Read A Magic of Nightfall Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
A Magic of Nightfall (81 page)
“Karl,” he said. “I promise you this: when the time comes, I will help you with ca’Cellibrecca. The man is a blight and an insult to the robes Archigos Ana wore. We both agree on that. When the time comes, I will gladly help you make his death as painful as you like.” Sergei almost smiled, thinking of Semini ensconced in the Bastida. Yes, that would be delightful. That would be . . . enjoyable.
Varina’s eyes widened somewhat at the statement, but Karl, tight-lipped, nodded. There was a discreet clearing of a throat at the tent flap a moment later. “Enter,” Sergei said, and the flap opened to reveal one of the Hïrzg’s pages. “Regent, Hïrzg Jan requests that you bring your two guests—” the boy’s eyes flicked across to Karl and Varina, “—to his tent. He’s set a supper for them and wishes to hear what they have to say.”
“Tell the Hïrzg that we’ll be there directly,” Sergei told the page, who bowed deeply and withdrew. “You’ve nothing to fear from Hïrzg Jan,” he told the two. He hoped that was the truth. “I rather like the young man. In some ways, he reminds me of myself. . . .”
“Archigos Semini will counsel me that the Numetodo are heretics and liars, and dangerous to me physically as well as to my eternal soul,” Hïrzg Jan said.
“Archigos Semini is a liar and a fool, and an ass besides,” Sergei answered. “If I may be forgiven my bluntness, Hïrzg.”
Jan grinned. “Sit,” he said to Karl and Varina, gesturing to the table where bread and cheese and a pot of meat stew sat. Plates of dull pewter were set before them. “Enjoy the little comforts we have here in the field, since I can’t give you the full hospitality of Firenzcia.” When they hesitated, Jan’s smile broadened. “I assure you that I share the opinion of the Regent when it comes to Archigos Semini.”
Varina managed a smile; Karl still looked uncertain. “And what is the Hïrzg’s opinion of the Numetodo?” he asked.
“One of the things that Regent ca’Rudka has taught me is that I should judge people not by what they are, but by who they are. I have no opinion on the Numetodo yet—until now, I’ve never met one.” Jan gestured at their seats again. “Please . . .”
Sergei bowed. A moment later Karl did the same, and the three of them took their seats across from Jan. “Will the A’Hïrzg be joining us?” Sergei asked.
Jan’s smile vanished at that. “No,” he said, the single word nearly bitten off. Sergei waited, expecting more explanation; none came. He wondered what had happened between matarh and son—he’d had no more than a glimpse of Allesandra for a day and half now. Even while the army crawled at a maddeningly slow pace closer to Nessantico’s walls, Allesandra had kept to a covered carriage, without either her son or the Archigos as company.
But he wasn’t going to ask the Hïrzg to explain. Jan was looking instead to Karl and Varina. “I would like to know your story, from your own mouths,” he said.
For the next turn of the glass, that is what they did, with Jan leading the two with occasional questions. Sergei listened for the most part—inwardly amused at some of the explanation that Karl left out from the tale. When Karl described the black sand, and how it had been used by the Westlanders in their assault on the city, and how the makings of more of it were in the city, Jan leaned forward.
“You say that this black sand is the key to the Westlanders’ success? This is the same magic we’ve heard of them using in the Hellins?”
“It’s not
magic,
Hïrzg,” Karl said. “That’s the interesting thing. It’s alchemy. Varina has some idea—from what Talis has said and from the samples I brought back from Uly’s rooms—of how to mix the black sand. I’ve seen—we’ve all seen—the terrible things it can do.” A dark shadow seemed to pass over Karl’s face with that, and Sergei knew what he was recalling: Ana’s assassination. It was a horror that would never be erased from either of their minds. “They set the city afire with it; they killed hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Hïrzg, with this black sand, no army needs war-téni or their spells. No armor can withstand it, no number of swords can prevail against it.”
magic,
Hïrzg,” Karl said. “That’s the interesting thing. It’s alchemy. Varina has some idea—from what Talis has said and from the samples I brought back from Uly’s rooms—of how to mix the black sand. I’ve seen—we’ve all seen—the terrible things it can do.” A dark shadow seemed to pass over Karl’s face with that, and Sergei knew what he was recalling: Ana’s assassination. It was a horror that would never be erased from either of their minds. “They set the city afire with it; they killed hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Hïrzg, with this black sand, no army needs war-téni or their spells. No armor can withstand it, no number of swords can prevail against it.”
“And you know where the cache of this black sand is?”
Karl nodded. “I do. So does Varina. We can take you there, Hïrzg. But the Westlanders will be after it also. Talis . . . I suspect that he may be already leading them to it. They may
already
have it.”
already
have it.”
“Hïrzg,” Sergei interrupted. “I understand why you’ve let your army idle here. I might have made the same decision, if I were you—even though my heart breaks to see the city burning and to hear that the Westlanders are trampling in the ruins of the places I loved most of all in this world.” He rubbed at his false nose, saw Jan staring at the motion, and dropped his hand. “But—if you’re willing to listen to my counsel at all—I would tell you that the time to wait has passed. I’ve witnessed the effects of this black sand, too. If the Westlanders have time to create more of it, then it’s your own soldiers who will pay the price for hesitation. Hïrzg, listen to what my friends are telling you. The Garde Civile of Nessantico has been defeated. That battle’s over. We must strike now—not at Nessantico, but at those who defeated her: before they come to Firenzcia.”
Sergei thought that his plea would have no effect. Jan was looking away, his gaze searching the firelit canvas above him as if an answer were written there in smoke. The young man sighed once. Then he clapped his hands and a page entered.
“Call the starkkapitän to come here,” he said to the boy. “There are immediate preparations I need him to make. Hurry!”
Jan ca’Vörl
H
E HAD LISTENED to the grand, glorious tales of war many times over the years: from his great-vatarh Jan; from his vatarh; from onczios and older acquaintances; and most recently from Fynn. Even from his matarh, who told him how Great-Vatarh had complimented her from a young age on her knowledge of military strategy.
E HAD LISTENED to the grand, glorious tales of war many times over the years: from his great-vatarh Jan; from his vatarh; from onczios and older acquaintances; and most recently from Fynn. Even from his matarh, who told him how Great-Vatarh had complimented her from a young age on her knowledge of military strategy.
He was beginning to realize that these tales had been concoctions and false memories or sometimes outright lies.
Until today, Jan had never ridden into a true battle. Until today, his knowledge of the martial skills had been intellectual and safe. He’d been shown how to ride, how to handle a sword, how to use a spear or bow from horseback, how to protect himself against another chevarittai or against a footman. He had been in mock sword fights, had been part of military maneuvers. He’d been schooled in the craft of war: the tactics to use against an adversary who had the higher ground or the lower, or who had more soldiers or less, or more war-téni or less. He knew which formation was supposed to be best against another.
It was what any young male of his rank would have been taught.
War, in Jan’s mind, had been a very neat and tidy exercise. He’d known—intellectually—that it couldn’t possibly be that linear and efficient. He’d understood that.
But . . . He had not known that war would be this messy. This chaotic. This real.
No one in the Firenzcian army was under the misapprehension that Jan—like Fynn, like his namesake the old Hïrzg Jan—would be the one to truly general the army in this important attack. They knew the strategy was that of Starkkapitän ca’Damont, with aid from the Regent ca’Rudka and input from the A’Hïrzg and the two Numetodo who had come to the encampment from the burning city. They knew that it would be Archigos Semini who would command the war-téni.
Jan would be there, and the command banner would fly from the Garde Hïrzg and the chevarittai around him, and he would press forward just behind the front lines of his forces as Fynn and the former Hïrzg Jan had done before him. But Jan would look to the Starkkapitän before he gave his orders. Jan knew the wisdom of that; he knew that the rest of the offiziers and chevarittai knew it as well. Frankly, he was comfortable with it; Jan could feel his inexperience and he was not so arrogant as to insist on bungling this assault.
The entrance into Nessantico started well enough. A crescent blade, the Firenzcian forces pushed into the city through all the gates on the eastern side of the city. There had been no resistance; to the contrary, their appearance was greeted with cheers and huzzahs from the remaining populace and scattered remnants of the Nessantican Garde Civile. A few chevarittai of the Holdings had even crept out from hiding to swell their ranks. After a turn of the glass inside the city walls, Jan began to hope that this was how it would continue: that they would march unchallenged all the way to the western boundaries of the city to find the Westlander forces in full retreat.
He was sweating in the heat of the day under his armor and longed for nothing more than to rid himself of the heavy burden of steel links. That seemed to be the worst discomfort of victory.
“What way, Ambassador?” Jan asked Karl, riding with his entourage along with his matarh, Varina and Sergei.
“North for a few cross streets,” the Numetodo answered, pointing, “then several blocks eastward.”
Jan nodded. The Firenzcian army swelled along the Avi. The sun shone brightly. It was a fine day. They had already won, and he felt the confidence to give an order of his own. “Starkkapitän,” Jan said to Starkkapitän ca’Damont, “I will take half the Garde Hïrzg with me, as well as the Regent and the Numetodo. I leave you in charge of the army. Do what you need to do to secure this area of the Avi and the city. Then you and the A’Hïrzg proceed south to the Isle a’Kralji and make certain we hold the Isle and the eastern ponticas. If there’s a problem, send a messenger to me immediately. In turn, I will send a rider as soon as we locate the black sand and know the situation there.”
“Jan. Hïrzg.” His matarh was frowning, while ca’Damont merely looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think—”
“I have given my orders,” Jan snapped, interrupting her. “Starkkapitän? Do you see an issue with them?”
Ca’Damont shook his head once. He barked out quick orders. “I will meet with you later, Matarh,” Jan said. “On the Isle.”
Allesandra looked unconvinced. He thought she was going to argue further, but she only glared at him. He saw her glance once at Sergei; the Regent gave her the barest of shrugs under his own armor. His nose sent sparks of sun chasing across his face.
His matarh finally inclined her head. “As you wish, my Hïrzg,” she said. “My Hïrzg,” not “my son.” He could hear the irritation in that. She yanked hard on the reins of her horse and started south, a quartet of Garde Hïrzg and one of the war-téni closing around her belatedly. The starkkapitän gave a salute. “Cénzi’s guidance to you, my Hïrzg,” he said. “I will make certain the A’Hïrzg remains safe.” He started to move away, then pulled up on the reins. “Fynn made an excellent choice in you,” he said to Jan. “Be careful, Hïrzg Jan.”
Starkkapitän ca’Damont saluted again and moved away, the greater part of their entourage moving with him. Jan looked around at the others. “Let’s find this black sand,” he said to them. “Ambassador ca’Vliomani—the lead is yours.”
Karl led Jan’s squadron north along the Avi, the soldiers they passed saluting the Hïrzg and his banner, then turned left down a more narrow street, leaving behind the army. The jingling of their armor and the stolid, steel-clad
clop
of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles was the loudest sound along the street. There were no more faces in the windows, no one visible up the curving way. Some of the doors to the buildings they passed were open; many of them forcibly. Trash littered the avenue. They passed several bodies: people a few days dead from the look of them, their corpses bloated and with limbs thrust at stiff, strange angles, maggot-encrusted and swarming with flies. Jan stared at them as they passed; he noticed Sergei doing the same, with an odd intensity.
clop
of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles was the loudest sound along the street. There were no more faces in the windows, no one visible up the curving way. Some of the doors to the buildings they passed were open; many of them forcibly. Trash littered the avenue. They passed several bodies: people a few days dead from the look of them, their corpses bloated and with limbs thrust at stiff, strange angles, maggot-encrusted and swarming with flies. Jan stared at them as they passed; he noticed Sergei doing the same, with an odd intensity.
Not long ago, these had been living, breathing people, perhaps hurrying to lovers, carrying their children, shopping for food in the markets or drinking in the taverns, carrying on with their lives. He doubted that they’d expected those lives to end so quickly and finally. He doubted they’d expected to turn into transient, accidental monuments to warfare.
He sniffed, unable to keep their stench from his nose—he wondered if Sergei could smell them at all. He clenched his sword tighter in his hand and wrapped the reins more tightly around his left hand.
To the south, they all heard a sudden rumbling like thunder, and faint shouting. Sergei, next to Jan, glanced that way worriedly. “I think, Hïrzg,” he said, “that a battle has started. Perhaps we should return.”
Jan shook his head. “Ambassador, how far are we from this place?” he asked.
“Another two cross streets,” ca’Vliomani replied. “No more.”
“Then we’ll go on.”
Sergei pressed his lips tightly together, but made no other response.
They continued, coming to another, even smaller lane, where Karl paused and rose up in his saddle. Glancing down the narrow street, Jan saw a battered, ancient sign hanging from a building to the right: a badly-rendered swan was drawn in red paint on the boards.
“There,” ca’Vliomani called out to Jan and the others. “We should—”
He got no further.
From the left, from the right, several dozen painted warriors came shrieking toward them. The next minutes dissolved into a chaos Jan would remember for the rest of his life.
. . . a coruscation of blinding light from the front of the group, then another, and he realized that Karl and Varina had both released spells. He heard screams . . .
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