‘Oh, no, Darellon. This is probably my last campaign. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Abriel peered ahead. ‘What’s Komier doing out there?’
‘Lord Komier said that he wanted to take a look at the ruins of Zemoch,’ Sir Heldin replied in his rumbling basso. ‘I guess Thalesians take a certain pleasure in viewing the wreckage after a war’s over.’
‘They’re a barbaric people,’ Abriel muttered sourly. He glanced quickly at Bergsten, who seemed totally immersed in his prayer book. ‘You don’t necessarily have to repeat that, gentlemen,’ he said to Darellon and Heldin.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Abriel,’ Bergsten said, not looking up from his prayer book.
‘You’ve got unwholesomely sharp ears, your Grace.’
‘It comes from listening to confessions. People tend to shout the sins of others from the rooftops, but you can barely hear them when they’re describing their own.’ Bergsten looked up and pointed. ‘Komier’s coming back.’
The Preceptor of the Genidian Knights was in high spirits as he reined in his horse, swirling up a huge billow of the dustlike snow. ‘Sparhawk doesn’t leave very much standing when he destroys a place,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘I didn’t entirely believe Ulath when he told me that our broken-nosed friend blew the lid off the Temple of Azash, but I do now. You’ve never seen such a wreck. I doubt if there’s a habitable building left in the whole city.’
‘You really enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you, Komier?’ Abriel accused.
‘That’s enough of that, gentlemen!’ Bergsten cut in quickly. ‘We’re not going to resurrect that worn-out old dispute again. We make war in different ways. Arcians like to build forts and castles, and Thalesians like to knock them down. It’s all part of making war, and that’s what we get paid for.’
‘We, your Grace?’ Heldin rumbled mildly.
‘You know what I mean, Heldin. I don’t personally get involved in that any more, of course, but –’
‘Why did you bring your axe along then, Bergsten?’ Komier asked him.
Bergsten gave him a flat stare. ‘For old times’ sake – and because you Thalesian brigands pay closer attention to a man who’s got an axe in his hands.’
‘Knights, your Grace,’ Komier mildly corrected his countryman. ‘We’re called knights now. We used to be brigands, but now we’re behaving ourselves.’
‘The Church appreciates your efforts to mend your ways, my son, even though she knows that you’re lying in your teeth.’
Abriel carefully covered a smile. Bergsten was a former Genidian Knight himself, and sometimes his cassock slipped a bit. ‘Who’s got the map?’ he asked, more to head off the impending argument than out of any real curiosity.
Heldin unbuckled one of his saddle-bags, his black armor clinking. ‘What did you want to know, my Lord?’ he asked, taking out his map.
‘The usual. How far? How long? What sort of unpleasantness up ahead?’
‘It’s just over a hundred leagues to the Astellian border, my Lord,’ Heldin replied, consulting his map, ‘and nine hundred leagues from there to Matherion.’
‘A hundred days at least,’ Bergsten grunted sourly.
‘That’s if we don’t run into any trouble, your Grace,’ Darellon added.
‘Take a look back over your shoulder, Darellon. There are a hundred thousand Church Knights behind us. There’s no trouble that we can’t deal with. What sort of terrain’s up ahead, Heldin?’
‘There’s some sort of divide about three days east of here, your Grace. All the rivers on this side of it run down into the Gulf of Merjuk. On the other side, they run off into the Astel Marshes. I’d imagine that we’ll be going downhill after we cross that divide – unless Otha fixed it so that water runs uphill here in Zemoch.’
A Genidian Knight rode forward. ‘A messenger from Emsat just caught up with us, Lord Komier,’ he reported. ‘He says he has important news for you.’
Komier nodded, wheeled his horse and rode back toward the army. The rest of them pushed on as it started to snow a little harder.
Komier was laughing uproariously when he returned with the travel-stained messenger who had chased them down.
‘What’s so funny?’ Bergsten asked him.
‘We have good news from home, your Grace,’ Komier said gaily. ‘Tell our beloved Patriarch what you just told me,’ he instructed the messenger.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the blond-braided Thalesian said. ‘It happened a few weeks back, your Grace. One morning the palace servants couldn’t find a trace of the Prince Regent anywhere at all. The guards tore the place apart for two straight days, but the little weasel seemed to have vanished entirely.’
‘Mind your manners, man,’ Bergsten snapped. ‘Avin’s the Prince Regent, after all – even if he is a little weasel.’
‘Sorry, your Grace. Anyway, the whole capital was mystified. Avin Wargunsson never went anywhere without taking a brass band along to blow fanfares announcing his coming. Then one of the servants happened to notice a full wine barrel in Avin’s study. That seemed odd, because Avin didn’t have much stomach for wine, so they got to looking at the barrel a little more closely. It was clear that it had been opened, because quite a bit of wine had been spilled on the floor. Well, your Grace, they’d all worked up quite a thirst looking for Avin, so they decided to open the barrel, but when they tried to pry it open, they found out that it had been nailed shut. Now nobody nails a wine barrel shut in Thalesia, so everybody got suspicious right away. They took some pliers and pulled out the nails and lifted the lid – and there was Avin, stone dead and floating face down in the barrel.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Yes, your Grace. Somebody in Emsat’s got a very warped sense of humor, I guess. He went to all the trouble of rolling that wine barrel into Avin’s study just so that he could stuff him in and nail down the lid. Avin seems to have struggled a bit. He had splinters under his fingernails, and there were claw-marks on the underside of the lid. It made an awful mess. I guess the wine drained out of him for a half an hour after they fished him out of the barrel. The palace servants tried to clean him up for the funeral, but you know how hard wine-stains are to get out. He was very purple when they laid him out on the bier in the Cathedral of Emsat for his funeral.’ The messenger rubbed at the side of his face reflectively. ‘It was the strangest funeral I’ve ever attended. The Primate of Emsat kept trying to keep from laughing while he was reading the burial service, but he wasn’t having much luck, and that got the whole congregation to laughing too. There was Avin lying on that bier, no bigger than a half-grown goat and as purple as a ripe plum, and there was the whole congregation, roaring with laughter.’
‘At least everybody noticed him,’ Komier said. ‘That was always important to Avin.’
‘Oh, they noticed him all right, Lord Komier. Every eye in the Cathedral was on him. Then, after they put him in the royal crypt, the whole city had a huge party, and we all drank toasts to the memory of Avin Wargunsson. It’s hard to find something to laugh about in Thalesia when winter’s coming on, but Avin managed to brighten up the whole season.’
‘What kind of wine was it?’ Patriarch Bergsten asked gravely.
‘Arcian red, your Grace.’
‘Any idea of what year?’
‘Year before last, I believe it was.’
‘A vintage year,’ Bergsten sighed. ‘There was no way to save it, I suppose?’
‘Not after Avin had been soaking in it for two days, your Grace.’
Bergsten sighed again. ‘What a waste,’ he mourned. And then he collapsed over his saddlebow, howling with laughter.
It was cold in the Tamul Mountains as Ulath and Tynian rode up into the foothills. The Tamul Mountains were one of those geographic anomalies which crop up here and there, a cluster of worn-down, weary-looking peaks with no evident connection to neighboring and more jagged peaks forested by fir and spruce and pine. The gentler slopes of the Tamul Mountains were covered with hardwoods which had been stripped of their leaves by the onset of winter.
The two knights rode carefully, staying in the open and making enough noise to announce their presence. ‘It’s very unwise to startle a Troll,’ Ulath explained.
‘Are you sure they’re out there?’ Tynian asked as they wound deeper into the mountains.
Ulath nodded. ‘I’ve seen tracks – or places where they’ve tried to brush out their traces – and fresh dirt where they’ve buried their droppings. Trolls take pains to conceal their presence from humans. It’s easier to catch supper if it doesn’t know you’re around.’
‘The Troll-Gods promised Aphrael that their creatures wouldn’t eat humans any more.’
‘It may take a few generations for that notion to sift down into the minds of some of the stupider Trolls – and a Troll can be fearfully stupid when he sets his mind to it. We’d better stay alert. As soon as we get up out of these foothills, I’ll perform the ceremony that calls the Troll-Gods. We should be safe after that. It’s these foothills that are dangerous.’
‘Why not just perform the ceremony now?’
Ulath shook his head. ‘Bad manners. You’re not supposed to call on the Troll-Gods until you’re up higher – up in real Troll country.’
