The Heretic Kings

“He’ll beggar himself to get the throne. But what does that matter, when he will control the treasury afterwards? Any news from my fiefs?”

“They are quiet. Your retainers dare not do anything at the moment. The Knights and the men at arms of the other great houses are watching them closely. The slightest excuse, and they will be wiped out.”

Abeleyn had a couple of elderly aunts and a doddering grand-uncle. The Hibrusid house had become thin on the ground of late. These relics of its past had left all intrigue behind and preferred to stay away from court and live their vague lives in the peace of the extensive Royal estates north of Abrusio.

“We’ll leave them out of it, then. We can do it with what we have anyway. Get back to the city, Golophin. Tell Rovero and Mercado that I will be approaching the city in four days, if God is willing. I want them to have a ship waiting ten miles up the coast from the Outer Roads. There is a cove there: Pendero’s Landing. They can pick me up, and we’ll sail into Abrusio with all honours, openly. That will give the population something to think about.”

“You will have no problems with the common folk, Abeleyn,” Golophin’s falcon said. “It is only the nobles who want your head on a pike.”

“So much the better,” the young King said grimly. “Go now, Golophin. I want this thing set in train as soon as possible.”

The bird took off at once, leaping into the air, its pinions shedding feathers as they flailed frantically.

“Farewell, my King,” Golophin’s voice said. “When next we meet it will be in the harbour of your capital.”

Then the bird was labouring away across the foothills, lost in the star-filled night sky.

T HE company settled for the night, grateful for the fact that the worst of the winter weather had been left behind with the mountains. Abeleyn rolled himself in a boat-cloak and dozed by one of the soldiers’ fires. He did not feel like sharing a tent with Jemilla tonight. It seemed somehow more wholesome to sleep under the stars with the firelight producing orange shadows beyond his tired eyelids.

He did not sleep for long, however. It was after midnight by the position of the Scythe when Sergeant Orsini shook him gently awake.

“Sire, pardon me, but there’s something I think you should see.”

Frowning, blinking, Abeleyn let himself be led out of the camp to the crag he had sat on earlier. Orsini, an efficient soldier, had placed a sentry there because it afforded a good view of the surrounding region. The sentry was there now, saluting quickly and then blowing on his cold hands.

“Well?” Abeleyn asked a little irritably.

Orsini pointed to the south-western horizon. “There, sir. What do you make of it?”

The world was dark, sleeping under its endless vault of stars. But there was something glowing at its edge. It might have been a mistimed sunset: the sky was red there, the clouds kindled with crimson light. A blush which lit up fully a quarter of the horizon glimmered silently.

“What do you think it is, sire?” Orsini asked.

Abeleyn watched the far-off flicker for a second. Finally he rubbed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose as if trying to get rid of a bad dream.

“Abrusio is burning,” he said.

A CROSS the breadth of Norma

Here it was already dawn; the sun which would not light up Hebrion’s shores for hours yet was huge over the rooftops of the city, and the streets were already busy with the morning life of the markets. Carts and waggons clogged the roadways as farmers brought their produce in to sell, and herds of sheep and cattle were being driven to the stockpens which nestled below the city wall to the west. And beyond the walls to the north the steam and reek of the vast refugee camps sprawled over the land like a rash, whilst Toru

T HE morning had started badly for Corfe. He was striding along the stone corridors of Toru

I have done what I could, it said. The rest is up to you.

So he was on his own.

He had applied to have more officers seconded to him; he and Ebro alone could not effectively command five hundred men. And he had had Ebro indent three times for armour and weapons to outfit his force, but to no avail. Worst of all was the rumour ru

He hammered on the door of the Quartermaster’s department, wearing again the ragged uniform he had worn at Aekir.

The Quartermaster’s department of the Third Toru

The Quartermaster-General was Colonel Passifal, a veteran with a short, snow-white beard and a wooden stump in place of the leg he had lost fighting Merduks along the Ostian river before Corfe was born. His office was as bare as a monk’s cell, and the papers which covered his desk were set in neat piles. Requisition orders, inspection sheets, inventories. The Toru

“What do you want?” Passifal barked, not looking up from the scraping nib of his quill.

“I indented for five hundred sets of half-armour, five hundred arquebuses, five hundred sabres and all the necessary accoutrements days ago. I would like to know why the requisition has not been filled,” Corfe said.

Passifal looked up, his quill losing its flickering animation.

“Ah. Colonel Corfe Cear-Inaf, I take it.”

Corfe nodded curtly.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do for you, son. My orders are to release stores only to regular Toru

Corfe leant over the broad desk, resting his knuckles on the rim. “So how am I supposed to arm my men, Colonel?”

Passifal shrugged. “Auxiliary units are usually equipped by the private individual who has raised them. Are you rich, Cear-Inaf?”

Corfe laughed shortly. “All I possess is what I stand up in.”