Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) (43 page)

But he knew the answer even as he asked the question. He would not stand down because he was afraid of whom Himerius might find to replace him. Already half the Church Hierarchy had been reshuffled - Escriban, Prelate of Perigraine was gone already. He had too independent a mind to sit easily with the New Order. Himerius had installed Pieter Goneril in his place, a non-entity who would do exactly as he was told. And Presbyter Quirion of the Knights Militant, as good a man who ever lifted a sword in the service of the Church, and a personal friend - he was gone now too, rotting in some little Almarkan border town. He had lost Hebrion to King Abeleyn, and over a thousand Knights besides. That could not be forgiven.

Charibon is become a Royal court,
Betanza thought.
We are become nothing more than errand-runners for its black-clad monarch. And our faith? What has happened to it?

He found it hard to admit to himself what nagged at him most, and caused him to wake up sweating in the middle of the cold nights. An old scrap of wandering prophesy dreamed up by a madman, but a madman who was nevertheless one of the Founding Fathers of the Church.

And the Beast shall come upon the earth in the days of the Second Empire of the world. And he shall rise up out of the west, the light in his eyes terrible to behold. With him shall come the Age of the Wolf, when brother will slay brother. And all men shall fall down and worship him.

Betanza had never been much of a reader before he set aside his Ducal robes and donned the black habit. In fact, strictly speaking, he had been illiterate. But he had learned his letters in his years with the Church, and now he found reading to be an occupation he loved. He had shelves of books in his chambers, among them certain tomes which, were they found in the possession of a novice, might just consign that novice to the pyre. He had begun collecting them after the strange murder of Commodius the Chief Librarian in the bowels of the great library of St. Garaso. There was a chill in his gut as he recalled the lines from the
Book of Honorius
. A madman's ravings or true prescience? No-one could say. And why had Commodius been murdered? Again, no-one knew. His investigations had led nowhere. The two monks who were the prime suspects had disappeared into the night. Oddly, Himerius had seemed unconcerned, more preoccupied with sealing off the catacombs below the library than with tracking down the murderers.

Lord God, it was cold! Would spring never come? What a terrible year.

Himerius had taken to roving the battlements of the cathedral trailed by a gaggle of scribes and subordinates. It helped him think, he said. That was why they were up here now, insects scurrying along the backbone of a slumbering stone giant, Charibon spread out below them like a toy city. The Sea of Tor was still frozen about its margins, and Betanza could see crowds of the local people out fishing on the ice. The winter had been hard on them, and harder still was the billeting in their homes of troops. Lines of soldiers marched into Charibon every day now, it seemed. The monastery city was becoming an armed camp.

Himerius strolled along the battlements dictating to his scribes. Betanza did not move, and only one cleric elected to remain with him. Old Rogien, head of the Pontifical household. His wrinkled face seemed almost transparent in the harsh light, the veins blue at his temples.

"Thinking, Brother?"

Betanza smiled. "I have much to ponder."

"Haven't we all? His Holiness is a man of phenomenal abilities."

"Phenomenal, yes."

"You sound a little disgruntled, Brother."

"Me?" Betanza glanced at the Pontiff's group. They were out of earshot. And he had known Rogien a long time. "Not disgruntled, Rogien. Apprehensive, perhaps."

"Ah. Well, in time of war, that is every man's right."

"We are not soldiers, though."

"Aren't we? We may not wear mail and wield swords, but we are warriors of a sort nonetheless."

"And Charibon is not a barracks for all the soldiery of Almark."

"But we are on the frontier now, Betanza. They say the Merduks have been sighted even on the eastern shores of the Sea of Tor itself. Charibon was sacked once, by the Cimbric tribes. Would you have it sacked again?"

Betanza grimaced. "You know very well that is not what I mean."

"Maybe I do," Rogien lowered his voice and drew close. "But you will not find me admitting it."

"Why not? Is free speech no longer allowed in Charibon?"

Rogien chuckled. "Come now Betanza - since when has free speech
ever
been allowed in Charibon?"

"You speak of heresy. I speak of policy," Betanza was not amused. But the older monk was unfazed.

"It is all the same these days - if you do not know that yet, then you have not been paying attention. Come now, Brother - you were a Duke, a man of power in the secular world. Are you so naïve? Relearn the skills which you used before you donned that habit. They will prove invaluable in the days to come."

"Damn it Rogien, I did not become a monk to become some monastic aristocrat."

"Oh please, Brother. You are a member of the most politicised religious order in the world - more than that, you are its head. Don't come the martyred ascetic to me. If you meant what you say you'd be in a grey habit and bare feet, preaching to the poor in some dung-heap town in Astarac."

Betanza could not reply. Rogien was right, of course. But it did not help.

"Come," he said, nodding to the receding backs of the Pontiff and his entourage. "We're being left behind."

"No, Brother," Rogien said coldly. "
You
are being left behind."

Six

T
HE
O
LD CONFERENCE
chamber of the Torunnan High Command was a cavernous place, the walls lined with marble pillars, the fireplaces at each end large enough for a grown man to stand upright within. The ceiling arched up into a gloom of ancient rafters all hung with banners and battle-flags whose bright colours had been dimmed by age and smoke and dust - and the blood of the men who had died carrying them in battle. The building dated back to the Fimbrian Hegemony, but it had not been used in years - King Lofantyr preferring to meet his Generals in more congenial chambers within the palace. But Queen Odelia, now ruler of Torunna, had reopened the hall wherein John Mogen and Kaile Ormann had once propounded their strategies. As the hierarchy of the Torunnan army gathered within for their first conference with the new Commander-in-Chief, the ghosts of those past giants seemed to loom heavily out of the shadows.

The assembled officers were clad in their court dress: blue for the artillery, black for infantry and deep burgundy for the cavalry. They were an imposing crowd, though an experienced commander might have noted that they were all either very young or very old for their rank. Torunna's most talented officers were all dead. John Mogen and Sibastion Lejer at Aekir, Pieter Martellus at Ormann Dyke, Martin Menin in the King's Battle. What remained was the rump of a once great military machine. Torunna had come to the end of the rope. There were no more reserves to call up, and no-one expected the Fimbrians to send another army to their rescue, not after the first one had been decimated to little purpose up on the North More. It was true that the Cimbric tribes were trickling down out of the mountains to join them in ever increasing numbers, but none of the men present in that historic chamber thought much of the military abilities of those savages, for all that they had accomplished under General Cear-Inaf. They were a freakish anomaly, no more. Their presence at the King's funeral had been in bad taste, it was widely agreed, but the crowds had clamoured to see the famously exotic red horsemen stand guard in rank on scarlet rank as Lofantyr was laid to rest.

The chatter in the chamber was cut short as the general in question entered, and on his arm was the Queen herself. Odelia seated herself at the head of the long table that occupied the middle of the room and the rest of its occupants followed suit, some of them sharing quick, sceptical glances. A woman, at a war-council! A few of the more observant men there noted also the way the Monarch looked at her most recently promoted general, and decided that palace gossip might be in the right of it after all.

It was General Cear-Inaf who rose in his seat to bring the council to order. The Torunnan officers sat dutifully attentive. This man shouldered the burden of the kingdom's very survival. As importantly, he could make or break the career of any one of them.

"You all know me, or know of me," Corfe said. "I served under Mogen at Aekir, and fled my post when the city fell. I served at Ormann Dyke also - as did Andruw and Ranafast here. I commanded the forces that fought at the North More, and led the withdrawal after the King's Battle. Fate has seen fit to make me your commanding officer, and therefore, whatever your personal feelings, you will obey my orders as though they were the Word of God. That is how an army operates. I will always be open to suggestions and ideas from any one of you, and you may ask to see me in person at any time of the day or night. But my word in any military matter is final. Her Majesty has flattered me with her confidence in the running of this war, and I am to have an entirely free hand. But there will be no more arguments about seniority or precedence in the officer class. Promotion will from now on be won through merit alone, not through family connections or length of service. Are there any questions?"

No-one spoke. They had expected as much. A peasant who had risen through the ranks could hardly be expected to respect the values of tradition or social rank.

"Very good. Now, I have recieved in the last hour a message from Admiral Berza and the fleet, conveyed by despatch-galley. He informs me that he has located and destroyed two of the Merduk supply dumps on the shores of the Kardian Sea -"

A buzz of talk, quickly stilled as Corfe held up a hand.

"He writes that the Merduk casualties can be measured in the thousands, and he believes that he has sent perhaps three or four million of rations up in smoke. However, his own casualties were heavy. Of the marine landing parties, less than half survived, and he also lost two of his twenty-three great ships in the landings. At the time of writing, he has put to sea again to engage a Nalbenic fleet which is purportedly sailing north up the Kardian to secure the Merduk lines of communication. I have already sent him a set of orders which basically give him free rein. Berza is a capable man, and understands the sea better than any of us here. The fleet will therefore not be coming back upriver to the capital for the foreseeable future."

"But that leaves the line of the river wide open!" Colonel Rusio protested. "The Merduks will be able to cross at any spot they please and outflank us!"

"Correct. But intelligence suggests that the main Merduk field army has fallen back at least forty leagues from Torunn and is busy repairing the Western Road as far east as Aekir itself in order to maintain an alternative line of communication free from the depredations of our ships. I believe the enemy is too busy at present, gentlemen, to launch another assault. Andruw - if you please."

Corfe took his seat and Andruw rose in his turn. He looked a trifle nervous as the eyes of the High Command swivelled upon him, and cleared his throat whilst consulting a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"The main army has withdrawn, yes, but our scouting parties have reported that the Merduks are sending flying columns of a thousand or so up into the north-west, towards the Torrin Gap. They are obviously a reconnaissance-in-force, feeling out a way through the Gap to the Torian Plains beyond. Already, people fleeing these raids have made their way across the Searil and some have even come as far south as Torunn itself. The Merduk columns are sacking what towns and villages they find as they go, and we have unconfirmed reports that they are constructing a fortress or a series of fortresses up there, to use as staging posts for - for further advances. There may in fact be an entire Merduk army already operating in the north." Andruw sat down, obviously relieved to have gotten it out without a stumble.

"Bastards," someone murmured.

"Well there is obviously nothing we can do about that at the present," Colonel Rusio said impatiently. "We have to concentrate our efforts here in the capital. The army needs to be reorganised and refitted before it will be fit for further operations."

"Agreed," Corfe said, "but we cannot afford to take too long to do it. What we lack in numbers we must make up in audacity. I do not propose to sit tamely in Torunn whilst the Merduks ravage our country at will. They must be made to pay for every foot of Torunnan ground they try to occupy."

"Hear, hear," one of the younger officers said, and subsided quickly when his seniors turned a cold eye upon him.

"So," Corfe said heavily, "what I propose is that we send north a flying column of our own. My command suffered less severely than the main body of the army in the recent battle, plus I have just received an influx of new recruits. I intend to take it and clear northern Torunna of at least some of these raiders, then sweep back down towards the capital. It will be an intelligence-gathering operation as much as anything else. We need hard information on the enemy strength and dispositions in the north-west. Thus far we have been relying too heavily on the tales of refugees and couriers."