The Assassin King

29

Before leaving Sepulvarta in secret to meet with the Lord and Lady Cymrian, the Patriarch had ordered the city sealed. Being the central location of all holy orders within the Patrician faith, as well as a place of pilgrimage to those of other practices, even as far back as the polytheistic religions of the continent that preceded the Cymrian era, Sepulvarta had a long reputation of religious tolerance and free access. The road that led from the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare south to the city, known as the Pilgrim’s Road, was always teeming with human and animal traffic, pilgrims and clergy, tradesmen and merchants, all making their way for their own reasons to the independent city-state. On normal days it might take as little as an hour to traverse the road and enter the city; on holy days, or days of heavy import at the time of festivals or famine, the wait could be the better part of a full turn of the sun. On rare occasions visitors to Sepulvarta could pass more than a few nights, sleeping in the street or at one of the many hostels and inns that lined the roadway, waiting to be allowed entrance through the one gate in the enormous wall that circled the entire city. Sealing the city was a precaution that was not unheard of. Occasionally the flow of visitors to the sacred spots and shrines overwhelmed the places of hospitality within the city’s walls. With the inns and wayhouses full, the taverns and pubs gained more guests and patrons than they could accommodate, leading to long lines for food and ale, ugly dispositions and threats, and often violence, all of which was deemed unacceptable for a holy city. The previous Patriarchs, rather than removing the hospitality, as had been done in the oldest days, chose to keep the ale and remove the patrons, at least temporarily, until the holy days were over and the flow of traffic returned to normal.

So when the city was ordered sealed, no one thought the better of it. As it turned out, it was the one thing that prevented its immediate destruction and that of the farming settlements around it. Sepulvarta had the worst of both lands that it bordered. North of mountainous Sorbold, south of the wide-open plains of Roland, it was a city perched on a small hill on the edge of the low piedmont and in the midst of the flattest part of the Krevensfield Plain, which served to make it easily visible to travelers and all but indefensible. Fortunately, as the holy See of both nations, there had never been any reason for it to mount a defense. Even in the seven hundred years of the Cymrian War, as the Krevensfield Plain burned with atrocities and the mountains rang with horrific battle, the holy city remained untouched, though, as Anborn had informed the Council, that had merely been by coincidence. By the time his army had taken the farming settlements in the region, it had been far easier to quarter the soldiers in places of plentiful food where they were dispersed, rather than making a headquarters in an obvious place that was just asking to be laid siege. So Sepulvarta remained intact, unspoiled and untainted by the horror that took place all around it.

Anborn’s assertions of its lack of strategic value for quartering troops notwithstanding, many citizens of Sepulvarta chose to attribute their good fortune and safekeeping to the beneficence of the All-God and the protection of the Spire. The Spire was a tower with a base that took up an entire city block, reaching a thousand feet in the air to the very top, where it was crowned with a single piece of elemental ether, said to be a fragment of the star Seren that once shone over the Lost Island of Serendair half a world away. That single piece of star illuminated the city by day as well as night, blessing it with light even in the fiercest of rainstorms, or on the cloudiest of days. Pilgrims approaching the city could make out its radiance for almost a week before reaching it, guided not only by the light of the beacon but by the power emanating from it.

The Spire reached to the clouds above the great basilica that was the cornerstone of the city of Sepulvarta, the cathedral dedicated to the element of ether known as Lianta’ar. Each of the five primordial elements, sometimes called the Paints of the Creator, had a basilica dedicated to it, but Lianta’ar, which was believed to mean in the old language of the Cymrians Lord All-God, Light of the World, was by far the grandest, as well as being the youngest. It was me seat of the Patriarch, the leader of me faith, as well as the place where the yearly rituals that protected all adherents to that faith were celebrated. The prayers of me faithful were eventually channeled to this place, and offered to me Creator through the Spire, as close as one could conceivably get to placing one’s request directly at the feet of God. The fourteen-foot-thick wall mat surrounded me city was more for pomp and circumstance, as well as for decoration, man for realistic protection. Being unscathed had led the elite soldiers of Sepulvarta to become primarily ceremonial as well. Their uniforms were no longer the armor of men that had to do battle, but rather grand colorful regalia which displayed the many liturgical symbols and colors of the Patriarchy. They checked the visitors coming in and out of the city, maintained a watch on the wall and a guard at the manse of the Patriarch the changing of which was one of the most sought-after spectacles by pilgrims to the city, the defenses in place were woefully inadequate to withstand anything more than an initial assault. They had never had to be more than that. The captain of the city’s guard, a man named Fynn, was wandering the wall, checking on the archery mounts and enjoying the breeze that was heavy with hints of spring when he happened to gaze off to the south, where the mountains of Sorbold blackened the horizon in the distance. He blinked in astonishment. What had always seemed to be a fairly distant horizon appeared to have moved noticeably closer. After a moment it became clear that it was steadily moving closer still. The captain cleared his eyes and looked again. Spread out across the dry plain to the south an army battle line was approaching in columns, clad in the regalia and flying the colors of the emperor of Sorbold—mounted cavalry, infantry, and great cavalcades of wagons bearing ballistae, catapults, and other weapons of siege. At quick count, the captain thought there might be as many as five divisions of several thousand men each, all moving forward across the steppes to the plain, relentlessly but with no particular hurry. There was no mistaking their destination. Had he been more battle-hardened, more accustomed to the need for readiness in war, the captain might have gained a few seconds in his response. Those extra seconds would ultimately have made no measurable difference in outcome. When he finally overcame his shock, he ran to the nearest guard tower, the one to the left of the gate, which unlike the portcullises preferred by other cities was comprised of two enormous wooden doors in which the holy symbols of all five elements had been carved, crowned with the silver six-pointed star of the Patriarch. The gatekeeper was sleeping, his attention unneeded with the city sealed. Fynn shook him violently awake. “Ring the alarm! Ring the alarm, damn you! Look!” The gatekeeper shot to his feet and almost fell from the wall. He lurched out of the shelter of the tower and began ringing the call to arms. The clanging bell sounded harshly over the city, which was accustomed to the musical ringing of hourly prayer bells from the towers of assorted houses of worship and the great carillon of the basilica, which played hymns and calls to prayer with the rising and setting of the sun each day. In spite of the city being sealed, there was always morning traffic within the city walls and without, as merchants plied the streets, women went from shop to shop, tent to tent in search of foodstuffs and goods they needed, children ran about, and members of religious orders passed from one sacred place to another. The tinny shout of the warning bells brought that traffic to a standstill, that muted noise of ordinary life faded into shocked silence. “Get to your houses!” the captain of the guard shouted from atop the wall. The people in the street below stared up at him, not moving.

“Go, you mindless sheep” Fynn snarled down at them. He turned to the gate guard. “Send a runner to the manse to alert the abbot and the Patriarch. Get all of the archers up here, and have everyone else go through the streets. Tell the people—er, tell them—” He fumbled into silence. “What shall I tell them, sir?”

The captain inhaled, trying to remember his training. “I don’t know, tell them to begin storing water in vessels, that’s it—and send two riders out of the gate and down the entrance-way to tell the merchants and innkeepers to get inside the city walls immediately—and whatever pilgrims are milling about out there. Hurry; we have to seal the gate when they get within range.”

“What is happening, sir?” the young soldier asked, his eyes glazed with fright. “Why is the Sorbold army marching on the holy city?”

“I’ve no idea—but that’s irrelevant. I only know that we are not prepared to withstand a siege.” Fynn looked over the wall again and went pale. “Get word to the manse above all else— perhaps the Patriarch will know what to do, or he can send a message for help from other quarters. Make haste. And pray.” The gate guard saluted and climbed down the ladder to the streets below, pushing aside a gawking throng as he made his way through them to the guard barracks. The captain of the guard turned back to the south. The army was advancing unhurriedly, but now they were near enough for him to hear the war toms echoing off the mountains as they came. There was something terrifying about the sound of those drums, deep and slow in rhythm but relentless and insistent.

The stone on the wall began to rumble slightly as the ground began to pick up the vibrations from the approaching horses and wagon wheels.

He continued to stare at the coming army until the archers he had summoned mustered around and below him. He looked up and shook off the shock that was beginning to numb the edges of his mind, making him feel wooly and thick-headed.

“Get into position, and prepare to train your arrows on anyone attempting to breech the wall or the gate,” he directed. “Aim at the closest first, and keep firing into the same target until he dies. If they bring a battering ram—and they will need to if they think they are going to force open that gate— keep firing at the men bearing it first; as long as they don’t get the gate open, you can keep the rest of the army out.” The archers, largely inexperienced in conflict, nodded, trembling. Fynn shouted down to one of the footguards. “You—get to the smithy, tell them we are in need of whatever coals or hot pitch they can locate. Use the braziers from the temples and the basilica if need be, use incense, anything, but get something up here that can repel an assault on the gate.” The guard ran off.

With the wall fortified as best as it could be, the captain climbed down the ladder and into the streets just as the basilica bells stopped ringing the musical hour and began toiling an alarm. The sound rang out over the entire city, emanating from the base of the Spire itself, and carrying an authority with it that no other signal had.

At this the population panicked. The mighty gate was dragged open for the last time, and a sea of humanity and animal carts rushed in, stampeding the people already in the streets. The gate tenders tried to push the gates closed again but the throng was too great; they trampled anyone or anything in their way in their desperate rush to gain shelter against the army that now was in sight even from beneath the barricade.

“Get inside the basilica—take shelter there,” the captain of the guard shouted, but his words were drowned in the cacophony of the multitude pressing into Sepulvarta. “Get me a spyglass,” he said to one of the soldiers attempting to gain control of the crowd and failing. The soldier saluted and ran off, returning many minutes later, his regalia torn by contact with the crowd. He handed the instrument to the captain, who climbed the battlement again, extended the spyglass, and looked into the distance.

The insignia of the column at the lead appeared to be that of the Mountain Guard of Jierna’sid, the emperor’s own regiment. They were clad in banded mail and helm, with heavy crossbows and scimitars standard issue. The spring sun as it rose glinted off their armor and helms, reflecting the light back in blinding waves. The captain’s stomach cramped. At the head of the column a soldier was walking, the army in step with him. The captain adjusted the spyglass, as it was distorting his vision of the leader. He looked again, and realized, to his horror, that in fact the glass was reading true. The man at the head of the column appeared to be almost a giant, standing easily ten feet tall. He had a flat aspect; in fact, for as little definition there was to his face, he might as well have been made of stone. His movements were awkward and lumbering, his face primitive, but his pace was sure. That soldier seemed almost oblivious of the columns marching behind him; his face was a mask, his expression unchanging.

He was also immensely tall, almost twice the size of the other soldiers, who were following in his train as if he were a hero of renown, or a demi-god.

For all that Sepulvarta was a place of religious oddities, strange ceremonies, and even the occasional miraculous happening, the captain of the guard felt that what he was witnessing was so absurd that he must be dreaming. In the thousand years or so since its founding, the city of Sepulvarta had never seen aggression, primarily because it was understood to be the All-God’s city; the thought that anyone would attack a holy seat was almost too bizarre to comprehend, especially adherents to that faith, as the Sorbolds were. Yet the columns were advancing.

A line of stragglers remained outside the wall, watching the approaching army with a mixture of trepidation and fascination.

“Get those idiots inside the gate!” He grabbed one of the archers. “Aim at the feet of one of them and let fly. They’ll move, or they’ll be left outside.” He turned to the gate tenders. “Prepare to close the gates!”

The call went down the wall as the archer took aim, then fired into the crowd. His arrow wobbled off the string and sliced through the leg of a peasant woman gawking at the approaching army.

Pandemonium ensued.

With a crushing swell, the remaining crowd beyond the wall surged forward, pushing everyone, including women and small children, into a wedge. Screaming, the phalanx of people outside the city swarmed those lingering inside the gates who were waiting for the narrow inner streets to clear. The captain of the guard watched in numb dismay as blood began to flow, children were trampled, violence broke out among the former pilgrims turned refugees.

“Get to the basilica—take shelter there,” he repeatedly shouted, the noise of the mayhem drowning him out.

A soldier farther down the wall was signaling frantically to him. Fynn could see that behind the soldier a tall, thin man with a fringe of gray hair in later middle age was standing, clad in robes of the basilica, his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen in fear. He hurried along the wall, stepping carefully around the archery posts that were going to be the equivalent of tossing a single bucket of water on a brushfire once the army arrived. When he reached the soldier, he recognized the older man as Gregory, the sexton of Lianta’ar, one of the Patriarch’s closest advisors.

“What’s—what’s going on?” the cleric demanded. “There must be a mistake.”

“That’s entirely possible, Your Grace,” the young captain said, “but they appear to be coming with an intent that makes action necessary.” He gave the signal to the gate tenders, and the enormous wooden doors were pushed shut with much noise and great effort, then sealed against the coming army.

Fynn turned to the sexton again.

“What does the Patriarch instruct us to do?” he asked nervously. “Does he have orders for us? We have never had to repel an attack before, Your Grace. We need guidance.”

The sexton’s face went slack.

“Er, no, His Grace, the Patriarch, has not issued any specific orders,” he said haltingly. “I believe he trusts in you, and in the men, to keep the holy city safe.”

“Your Grace—”

“That’s all, Captain. I have to get to the aviary—it may be necessary to send a winged messenger to the Alliance requesting help.” The captain of the guard smiled in relief. “That would be a boon, Your Grace.”

The sexton nodded. “Carry on.” He made his way down the wall and into the sea of refugees. Fynn returned to his spyglass.

The army of Sorbold was growing nearer, following their gigantic standard bearer. The rumbling now was audible, caught between the mountains to the south and the hill on which the city was situated, it echoed ever more threateningly as the columns approached. Fynn and the rest of the city’s guard settled in to wait.

All through the morning and into the afternoon the army approached, never stopping, just relentlessly marching onward to the steady tempo of the war toms. Finally, as the sun was set high in the welkin of the sky, burning red with the brilliance of a spring afternoon, they came within unaided sight.

Fynn had been counting all day. By his reckoning there were five divisions, each consisting of ten thousand soldiers and supply troops. The giant at their lead did not seem to speak or give orders; the army merely followed him across the open steppes. Strangely, the heavy ballistae, catapults, and other siege weapons were relegated to the rear of the ranks. Fynn thought that odd; from what he remembered of his training, generally those weapons were kept in the mid ranks of an advancing army, to make their setup quick while protecting them from the initial wave of repulsion.

In addition, there were dozens of enormous carts with flat sides, on which wide, low tents had been erected. Fynn could not see what was inside those tents, but the sight of them made his intestines threaten to turn to water. “Any word from the Patriarch?” he asked the soldiers milling the streets below the wall. The men shook their heads nervously. Fynn sighed. “All right, then, we wait. We can do little else. Make certain the population is in shelter as much as possible.” His words rang hollow.

Suddenly the great war toms ceased.

All around the holy city the noise of the approach slowed, the creaking of wagon wheels, the groaning of wood, the tramping of boots and the squeaking of armor, the muted clopping of heavy horse, the rattle of weapons still sheathed, all fell to a quieter level. A single officer on horseback with two aides-de-camp broke off from the ranks to the right of the giant and headed for the gate. One of the aides-de-camp had a hooded falcon on his arm. They stopped outside of bow range. The officer rode slightly forward while the aide loosed the leather jesses that bound the falcon’s feet.

“I am Fhremus, commander of the imperial army of Sorbold,” he announced, his voice carrying on the wind with expertise born of a long command. “Harm the bird, and it will be considered an attack upon the whole of the army.” He nodded to the aide, and the man let slip the falcon. “Where’s the sexton?” Fynn demanded from atop the wall. The soldiers, massing beyond the gates, parted, and the cleric was brought forth. The bird took wing and rose to a pitch that would crest the wall. It warbled gracefully, then went into a rapid stoop, dropping an oilcloth scroll over the wall, and banked, returning effortlessly to its handler.

The message was rapidly retrieved and handed to Gregory. The sexton broke the seal with trembling hands and read the message, which was graphed in the common tongue of the continent, as well as the sacred script of the Patrician faith. Constantin, the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, is a heretic who has committed an atrocity against the Creator, the people of Sorbold, and the Empire of the Sun. Open the gate, send him out, and we will spare the city.

Gregory stared at the oilcloth, then tossed it to the ground angrily. “Sacrilege!” he fumed. “Sacrilege and blasphemy.” He turned to Fynn. “This is an untenable demand that cannot even be repeated, let alone considered—hold the gate, Captain, keep the wall as long as you can.” He glanced up at the Spire, the shining star atop it gleaming in the fading light. “May the All-God defend us.”

He made his way back to the manse, knowing, unlike anyone else in me city, that at least one of the reasons that the demand would not be met was that the Patriarch was already gone. How long shall we wait, Commander?” Minus, one of Fhremus’s aides-de-camp, asked as the falcon returned to Trevnor, the other. “We will give them an hour,” Fhremus said. “That seems sporting.” He glanced over his shoulder at the titan. Faron, as the emperor had called him, stood silent and unmoving, his arms at his sides, looking for all the world the statue mat he once was. Perhaps he remembers this place, where the Patriarch imbued him with unnatural and unholy life, Fhremus thought, disgusted at the thought. He had no idea what feeling the statue was capable of, if any, but it would not have surprised him if it were ready to exact vengeance of its own.

When the hour passed, with nothing but the constant ringing of the alarm bells of the basilica as a reply, Fhremus turned to Minus.

“Time’s up,” he said. “Prepare the iacxsis.”

He turned west and watched the sun as it continued its downward path toward night, burning hotly over the wide Krevensfield Plain.