Sterling Lanier - The Unforsaken Hiero

“We do things differently,” he evaded. “Our nobles and gentry are so busy fighting the Unclean that we learned long ago to be one pillar of the state and support the church as the other. And,” he added, as if in afterthought, “of course we have no actual king, but only a noble, supreme Council with both church and civil members,” It was only half a lie, since the Abbey Council was actually that. The fact that there were no nobles could wait until Hiero and the Metz Republic were ready.

“Well,” Danyale said heavily, “I suppose you have secrets, too. I find the world harder and harder to understand.” He looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his full lips. “One thing, though. I’m damn glad to have you as a son-in-law, prince or no prince. Oddly enough, I love my daughter and I’m glad to see her happy. But more than that—” He leaned over and tapped Hiero’s knee. “I think you’re going to be valuable to me, my boy—to me and to D’alwah.”

He rose, clapped the Metz on the shoulder, and strode off to his day’s duties. He was not an unkingly figure, Hiero reflected, and perhaps somewhat more clever than he appeared.

There were other meetings of a similar nature and meetings with the great men of the kingdom also. Markama, the archpriest, was a decent enough old man and could have exerted great power, had he possessed the basic ability to lead. But he was obsessed with ritual and hieratic obscurantism. But at least he was no enemy, being in awe of Hiero’s knowledge, both of church secrets and of the Unclean, whom he truly feared and detested.

Most of the work of the church—the accounts, administration, schools, and such—seemed to be in the hands of one Joseato, a priest just below the archpriest in rank, a thin, colorless bureaucrat who always carried bundles of parchment and had a perpetually distracted air. Hiero found nothing special to dislike about the man. But Joseato had a shielded mind, which was a big factor to consider. Could he have a bluish metal locket under his robes, a mechanical mind screen of the Unclean? Of course, as Luchare had pointed out, the shield could be innate, as many were, or the result of the sketchy mental training which even the southern church had not completely lost. There was no way of telling what power, mental or physical, impelled a good mind shield, and he could hardly ask the priest to strip. Joseato simply had to be watched, as far as that was possible.

He was still pondering as he ceased wandering and turned back toward the palace stables. There were too many shielded minds that needed watching. There was Count Ghiftah Hamili, for instance, a fine soldier as well as a great noble and landowner. The youngish, quiet man had been a suitor at one time for Luchare’s hand and was much at court. Although friendly enough, he had a disconcerting gaze which the Metz priest found fixed on himself far too often for his liking.

But at least Hiero had found one sure friend. A senior lay brother of the Eleveners had approached him, alerted through the agency of Aldo and the underground network of the Brotherhood. The fact that Mitrash was a lieutenant of the palace guard made things even better. Day or night, he could come and go without suspicion within the well-protected precincts of the inner fortress. The balding, middle-aged veteran exuded competence. Already, he and Hiero had held several conferences late at night.

The trouble was that Mitrash did not know very much. While eager to be helpful, he was simply a good, honest soldier who had been recruited as an acolyte by the Order and placed in the palace as an observer. He was deeply worried about the inner rot and subversion he saw about him throughout the kingdom, but he was not a mental master like Aldo. He had many contacts and could reach other members of the Order, but this took time. And he was mind-shielded—a good thing in his case. Hiero had requested that Mitrash be assigned as captain of his bodyguard, but the military red tape of D’alwah was no different from that of any other army. Meanwhile, the man was near at hand to guard Luchare if her spouse were called away.

Then the stables were ahead, and it was time to exercise Klootz and Hiero’s new mount, a hopper named Segi.

The giant morse was pleased to see Hiero and butted him playfully while being led from his stall by awed grooms. No one in D’alwah had ever seen or heard of a morse, and the great, antlered creature filled everyone with astonished respect, much of which accrued to his rider. Well aware of this, Hiero took every opportunity to display himself on the huge, swart back before the crowd that usually gathered at the exercise grounds to see them.

Behind the morse came Segi, ridden by a groom. At the appearance of the jumper, the mighty barrel of Klootz swelled in rage; had the morse been able to catch Segi alone, he would have made pulp of his rival, since the idea of Hiero on another animal’s back was intolerable, Segi seemed well aware of this feeling and gave Klootz a wide berth.

Segi was a hopper, the chosen mount of the cavalry of D’alwah, another mutated replacement mankind had found for the long-extinct horse. Friendly and mild-mannered, Segi towered over his rider by a good six feet. He stood balanced on two giant hind legs and a long, columnar tail. His small forefeet, each no longer than a tall man’s arm, were tucked up high on his broad chest. Clothed in smooth, tan fur, with a white blaze on his forehead and great, erect ears cocked first one way and then another, he looked what he was, the prize of the king’s stud and a much-valued wedding present to Danyale’s new son-in-law.

Hiero knew nothing of the ancestry of the hoppers. But he loved the incredible motion they gave their riders and was determined to learn the complex movements which made mounted drill on hoppers the most fantastic sight that could have been dreamed of by any cavalryman. Segi bore a heavy, almost right-angled saddle high on his back, and its broad girth passed just below his forearms. His jaws carried a snaffle bit, and twin reins led back to the rider. But instead of the conventional stirrups, such as those worn by the morse, a hopper’s rider placed his legs in long, stiff sheaths, not unlike expanded versions of the saddle sheath for Hiero’s lost thrower. These in turn were secured to the saddle’s base and also, by swivels, to a second girth, which was buckled below the first. While difficult to get out of, which was a drawback, these stirrup-boots were absolutely vital. The new prince soon saw why when a guard put a hopper through his paces for the first time. The very high back brace of the saddle also assumed new meaning.

Any ordinary hopper, and Segi was the best, could jump almost fifteen meters from a resting position. Further, the jump could be angled in midair, the mighty tail providing the leverage. At a dead run, or a series of bounds on level terrain, a “full-out” hopper moved at breathtaking speed. Watching a squadron of the household troops drilling at their fastest took Hiero’s breath away. Moving in perfect unison, line after line charged, changed direction in the air, and landed in the same matchless formation, never breaking ranks or pausing until the blast of a small brass horn signaled an equally abrupt halt. The long, pennanced lances rose, came to a salute, and were leveled, all in one beautiful fluid motion. Highly trained soldier that he was, Hiero had been enthralled on the spot. With a division of these wonderful creatures and their veteran riders as light cavalry and yet another on the giant morse behind in close support, what an army might one have!

He could have spent the entire day with the hoppers, had he not had a thousand other calls on his time. But he only allowed himself an hour or so, sharing the time exactly with the enraged morse, who paced up and down, snorting with contempt and anger while his master leaped Segi through his exercises under the correction of a time-expired sergeant who now served as royal instructor.