Cobweb Empire (24 page)

“Yes, enough—it is quite clear what you
mean. Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

“The same young girl.
She
is
responsible. There is a knight accompanying her, and they are both
unaccounted for. They rode out of the city—how, the details are
unclear—but they are on the move.”

“Where are they now?”

“Hoarfrost—that is, the Lady writing on his
behalf—did not say, Your Brilliance.”

“And what do
you
think?”

Quentin Loirre furrowed his brow in effort.
“It is my general suspicion, from all that has been known of this
girl, that she is traveling to the Imperial Silver Court.”

For several long moments, the Sovereign did
not speak. Her generals regarded her. “With Your permission,” said
Field Marshal Claude Maetra. “It is no longer a question. This girl
must be apprehended and brought before Your Brilliance.”

“Yes,” Rumanar Avalais said. “She is going
to be brought before me . . . soon.”

“I suggest that Your Brilliance does not
send a dead man to perform this task,” added swarthy Edmunde Vaccio
in his velvet bass. “Since any dead man sent to confront her would
end up permanently
dead
. Instead, send the living.” And his
rich dark brown eyes gazed at her meaningfully. Was there a flicker
of hope in that look?

“Are you volunteering, My Lord Vaccio?” Her
voice was suddenly like pouring honey.

“I am—with all my heart.”

“Ah-h-h. But I need you here, commanding a
third of my army, Lord Vaccio. There is no man who can replace
you.”

The light faded from his eyes. “I
understand. And I obey.”

“With all your heart?” Her eyes were blue
like heaven, laughing at him.

“With that and
more. . . .”

“Then stay and serve me, dear Edmunde. I
meanwhile, will send another man to do this grim but necessary
task.”

“As Your Brilliance will have it.” And
Vaccio gave a curt military bow.

Rumanar Avalais turned to the nearest guard.
“Go,” she said, “fetch me Ebrai Fiomarre.”

H
e was being
summoned by her, now, before the march. What significance did it
entail?

Ebrai Fiomarre, raven-haired, with a darkly
handsome aquiline profile, walked the Palace corridor in haste to
attend the Sovereign’s summons.

He emerged in the front chambers, one of the
main galleries facing east, close to the location of the parade
balcony where he knew she was “performing” before the masses.

And what a performance! She was sublime,
persuasive, the perfect symbol of divinely appointed imperial rule.
He could imagine her speaking in that compelling siren voice, and
the roars of the army crowd, mesmerized by its timbre alone, much
less the impossible beauty of her. . . . It was
infernally difficult to stay focused on anything else when in her
presence. And she knew it well.

Ebrai strode along the marble floor of the
gallery and was met by the Sovereign and her retinue, as they were
leaving the parade balcony chamber.

As always, the sight of her struck him
painfully, so that it was almost a physical sensation, an impact of
tangible
presence
upon his senses, a displacement of the
ether. Ebrai forced himself into the “casual yet humble yet
despair-ridden” complex mask that he cultivated in her company.

In a few long strides he stopped before her,
then bowed deeply yet with a twinge of pride—it was in the
controlled movement of his head, the aloof clarity of his blank
gaze. It was required that he show it, together with the rest of
his mask “ensemble,” else there would be insufficient dignity and
reserve left in him to retain her interest. She would see it and
interpret as she saw fit.

“Your Brilliance, I am here.”

“My dear Ebrai,” she said, and her sky-blue
eyes were upon him, full force, devastating in their clarity. “I
have a task for you.”

“I am a humble servant of Your
Brilliance.”

“You will prepare yourself to travel. You
will take whatever you need.”

He wondered then, seeing the Field Marshals’
steady watchful eyes, as each one looked at him with an unreadable
expression.

“Am I to take it that I will not be
traveling with Your Brilliance upon this campaign?”

“No. You will be heading north on your own,
into the Realm—where you are a hunted man and must take every
precaution, since regrettably you will not have my forces at your
side—and your one task of paramount importance is to locate one
somewhat extraordinary young girl.”

“I see,” he said, indeed not seeing at all,
and for that reason thoughts were racing madly in his mind. “And
who is this young girl?”

“We do not have her name, only that she is
from some remote northern village in Lethe. She is young, hardly a
woman, and she has the ability to
kill
the dead.”

Ebrai’s mind was churning, clicking into
place. “Ah, I do recall now. The so-called Death’s Champion. She is
the one who is rumored to have put to rest her own
grandmother.”

“Yes, and now she has done the same thing
for the old Queen of Lethe. And a few hundred of Duke Ian Chidair’s
very much
dead
men.”

“Ah. . . .”

“We cannot have her continue in this manner.
Your task, therefore, is to locate her, discreetly, and bring her
to me, unharmed. She must remain living, for I have need of her.
And you—you too must stay
alive
in the process, for as a
dead man you will be vulnerable to her.”

Ebrai bowed deeply. “It is done. Where does
Your Brilliance want her delivered?”

The Sovereign’s soft laughter followed.

“I can see, Ebrai, that you are eager to
demonstrate both your loyalty and your ability. Well then, we shall
see how good you really are! Bring the girl to me wherever I might
be at that moment—The Silver Court, Letheburg, or even farther
north. Find me!”

And Ebrai Fiomarre met her gaze with his own
very direct, slightly-mocking-yet-humble perverse combination of
looks that kept her engaged in him every moment he spent before
her. “It will be done precisely as Your Brilliance desires.”

“I know,” she said, the gaze of her blue
eyes caressing him. “Now, go, and leave within the hour, no later
than our armies begin the march.”

With a swift bow, he was gone.

The Sovereign watched his receding elegant
shape, a raven gone to hunt, and then she resumed walking swiftly,
followed by her retinue, on her way out of the Palace.

R
umanar Avalais had
changed from the ceremonial war dress of ancient queens to a modern
riding habit. Only the color remained, rich pomegranate, the formal
military hue of the Domain. Her headdress was replaced by a small
platinum powdered wig designed to support a hat of sable fur
trimmed with gold, suitable for the northern climes, which was to
be worn later. An ermine lined hooded cloak would also later be
fastened at her neck once the temperature called for it. For the
moment, the cloak and hat were borne behind her by a maidservant
who would be traveling with her for the duration of the
campaign—the only other woman beside herself, on this campaign.

The Sovereign walked from the Palace and
into the square, where an open parade curricle was awaiting her.
She was assisted into the gilded seat upholstered in burgundy
velvet by two Ladies-in-Attendance who then immediately curtsied
and retreated, while her tiny maidservant, named Graccia perched in
the back of the equipage with the essentials for the trip. The rest
of the trunks and supplies would follow separately in carts,
wagons, and sleeping carriages, together with the army supplies and
heavy artillery.

“Proceed!” Rumanar raised one fine,
sable-gloved hand, and the curricle, driven by a liveried officer
and a pair of brilliant white geldings, burst forward, making a
round at the Palace driveway to approach the heart of the
square.

Here, the Sovereign told the driver to
stop.

The Trovadii army stood before her at
attention. An ocean of steel-wielding pikemen infantry in endless
formations, at least a hundred separate companies of plated cavalry
knights from all the four Kingdoms of the Domain, and flanks of
heavy musketeers interspersed with light arquebusiers and
long-bowmen.

The Field Marshals were already in the
square, mounted on their chargers and in full armored uniform
except for the battle breastplates, with distinctive epaulets and
crest markings over surcoats. If she glanced closely, she could see
each of the three men watching her, wise astute eyes, brilliant and
clear in determination, exquisitely perfect in their loyalty. Three
hero veterans, each in charge of one portion of the Trovadii.

In the center, grim Field Marshal Claude
Maetra was in charge of the First Army under the banner of the
Spiked Sun, the bulk and heart of the heavy pike infantry and
cavalry forces. To the right, Field Marshal Matteas Quara with his
distinctive eye-patch, was to lead the Second Army under the banner
of a bristling Coiled Serpent, including the bulk of musketeers and
artillery. To the left, Field Marshal Edmunde Vaccio, the handsome
Moor, headed the Third Army under the banner of a Black Rose that
had most of the bowmen and sword-and-buckler corps.

The Sovereign raised one gloved hand, and
each man of the many thousands, from the lowest infantry soldier to
the highest knight, attended her in rapt immediate silence.

“Trovadii!” she cried. “My Trovadii! Are you
ready to fight?”

The square shook with the roar of their
reply.

“Trovadii! Are you ready to die for me?”

They roared as one man, and the remote sun,
rising higher now, set their metal to a sea of cold liquid
fire.

“Then
die
for me!” cried the
Sovereign. “Each one among you, take up your sword or dagger! Lift
your armor upon your breast and find your heart! Strike your own
beating heart, or your throat!”

There was one impossible pause of
silence.

The wind blew audibly in the square, so
silent it had become.

And in the next instant, three loud, booming
masculine voices were heard. Field Marshal Claude Maetra roared a
command in an icy voice of precision, and many feet away to his
left and right, the same command issued from the mouths of Field
Marshal Quara and Field Marshal Vaccio. Each general had his sword
out and reversed, pointing at their own bodies, and their chests
were free of chainmail or breastplate—now the reasons became
clear. . . .

“Remove sword!
Strike!
”

And each general demonstrated by example, by
plunging their swords directly into their own hearts.

They made brief grunts, but remained
standing, while red blood surged out of their chests, same color as
their pomegranate uniforms.

As their hearts stilled, there was but a
moment to transition to the
undeath
, no time to get
accustomed, no time to acknowledge agony and that inevitable moment
of blackout, and immediate weakness, and spiraling distance,
and. . . .

No time.

“
Remove . . . sword!
Strike!”

Field Marshal Maetra was the first to regain
his voice, and it sounded broken at first, as his mechanical gears
slipped into place and his lungs billowed like dragging sails.

Knights all across the ranks started moving,
reacting. Breastplates were moved aside whenever possible, or helms
shifted and throats exposed. Swords and daggers were plunged into
healthy living flesh, leathered and weatherbeaten, smooth and
virile, white or olive or black as ebony. One after another they
moved, striking with all their force, filled with sudden focus born
of realization—born of madness—taking last breaths, crying out, or
fading in silence.

“
Remove . . .
sword!”

Some of them hesitated. In quite a few
spots, sudden skirmishes took place, quickly quelled by others
around them. As men staggered, stood or sat on their horses,
bleeding, they turned to those neighbors who hesitated, and daggers
or sharp pike ends were plunged into chests and exposed
throats.

“
Strike!”

One by one, lesser commanding officers
picked up the call, as sergeants-at-arms commanded their companies.
Some soldiers had to be held down by their fellow members of
battalions and troops while they wept and prayed.

Blood rained down upon Trova Square. It had
turned pomegranate, cobblestones soggy with dark red juices of once
living men.

Horses staggered and slipped. They were
slain also, carefully so as not to damage fine limbs or muscles
that might interfere with the march. A few of the knights wept
then, not for themselves or the men around them, but in the moments
they realized they had to take the lives of their own loyal
beasts.

“
Strike!”

Field Marshal Edmunde Vaccio heard the sound
around him as though through ears plugged with cotton, while the
last of his pomegranate blood trickled out of his wound in the
chest, mingling with his crisp uniform surcoat, staining his
gambeson and undershirt below. For the first time in his memory he
heard no reliable drumbeat pulse in his temples, and thought of his
young wife in Solemnis, imagining her lithe soft body gently
swollen with their first child that will be their last.

“
Strike!”

In the back of the square, soldiers
stationed at the most outlying positions, hearing the orders,
looked at each other in suspended disbelief, forced into moments of
utmost choice. Others prayed in silence before removing their steel
and performing their final living act. “Help me!” a few of them
mouthed.

Help me
. . . .

In the middle of the First Army, a formation
of pikemen had come down on their knees, each one down to a man,
refusing to take their own life. Heads bowed, they knelt in
silence, mouthing prayers to God in Heaven, while their
sergeants-at-arms came around striking them in the chests and
throats, followed by benedictions from hooded priests who had
emerged in many places around the square, to deliver Last Rites to
the most faithful among them.