The Heretic Kings: Book Two of The Monarchies of God Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE HERETIC KINGS: BOOK TWO OF THE MONARCHIES OF GOD

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Paul Kearney

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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  ISBN: 0-7865-4163-6

  An ACE BOOK®

  Ace Books first published by The Ace Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

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  Electronic edition: August, 2003

  Also by Paul Kearney

  HAWKWOOD’S VOYAGE

  Book One of The Monarchies of God

  For my brothers,

  Sean and James Kearney

  Acknowledgments to:

  John McLaughlin, Richard Evans and Jo Fletcher, for their patience and hard work on my behalf

  WHAT WENT BEFORE . . .

  I T is over half a millennium since the birth of the Blessed Saint Ramusio, the man who brought the light of true belief into the western world. The empire of the Fimbrians, which once spanned the wide continent of Normannia, is only a dim memory. Their empire has been transformed into a series of powerful kingdoms, and the Fimbrian Electorates have remained isolated within their borders for over four centuries, indifferent to events beyond them.

  But now things are taking place which cannot be ignored. Aekir, the Holy City on the eastern frontier and seat of the High Pontiff Macrobius, head of the Church, has fallen to the teeming armies of the heathen Merduks, who have been pressing on the eastern frontier of the Ramusian kingdoms for decades.

  Caught up in the fury of its fall, Corfe Cear-Inaf flees westwards, one of the few of its defenders who has survived. On the refugee-choked road he befriends an old man the Merduks have blinded, and finds out that he is none other than Macrobius himself, who escaped unrecognized by the troops of Shahr Baraz, the Merduk general. Corfe is nursing his own private grief: he left his wife in Aekir, and believes her dead. Unknown to him, however, she survived the assault and was captured and sent to the court of the Sultan as spoils of war to join his harem. Corfe and Macrobius trek westwards along with thousands of others, seeking sanctuary in the impregnable fortress of Ormann Dyke, the west’s last line of defence after Aekir.

  In the meantime, across the continent, the mariner Richard Hawkwood returns from a voyage to find that in this time of fear and uncertainty the militant Churchmen of the Inceptine Order are cracking down on anyone in the great port-capital of Abrusio, first city of the kingdom of Hebrion, who is either a user of magic, or a foreigner. Since half of Hawkwood’s crew are not native to Hebrion, they are hauled off to await the pyre. Hebrion’s king, Abeleyn, tries to do what he can to limit the scale of the purge in the raucous old port, and at the same time is involved in a battle of wills with his senior Churchman, Himerius, who has instigated it, and who has also asked the Church to send him aid in the form of two thousand Knights Militant, the fanatical military arm of the Church.

  The wizard Bardolin is also affected by this purge. He befriends a young female shape-shifter, rescuing her from one of the city patrols, but it seems likely to be only a temporary reprieve. Then his old teacher, the King’s wizardly (and proscribed) advisor, the mage Golophin, tells him of a possible way out. The Hebrian King is sponsoring a westward voyage of exploration and colonization, and its ships will have room for a sizable contingent of the Dweomer-folk who at this moment are being hunted down across the kingdom.

  The captain of the expedition is none other than Richard Hawkwood, who has been blackmailed into taking on the mission by an ambitious minor noble, Murad of Galiapeno. Murad is after a kingdom of his own, and he believes that there is a lost continent somewhere across the expanse of the Great Western Ocean. He possesses an ancient rutter recording a long-ago voyage to such a continent. He does not tell King Abeleyn, or Hawkwood, that the earlier westward voyage ended in death and madness, with a werewolf aboard ship.

  The expedition sets sail, Hawkwood having said goodbye to his volatile, nobly born mistress, the lady Jemilla, and to his wan, hysterical wife Estrella. But the ships are burdened with one last, unwelcome passenger. The Inceptine cleric Ortelius takes ship with the explorers, no doubt so that the Church can keep an eye on this unorthodox voyage.

  M EANWHILE ; in the east, events are proceeding apace. Corfe and Macrobius finally arrive at Ormann Dyke, where Macrobius is recognized and welcomed and Corfe is once more an officer in the Torunnan army. The Merduk Sultan, Aurungzeb, orders an immediate assault on the dyke against the better judgement of the old general, Shahr Baraz. Two successive attacks fail, the second in large part due to the efforts of Corfe himself. When the Sultan orders a third attack, his orders communicated via a homonculus, Shahr Baraz refuses outright and kills the homonculus, thus crippling and disfiguring Aurungzeb’s court mage, Orkh. Shahr Baraz then flees into the steppes of the east, and campaigning comes to an end for the winter. Ormann Dyke is safe, for the present. Promoted to colonel by the dyke’s commander, Martellus the Lion, Corfe is to escort Macrobius to the Torunnan capital, Torunn, where the old Pontiff has now taken on new stature.

  For the Church has split down the middle. In Macrobius’ absence the Prelates of the Five Kingdoms have elected the hardline Prelate of Hebrion, Himerius, as the new Pontiff, and he refuses to accept that Macrobius is alive. Matters come to a head at the Conclave of Kings in Vol Ephrir, which all the monarchs of Ramusian Normannia attend. At this conference, three kings—Abeleyn of Hebrion, Mark of Astarac (who is Abeleyn’s ally and soon to be his brother-in-law) and Lofantyr of embattled Torunna—recognize Macrobius as the rightful Pontiff, whereas every other Ramusian ruler on the continent sides with Himerius. This produces a religious schism of vast proportions, and the prospect of fratricidal war amongst the Ramusian states at a time when the Merduk threat has never been worse. But that is not the only event of the moment which occurs at the conclave.

  The Fimbrians, so long isolated, have sent envoys to the meeting to offer their troops to any state which needs them—for a price. The hard-pressed Lofantyr of Torunna immediately takes the envoys up on their offer, and requests that a Fimbrian force be sent to aid his fought-out troops at Ormann Dyke. But Abeleyn is uneasy, sure that the Fimbrians have a secret agenda of their own; dreams of rekindling their empire, perhaps.

  As the conclave breaks up in acrimony and hostility, Abeleyn receives another notable piece of information. His newly acquired mistress, the lady Jemilla, is, she informs him, pregnant with his child. Abeleyn sets out for home knowing that the Church has done its best to take over his kingdom in his absence, and that he has a bastard heir on the way.

  W HILE Normannia is riven by war and religious discord, Hawkwood’s two ships are sailing steadily westwards. Murad, to Hawkwood’s annoyance, takes a couple of the female pass
engers as servants and bedmates. One of the pair is Bardolin’s ward, the young shape-shifter, Griella. She hates Murad, but something in her responds to his cruelty as he responds to the strange feral nature he senses within her. Bardolin is both jealous and afraid of the consequences of their liaison, but there is nothing he can do.

  The ship survives a terrible storm but is blown far off course. When a calm ensues, Hawkwood calls upon the talents of Pernicus, a weather-worker, to bring them a wind, despite the objections of the Inceptine, Ortelius, who insists that the voyage is cursed. The wind comes, but not for long. Pernicus is found butchered in the hold, his wounds inflicted by what seems to be some sort of beast.

  As the ships crawl westwards they lose contact with each other, and Hawkwood does not know if his other vessel is still afloat or sunk. There is enough trouble to occupy him on his own ship, however. His first mate is killed next, and a cabin-boy disappears. Bardolin, sure that Griella is behind the killings, confronts her, but becomes convinced that she is innocent of them, leaving him baffled. The ship comes to resemble a prison, with guards everywhere and a mutinous, terrified crew. Only Hawkwood’s authority and Murad’s savage discipline keep passengers and crew in line.

  But one dark night the beast on board strikes at Hawkwood, Murad and Bardolin themselves. There are two werewolves in the attack: one turns out to be Ortelius, the other the missing cabin-boy, nursing his grievances ever since Hawkwood cast him aside. In the ensuing battle Griella shifts into her beast form to protect her lover, Murad, and Bardolin dispatches the other lycanthrope with a bolt of Dweomer. Griella dies of her wounds, however, leaving Murad horrified and grief-stricken.

  The unhappy ship sails on, and finally the lookouts sight land. They have reached the Western Continent at last, but they are the only ones to have done so. The wreck of Hawkwood’s other ship is visible on the reef which rings the strange coast, and there is no sign of survivors.

  Hawkwood’s Voyage ends with the explorers finally setting foot on the shores of this new land. They have no idea what to expect but they know that Ortelius was trying to prevent them from getting here, as something has prevented ships from surviving the westward voyage for three centuries and more. They suspect that this new world is inhabited. But by whom, or what?

  This is the century of the soldier.

  Fulvio Testi, 1641

  PROLOGUE

  A LWAYS , men move west. Is it something to do with the path of the sun? They are drawn to it like moths to the flame of a taper.

  Many long turning years have slipped by, and still I remain: the last of the founders, my body scarcely my own at the end. I have seen four centuries of the waking world trickle past, their passage scarcely marked by any change in the land I have made my home. Men change, and they like to think that the world changes with them. It does not; it merely tolerates them, and continues to follow its own, arcane revolutions.

  And yet there is something in the air, like a whisper of winter in this country which knows no seasons. I feel a change coming.

  T HEY came treading the saffron and scarlet course of the sinking sun, as we had always known they would, with their tall ships trailing streamers of weed from worm-eaten hulls.

  We watched them from the jungle. Men in salt-encrusted armour with scurvy-swollen faces bearing swords and pikes, and, later, reeking arquebuses, the slow-match glowing and hissing in the wind. Gaunt men of Hebrion, or Astarac, or Gabrion; the sea-rovers of the Old World. Hard-handed buccaneers with the greed dazzling their eyes.

  We had come here fleeing something; they had come seeking. We gave them fear to fill their bellies and night-dark terror to plump out their purses. We made of them the hunted, and took from them whatever we desired.

  Their ships rotted slowly at their moorings, untenanted and filled with ghosts. A few, a very few, we let live, to take the tale of us back east to the Monarchies of God. In this way, the myth was created. We hid our country behind a curtain of tall tales and dark rumours. We laced the truth with the hyperbole of madness; we beat out a legend as though it were the blade of a sword on a smith’s anvil. And we quenched it in blood.

  But the change is coming. Four centuries have we lingered here, and our people have slowly filtered back to the east in accordance with the plan. They are everywhere now in Normannia. They command soldiers, they preach to multitudes, they watch over cradles. Some of them have the ear of kings.

  The time is come for our keels to recross the Western Ocean, and claim what is ours. The beast will out, in the end. Every wolf will have its day.

  PART ONE

  SCHISM

  ONE

  YEAR OF THE SAINT 551

  V ESPERS had long since been rung, but Brother Albrec had affected not to hear. He chewed the end of his quill so that damp bits of feather dropped on to the bench, but he did not notice. His face, squinting in the dim light of the dip, was akin to that of a near-sighted vole, pointed and inquisitive. His hand shook as he turned the page of an ancient parchment which lay before him. When once a corner crumbled at the touch of his nimble fingers he whined a little back in his throat, for all the world like a dog seeing its master leave the room without it.

  The words on the parchment were beautifully inscribed, but the ink had faded. It was a strange document, he thought. There were none of the illuminations which had always been thought so necessary an adornment to the holy texts of Ramusio. Only words, stark and bare and elegantly written, but fading under the weight of so many years.

  The parchment itself was poor quality. Had the scribe of the time possessed no vellum? he wondered, for this was hand-enscribed, not churned out on one of the famous presses of Charibon. This was old.

  And yet it was almost as though the author had not wanted to draw too much attention to the work. And indeed the manuscript had been found, a rolled-up wad of untidy fragments, stuffed into a crack in the wall of one of the lowest of the library levels. Brother Columbar had brought it to Albrec. He had thought perhaps to use the parchment as blotting for the scriptorium, for Charibon still produced hand-written books, even now. But the faint, perfect writing visible upon it had made him hesitate, and bring it to the attention of the Assistant Librarian. Albrec’s natural curiosity had done the rest.

  Almost he halted, rose from his seat to tell the Chief Librarian, Brother Commodius. But something kept the little monk rooted there, reading on in fascination while the other brothers were no doubt sitting down to their evening meal.

  The scrap of parchment was five centuries old. Almost as old as Charibon itself, holiest of all the university-monasteries on the continent now that Aekir was gone. When the unknown author had been writing, the Blessed Ramusio had only just been assumed into heaven—conceivably, that great event had happened within the lifetime of the writer.

  Albrec held his breath as the petal-thin parchment stuck to his sweating fingers. He was afraid to breathe on it for fear that the ancient, irreplaceable text might somehow blur and run, or blow away like sand under some sudden zephyr.

  . . . and we begged him not to leave us alone and bereft in such a darkening world. But the Blessed Saint only smiled. “I am an old man now,” he said. “What I have begun I leave to you to continue; my time here is finished. You are all men of faith; if you believe in the things which I have taught you and place your lives in the hand of God, then there is no need to be afraid. The world is a darkening place, yes, but it darkens because of the will of man, not of God. It is possible to turn the tide of history—we have proved that. Remember, in the years ahead, that we do not merely suffer history, we create it. Every man has in him the ability to change the world. Every man has a voice to speak out with; and if that voice is silenced by those who will not listen, then another will speak out, and another. The truth can be silenced for a time, yes, but not for ever . . .

  The rest of the page was missing, torn away. Albrec leafed through the indecipherable fragments that followed. Tears rose in his eyes and he blinked them away as he re
alized that the parts which were missing were indeed lost beyond recall. It was as if someone had given a thirsting man in a desert a drop of water to soothe his parched mouth, and then poured away a quart into the sand.

  Finally, the little cleric got off his hard bench and knelt on the stone floor to pray.

  The life of the Saint, an original text which had never been seen before. It told the story of a man named Ramusio, who had been born and who had lived and grown old; who had laughed and wept and spent sleepless nights awake. The story of the central figure in the faith of the western world, written by a contemporary—possibly even someone who had known him personally . . .

  Even if so much of it had been lost, there was still so much gained. It was a miracle, and it had been granted to him. He thanked God there on his knees for revealing it to him. And he prayed to Ramusio, the Blessed Saint whom he was now beginning to see as a man, a human being like himself—though infinitely superior, of course. Not the iconic image the Church had made him out to be, but a man. And it was thanks to this incredibly precious document before him.

  He regained his seat, blowing his nose on the sleeve of his habit, kissing his humble Saint’s symbol of bog-oak. The tattered text was beyond price; it was comparable to the Book Of Deeds compiled by St. Bonneval in the first century. But how much of it was here? How much was legible?

  He bent over it again, ignoring the pains that were shooting through his cramped neck and shoulders.

  No title page or covering, nothing that might hint at the identity of the author or his patron. Five centuries ago, Albrec knew, the Church had not possessed the virtual monopoly on learning that it did now. In those days many parts of the world had not yet been converted to the True Faith, and rich noblemen had sponsored scribes and artists in a hundred cities to copy old pagan texts or even invent new ones. Literacy had been more widespread. It was only with the rise to prominence of the Inceptines in the last two hundred years or so that literacy had declined again, becoming a preserve of professionals. It was said that all the Fimbrian emperors could both read and write, whereas until recently no western king could so much as spell his own name. That had changed with the new generation of kings that was coming to the fore, but the older rulers still preferred a seal to a signature.