Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) (86 page)

"You are a monster."

Aruan laughed softly. "Perhaps, perhaps. But a monster with a conscience. You will survive, as I have always allowed you to survive, and you will go to your friend Golophin. Hebrion and Astarac must surrender to me, unless you wish to see them suffer the same fate as the fleet they sent against me. It may be better this way, now I think of it. You are a very convincing survivor of disaster, Captain, and you are a good witness."

"You go to Hell."

"We are all in Hell already. Imagine my hosts running amok through all the kingdoms of the west. Imagine the blood, the terror, the mountains of corpses. You want that no more than I. And Golophin, especially, will know that I make no idle boasts. I mean what I say. Hebrion and Astarac must surrender to the Second Empire, hand over all that remains of their nobility, and accept my suzerainty. If they do not, I will make of them a desert, and their peoples I will render into carrion."

Aruan's eyes lit up as he spoke with a hungry yellow light that had nothing human about it. His voice thickened and deepened. A powerful animal stink that lingered a moment, and then was swept away by the wind.

Hawkwood stared at the lightning-shot clouds in their wake. His eyes stung and smarted. "What manner of thing are you?"

"The new breed, you might say. The future. For centuries men have been pouring their energies into the fighting of their endless, worthless wars, many started in defence of a God they have never seen. Or else they cudgel their brains to think up more efficient ways of winning them - this they call science, the advance of civilisation. They turn their backs on the powers within them, because these are deemed evil. But what is more evil, the magic that heals a wound or the gunpowder that inflicts it? It is baffling to me, Hawkwood. I do not understand why so many clever men think that I and my kind are such an abomination."

"I never thought so. I've hired weatherworkers before now and been damned glad of them. Torunna's Queen is a witch, it is said, and is respected across the continent. The Mage Golophin has been Abeleyn's right hand for twenty years. And Bardolin -"

"Yes - and Bardolin?"

"He was my friend."

"He is yet."

"I doubt that somehow."

"You see? Suspicion. Fear. These names you drop are isolated instances, the exceptions that prove the rule. Four hundred years ago every Royal court had a mage, every army had a cadre of wizards, and every city a thriving Thaumaturgist's Guild. Hedge-witches and oldwives were a part of ordinary life. That cursed Ramusio changed everything, he and his ravings. This God you people worship has now hounded my people to the brink of extinction. How can you blame us for fighting back?"

"It was your creature, Himerius, who instigated the worst of the purges eighteen years ago now. How was that fighting back?"

Aruan paused. The yellow light flickered again. "That was a means to an end, painful but necessary. I had to separate my folk from yours; make clear to all men the division between the two."

"Otherwise, you might have found wizards ranged against you when you attacked the western kingdoms, fighting for their own kings - your cause would not be so clear-cut. You want power. Don't try to dress it up as a crusade."

Aruan laughed. "You are a perceptive man, Richard. Yes, I want power. Why shouldn't I? But in this world unless you are somebody's son you are nothing. You know that as well as anyone. Why should mankind be ruled by a flock of fools just because they were dropped in a Royal bed? I want power. I have the means to take it. I will take it."

Again, Hawkwood stared past his companion, into the storm-shot western sky where the lightnings shivered and the black clouds blotted out the stars. Those fine ships, those Kings of men and that huge armament with its guns and its banners and its tall beauty.

"All gone. All of them."

"Very nearly all. It is a shock, I know. Men place such confidence in an array of power that it blinds them to its weaknesses. Ships must float, and must have wind to propel them."

"We should have had weatherworkers of our own."

"There are none left, not in all the Five Kingdoms. Whatever you say, they are mine now, the Dweomer-folk. They have suffered for centuries under the rule of blind, bigoted fools. No longer. Their hour is come at last. This narrow land, Captain, is about to be fashioned anew."

"Golophin did not turn traitor. Not all the Dweomer-folk think of you as their saviour."

"Ah yes. My friend Golophin. I have not given up on him yet. You and he are very similar - stubborn to the core. Men who cannot be browbeaten or threatened or bought. That is why he is such a prize. I want him to see sense in his own time, and I am willing to wait."

"Corfe of Torunna will never bow the knee to you either."

"No. Another noble and misguided fool. He will be destroyed, along with that much-vaunted army of his. My storm will fell the oaks and leave the willows standing, and this little continent of yours will be a better place for it."

"Save your breath. I caught a glimpse of that better place of yours in the fog. I want no part of it."

"That is a pity, but I am not surprised. These are the labour pangs of the world. There will be pain, and blood, but a new beginning when it is over. The night is darkest just before the dawn."

"Spare me the rhetoric. You sound to me the same as any other grasping noble. You're not making a new world, you're just grabbing at the old and destroying anything that stands in your way. Those who fish the seas or till the land will have a change of masters, but their lives will not change. They'll pay their taxes to a different face, is all."

Aruan bent towards Hawkwood with a smile that was a snarled baring of teeth. "You are wrong there, Captain. You have no idea what I have in store for the world." He stood up, seemingly unaffected by the pitching of the raft. "Take my terms to Golophin. He may take them or leave them; I do not negotiate. This wind will bear you home in another day or two. Stay alive, Hawkwood. Deliver your message, and then find a hole to crawl into somewhere. My forbearance is at an end."

And he was gone. Hawkwood was alone on the raft, the waves black and cold in the night. His claw-hands were cramped in salt-wracked torture and the fever in him beat up a blaze within his blood. He shouted wordless defiance at the empty sea, the blank glitter of the uncaring stars.

D
AWN SAW THE
Hebros mountains rise blue and tranquil out of the horizon - but they were to the north. Hawkwood was baffled for a few minutes until he realised that some time in the night he must have passed Grios Point. He had travelled some thirty leagues.

The wind had backed several points in the last few hours and was still right aft, but now it was blowing west-south-west. He was being propelled up the Gulf of Hebrion, and the spindrift was flying off the crests of the waves in streamers around him, while the rope that supported his little mast had disappeared into a mound of tight, puffed flesh that had once been his hand.

The sunlight hurt his eyes and he clenched them shut, drifting in and out of delirium. It was the sound of gulls that woke him, a great derisive cloud of them. They were hovering and fighting over a small cluster of herrin-yawls which were hove-to half a league away. The crews were hauling in the catch of the night hand over fist, and even from where he was Hawkwood could see the silver glint of fish-flanks as they squirmed in the bulging nets. He tried to rise, to shout, but his throat had closed and he was too weak to raise so much as an arm. No matter. The breeze was at his back, and sending his unwieldy craft right into their midst. Half a glass maybe, and he would be hauled in along with their glinting catch, bearing his fearsome message for the kingdom. And after that was done, if he still lived, he would follow Aruan's advice, and find a hole to climb into. Or maybe the neck of a bottle.

"W
HERE IS HE
?" Isolla asked urgently.

"Peace, Isolla. He is being carried here as we speak by a file of marines."

"A file may not be enough. Do you hear the crowds down there? I have ordered out the garrison. The city is ablaze with torches."

Golophin listened. It was a sound like the surf of a distant, raging sea. Tens of thousands of people in a panicked fever of speculation, clogging the streets, choking the city gates. A mob maddened by fear of the unknown. All this in the space of a few hours. The yawl which bore the survivor had put in to the Inner Roads late in the afternoon, and the marines sent to fetch him to the palace were moving more slowly than speculation.

"Bad news travels fast. Have you summoned the nobles?"

"What is left of them. They're waiting in the abbey. My God, Golophin, what does it mean?" There were tears in her eyes, the first time he had seen her weep in many years. She truly loved Abeleyn, and now she was jumping to conclusions about his fate like everyone else. Golophin felt a pang of pure despair. He knew in his heart what this castaway they had found would tell him. But he had to hear it aloud, from someone who had been there.

A thump on the door. They had repaired to the Queen's chambers, as all the rest of the palace was in an uproar. Rumour sped faster than a galloping horse, and all over the city men were wailing that the fleet was destroyed, and that they were now about to face an invasion of - what? That was the core of the panic. The ignorance. And all the best officers of the kingdom had been on board those proud ships. All that were left were time-servers and passed-over incompetents. Hebrion had been decapitated.

If
the fleet is lost, Golophin reminded himself. The door was thumped again.

"Enter," Isolla called, composing herself. A burly marine with a livid scratch on his face put his head round the door. All the maids had been sent away.

"Your Majesty, we have him here. We brought him on a handcart, but that got snarled up , so we -"

"Bring him in," Golophin snapped.

It was Hawkwood. They had not known that. Isolla's hand went to her mouth as the marines carried him in. They set him on the Queen's own four-poster and then stood like men who have had the wind knocked out of them. They were all looking at Golophin, then at the wrecked shape on the bed as though waiting for some explanation. In a kindlier voice, Golophin said, "There's wine in the antechamber, sergeant. You and your men help yourselves, and remain there. I shall want to question you later."

The marines saluted and clanked out. As the door banged shut behind them Golophin leaned over the body on the bed. "Richard. Richard, wake up. Isolla, bring over that ewer, and the things on the tray. Water, lots of it. Hunt up one of those bloody maids."

Hawkwood had been terribly injured. Half his beard had been burnt off and his face was a raw, glistening wound which was bubbled with blisters and oozing fluid. His arms and chest had also suffered, and his right fist was a mass of scorched tissue from which a sliced rope's end protruded. He was caked with salt and what looked like old blood.

Golophin trickled water over the split lips and sprinkled drops over the eyelids. "Richard." His fingers wriggled and conjured a tiny white ball of flame in the air. He flicked it as one might bat at an annoying fly, and it smote the unconscious mariner on the forehead, sinking into his flesh in the glimmer of a second.

Isolla returned, a maid behind her bearing all manner of cloths and bottles and a steaming bowl. The maid was wide-eyed as an owl, but fled instantly at one look from her mistress.

Hawkwood opened his eyes. The white of one was flooded scarlet.

"Golophin." A cracked whisper. The wizard trickled more water over his lips and Hawkwood burst into a racking cough.

"Cradle his head, Isolla; raise it up."

The Queen rested the mariner's battered head on her breast, tears sliding silently down her face.

"Richard, can you talk?" Golophin asked gently.

The eyes, one garish red, glared wildly for a second, terror convulsing his body. Then Hawkwood relaxed, like a puppet whose strings have been snipped.

"It's gone. The whole fleet. They destroyed it, Golophin. Every ship."

Isolla shut her eyes.

"Tell me, Captain."

"Weatherworking - a calm and fog. Monsters out of the air, the sea. Thousands. We had no chance."

"They're all -"

"Dead. Drowned. Oh, God." Hawkwood's lips drew back from his black gums and a hoarse cry ripped out of him. "
Pain!
Ah, stop, stop." Then it passed.

"I will heal you," Golophin said. "And then you will sleep for a long time, Richard."

"No! Listen to me!" Hawkwood's eyes blazed with fever and anguish. "I saw him, Golophin. I spoke to him."

"Who?"

"Aruan. He let me go. He sent me back." Hawkwood sobbed dryly.

"
I bear his terms
."

A hand of pure ice closed about Golophin's heart. "Go on."

"Surrender. Hand over the nobles. Hebrion and Astarac both. Or he'll destroy them. He can do it. He will. They're coming here on the west wind, Golophin, in the storm."

It poured out of him in a stream of tumbled words. The raft. Aruan's appearance. His words - his implacable reasoning. At last Hawkwood's voice sank into a barely audible croak. "I'm sorry. My ship. I should have died."