The Sapphire Rose

Ulesim was in a state bordering on hysteria, and his speech had little in the way of coherence to recommend it. He held one bony arm aloft, and he was tightly clutching something. After about every fifteen words, he would shake the object in his hand vigorously and bellow, ‘RAMSHORN!’ His followers then would roar back, ‘RAMSHORN!’

‘What do you think, Kurik?’ Sparhawk whispered as they all looked over a half-collapsed wall.

‘I think he’s crazy.’

‘Of course he’s crazy, but is he in range?’

Kurik squinted across the top of the crowd at the ranting fanatic. ‘It’s a goodly way,’ he said dubiously.

‘Give it a try anyway,’ Kalten said. ‘If your bolt falls short – or even goes over – somebody of Rendorish persuasion’s bound to catch it for you.’

Kurik laid his crossbow across the top of the broken wall to steady it and took careful aim.

‘God has revealed it to me!’ Ulesim was shrieking to his followers. ‘We must destroy the bridges which are the work of the Evil One! The forces of darkness beyond the river will assault you, but Ramshorn will protect you! The power of the Blessed Eshand has joined with that of Holy Arasham to fill the Talisman with unearthly might! Ramshorn will give you victory!’

Kurik squeezed the lever of his crossbow slowly. The thick bow made a deep-toned ‘twang’ as it sped the bolt towards its mark.

‘You are invincible!’ Ulesim was shrieking. ‘You are –’

Whatever else it was that they were was never revealed. The vanes of a crossbow bolt were suddenly protruding from Ulesim’s forehead just above his eyebrows. He stiffened, his eyes wide and his mouth suddenly gaping. Then he crumpled into a heap atop the rubble.

‘Good shot,’ Tynian congratulated Kurik.

‘Actually, I was trying to hit him in the belly,’ Kurik confessed.

‘That’s all right, Kurik,’ the Deiran laughed. ‘It was more spectacular this way anyhow.’

A vast groan of shock and dismay ran through the crowd of Rendors.

Then the word ‘crossbow’ raced through the mob. A number of unfortunates had obtained such weapons from the Lamorks in one way or another. They were torn to pieces on the spot by their frenzied compatriots. A fair number of the black-robed men from the south ran off through the streets, howling and tearing at their garments. Others slumped to the ground, weeping in despair. Still others stood staring in stunned disbelief at the place where Ulesim had only recently stood haranguing them. There was also, Sparhawk noticed, a fair amount of on-the-spot politics going on. There were those in the crowd who felt that they had a claim on the recently-vacated position, and they began to take steps to ensure their elevation to eminence, reasoning that power rests more securely in the hands of sole survivors. Adherents of this or that candidate joined in, and the huge crowd was soon embroiled in what could only be called a general riot.

‘Political discussion is quite spirited among the Rendors, isn’t it?’ Tynian observed mildly.

‘I noticed that,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Let’s go and tell the Preceptors about Ulesim’s accident.’

Since the Rendors were now militantly indifferent to bridges, ramshorns or the impending battle, the commanders of Martel’s army saw that they had no chance whatsoever against the human sea on the far side of the river. Mercenaries are the most realistic of all soldiers, and soon a sizeable detachment of officers rode across one of the bridges under a flag of truce. They returned just before daybreak. The mercenary commanders conferred for a few moments, and then they formed up and, pushing the rioting Rendors ahead of them, they marched out of Chyrellos and laid down their arms in surrender.

Sparhawk and the others gathered atop the wall of the outer city right beside the open west gate as the kings of western Eosia rode quite formally across the bridge to enter the Holy City. King Wargun, flanked by the mail-shirted Patriarch Bergsten, King Dregos of Arcium, King Soros of Pelosia and the ancient King Obler of Deira rode at the head of the column. Directly behind them came an ornate open carriage. Four people sat in the carriage. They were all robed and hooded, but the sheer bulk of one of them sent a chill through Sparhawk. Surely they wouldn’t have – And then, apparently at some command from the slightest of them, the four pushed back their hoods. The fat one was Platime. Stragen was the second. The third was a woman whom Sparhawk did not recognize and the fourth, slender and blonde and looking altogether lovely, was Ehlana, Queen of Elenia.

Chapter 16

Wargun’s entry into Chyrellos was hardly triumphant. The commoners of the Holy City had not been in a position to stay abreast of current affairs, and one army looks very much like another to ordinary people. For the most part, they stayed under cover as the kings of Eosia passed on their way to the Basilica.

Sparhawk had little chance to speak with his queen when they all arrived at the Basilica. He had things to say to her, of course, but they were not the sort of things he wanted to say in public. King Wargun gave his generals a few abrupt commands, and then they followed the Patriarch of Demos inside for one of the get-togethers which normally mark such occasions.

‘I’ll have to admit that this Martel of yours is very clever,’ the King of Thalesia conceded a bit later, leaning back in a chair with an ale tankard in his hand. They had gathered in a large, ornate meeting-room in the Basilica. The room had a long, polished table, a marble floor and thick burgundy drapes at the windows. The kings were present as were the Preceptors of the four orders, Patriarchs Dolmant, Emban, Ortzel and Bergsten and Sparhawk and the others, including Ulath, who still exhibited moments of vagueness but appeared to be on the mend. Sparhawk’s face was stony as he looked across the table at his bride-to-be. He had many things he wanted to say to Ehlana, and a few he was saving up for Platime and Stragen as well. He was controlling his temper with some difficulty.

‘After the burning of Coombe,’ Wargun went on, ‘Martel took a weakly defended castle perched on top of a crag. He strengthened the defences, left a sizeable garrison there and then moved on to lay siege to Larium. When we came up behind him, he fled east. Then he swung south, and finally he went west again towards Coombe. I spent weeks chasing him. It seemed that he’d led his whole army into that castle, and I settled down to starve him out. What I didn’t know was that he’d been detaching whole regiments from his army to hide in the countryside as he marched, and so he reached that castle with no more than a very small force. He sent that force inside the walls and closed the gates, and then he rode away, leaving me to besiege an impregnable castle, and leaving him free to regather his forces and march on Chyrellos.’