliminate the candidacy of the Primate of Cimmura once and for all, so why don’t we clear away this election business right away – before the Hierocracy has time to gather its collective breath. Patriarchs are political animals, and as soon as they’ve had the time to collect their wits, they’re going to start to see all sorts of opportunities in the present situation. We don’t really need a number of unanticipated candidacies clouding things over right now. Let’s keep it simple if we can. Not only that, we alienated a fair number of Patriarchs when we decided to let the outer city burn. Let’s catch the Hierocracy while it’s still overwhelmed with thanksgiving and gratitude and fill that empty chair in the Basilica before they start brooding about lost houses and the like. We’ve got the upper hand for the moment. Let’s use it before our support starts to crumble.’

  ‘That’s all you ever really think about, isn’t it, Emban?’ Dolmant said.

  ‘Somebody has to, my friend.’

  ‘We’d better get Wargun into the city first, though,’ Vanion told them. ‘Is there anything we can do to help him?’

  ‘We can move out of the inner city just as soon as Martel’s generals start turning around to face his army,’ Komier suggested. ‘We can hit them from behind and sting them enough to force them to chase us back inside the walls. Then they’ll have to divert enough troops to keep us penned up in here. That should reduce the force facing Wargun a little bit.’

  ‘What I’d really like to do is figure out some way to defend those bridges across the Arruk,’ Abriel said. ‘Replacing them is what’s going to cost Wargun time – and lives.’

  ‘I don’t see that there’s very much we can do about that,’ Darellon said. ‘We don’t have enough men to keep the Rendors away from the river-bank.’

  ‘We have got enough to disrupt things inside the city though,’ Komier asserted. ‘Why don’t we go back to the wall and size things up a bit? I need something to do to take the taste of that siege out of my mouth anyway.’

  There was fog as dawn approached, for the summer was drawing to a close and the two rivers which joined at Chyrellos fumed grey, wispy tendrils of mist from their dark surfaces in the cool of the night, and the tendrils joined together to form first a haze that softened the orange torchlight, then a mist which enshrouded distant houses and finally that thick, clinging fog so common in cities which are built along rivers.

  There was enthusiasm in the ranks for the action. There were tactical reasons for the plan, of course, but tactics are for generals, and the common soldiery was more interested in revenge. They had endured the pounding of siege engines; they had beaten off fanatics climbing scaling ladders; and they had faced the assault towers. Until now they had been forced to bear whatever the besiegers had hurled at them. This was their chance to even some scores, to chastise their chastisers, and they marched forth from the inner city with looks of grim anticipation on their faces.

  Many of Martel’s mercenaries had joined him with enthusiasm when there had been the prospect of loot and rapine and easy assaults on meagrely defended walls. Their enthusiasm waned, however, at the notion of meeting a vastly superior force in open country. They became peace-loving men at that point and crept through the foggy streets in search of places where their newly-found pacifist sentiments would not be offended. The sortie in force from the inner city came as a great surprise and an even greater disappointment to men bent merely upon leading simple lives untainted by strife.

  The fog, of course, helped enormously. The defenders of the inner city had only to fall upon men who were not wearing the armour of Church Knights or the red tunics of church soldiers. The torches these sudden pacifists carried made them easy targets for Kurik’s now-proficient crossbowmen.

  Since men on horseback make too much noise, the Church Knights moved through the streets on foot. After a time, Sparhawk joined Vanion. ‘All we’re doing here is picking off deserters,’ he advised his Preceptor.

  ‘Not entirely, Sparhawk,’ Vanion disagreed. ‘The church soldiers have been under siege, and that sort of thing wears down men’s spirits. Let’s give our questionable allies the chance for a little revenge before we turn them back over to the Patriarchs.’

  Sparhawk nodded his agreement and then he, Kalten and Kurik moved out to take the lead.

  A shadowy figure carrying an axe appeared at a torchlit intersection. The outline showed that whoever it was wore neither armour nor the tunic of a church soldier. Kurik raised his crossbow and took aim. At the last instant, he jerked his weapon upward, and the bolt whizzed up towards the pre-dawn sky. Kurik started to swear sulphurously.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kalten hissed.

  ‘That’s Berit,’ Kurik said from between clenched teeth. ‘He always rolls his shoulders that way when he walks.’

  ‘Sir Sparhawk?’ the novice called into the darkness, ‘are you down there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God. I think I’ve walked down every burned-out alley in Chyrellos looking for you.’

  Kurik banged one fist against a wall.

  ‘Talk to him about it later,’ Sparhawk said. ‘All right, Berit,’ he called, ‘you’ve found me. What’s important enough for you to go around risking your skin to try to share it?’

  Berit came down the street to join them. ‘The Rendors appear to be gathering near the west gate, Sir Sparhawk. There are thousands of them.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘I think they’re praying. They’re having some kind of ceremony at any rate. There’s a skinny, bearded fellow standing on a pile of rubble haranguing them.’

  ‘Could you hear any of what he was saying?’

  ‘Not very much, Sir Sparhawk, but he did say one word fairly often, and all the rest bellowed out the word each time he said it.’

  ‘What was the word?’ Kurik demanded.

  ‘Ramshorn, I think it was, Kurik.’

  ‘That’s got a familiar ring to it, Sparhawk,’ Kurik said.

  Sparhawk nodded. ‘It appears that Martel brought Ulesim along to keep the Rendors in line.’

  Berit gave him a puzzled look. ‘Who’s Ulesim, Sir Sparhawk?’

  ‘The current spiritual leader of the Rendors. There’s a twisted piece of a sheep’s horn that’s a kind of badge of office.’ He thought of something. ‘The Rendors are just sitting around listening to sermons?’ he asked the novice.

  ‘If that’s what you want to call all that babbling, yes.’

  ‘Why don’t we go back and talk with Vanion?’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘This might be very useful.’

  The Preceptors and Sparhawk’s friends were not far behind. ‘I think we’ve just had a bit of luck, My Lords,’ Sparhawk reported. ‘Berit’s been out wandering around in the streets. He says that the Rendors are all gathered near the west gate and that their leader’s whipping them into a frenzy.’

  ‘You actually let a novice go out there alone, Sir Sparhawk?’ Abriel asked disapprovingly.

  ‘Kurik’s going to talk to him about that later, My Lord.’

  ‘What was this leader’s name again?’ Vanion asked th
oughtfully.

  ‘Ulesim, my Lord. I’ve met him. He’s a total idiot.’

  ‘What would the Rendors do if something happened to him?’

  ‘They’d disintegrate, My Lord. Martel said that he was going to order them to tear down the bridges. Apparently they haven’t started yet. Rendors need a lot of encouragement and some rather careful directions before they start on anything. Anyway, they look upon their religious leader as a semi-divinity. They won’t do anything without his express command.’

  ‘That might just be the way to save your bridges, Abriel,’ Vanion said. ‘If something happens to this Ulesim, the Rendors may just forget what they’re supposed to do. Why don’t we gather up our forces and pay them a call?’

  ‘Bad idea,’ Kurik said shortly. ‘Sorry Lord Vanion, but it really is. If we march on the Rendors in force, they’ll fight to the death to defend their holy man. All we’ll do is get a lot of men needlessly killed.’

  ‘Do you have an alternative?’

  Kurik patted his crossbow. ‘Yes, My Lord,’ he said confidently. ‘Berit says that Ulesim’s making a speech to his people. A man who’s talking to a crowd usually stands up on something. If I can get to within two hundred paces of him –’ Kurik left it hanging.

  ‘Sparhawk,’ Vanion decided, ‘take your friends and protect Kurik. Try to slip through the city until you can get him and that crossbow close enough to this Ulesim to remove him. If those Rendorish fanatics fly all to pieces and don’t destroy the bridges, Wargun will be able to cross the river before the other mercenaries are ready for them. Mercenaries are the most practical soldiers in the world. They’re not very enthusiastic about hopeless battles.’