Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

“Not willingly, no,” the Duchess said. “But in their hearts? A time may come when they don’t fight as fiercely, when the fire goes out of them, when they embrace the shadows in their hearts and admit defeat simply to end this war.”

“I can see that day all too clearly,” Tycho said. “But what about Yaga? We need to do something about her. She’s scaring our soldiers, to say nothing of the conscripts from Italia and Espana.”

“That’s not the only thing eating away at morale,” Salvator said. “There’s a rumor in the barracks that Prince Radu has been seen on the walls of Stamballa. If the Vlachians learn that Vlad’s own brother is leading the Turks, it could split their loyalties and we might actually find ourselves behind enemy lines very suddenly.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Tycho said. “From what I’ve heard, most of the Vlachians hate Radu for converting to the Mazdan Temple, and for turning against his own people. They see him as a traitor.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Lady Nerissa said. “In the mean time, I have something special for the two of you. This afternoon one of our gunboats sank a trawler carrying an imperial courier home from the north shore.”

Tycho frowned. “Who do you think he was visiting on the north shore?”

“That’s what I want the two of you to find out. He’s being held in the Sunken Palace. If there are imperial troops on the north shore, or worse, a traitor among our ranks, I don’t want some common soldier to be the first to learn of it.”

The Italian knight nodded curtly. “We understand, Your Grace. We will be the very souls of discretion.”

Tycho nodded as well and he followed Salvator out of the war room and down the dimly lit corridor. Their boots clacked and echoed on the polished marble floors and soaring walls covered in oil portraits of dead Constantian lords and tapestries of ancient Constantian battles. The men spiraled down the wide white steps of the west stairwell to the western doors, and then strode out through the massive Hellan columns into the cold night air. Soldiers stood at attention at every gate and door, and Tycho nodded seriously to each of them. Salvator ignored them all.

They stepped into one of the small carriages that stood ever-ready to carry a person of importance into the city and with the horses trotting briskly they soon left the grounds of the Palace of Constantine and turned southwest to pass the Cathedral of Saint Sophia. Sitting on the left side of the carriage, Tycho gazed up at the centuries-old church towering above the boulevard like a black and gold mountain shining in the starlight. The great sweeping arcs of its domed roof, heavy pillars, and elegant archways conspired in the darkness to create the image of a many-legged, many-mouthed demon looming over the tiny carriage on the road.

“You know, I’m surprised you’re still here,” Tycho said quietly.

“So am I,” the Italian answered. “I had planned to leave before winter set in, but this war is just a bit too interesting to leave, just yet. I mean, two brothers leading opposing armies, a pair of immortal lunatics, and the chance to observe the latest in Eranian ships and weapons. And besides, I’m sure the king of Italia appreciates my efforts here to single-handedly defeat the Mazdan Temple. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but he’s not fond of the empire.”

“I believe you have mentioned it,” the dwarf said. “But after we brought back the seireikens from Alexandria, I assumed you would be off to investigate the Osirians again. But you haven’t mentioned the Order of Osiris once since we arrived.”

Salvator shrugged. “I did enjoy our little escapade in the south, but it also served to remind me that I’m not a young man anymore. A duel here and there, certainly. But crawling through dark passages, lying in cramped cellars, running from legions of armed cultists? No, my little friend, I think that part of my career is now behind me.”

“Retirement, then?”

“Of a sort. I think perhaps I should restrict myself to sitting in grand ballrooms, playing cards, drinking wine, and explaining Italian foreign policy to beautiful young princesses.”

Tycho snorted. “Lady Nerissa has no interest in you.”

“I should hope not!” Salvator exclaimed. And then with a grin, he said, “She’s far too old for me.”

Both men chuckled in the darkness.

Tycho nodded to the Hellan soldiers as the carriage rattled through the gates of the Sunken Palace. The two men dismounted the carriage and stood in the silent courtyard, glancing around at the wide green lawn and the huge granite slabs strewn about the field. Before them stood the only building, a small stone house not unlike a mausoleum, classical Hellan architecture in miniature with a single gaping doorway flanked by Hellan pike men and Vlachian archers carrying small recurve bows.

Tycho had only to show his face and revolver for the guards to recognize him and allow him to enter. Inside the stone doorway a row of burning braziers led down a long stone stair. Tycho signed the log book with the officer on duty, sighed, and started down the steep steps.

Salvator clumped along noisily behind him. “My word, this is a long stair. I don’t remember it being quite so long. I hope we reach the bottom in short order.”

“Ha. And again, Ha.” Tycho grimaced and kept his eyes on his footing.

“Yes, you see, I’m harassing you for being short and thus for taking too long to go down the stairs,” the Italian said. “I’m being witty.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Tycho said. “Have you learned to parry a bullet yet, old man?”

Salvator didn’t answer.

Tycho reached the bottom of the stair with an ache in his hip, but he merely pressed his hand to his holster to silence the uneven clinking of his gun and continued across the small anteroom they had converted to an office. After just a few paces he passed the first cistern, a vast colonnaded chamber that had once been a grand dining hall, now filled with water nearly to its vaulted roof. A distant dripping echoed eerily in the darkness as they crossed the chamber on the elevated walkway.

They passed two more cisterns, both smaller than the first, before they came to a series of doors where four young Hellans in piecemeal armor and red cloaks sat around a rickety table playing cards. They glanced up and nodded sternly to Tycho, saying, “Evening, major.”

“Evening.” Tycho glanced at the doors. “We’re here to see the new arrival.”

Keys rattled, doors slammed, and Tycho and Salvator sat down in a narrow, windowless cell lit only by the small lantern that they borrowed from the soldiers and set on the floor. The man before them was just barely taller than Tycho, a lean little fellow with a shaven head and a greasy tuft of beard on his chin, and a pair of chains on his wrists.

One of the soldiers lingered in the doorway. “He was twitchy when they brought him in this afternoon. And he’s been getting twitchier by the hour.”

Tycho took a second look at the prisoner and saw the man’s eyes darting madly around the floor, his fingers shivering, his lips trembling with silent words. The major nodded and said, “We’ll proceed gently.”

The prisoner leapt forward, his eyes wide and pleading, his hands reaching for Salvator’s face. The Italian smashed his fist into the man’s nose and sent him sprawling back against the stone wall. Salvator glanced at his comrade. “But not too gently.”

Eventually, with much coaxing and a few bribes, they got the man to sit up and look them in the eye and speak in a fairly calm voice. He said his name was Tahir, and he came from a village in Turkiya just a few miles south of Stamballa.

“You were captured leaving the north shore,” Salvator said.