The Second Empire: Book Four of The Monarchies of God Page 3

  T HEY stood watches that first night, taking it in turns to feed the fire and stare out at the black wall of the rainforest. When they were not on guard they slept fitfully. Bardolin lay awake most of the night, exhausted but afraid to sleep, afraid to find out what might be lurking in his dreams.

  Aruan had made a lycanthrope of him.

  So the arch-mage had said. Bardolin had had sexual relations with Kersik, the girl who had guided them to Undabane. And then she had fed him a portion of her kill—that was the process. That was the rite which engendered the disease.

  He almost thought he could feel the black disease working in him, a physical process changing body and soul with every heartbeat. Should he tell the others? They distrusted him already. What was going to happen to him? What manner of thing was he to become?

  He considered just walking off and becoming lost to the jungle, or even returning to Undi like some prodigal son. But he had always been stubborn, proud and stiff-necked. He would resist this thing, battle it for as long as there was any remnant of Bardolin son of Carnolan left in him. He had been a soldier once: he would fight to the very end.

  Thus he thought as he sat his watch, and fed the fire while the other two slept. Hawkwood had given him a task: he was to rub the iron needle with wool from one of the tinderboxes. It made little sense to Bardolin, but at least it was something to help keep sleep at bay.

  To one side, Murad moaned in his slumber, and once to his shock Bardolin thought he heard the nobleman gasp out Griella’s name—the base-born lover Murad had taken aboard ship who had turned out to be a shifter herself. What unholy manner of union had those two shared? Not rape, not love freely given either. A kind of mutual degradation which wrought violence upon their sensibilities and yet somehow left them wanting more.

  And Bardolin, the old man, he had been envious of them.

  He sat and excoriated himself for a thousand failings, the regrets of an ageing man without home or family. In the black night the darkness of his mood deepened. Why had Aruan let him go? What was his fate to be? Ah, to hell with the endless questions.

  He spun himself a little cantrip, a glede of werelight which flickered and spluttered weakly. In sudden fear he sent it bobbing around the limits of the firelight, banishing shadows for a few fleeting seconds. It wheeled like an ecstatic firefly and then went out. Too soon. Too weak. He felt like a man who has lost a limb and yet feels pain in phantom fingers. He drank some water from Murad’s bottle, eyes smarting with grief and tyredness. He was too old for this. He should have an apprentice, someone to help bear the load of a greybeard’s worries. Like young Orquil perhaps, whom they had sent to the fire back in Abrusio.

  What about me, Bardolin? Will I do?

  He started. Sleep had almost taken him. For a moment he had half seen another person sitting on the other side of the fire. A young girl with heavy bronze-coloured hair. The night air had invaded his head. He brutally knuckled his aching eye-sockets and resumed his solitary vigil, impatiently awaiting the dawn.

  T HEY were on their feet with the first faint light of the sun through the canopy. Water from the stream and a few broken crumbs of biscuit constituted breakfast, and then they looked over Hawkwood’s shoulder as he set the needle floating on a leaf in Murad’s tin cup. It twisted strangely on the water therein, and then steadied. The mariner nodded with grim satisfaction.

  “That’s your compass?” Murad asked incredulously. “A common needle?”

  “Any iron can be given the ability to turn to the north,” he was told. “I don’t know why or how, but it works. We march south-east today. Murad, I want you to look out for a likely spear shaft. Myself, I reckon I might have a go at making a bow. Give me your knife, Bardolin. We’ll have to blaze trees to keep our bearing. All right? Then let’s go.”

  Rather nonplussed, Hawkwood’s two companions fell into step behind him, and the trio was on its way.

  They tramped steadily until noon, when it began to cloud over in preparation for the almost daily downpour. By that time Murad had his iron knife blade tied on to a stout shaft some six feet long, and Hawkwood was laden with a selection of slender sticks and one stave as thick as three fingers. They were famished, pocked with countless bites, scored and gashed and dripping with leeches. And Murad was finding it difficult to keep the pace Hawkwood set. The mariner and the mage would often have to pause in their tracks and wait for him to catch up. But when Hawkwood suggested a break, the nobleman only snarled at him.

  In the shelter of an enormous dead tree they waited out the bruising rain as it began thundering in torrents down from the canopy overhead. The ground they sat on quickly became a sucking mire, and the force of the downpour made it difficult to breathe. Hawkwood bent his chin into his breast to create a space, a pocket of air, and in that second it filled with mosquitoes which he drew in helplessly as he breathed, and spat and coughed out again.

  The deluge finally ended as abruptly as it had begun, and for a few minutes afterwards they sat in the mud and gurgling water which the forest floor had become, sodden, weary, frail with hunger. Murad was barely conscious, and Hawkwood could feel the burning heat of his body as the nobleman leaned against him.

  They laboured to their feet without speaking, staggering like ancients. A coral-bright snake whipped through the puddles at their feet, and with a cry Murad seemed to come alive. He stabbed his new spear at the ground and transfixed the thrashing reptile just behind the head. It twined itself about the spear in its last agony, and Murad smiled.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “dinner is served.”

  TWO

  H APTMAN Hernan Sequero surveyed the squalid extent of his little kingdom and pursed his lips in disapproval. He rap-rap-rapped his knuckles lightly on the hardwood table, ignoring the bead of sweat that was hovering from one eye-brow.

  “It’s not good enough,” he said. “We’ll never be self-sufficient here if these damned people keep on dying. They’re supposed to be blasted magicians, after all. Can’t they magick up something?”

  The men around him cleared their throats, shifted on their feet or looked away. Only one made any attempt to reply, a florid, golden-haired young man with an ensign’s bar at his collar.

  “There are three herbalists amongst the colonists, sir. They’re doing their best, but the plants here are unfamiliar to them. It is a process of trial and error.”

  “And in the meantime the cemetrey becomes our most thriving venture ashore,” Sequero retorted drily. “Very well, one cannot argue with nature I suppose, but it is vexing. When Lord—when his excellency—returns he will not be pleased. Not at all.”

  Again, the uneasy shuffling of feet, brief shared glances.

  There were three men standing about the table besides Sequero, all in the leather harness of the Hebrian soldiery. They were in one of the tall watchtowers which stood at each corner of the palisaded fort. Up here it was possible to catch a breath of air off the ocean, and in fact to see their ship, the Gabrian Osprey, as it rode at anchor scarcely half a mile away, the horizon beyond it a far blur of sea and sky at the edge of sight.

  Closer to, the view was less inspiring. Peppering the two acres or so which the palisade enclosed were dozens of rude huts, some little better than piled-up mounds of brush. The only substantial building was the Governor’s residence, a large timbre structure which was half villa and half blockhouse.

  A deep ditch bisected the fort and served the community as a sewer, running off into the jungle. It was bridged in several places with felled trees, and the ground around it was a foul-smelling swamp swarming with mosquitoes. They had dug wells, but these were all brackish, so they continued to take their water from the clear stream Murad had discovered on the first day. One corner of the fort was corralled off and within it resided the surviving horses. Another few days would see it empty. When the last beasts had died they would be salted down and eaten, like the others.

  “Fit for neither man nor beast,” Sequero muttered, brow dark as
he thought of the once magnificent creatures he had brought from Hebrion, the cream of his father’s studs. Even the sheep did not do well here. Were it not for the wild pigs and deer which hunting parties brought out of the jungle every few days, they would be gnawing on roots and berries by now.

  “How many today then?” he asked.

  “Two,” di Souza told him. “Miriam di—”

  “I don’t need to know their names!” Sequero snapped. “That leaves us with, what? Eighty-odd? Still plenty. Thank God the soldiers and sailors are made of sterner stuff. Sergeant Berrino, how are the men?”

  “Bearing up well, sir. A good move to let them doff their armour, if I might say so. And Garolvo’s party brought in three boar this morning.”

  “Excellent. A good man that Garolvo. He must be the best shot we have. Gentlemen, we are in a hellish place, but it belongs to our king now and we must make the best of it. Make no mistake, there will be promotions when the Governor returns from his expedition. Fort Abeleius may not be much to look at now, but in a few years there will be a city here, with church bells, taverns and all the trappings of civilisation.”

  His listeners were dutifully attentive to his words, but he could almost taste their scepticism. They had been ashore two and a half months now, and Sequero knew well that the Governor was popularly believed to be long dead, or lost somewhere in the teeming jungle. He and his party had been away too long, and with his absence the discontent and fear within the fort was growing week by week. Increasingly, both soldiers and civilians were of the opinion that nothing would ever come of this precarious foothold upon the continent, and the Dweomer-folk were ready to brave even the pyres that awaited in Abrusio rather than suffer the death by disease and malnutrition that was claiming so many of them. At times Sequero felt as though he was swimming against an irresistible tide of sullen resentment which would one day overwhelm him.

  “Ensign di Souza, how many of the ship’s guns have we ashore now?”

  “Six great culverins and a pair of light sakers, sir, all sited to command the approaches. That sailor, Velasca, he wants to complain to you personally about it. He says the guns are the property of Captain Hawkwood and should remain with the ship.”

  “Let him put it in writing,” said Sequero, who like all the old school of noblemen could not read. “Gentlemen, you are dismissed. All but you, di Souza. I want a word. Sergeant Berrino, you may distribute a ration of wine tonight. The men deserve it—they have worked hard.”

  Berrino, a middle-aged man with a closed, thuggish face, brightened. “Why thank you, sir—”

  “That is all. Leave us now.”

  The two soldiers clambered down the ladder that was affixed to one leg of the watchtower, leaving Sequero and di Souza alone in their eyrie.

  “Do have some wine, Valdan,” Sequero said easily, and gestured to the bulging skin that hung from a nearby peg.

  “Thank you, sir.” Di Souza squirted a goodly measure of the blood-warm liquid down his throat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. They had been equals in rank, these two young men, until landfall here in the west. Murad had then promoted Hernan Sequero to haptman, making him military commander of the little colony. The choice had been inevitable: di Souza was noble only by adoption, whereas Sequero was from one of the high families of the kingdom, as close by blood to the Royal house as Murad himself. The fact that he was illiterate and did not know one end of an arquebus from another was neither here nor there.

  “The Governor’s party has been away almost eleven weeks,” Sequero told his subordinate. “Within another week or two they should return, with God’s grace. In all that time we here have been cowering behind our stockade as if we were under siege. That has to change. I have seen nothing in this country which warrants this absurd defensive posture. Tomorrow I will order the colonists to start marking out plots of land in the jungle. We’ll slash and burn, clear a few acres and see if we can’t get some crops planted. If things work out, then some of the colonists can be ejected from the fort and can start building homes on their own plots of land. Valdan, I want you to register all the heads of household amongst them, and map out their plots. They will hold them as tenants of the Hebriate crown. We must start thinking of some form of tithe, of course, and you will organise a system of patrols. . . . You wish to say something, Ensign?”

  “Only that Lord Murad’s orders were to remain within the fort, sir. He said nothing about clearing farms.”

  “Quite true. But he has been away a lot longer than he originally anticipated, and we must all show a little initiative now and then. Besides, the fort is overcrowded and rapidly becoming unhealthy. And these damned mariners must do their share. How many soldiers do we have fit for duty?”

  “Besides ourselves, eighteen. Hawkwood’s second-in-command, Velasca, has a dozen sailors out surveying the coast in two of the longboats. He’s also been salvageing timbres and iron from the wreck of the caravel that foundered on the reef. There are a score more still busy making salt and preserving meat and suchlike. For the return voyage. And four of them are in the fort, instructing some of our men in the firing of the big guns.”

  “Yes. They like to set themselves apart, these sailors. Well, that must change also. Tell Velasca I want a dozen of his men, with firearms, to join our soldiers and place themselves under Sergeant Berrino. We need more men on the stockade.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?” Di Souza’s face was completely neutral.

  “No—yes. You will dine with me tonight in the residence, I trust?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Di Souza saluted and left via the creaking ladder. When he had gone Sequero wiped the sweat from his face and allowed himself a mouthful of wine.

  He was not yet sure if this place were an opportunity for advancement or the graveyard of his ambitions. Had he stayed in Hebrion he might have been a regimental commander by now. His blood demanded no less. On the other hand, that very blood might have been considered a little too blue for the King’s liking, hence his presence here, in this Godforsaken so-called colony. Still, if anyone had ambition, it was his superior, Lord Murad. That one would not have taken part in such a reckless scheme if he had not seen some kind of advantage in it for himself. Better here than at court, then. In the field superior officers had a habit of dying. At court there was only the age-old manoevring for power and rank, none of it counting for much in the presence of a strong king. And Abeleyn was a strong king, for all his youth. Sequero liked him, though he thought him too informal, too ready to lend an ear to his social inferiors.

  Was Murad dead? It seemed hard to believe—the man had always seemed to be constructed equaly out of sinew and pure will. But it had been a long time—a very long time. For once in his life, Sequero was unsure of himself. He knew the soldiers were close to mutiny, believing the colony to be cursed, and without Murad’s authority to hold them in cheque . . .

  A clattering of boots on the ladder, and a red-faced soldier appeared at the lip of the watchtower.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s my turn on sentry. Ensign di Souza told me to come on up.”

  “Very well. I was just finished.” What was the man’s name? Sequero couldn’t remember and felt vaguely irritated with himself. What did it matter? He was just another stinking trooper.

  “See you keep your eyes open . . . Ulbio.” There. He had remembered after all.

  Ulbio saluted smartly. “Yes, sir.” And remained the picture of attentive duty as his commander lowered himself down from the watchtower. When Sequero had disappeared he spat over the side. Fucking nobles, he thought. None of them gave a damn about their men.

  T HE Governor’s residence was the only edifice with any pretensions to architecture within the colony. Loopholed for defence like the strongpoint it was, it nonetheless had a long veranda upon which it was almost pleasant to sit and dine of an evening. The wood of the great trees about the fort was incredibly hard and fine-grained, but it made admirable furniture. The sailors ha
d set up a pedal-powered lathe of sorts and that evening Sequero and his guests were able to eat off a fine long table with beautifully turned legs. There was still silver and crystal to eat off and drink from, and tall candles to light the flushed faces of the diners and attract the night-time moths. Were it not for the cloying heat and the raucous jungle they might have been back in Hebrion on some nobleman’s estate.

  The gathering was not a large one. Besides Sequero and di Souza there were only three other diners. These were Osmo of Fulk, a fat, greasy and sycophantic wine merchant whose personal store of Gaderian meant it politic to invite him, Astiban of Pontifidad, a tall, grey man with a mournful face who in Abrusio had been a professional herbalist and an amateur naturalist, and finally Fredric Arminir, who hailed originally from Almark, of all places, and who was reputed to be a smuggler.

  None of the three men was an actual wizard, so far as Sequero knew, but they all possessed the Dweomer in varying degrees, else they would not be here. He felt a childish urge to make them perform in some way, to do some trick or feat, and he was absurdly gratified when the stout Osmo set weird blue werelights burning at the far corners of the veranda. The insects crowded around them and sizzled to death in their hundreds, whilst the diners were able to eat and drink without continually slapping the vermin from around their faces.

  “Something I picked up in Macassar,” Osmo explained casually. “The climate there is similar in many ways.”

  “And you, Astiban,” Sequero said. “Being a naturalist, I assume you are rapt with wonder at the wealth of creatures that crawl and flit about us on this continent.”

  “There is much that is unfamiliar, it is true, Lord Sequero. With Ensign di Souza’s permission I have accompanied some of the hunting parties out into the jungle. I have seen tracks there belonging to creatures not seen in any bestiary of the Old World. On my own initiative, I explored the ground beyond our stockade for several hundred yards out into the forest. These tracks approach the fort, and mill about, and then retreat again. It is a pattern I have found a hundred times.”