Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (8 page)

“Not for me,” Alcuin said. “I’d never get another contract when word got around that I let a band of scurvy robbers make off with my own dear mother. The company would never live it down.” He sat down in a chair across from her.
 

“I want to see you in the tournament. Your father went to tournaments and never won. He was the worst jouster in the county.” She made the same cackling sound. “Do you remember?”

“He landed a few good blows when it counted,” Alcuin said. “And he never lost on the battlefield.”

“I guess he didn’t. Oh, well. What day is it?”

“Shadrach’s Day,” he said. “We’re halfway through Mistmonth.”
 

“Oh. Good. I want to go to the tournament with you.”

The chaplain interjected. “We have talked about this before. The road is too dangerous…”

“I want to go!” she screamed, and began sobbing. “You keep me locked up in my room like I’m some senile old woman. I can’t do anything anymore…”

“Mother.” Alcuin’s platitude was drowned out by his mother’s sobbing. “Mother.”
 

Alcuin hugged her and stroked her head until the crying subsided. He looked up at the chaplain. “Find a wheelhouse, Stefan. Borrow or buy one from one of the local chevaliers, or the Count himself if need be. Let’s take her.”

“Alcuin, is that wise?” the chaplain asked.
 

“Fuck it. She remembered I’m off to the tournament. I didn’t have to remind her of that again.” Alcuin said. “Maybe watching the scenery go by will do her more good than sitting around in this dreadful pile of rocks.”

“She will need a guard detail.”

“And caretakers,” Alcuin said. “And extra provisions, a doctor and a page. I know. I am personally the richest mercenary lord in the Empire. I think we can transport a cranky old woman to the tournament so she can watch me kick the miserable shit out of a lot of swinish little noblemen.”
 

“Commander Darkwood,” the chaplain said, standing straighter, “she will be vulnerable to your enemies, and therefore you will be vulnerable.”

“Noted, chaplain. I’ve made my decision.”
 

“Yes, sir. I’ll arrange it.”

“Good. And if anyone lays a finger on her, I will gut him like a fish.”

“Save some for me,” the chaplain said. “Mahurin save me, I love this dear lady. I will break my vows to defend her.”

“What day is it?” the old woman asked.

“I trust the Primus appreciated you returning his blade,” said Garon, Black Rod of the Imperial Court. He stood on the dais before Mithrandrates.

The Emperor stroked his beard and shifted in the spare marble throne. “Indeed. I think he was surprised I knew which of my guards were on his payroll. Have you arranged to have them all transferred to the Primus’ guard detail?”

“It is done. Shall I have our men stationed in the Holy See pulled back to your guard?”

“Yes,” the Emperor said. “But keep one or two embedded with the Primus. I want to show him that I harbor no ill feelings toward him with this transfer, but I don’t want to give up all of my advantage doing it.”

“Very good. I will see to it.”

“Speaking of vipers, do any of the governors deign to leave their castles and attend the Imperial Council?”

“No, Emperor. They send proxies in their stead.”

“Ah. Tell
 
me about these proxies. The usual preening sycophants?”

“Not all of them. Governor Drucilla sends Duke Grantham to represent Brynn Province.”

The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Grantham is her most competent man. Drucilla must be planning some mischief. Who else?”

Garon named them off and handed the Emperor a scroll case containing
 
information on the representatives each of the governors would send. Duke Hardaris would represent Aternis Province this year; Duke Gaxara, Draugmere; Duchess Betina, Relfast; Duchess Minerva, Balgroth; and Duke Philo, Hastrus.
 

“What do we know about them?” the Emperor asked.

“Duke Hardaris coddles the guilds in Aternis and works to keep trade running at a brisk pace. He hasn’t taken to the battlefield since he was a squire during the rebellion,” Garon said. “Gaxara is loquacious and charming—he’s actually pleasant company and is mostly harmless. Duchess Betina, on the other hand, is young and ambitious. We should watch her carefully. Duchess Minerva is a sporting woman, both at court and in the boudoir. She is a danger only to
 
herself and whomever she drags along with her to perdition.”

The Emperor nodded and smiled. “I know this well about the duchess. Duke Philo?”

“Philo is interested only in securing his own position and income. Governor Kodric would be a fool to send him on a mission of political adventure.”
 

Mithrandrates nodded. “Unless the adventure came at no risk to Kodric.”
 

“Risk is a constant companion in Hastrus,” Garon said. “Kodric is in no position to seek any more of it.”

“Does that ever stop any of my governors from warring on each other?”

“No, Emperor. It does not.”

“Watch them all closely. It will be interesting to see which ones vote against the Accord of Peace this year.”

“My people send me reports daily on all of the envoys’ movements.”

The Emperor stood. “Good. Let us see how the preparations are coming along for the tournament.”

A fortnight later, racing chariots thundered round the coliseum in Mergova to the cheers of thousands of spectators. Centuries had passed since war mages had ridden them in battle, blasting the Empire’s foes with bolts of deadly energy and sorcerous fire, but the obsolete war machines still cut a bright swath of glory through the lore and culture of the Empire. These days, the chariot races were the opening spectacle of a week of celebrations, feasting and deeds of martial skill ushering in
 
the month-long Imperial Council every year.

The chariot races would be followed by other contests more suitable to the modern battlefield: archery contests, cavalry demonstrations, duels and force-on-force combat complete with wooden fortresses and siege engines built in the arena. All combatants used blunted weapons lest any blood feuds erupt amidst what was supposed to be a unifying national ritual.
 

Each day of contests would begin with a dawn worship service culminating when the sun crested the eastern wall of the coliseum. These services filled the arena with true believers seeking blessings from Mahurin—a different crowd altogether from those who would fill the seats later in the morning to swill watery ale and cheer the contests.
 

Mithrandrates and the provincial representatives watched from the Emperor’s Box, a columned, roofed platform jutting out from the stands near ground level in the northern end of the great arena. It was large enough to accommodate the Emperor and the Council, their guards, and the various servants bustling about and seeing to their wants. The Emperor sat in the middle of the platform on a stone replica of the Imperial throne. The six representatives sat in portable but splendidly adorned wooden chairs, three to each side of the Emperor.
 

The Council passed the first morning’s races in silence save for applause at appropriate times and the Emperor’s lofty words honoring the winners. He wore a stony demeanor to make clear to the representatives that theirs was not to enjoy the spectacle, but to be part of it. They were to be living extensions of the coliseum and the embodiment of the Mergovan Empire.

After the chariot races and midday meal, Mithrandrates allowed himself a smile when the trumpets sounded for the pass-in-review. The great portcullis at the opposite side of the arena rose, and a band of pipers and drummers from the Imperial Guard led a procession of mounted warriors from each of the provinces and great mercenary companies competing in the tournament. Banners depicting each faction’s arms streamed in the clear afternoon air. The Imperial eagle led the way, followed by the golden sun of the Temple Guard, the coiled adder of Aternis, the mermaid of Draugmere, the winged sword of Balgroth, the griffin of Relfast, the axe of Hastrus and the winged horse of Brynn. Men-at-arms from the Black Swan Company, Demon Company, Radic’s Reavers and the Battle Hags, an all-woman mercenary company known for its ferocity, represented the Mercenaries Guild. The standard bearers dipped their pennons as each cavalry troop passed the Emperor and Council, and the warriors raised and lowered their weapons in salute.

Mithrandrates finally spoke to his councilors as the procession clattered its way past the Emperor’s Box. “Such a lovely display of Imperial might and chivalry. I wonder how many of these warriors will die this year on the field of battle?”

“Some, I am sure, Emperor,” said Duke Grantham of Brynn. The others looked down at their embroidered clothes or watched with feigned intensity at the passing men-at-arms.

Mithrandrates turned to Grantham. “I also wonder which battlefields they will die upon?”

“The Great God Mahurin knows,” Grantham said. “Would that those battlefields were in foreign lands, and those warriors giving their lives to reclaim the Empire’s former glory.”

“But,” Duchess Betina of Relfast interjected, “all that we do is for the glory of the Empire. In its own way.”

Mithrandrates laughed mirthlessly. “Indeed. I am fortunate to have seneschals whose desires burn so hotly for the glory of the Empire.”

“Desire burns hot, Emperor Mithrandrates, but loyalty burns long,” Grantham said.
 

“Yes,” the Emperor said. “But both fires burn only so long as they are fed and stoked. Let us hope that none feeding these fires get burned.”

Alcuin and his 10 guardsmen stood on one end of the arena with four other leaders and their chosen champions: Duke Grantham of Brynn—the only member of the Imperial Council to set foot in the arena this year—along with Marek of Relfast, Darien of Hastrus and the Morgane, commander of the Battle Hags. They were 55 in all, 44 men and the 11 women of the Battle Hags. Alcuin was glad he had drawn the lot with them. The Battle Hags were the most ferocious of the mercenary companies, if not quite the most powerful, and the Morgane only brought her most formidable warriors to tournament.
 

On the other end of the arena stood a wooden fortress built specially for the contests of mass combat. This was manned by another 55 warriors—five leaders from the provinces and great mercenary companies each with 10 men. Two lords held the ramparts of the fort, and the others were arrayed before the gate blocking the attackers’ way.
 

All were dismounted because this contest was too dangerous for horses. Men and women could pull the blows they delivered with their blunted weapons, but horses could easily be maimed and riders trampled in the melee. The purpose of the tournament was to test the Empire’s finest warriors, not kill them.
 

The spectacle of the coliseum never diminished for Alcuin, despite the many times he had sparred and bled there. The elliptical marvel held 40,000 spectators, all surrounding and rising above the combatants in the arena. The noise of their cheers thundered down from their lofty heights like the peals of a sudden, wind-laden storm. High above the crowds rose 17 spires built into the outer works of the coliseum representing the provinces of the old Mergovan Empire. Seven of the spires each flew one of the remaining provinces’ banners. The rest of the towers stood in memorial of the 10 lost provinces across the Sunless Sea that were destroyed during the last Chaos Moon hundreds of years before.
 

A gate in the long side of the arena opened, and two groups of clerics entered the sandy grounds. The spectators fell as silent as a group that large can and bowed their heads. One band of clerics processed to Alcuin’s troop, the other to the warriors holding the fortress. Both sides would be blessed and given a brief homily.
 

Alcuin’s troop knelt when their clerics arrived. One of the holy men stepped forward to give the blessing, another held a censer smoking with incense, and the third held a 15-foot standard, gilt and ornately decorated from the butt cap to the golden Sun of Mahurin at its top. The lead cleric began the blessing just as he would before a real battle.

“Is there any among you who cannot or will not fight this day, be it on account of illness of body or frailty of spirit? If so, go in peace, for only the hale and fervent can share in the victory of Mahurin.”

All of the warriors remained, and the cleric went on. “Then let us pray. Grant, Blessed Mahurin, thy protection to these warriors as they test their skill against their brothers and countrymen. Grant them clear minds, swift arms and wise spirits. Let them remember in the heat of contest that they and their opponents strive in your name under the cleansing rays of your orb, the sun, and that all share in its light and blessings. Let the Fire Above be the flame within our souls.”

The cleric made the Sign of the Sun by raising his hand to the sky and bringing the sun’s rays down slowly, touching his forehead and sternum lightly with his fingertips. The kneeling warriors did the same.
 

“I despair at the bitter warfare that rends our Empire asunder,” the cleric said. “But I do not accuse our governors or their vassals of greed and abject political stupidity. That would be treason.”
 

So much for a boring sermon
, Alcuin thought. The cleric’s bold words and stern demeanor piqued the mercenary’s interest. He noticed that the cleric had a crooked nose and a puckered scar on his cheek. The cleric also wore his hair cropped close like an Imperial soldier.
 

“I do, however, accuse you all—governors and knights, peasants and prisoners—of faithlessness and idolatry. For if you privileged men and women of our warrior estate do not have Mahurin’s fire in your hearts and do His will in this world, then you genuflect before an idol, this golden solar disc on a pole, and nothing more. Go find a rock or a tree, pray to those, and be like the heathen in our hinterlands that your governors cannot bring to heel. Be apostate, but at least be honest about your faithlessness.”