The Merchant Emperor (26 page)

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As they waited for Anborn to come down from the cliff, Achmed and Grunthor watched the two figures above them saying goodbye. It was taking an infernally long time, and the Bolg king was growing angrier by the moment, blasting the horn, which Rhapsody and Anborn apparently heard but were choosing to ignore.

Just before he put the horn to his lips for a third time, Anborn finally turned to go and stepped away from the ledge. To Achmed’s surprise Rhapsody ran after him and threw herself into his arms, kissing him.

Grunthor, standing beside him, scratched his head.

“Hmmm—what do you suppose
that’s
about, sir?”

Achmed exhaled and let the horn hang down to his side.

“It appears she finally understands the reality of the situation.”

PART FOUR

The Calm Before the Storm

20

THE OCCUPIED CITY OF SEPULVARTA

Both of the monarchs who sat in the opulent carriage on the thickly padded benches across from the newly crowned emperor of Sorbold had been shifting uncomfortably in their very comfortable seats for the better part of the morning. It was not a lack of physical ease that was causing the men to be fidgeting, but rather the vastly different clime of the places through which they were passing, and had been for the better part of a week.

Or perhaps it was the sight that they caught from time to time out the carriage window of the massive stone soldier, driving a chariot pulled by a team of eight horses, standing without rest.

The arid climate of the vast and mountainous Sorbold desert made both men itch. Beliac was a son of the seacoast in his southeastern coastal realm, and had benefited all his life from the ocean’s tempering effect on the weather, meaning that the summers were never too hot, the winters never too bitter, and the wind was never too dry. The burning sand that was blasting occasionally through the seams of the carriage, stinging his face and eyes, was torturous, as was the rough pitching that occurred every time the wheels of the coach went through the ruts in the primitive roadways over which they were traveling. While the pitching of an ocean vessel had no effect on Beliac, the constant jolting of a land vehicle pulled by a team of twelve horses was enough to make him need to call the coach to a halt, jump out and vomit from time to time, much to the secret amusement of his host.

The Diviner of the Hintervold, a realm of all-but-endless winter, was not accustomed to the fortuitous weather of a seacoast kingdom, but his body’s constant exposure to cold in his homeland made the brutal heat of early spring in Sorbold a nightmare for him. He had long since shed his polar bear robe and the hat bearing a life-sized replica of a roaring wolf’s head that he had worn when embarking on the trip. Now he was attired in the thinnest of tunics and trousers, and was pulling continuously on the cord that was attached to the large fan strung in the upper ceiling of the carriage. His panting and the constant back-and-forth movement of his fist put Talquist in mind of a far more pleasurable activity that the Diviner could be undertaking; he could barely contain his mirth.

Because the more uncomfortable his allies could be made prior to seeing what they were about to see, he believed, the more ready they would be for it.

Finally, the carriage began to roll to a slow stop. The heavy velvet shades at the windows had allowed a soothing darkness that enabled the monarchs to drowse in fitful repose, and so the cessation of movement had not wakened them. Talquist reached out impatiently and grasped the king of Golgarn’s arm, shaking him roughly awake.

“Come, my friends,” he said in a pleasant, if somewhat loud tone. “We have arrived.”

Beliac and the Diviner opened their eyes. Talquist raised the bottom of the shade slightly, allowing a crack of sunlight into the dark carriage; the monarchs squinted in pain. He pulled the rest of it up slowly, to allow their eyes to adjust; once the daylight had filled the interior of the coach, he knocked on the door and waited for the footman to open it, then stepped out, followed by the other men.

Who looked around and about them in stunned silence.

Before them was what was known to the population of Roland as the holy city of Sepulvarta, the City of Reason, built at the height of the Cymrian era a thousand years before, in the time known as the Illuminara, the Age of Enlightenment. It was set at the northernmost point in the foothills of the mountainous region of Sorbold, an independent city-state dedicated to what the adherents of the Patrician faith called the All-God. In its time it had been erected on the threshold between Sorbold’s northern border and the beginning of the enormous grasslands known as the Krevensfield Plain, the southern edge of the realm of Roland. Somewhere within its massive walls, both of the visiting kings knew, was the massive basilica of Lianta’ar, the Citadel of the Star; they both were looking up in awe at the enormous tower known as the Spire, which stood a thousand feet in the air, atop of which was a gleaming pinnacle that, according to legend, held an actual piece of the star Seren, for which the Lost Island of Serendair, the birthplace of the Cymrian people, had been named. The Spire was said to tower above the massive basilica, which itself was set several hundred feet above the street level atop the city’s tallest hill.

Each of the Patrician basilicas across the continent was dedicated to one of the five primordial elements in nature—ether, fire, water, air and earth. Of all of the cities in which a Cymrian-built basilica stood, Sepulvarta had been perhaps the smallest in population, but that was because it had as permanent residents only the large number of clergy that served in Lianta’ar, the laity that served the needs of the clergy, and the standard workers, tradesmen, shopkeepers and soldiers that had served to keep the city itself running smoothly. Pilgrims made up the largest part of the residents at any given time, but that group was transient, traveling to Sepulvarta for healing or supplication for an infinite number of spiritual requests, thus providing the monetary sustenance that kept hostels, inns, taverns, shops and markets of the holy city flush with coinage.

In every time of the year, but most especially on the high holy days, which took place beginning on the first day of summer, the roads leading into the walled city were packed with travelers in a long, snaking line, seeking entrance through the one gate that led inside. The pathway off the main road to the north that bisected the continent through Roland, known as the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, was always teeming with people, from the pilgrims on the way to the holy shrines, clergy traveling to and from assignments, and the typical humanity that wandered the thoroughfare from province to province, looking for commerce of both honorable and nefarious natures.

Now that immense line of people seeking entrance to the city was gone.

The massive wall that surrounded the city on either side of the enormous gate was teeming instead with guards, some patrolling the ramparts in shifts, others placed in regular formation behind mounted crossbows and ballistae. The gate itself had been shattered, recently by the look of it, and one side of it, the massive door which had absorbed the impact of that damage had been sealed and braced with temporary iron banding in the advent of real repair. The other door stood open, though vigorously guarded both at the ground level and from the ramparts above. Passing through it was an endless stream of soldiers, driving wagons filled with matériel, equipment, goods, and occasionally captives, most of whom looked like civilians or clergy, seated in open wagons, always in some sort of restraint.

From every crenellated tower, the flag of the Empire of the Sun flew proudly in the desert wind.

For the span of five hundred heartbeats, Beliac and the Diviner stood in stunned silence, trying to take in what they were beholding. Finally the Diviner looked at Talquist, who was smiling broadly, surveying the hundreds of banners displaying his colors.

“You—you have taken the holy city, Talquist?”

“For what purpose are you occupying Sepulvarta?” the king of Golgarn said. His voice was quavering.

Talquist turned to his two friends.

“I will try not to take offense at your words, Beliac, Hjorst,” he said, the smooth tone of the merchant he had been most of his life in his voice. “I certainly am not surprised at your misunderstanding, which is largely due to the distance your kingdoms enjoy from this dry, parched land. What you do not realize is that, three years ago, when the Cymrian Alliance was restored and the Lord and Lady crowned, a new Patriarch was vested as well—a miscreant, a maniac by the name of Constantin.

“The people of the nation of Sorbold, which had been under Cymrian dominion during the days of Anwyn and Gwylliam, were, out of old habit, adherents to the Patrician faith, one of the two religions established on this continent when the misbegotten interlopers came. The previous Patriarch was, like all his forebears, the impotent head of that artificial religion, but nonetheless harmless. He died, by the way, at the Lady Cymrian’s coronation as the Lirin queen, just as he came before her to offer his blessing. Your fears about her, and those of your wife, are well-placed, Beliac. The Patriarch died in her arms, and by her hand. She is said to have accepted his smiling blessing, then ripped the very life from him where he stood. She then sang him a brief but lovely dirge, dropped his body to the ground, and continued on with her receiving line of admirers as he lay there.” He swallowed his amusement at the look of horror in Beliac’s eyes.

“Constantin, who replaced him upon his death, was an apostate, a twisted, evil man in league with Lord Gwydion and his witch wife. He took the ring of the Patriarchy and immediately began creating abominations, beasts of hideous nature and voracious appetites, which he used the power of his office to animate, along with a vast array of other monsters. Trust me when I tell you that this so-called holy city was one of the most perverted, corrupt, murderous places in the Known World under his dominion. You cannot even begin to imagine the depravity that was undertaken in what had once been sacred cathedrals, particularly the one in Sepulvarta. It took the better part of three weeks to scald the semen of the supposedly celibate Patriarch and the blood of uncounted virgins off the altar of the basilica.”

“Gods,” Beliac murmured.

“In short, once he had amassed an army of monstrous beasts and men without conscience, he turned to the south and attacked the villages in the piedmont of Sorbold, innocent towns that served the outposts of the Sorbold army, burning seven of them to the ground in night raids, killing every man, woman, child, and farm animal. He had manipulated the lore of the elements in twisted, demonic ways, so the fire burned, uncontained, until everything it touched was rendered into ashes.

“What else could I do? We struck back, and, having both Right and military superiority on our side, we prevailed, at great cost, of course, but we drove the beasts back and destroyed them, then set about cleansing the city of its apostasy. Even the clerics that once served the Patriarch were part of the conspiracy, so they have been put to resanctifying the various buildings and shrines as they can. Most are repentant, but there are still a few holdouts who are in secret league with the Lord and Lady Cymrian; we are ferreting them out as they can be identified.”

“That is a terrible story,” the Diviner said dryly.

Talquist’s stomach roiled in shock. He thought he had been convincing in his lie, but the grand scope of it might have been too much to seem possible. He opened his mouth, but as he did the Diviner continued his thought.

“I knew that the selection of Gwydion of Manosse would lead to disaster; it appears we in the Hintervold are not the only victims of his depravity and appalling greed.”

“No, indeed,” Talquist said, secretly relieved. “But, as you can see, the Sorbold army has greater military might, as well as the Creator’s blessing. It is fortuitous that we three are old friends and new allies, gentlemen. That is very possibly the only hope for the continent.

“Now, if you will return to the carriage, I will show you what we are doing to try and set things to right within what one day soon will actually be a
true
holy city.”

21