L'Ourse et le Boucher
(Les Chroniques de l'Hudres -3)
(Les Chroniques de l'Hudres -3)
Héloïse Côté
(Excerpt from chapter 4, p. 47-64)
Queen Lyntas looked at the messenger in front of her, not very accustomed to having anyone appear in the throne room dressed as a pauper. The man was covered in filth, his threadbare clothes were full of tears, and his ragged coat would not last out the winter. Ordinarily, the soldiers who were guarding the doors of the throne room would have prevented him from entering. However, the beggar had claimed to have news of Vilsin and had alluded to the statue of Galares in the temple. As soon as the soldier had reported these words to Lyntas, she had bade him show the wretched man in.
The tramp greeted the queen unceremoniously - and said:
"I have a message for you from one of your well informed loyal servants."
"And who is this mysterious servant?"
The vagabond gave a broad toothless smile.
"To know, you have to pay!"
Lyntas looked daggers at him, but the wretched man did not avert his eyes. One of the soldiers posted along the walls, outraged by the beggar's impudence, took a step towards the visitor, but the queen stopped him with a wave of her hand. Reluctantly, the soldier returned to his post, which earned him a mocking glance from the pauper.
"I pay only if the information is of the best quality," said the queen to the man. "What does your master have to tell me that I wouldn't know already?"
"He has fresh news from the north. A carrier pigeon arrived this morning."
"What was the message it brought?"
"Pay and you will know!"
"How much does your master ask?"
"Twenty gold pieces!"
The queen started.
"Twenty gold pieces for information I can't verify?" she exclaimed incredulously.
The beggar confirmed with a nod.
"May I remind my queen that she will have confirmation of my words when her legions send a messenger?"
This time, Lyntas was able, with great effort, to repress her surprise. Perhaps the mysterious informer had something interesting to tell her, all things considered; only the legionnaires in question and their general, the soldiers of the throne room, whom she had chosen for their discretion... and Fyae of Rasg, who had overheard her conversation with her general, knew that she had dispatched troops to the north to massacre the Osjes. Or, at least, she had believed that few people knew.
"Very well," she conceded. "I will pay the sum requested. What do you have to tell me?"
The beggar hesitated.
"Well..."
"What now?" asked the queen, annoyed.
"Well, my master told me that I had to be paid in advance."
"Isn't the royal word that you will be paid enough for you?"
"The only word I believe, my queen, is the word of gold. With all due respect, the royal word will not fill my belly."
"I will pay you a quarter straight away, and the second quarter after you have delivered your information."
"And the rest?"
"Tell your master to come and get it. I like to know who I'm dealing with."
"My master will not be happy. He will refuse to give me my pay."
"And how much does he pay you?"
"One gold piece out of the whole amount, my queen."
"I will give the same, as well as a coat and bread, if you obey my commands."
The man became flustered, fell to his knees - and said in a resonant voice:
"My queen is very generous! I accept!"
Lyntas ordered the servant standing close to the dais on which the throne stood to go get her gold chest. When he returned, she handed the pauper five gold pieces, then said impatiently:
"And so, the information?"
"The legions have completed their mission, my queen. The tribe of Barsaf, the Osje, who had led the assault against Dafidec, was decimated. However, your men arrived too late: the high priest Vilsin was already dead."
Lyntas absorbed the shock without flinching and asked tersely:
"And the high priestess?"
The beggar showed his empty palms:
"Lost, my queen."
The queen brutally dug her fingernails into the wooden arms to repress her rage. Once again, she was denied her vengeance! If she had not feared the anger of her god for harbouring impious thoughts, she would have believed that Léane really enjoyed divine protection!
"Is that all?" she asked icily.
The messenger nodded.
Lyntas turned to a servant.
"Take this man to the kitchens and give him bread, a coat and six gold pieces."
The servant complied. The beggar, still on his knees, bowed and praised the queen for her generosity. Lyntas signalled one of the guards, who when over to the tramp and said:
"You, off to the kitchens!"
The man stood up and exited, the guard on his heels.
When the door closed behind them, the queen thought. Before this day, she would have balked at making such an agreement, preferring direct manoeuvres to shadowy plotting. However, the speed with which her mysterious correspondent had been notified of the attack on the Osjes by the legions convinced her to call certain principles into question, especially since she felt a growing need to be kept constantly informed of what was going on in her kingdom. The queen did not fear the plots, but having at least one accursed soul to rely on was a valuable asset. She had taken a certain amount of comfort in the presence of Vilsin, an accomplice who was entertaining if not one who inspired confidence. Now that he was dead, she needed a new informant. Vilsin had gotten wind of all the crimes being planned in Hudres, since people would usually go to confession before striking. The one she was planning to pay for his services seemed to have a network that was extensive enough to know what was happening not only inside the kingdom, but also outside. What is more, he seemed to have ambitions that were equal to, if not greater than, those of the late high priest.
"May Shir keep your soul, Vilsin..." she said to herself. "I will soon replace you."
After eleven years of close collaboration, the high priest was not entitled to a long funeral oration from the one who had made him her minion.*** The night took Léane by surprise when she reached the edge of the forest. Through the trees, under the white light of the moon, she could make out the ruins of the Osje village against the snow, which was spattered with dark stains. There was perfect silence.
In spite of the peaceful appearances, the young woman was taking no chances and trod cautiously between the remains of the houses until she could be confident that the village was really deserted. Wherever she laid her eyes, she saw death. She felt a pang when she recognized the familiar faces of Osje warriors. She had attempted to watch over them like her own children, but Lyntas's anger had prevented her. Was it therefore part of the destiny of the Damasian heifer to destroy all Léane's plans? She could never work for the glory of Shirana as long as the queen was alive.
A moan disturbed the peace of the night. The young woman shivered and looked for the source. Among the cadavers littering the ground, a man was moving. Perhaps she still had a chance to save a child of the goddess! She hurried over to the Osje and recognized one of the two chiefs with whom Falsgaf had tried to negotiate an agreement before Léane lost consciousness.
"Is it the priestess? May she help me, for pity's sake!"
"He is associated with a fratricide," said Léane. "The goddess could not tolerate that, the chief had to be punished!"
"I beg the priestess! I de... deserve at least the bless... blessing of the goddess before enter... entering her kingdom," gasped the Osje, his face twisted with pain.
Léane went close and saw the broken spear shaft sticking out of his spine. The spearhead was hidden in the Osje's back.
"I will give him the blessing he asks for, on the condition that he answers my questions."
"Death wells up inside me! May the priestess ma... make haste!"
"Does the chief know where Falsgaf went?"
"While we were fighting the cow worshippers, he... he fled," said the chief in an irritated tone of voice, between painful gasps. "May the goddess for... forgive me for having been prideful to the point of wanting to associate with him."
"Which direction did he go?"
"I... don't know. I'm dying! May the priestess hasten to bless me!"
"One last piece of information first," replied Léane, pitiless. "His answers are essential for him to appear with a spirit at peace before Shirana. Where did the legions go?"
"Towards the north," the chief said through his pain. "They are... are seeking the priestess."
"Thanks be to the chief. He can come before Shirana his spirit in peace. This one has forgiven him his sins," says Léane gravely.
With those words, she laid her hand on his forehead and blessed him.
It was time: barely had she finished when the Osje gave his last sigh. His head fell limply back on the snow. Léane closed his eyelids and turned away from him. Her task was finished here, she had to rejoin her band and find it a permanent refuge, far from the mountains where the legions prowled.
Then, she could avenge the followers of the goddess.*** With his closed fist on his lips, Sterne repressed a dry coughing fit. Fyae shot him a reproving look. The father and the son were squeezed into a narrow storage room and were praying ardently that the enemy would neglect to visit the wing of the castle where they were hiding.
Fyae's plan was simple and, for want of a better one, the Shiranians had adopted it. The main residence of the Duchy of Sargus, with the succession of generations, which had all felt the need to expand their castle, had taken on gigantic proportions. During Elgire's convalescence, his godson had had all the time he needed to explore every nook and cranny of this veritable labyrinth. On his suggestion, the knights had hidden in various strategic places and were waiting for the legionnaires to go past to attack them. The servants of the castle, as combative as their deceased master, had taken part in the operation enthusiastically. There was no question of them sitting idly by while the manor was attacked.
Only Sterne had shown little enthusiasm for the idea of waging battle and objected to being left without protection. Sorgue had ordered Fyae to watch over his father and, to do this, he had lent him a sword. Grudgingly, the young man had accepted. Certainly, by protecting Sterne he would avoid exposing himself to danger, but that role would prevent him from knowing what was happening. If the legions triumphed, the De Rasgs would be the last to learn it, since their refuge was separated from the heart of the action by a few stairways, several detours and many doors. Torn between curiosity and his desire for safety, Fyae staved off his impatience by transforming it into exasperation towards his father.
The metallic clink of armour disturbed the tranquillity of the place. Fyae put his eye to the opening of the door, which he had discreetly opened a crack. The corridor seemed to be deserted.
"Who's coming?" murmured Sterne beside him.
"Shush, father!" Fyae rebuffed him harshly.
He was answered by a wounded silence. Then male voices were raised, very close.
"He must be wrong," said the first one. "This castle is abandoned."
"But the peasant was categorical: he saw a band of men heading towards the residence of the deceased Duke of Sargus just a few days ago. With a sword at his throat, I don't think he would have lied to us."
"Maybe he told the chief what he wanted to hear, precisely because he had a sword at his thr... Hey, did you hear something?"
The footsteps stopped in front of the storage room. Fyae held his breath and felt his father, who was clinging to him, start trembling.
The two legionnaires let a few seconds pass, then one finally concludes:
"It was probably a rat. You're pretty nervous, aren't you?"
"You can tell you've never fought the Shiranians. They are more treacherous than vipers."
The echo of their footsteps faded away.
Sterne gave a long sigh of relief.
"That was a close call!" he remarked.
Fyae did not share his joy. He said in a worried voice:
"There are no Shiranians nearby. No one will eliminate those two legionnaires. However, it was such a wonderful opportunity, such a pity to let it slip by!"
"You're not planning to attack them all alone!" Sterne protested. "Fyae, don't do it! I need you to protect me!"
He laid a dissuasive hand on his son's arm, but Fyae pulled away roughly.
"Father, if the Shiranians are hidden all over the castle, is precisely to eliminate the legionnaires. We have to help them!"
"We owe them nothing," replied the duke with a snort.
"Are our lives nothing?" Fyae protested.
In his racing imagination, he saw an image of the Shiranians carrying him in triumph. When Seres came back, he would be proud to see Fyae had acted as a hero!
The door was jerked open, cutting short Fyae's vision. The two legionnaires had retraced their footsteps silently and were smiling at them ironically.
"The rats are big here!" said the first with a laugh.
"Come on, messires rodents, out of your hiding place!" ordered the second, threatening them with his sword.
Sterne hurriedly obeyed, with Fyae reluctantly following. At the point of their swords, the two Damasians disarmed Fyae and forced the De Rasgs to walk forward. Fyae complied, his heart filled with dull bitterness towards his father. With Sterne ruining all his efforts, he would never be able to win the esteem of Seres's brothers in weapons and, consequently, of Seres himself!*** Night had fallen without the high priestess reappearing. The Osje children, overcome by fatigue, were sleeping under the watchful eyes of their mothers. As soon as the last of their eyelids were closed, the women began whispering the fears they did not dare speak in front of their broods:
"Where is she? What is she doing? Perhaps the legions have caught and killed her? What will become of us without the high priestess?"
"We should beseech the goddess to bring the priestess back to us," suggested one Osje.
"And what if she's dead? The goddess will be able to do nothing for her!"
"We should pray. Praying is a good idea," declared Arduf, the one Léane had designated as her replacement.
They all complied with her wishes and began beseeching Shirana to watch over the high priestess.
One Osje woman gruffly interrupted the prayers:
"I heard a noise outside!"
Arduf got up, axe in hand. Her arms were trembling a bit, but none of her companions noticed. She pushed aside the intertwined branches that hid the entrance of the cave and disappeared into the night, leaving behind her a chorus of worried whispers.
"If only the men were here!" sighed one.
"The men are with the goddess now. They fought bravely and have earned their places at her side."
"All but one," whispered another, bitterly.
They turned towards the two mountain Osjes who were watching over their unconscious chief. Feeling the contemptuous eyes of the others on them, the two women lowered their eyes.
A shrill scream came from the outside of the grotto, followed by a moan of strangled pain.
"Arduf?" called one Osje woman feebly.
By way of an answer, a sword cut through the barrier of branches and a man burst into the cave, his face streaming with blood, his eyes wild. In one hand, he held his blade; in the other, he was brandishing Arduf's axe. The flames gleamed on his dirty copper breastplate.
The women screamed in terror and the children, waking with a start, started crying. A satisfied smile lit up the filthy face of the Damasian. The terrified women formed a protective barrier between their children and the legionnaire.
The appearance of a predator was all it took for the refuge to become a trap: the man blocked the only way out of the cave and, even though with their children the Osjes were twenty against one, he had the advantage of weapons.
The Damasian advanced and brandished his sword at the closest women. Those women closed their eyes, waiting for the fatal blow...
...which never came. A hand appeared behind the legionnaire, grabbed him by the throat and pulled him violently back.
The Damasian was huge: he freed himself easily and spun around. Before the man's body concealed her from their eyes, the women glimpsed the white hair of the high priestess. A mad hope awoke in their hearts: the chosen of Shirana had come back, she would save them! It mattered little that she had no weapons. She had Shirana beside her, she would provide everything.
"It is the queen who will be happy when I bring her back your head on a silver tray," bellowed the Damasian.
Léane did not answer. She just backed away. She had to draw the legionnaire far from the cave to let the women get away! While continuing to watch the Damasian, she searched the ground for a rock, a branch, any object that could be turned into an improvised weapon. Alas, the snow covering the ground hid any resource that might help her defend herself.
"Are you afraid?" laughed the legionnaire.
"Of you? No," replied Léane, taking another step backward.
"Then I will teach you to fear me!"
He charged her. She nimbly stepped aside. The snow hid a root. Léane caught her foot in it and fell backward.
The man raised his blade. Léane held an arm up in front of her face, in the vain hope of protecting herself.
A thick liquid spurted from the top of the Damasian's skull. His heavy body spun around and toppled like a tree trunk onto Léane.
"Is the priestess all right?"
Léane immediately identified Hurdaf's voice. Two hands gripped the cadaver and pulled it away. Then Hurdaf appeared above her. He held out his hand. The young woman accepted it gratefully and got back to her feet. Her gaze turned towards the cave; her wards were gathered in the entrance and were not missing one instant of the scene.
Léane turned towards her saviour - and said, with a smile tinged with sincere gratitude:
"Yes, Hurdaf, everything is fine. Thanks to him."
With those words, the contempt of the women for the chief of the mountain Osjes dissipated a little. The goddess's representative was expressing gratitude to a coward: it was the sign that Shirana was forgiving Hurdaf for not falling in combat. Léane knew enough about the workings of the Osje mind to know that the women would gradually learn to see Hurdaf as their new chief. Although Léane was responsible for the Osjes, she would soon have to entrust them to someone else. She had a queen to dethrone in order to ensure the salvation of Shirana's followers, and she could not afford to burden herself with defenceless women and children if she was going to complete her mission. Sooner or later, Hurdaf would become chief of the surviving Osjes.
The white bear always acted alone. Such was her destiny.*** The soldiers were sitting in stands made of high wooden panels that had been erected around an arena. The Rishan's box of honour had been built facing the fighters' entrance. Unlike his men, who were baking under the rays of Shir, the sovereign enjoyed the protection of a red canvas roof. Flanked by two giants acting as body guards, their hands on the hafts of curved swords, his pointed chin imperiously raised with a short black beard, the sovereign looked up and down the empty arena with his intense black eyes.
Nantor, bound in chains, was the first to appear in the entrance of the arena. Two soldiers followed him and pushed their former general to the centre. Dragged down by the weight of his bonds, Nantor crumpled to the sand, while his compatriots looked on in contemptuous silence. Unlike the excited mobs of the kingdoms of the north, the Namarres expressed themselves only when given permission by the Rishan. Overly enthusiastic spectators would have soon found themselves on the altars of Shir as punishment for their verve. In Namarre, initiative was a crime no one dared commit. The giant struggled painfully to his feet and faced his sovereign. His face betrayed no emotion and in his eyes, half hidden by the heavy curtain of his swollen eyelids, showed no spark of anger or hate. He stared at the Rishan and the monarch returned the gaze with his charcoal eyes without opening his mouth. The silent exchange continued, without any soldiers stepping in to interrupt, until Léonte arrived. The spectators watched him curiously. The reputation of the grand master of the Shiranians had preceded him and they all studied intensely the one who had brought about the defeat of their people. He did not seem so terrible, with his hands tied and his tattered clothes, hardly in better condition than those of his Namarre accomplice. In turn, the grand master was pushed to the centre of the arena. Meanwhile Brurin, Sagtor and Nyam, who had also been brought there, were being guarded outside the arena by Namarre soldiers. But through the opening Léonte had been led through, they could see the two men and, beyond them, the Rishan's box.
Nantor and Léonte greeted each other gravely.
After a nod from the Rishan, the soldiers untied the two men and gave them each a sword. Nantor immediately took a fighting stance, imitated, with a moment's hesitation, by Léonte.
"Don't begin right away," ordered the Rishan in a loud voice. "I would not like to deprive my wives of the spectacle."
He had barely mentioned his harem when the women appeared and began to sit down in a separate section of the stand, to the left of the Rishan. Four wives and their chaperon broke off from the group and walked towards their sovereign's box, their heads humbly bowed. They remained standing behind the sovereign, without daring to raise their eyes.
The Rishan glanced at them approvingly:
"Ah! My wives!" he exclaimed with feigned ecstasy. "What better than a little beauty and sweetness to dispel the savagery of blood being spilled?"
Then he spoke to the man who had selected the women:
"You have chosen well," he remarked.
At the far end of the arena, Nyam squinted. The behaviour of the chaperon of the four wives of the Rishan had caught his attention. In fact, laying his eyes on Léonte and Nantor, he had felt strangely startled, a feeling he had hasten to suppress. Then Nyam had a strong sense that he had briefly looked at her. In addition, the way he walked reminded her of someone...
No, it was impossible! However, the set of the head, the bearing were practically identical to those of... Dansec! What was he doing among the wives of the Rishan? How had he come to be there?
Brurin noticed the girl's agitation and asked:
"What is it?"
"It's nothing," she hastened to whisper.
Then their attention was diverted by the Rishan's voice suddenly filling the arena:
"This will be a fight to the death to celebrate the gift of blood that the male god has made to our people in order to endow it with a king! The winner will be granted my clemency: he will be able to choose the manner in which he will be executed. As for the one who will lose his life under the blows of the other, may Shir preserve his soul. The male god will have his heart as soon as death has been confirmed. May the fight begin!"
On the Rishan's signal, the Hudresian and the Namarre started moving in a circle, like two predators eyeing each other before leaping. Irresistibly, the grand master drew Nantor towards the arena exit.
"I will not fight you, Nantor," says the grand master. "I will not kill a friend."
The giant did not answer, his weapon pointed towards the Hudresian, the Rishan's words echoing in his mind. If he killed Léonte, he could choose his death and perish, in accordance with his desires, in the desert. However, his heart begged him to do no harm to this man whom he had sworn to protect.
Suddenly, a terrible cry rose from the royal box. When all eyes turned towards the Rishan and, after a brief moment of astonishment, the soldiers stood up in the stands and rushed towards their sovereign, Nantor charged.
Léonte jumped aside and stuck his friend with an elbow on his spine. The giant lost his balance. The grand master pushed Nantor roughly against the two Namarre soldiers who were guarding the arena entrance. Distracted by the commotion in the Rishan's box, they saw him only at the last moment and were unable to avoid him. The giant pulled them down with him. Léonte ran to the tangle of arms and legs, punching the faces of the two guards as he passed, and continued towards Nyam, Brurin and Sagtor.
Cries of mixed rage and astonishment rose from the Rishan's box, which were echoed by the terrified cries of the nearby women and concubines, but the grand master was not interested in what was happening in the stands.
The soldiers surrounding the prisoners ran to meet Léonte. Léonte felt the familiar icy furor well up inside him, relegating his consciousness to the deepest recesses of his mind. Kill! He had to massacre these enemies of the Duality! A scream of despair rang in his head, the voice of Tiames: "No!" Dansec came after him, shouting the same refusal. Then Léane appeared and cried in turn: "No!"
The wave of fury suddenly subsided. Unbalanced, his body trembling from the effort of his will, the grand master instinctively dodged the first Namarre's blow. He rolled on the ground, and leaped back to his feet. The guard charged again. Léonte replied with a sword stroke that slashed his adversary's thigh, then he spun around, parrying the attack of the other guard, pushing him away. The guard immediately charged back and exchanged a few quick blows with the Hudresian. In spite of his wound, the first guard tried to rejoin the fight, but chains were thrown around his neck: Nyam, who had discreetly come up behind the wounded guard, had seized the opportunity to help Léonte. She pulled with all her might and strangled the Namarre.
Meanwhile, the grand master grazed his adversary's arm and, when the Namarre instinctively put his hand on the wound, Léonte plunged his sword under his ribs. The guard dropped his sword and could do nothing to stop the grand master from cutting off his head. Free of attackers, Léonte hurried over to Brurin and undid his chains. The Damasian hastened to do the same with Sagtor and the two old men ran off. Nyam extricated himself from the body of the other guard and hurried to join Léonte, who freed her and handed her his sword. The young woman took hold of it, and, while the grand master picked up his adversary's sword, she tried to repel a third Namarre soldier who was running towards them. Léonte came to her aid. Once the soldier was on the ground, Léonte shouted to Nyam:
"Run!"
Nyam hesitated, but the sight of more Namarre soldiers running towards them convinced her. The girl turned and ran just as she heard, from inside the arena, someone shout:
"Serene Highness! The prisoners are escaping!"
Léonte heard too. Quickly ridding himself of a fourth soldier, he tried to see what was happening in the Rishan's box and could make out Nantor through the opening, surrounded by several Namarre soldiers. The grand master took a step towards him, but then came a furious scream from the Rishan:
"What are you waiting for? Catch them!"
The grand master turned to Nantor; he had gotten out of worse situations. Without looking back, Léonte dashed towards the tent quarter. Weaving through the first ones to throw them off his trail, he ran towards the one where Regde was supposedly being held prisoner. He felt half dazed by the feat he had just accomplished: he had kept a cool head! He had taken on the gods and had been able to triumph!
© 2006 Éditions Alire & Héloïse Côté
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