The Heretic Kings

A young man, his curly black hair unspeckled with grey as yet, the Hebrian King had been five years on his throne. Five years which had seen the fall of Aekir, the imminent ruin of the west at the hands of the Merduk hordes and the schism of the holy Church of God. He was a heretic: when he died his soul would howl away the eons in the uttermost reaches of hell. He was as damned as any heathen Merduk, though he had done what he had done for the good of his country—indeed, for the good of the western kingdoms as a whole.

Abeleyn was no simpleton, but the faith of his rigidly pious father had settled deep in his marrow and he felt the thin, cold fear of what he had done worming there. Not fear for his kingdom, or for the west. He would always do what was best for them and let no qualm of conscience tug at the hem of his cloak. No—fear for himself. He felt a sudden terror at the thought of his deathbed, the demons which would gather round the spent body to drag away his screaming spirit when the time came for him to quit the world at last . . .

“Grim thoughts, sire?”

Abeleyn turned, seeing again the bright swells of the Hebrian Sea, feeling the rhythm of the living ship under his feet. There was no one near him, but a tattered-looking gyrfalcon sat perched on the ship’s weather-rail regarding him with one yellow, inhuman eye.

“Grim enough, Golophin.”

“No regrets, I trust.”

“None of any import.”

“How is the lady Jemilla?”

Abeleyn scowled. His mistress was pregnant, scheming, and very seasick. His early departure from the Conclave of Kings had meant that she could take ship with him back to Hebrion instead of finding her own way.

“She is below, no doubt still puking.”

“Good enough. It will occupy her mind wonderfully.”

“Indeed. What news, old friend? Your bird looks more battered than ever. His errands are wearing him out.”

“I know. I will grow a new one soon. For now, I can tell you that your fellow heretics are both well on their way back to their respective kingdoms. Mark is headed south, to cross the Malvennors in southern Astarac where they are passable. Lofantyr is in the Cimbrics, having a hard time of it, it seems. I fear it will be a bitter winter, sire.”

“I could have told you that, Golophin.”

“Perhaps. The Fimbrian marshals are made of sterner stuff. Their party is forcing the Narboskim passes of the Malvennors. They are waist deep already, but I think they will do it. They have no horses.”

Abeleyn grunted. “The Fimbrians were never an equestrian people. Sometimes I think that is why they have never bred an aristocracy. They walk everywhere. Even their emperors tramped about the provinces as though they were infantrymen. What else? What news of home?”

There was a pause. The bird preened one wing for several seconds before the old wizard’s voice issued eerily from its beak once more.

“They burned six hundred today, lad. The Knights Militant have more or less purged Abrusio of the Dweomer- folk now. They are sending parties out into the surrounding fiefs to hunt for more.”

Abeleyn went very still.

“Who rules in Abrusio?”

“The Presbyter Quirion, formerly Bishop of Fulk.”

“And the lay leaders?”

“Sastro di Carrera for one. The Sequeros, of course. Between them they have carved up the kingdom very nicely, with the Church in overall authority, naturally.”

“And the diocesan bishops? I always thought Lembian of Feramuno was a reasonable man.”

“A reasonable man, but still a cleric. No, lad: their faces are all set against you.”

“What of the army, the fleet?”

“Ah, there you have the bright spot. General Mercado has refused to put his men at the disposal of the council, as these usurpers style themselves. The tercios are confined to barracks, and Admiral Rovero has the fleet well in hand also. The Lower City of Abrusio, the barracks and the harbours are no-go areas for the Knights.”

Abeleyn let out a long breath. “So we can make landfall. There is hope, Golophin.”

“Yes, sire. But Mercado is an old man, and a pious one. The Inceptines are working on him. He is as loyal as a hound, but he is also intolerant of heresy. We cannot afford to lose any time, or we may find the army arraigned against us when we reach Hebrion.”

“You think a Pontifical bull could have arrived there already?”

“I do. Himerius will waste no time once he hears the news from Vol Ephrir. And therein lies your danger, sire. Refusing to obey the will of a few trumped-up, would-be princes is one thing, but remaining loyal to an absent heretic is quite another. The bull may be enough to sway the army and the fleet. You must prepare yourself for that.”

“If that happens I am finished, Golophin.”

“Nearly, but not quite. You will still have your own lands, your own personal retainers. With Astarac’s help you could reclaim the throne.”

“Plunging Hebrion into civil war while I do.”

“No one ever said this course would be an easy one, sire. I could wish that we had made better time in our journey, though.”

“I need agitators, Golophin. I need trusted men who will enter the city before me and spread the truth of the matter. Abrusio is not cut out to be ruled by priests. When the city hears that Macrobius is alive and well, that Himerius is an imposter and that Astarac and Torunna are with me in this thing, then it will be different.”

“I will see what I can do, lad, but my contacts in the city are growing thinner on the ground day by day. Most of them are ashes, friends of fifty years. May the lord God rest their souls. They died good men, whatever the Ravens might think.”

“And you, Golophin. Are you safe?”

Something in the yellow gleam of the bird’s eye chilled Abeleyn as it replied in the old mage’s voice.

“I will be all right, Abeleyn. The day they try to take me will be one to remember, I promise you.”

Abeleyn turned and stared back over the taffrail. Astarac was out of sight over the brim of the horizon, but he could just make out the white glimmer of the Hebros Mountains ahead, to the north-west.

Astarac, far astern of them: the kingdom of King Mark, soon to be his brother-in-law. If there were ever time for weddings again after all this. What was waiting for Mark in Astarac? More of the same, perhaps. Ambitious clerics, nobles leaping at the opportunity to rule. War.

A sea mile astern of Abeleyn’s vessel two wide-bellied nefs, the old-fashioned trading ships of the Levangore, were making heavy going of the swell. Within them was the bulk of Abeleyn’s entourage, four hundred strong; the only subjects whose obedience he still commanded. It was because of them he had taken the longer sea route home instead of trying to chance the snowbound passes of the mountains. He would need every loyal sword in the months to come; he could not afford to abandon them.

“Golophin, I want you to do something.”

The gyrfalcon cocked its head to one side. “I am yours to command, my boy.”

“You must procure a meeting with Rovero and Mercado. You must let the army and the fleet know the truth of things. If the Hebrian navy is against me, then we will never get to within fifty leagues of Abrusio.”

“It will not be easy, sire.”

“Nothing ever is, my friend. Nothing ever is.”

“I will do my best. Rovero, being a mariner, has always had a more open mind than Mercado.”

“If you must choose one, then let it be Rovero. The fleet is the most important.”

“Very well, sire.”

“Sail ho!” the lookout cried from the maintop. “I see five—no, six—sail abaft the larboard beam!”

Dietl, the master, squinted up at the maintop.

“What are they, Tasso?”

“Lateen-rigged, sir. Galleasses by my bet. Corsairs maybe.”