As Connal’s stay in Gallodel continues, he accompanies King Orthen on a visit to the newly renovated Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance.

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Chapter Ten

The Cathedral

“AND HERE, SIRE, on the westernmost arc, the builders have nearly finished setting the stones for the new archivolts.”

Goran the Aonemb strode beside Orthen, his jeweled hands clasped behind his back, white robe swaying with every movement. “The master builder swears he shall have the portal finished by winter, but you know how these workmen can be…” He chuckled heartily at his own jest, joined quickly by the two clerics who trailed behind him.

The king offered a polite smile, but Connal was silent, staring up at the newly-renovated cathedral. It had been built in the new Eburnean style: a perfect circle, containing four doors—to the north, east, south, and west—with the altar placed directly in the church’s center, bathed in the variegated light of the dome’s stained-glass crown. At regular intervals, round towers rose from the outer wall, nine dizzying spires segmenting the cathedral’s circumference into equal arcs of forty degrees, their bells sounding the coming of every hour.

At least, that is what Goran had told him, in his haughty, condescending manner, arching a black, bushy brow as if to intimate that an Ellani barbarian could have little appreciation for Eburnean architecture.

Connal had nodded knowingly, stroked his freshly-trimmed beard, and murmured his approval. In truth, he did lack understanding; he knew nothing of circumference, arcs, or degrees. But all the same, the magnificence of the church was not lost on him. The Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, seat of the Aonembs of Moralann, seemed built to impress, its perfect roundness, soaring towers casting the viewer in its mighty shadow, an awesome reminder of Aonel’s power, and that of the Eburnean magnates who claimed to wield it.

They had been walking around its lengthy perimeter, beginning at the southern door, moving to the west. Orthen and ten of his household knights, along with Sir Baldren, Goran, and two of his clerics. And Connal. Orthen had extended a warm invitation, telling him he would behold a mighty work. Sir Baldren’s welcome had been cooler and Goran’s positively icy.

“Is the ‘Beastmaster’s’ presence necessary, sire?” the priest had asked. “I doubt we shall be waylaid by any ogres or sea monsters in the city.”

Connal had scowled, but Orthen laughed the priest’s comment aside. “Connal is of the Faithful. And all God’s children delight to see him honored.”

That had settled matters. Heading out from the citadel, Baldren had insisted that Orthen bring more guards than he and Connal to defend him—even in Gallodel the king could not be certain of his safety. Accompanied by ten chosen men-at-arms, they rode out from the citadel, moving west along High Street. The crowds made way at the sight of Orthen’s blue banner with its golden axe, parting to either side of the broad street, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves. A few cried out, “God save the king!”

Orthen had turned and smiled benevolently upon them. Baldren was less pleased, scanning the crowd with frowning eyes, his body taut and tense, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting on his swordbelt. His great helm hung by a leather strap around his neck, bouncing against his back with every step of his horse.

Drawing up to Connal, Baldren leaned in his saddle and muttered. “We both know you’re handy with a blade, Ellan.” The respect seemed to come grudgingly to his lips. “Keep your eye sharp as your sword. If it should come to a fight, we’ll need every man to defend the king.”

“Is there really such danger?” Connal asked quietly. “This is Orthen’s city.”

Baldren smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Haven’t you heard? We Eburneans are a treacherous lot.”

Connal chuckled as Baldren trotted to the front of the party. He had begun to grow somewhat fond of this Eburnean knight. Beneath the facade of haughty contempt, Baldren was a worthy warrior, a man who served his king with fierce devotion. Such loyalty was prized as the highest virtue among the Ellani; it was impossible not to respect it even in an Eburnean.

Regardless, Baldren’s suspicions had been unfounded. The crowd had offered nothing but adulation, and soon the king’s party had passed through, turning north onto the Way of the Blest, which led them towards the towering cathedral, its walls flanked by wooden scaffolding. When they reached the church, they dismounted, leaving the horses in the care of a single man-at-arms.

“Each door is made of the finest oak, plated with beaten bronze, on which the artisans are even now working the reliefs,” Goran was saying. “Brother Aldwin. You have the sketches?”

The cleric Aldwin stepped forward, unfurling the scroll in his twitching hands. He was a young man—tall, gaunt, and nervous.

Connal moved closer to peer at the illustration depicting an arched door, divided down the center. On the left was a charcoal drawing of a man dressed much like Goran, sporting long vestments and a bishop’s miter. On the right, a king richly adorned with robe and crown, clutching a scepter in one hand, an orb in the other.

“Heed, islander,” Goran said, casting a knowing look at Connal. “These are—”

“Erodius and Justidian. I know.”

Connal enjoyed more than he probably should have the various reactions parading across the prelate’s jowly face. Shock. Incredulity. Indignation.

Connal may not have known of Yldregrance or the Silence, but every somewhat pious Ellan knew the Worthies. True, Erodius was petitioned primarily by scholars and clerics, but Justidian was the patron saint of every prince, every man born to rule and desperate for the wisdom to do it well.

“Ah, yes. Well then.” Goran composed himself, turned again to the parchment. “Each door depicts two Worthies. Tenan and Agrum to the east; Farrion and Herriah, the south, Erodius and Justidian, the west; and Urient and Abria, the north.”

Connal nodded and said nothing. Orthen was also silent, though he felt the king’s eyes upon him, appraising as he often did, with that same ghostly hint of a smile that had so enraged him when he first demanded the Rigsról.

What was the purpose of this discussion? Was it for Connal’s benefit? Surely the king already knew what figures would be depicted on the cathedral doors and had not needed to come all this way for the Aonemb to show him schematics.

“There is still the matter of the tympanum, sire.” Goran pointed to the semicircular space above the door. “You shall have to make a decision soon. Or I can, of course.”

The High Priest’s tone was surprisingly demanding, but Orthen seemed not to notice.

The king rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Yes,” he muttered. Then turning suddenly to Connal he added, “What think you, Lord Connal?”

“Me?” Connal was taken aback. “For the tym … tym…”

“Tympanum.” Goran’s grin was savage. “A scene perhaps? Or a symbol? Something to complement the Worthies. But why ask—”

Orthen held up his hand to silence Goran. “I wish to hear the sealord’s thoughts.”

Connal felt all their eyes upon him, awaiting his opinion. Why did Orthen care what he thought? He was a foreigner, a man unaccustomed to cathedrals or other Eburnean finery. What could he contribute that Gallodel’s host of priests and artisans could not?

He allowed his mind to entertain the oddly pleasing notion that Orthen sought his counsel because of his vision, in which Connal had figured as one of three heroes divinely ordained to smite the dragon and bring an end to the Divine Silence. If the vision were true—and he had begun to find himself assuming that it was—then Connal held a position of great spiritual significance in Orthen’s kingdom. Consequently, his opinion might matter very much indeed.

“Athewain,” he said, surprising himself with the name. But even as he said it, he recognized the wisdom of his choice.

“Athewain?!” Goran seemed aghast.

Connal paid the blustering cleric no mind. His eyes were fixed on Orthen, waiting for the king’s reaction.

As usual, Orthen’s face showed little. “Why do you say that, Lord Connal?”

“He was of Moralann. A saint of the people.”

“Not our people!” Goran hissed. “You would decorate this holy place with a Logrenian idol?!”

Connal felt a strong desire to strike the Aonemb. But he restrained himself, kept his focus on the king.

At last, Orthen spoke. “Above all four portals?”

Connal shook his head. “A different Worthy for each one. Athewain. Nadara. Celdain and Briga”

“That’s heresy!” Goran shrieked. “There are but eight Worthies as decreed by the Council of Louren. None of these savages should be mentioned in the same breath as Tenan or Herriah!”

“The Aonemb is right, I am afraid.” Orthen shook his head. But although he spoke gravely, there was still that ghost of a smile, the hint of amusement. “The Church does not recognize any of these as saints.”

Orthen’s words struck Connal as if an axe-blow. His pride, which had swelled at being consulted by the Eburnean king, receded, leaving him feeling foolish and uncouth.

“It would be heathenry,” Orthen continued, “to adorn a church with such figures. Little better than carving Gaillag or Sathis above the door.”

Connal felt the blood rush to his cheeks. How was this possible? Athewain had fought with Aonel’s blessing against the heathen gods themselves. Celdain had burned the Cuarri’s sacred groves, was martyred for his faith and courage. They were heroes, each of them, saints of the Moradii, forerunners of the Faithful.

“Of course, I am certain you did not know this.” Orthen’s voice was conciliatory, reeking of condescension. “Ellthiar lies at the furthest reaches of Aonel’s dominion. Remain with us and you will learn sacred truths that even Cregeirann’s most well-meaning priests cannot teach you.” Orthen turned to Goran. “Now, what of Saint Agrum’s axe? The same above each portal?”

Goran clapped his hands. “An excellent suggestion, my king. A symbol, both of the sainted Worthy and your reign. It marks a new beginning for Moralann, a revival of—”

“Waer thi, tena, eyn gal o ney!”

The strange, shouted words stopped the Aonemb’s speech. The air was heavy with the stench of sulfur and burning flesh.

Connal spun towards the sound, drew his sword in one smooth motion. And froze. On the far side of the square that lay before the church’s western portal, one of the king’s guards was ablaze, his body wreathed in green fire. He screamed and ran towards them, swinging his arms like a frantic, drowning swimmer.

“Protect the king!” Baldren shouted.

Swords scraped against sheaths, as the knights gathered to form a circle around Orthen and the clergymen, keeping their shields together.

Eleven figures emerged from the dim alleyways surrounding the cathedral square. Each wore cloaks of grey or brown, unremarkable in appearance. All had weapons—short swords and gleaming daggers. A squat, bald man of middling age stood at their center, right hand stretched before him, a ball of fire dancing above his palm.

“Losc thi, cunuin gwor!” The firecaster shrieked, stretching out an open palm. Flames leapt from his hand, shooting towards them.

Connal leapt aside, felt the blistering kiss of heat upon his hands and face. He heard a scream, cast a quick glance to see another guard wreathed in eerie flame, the poor wretch howling as his skin crackled and roasted. The wall of knights had broken, pushed apart by the firecaster’s blast.

Then all turned to chaos.

Howling, shrieking, the assassins rushed upon them, fanning out as they did. They moved with inhuman speed, darting like flies.

Before the knights could reform, the attackers were upon them, stabbing with daggers and swords. Connal saw at once what they were doing, driving a wedge between the king and his guards. Baldren and the knights fell back before the ferocity of the assault, leaving Orthen and the clerics exposed, with none but Connal to guard them.

Three of the assassins broke away, their knives flashing as they rushed for the king and Goran.

“O merciful Aonel!” Goran wailed.

Connal grabbed the Aonemb by the back of his robe, jerking him away. The priest stumbled and fell with a groan. Connal stepped in front of them. “Stay behind me!” he roared. “And keep well beyond the reach of that bloody sorcerer!”

He stood with sword raised in the Pilianese Guard of the Wolf, keenly aware that at any moment he might be set ablaze or pierced by a sudden dagger thrust. He wore no armor, carried only his father’s sword. Manimo the Exile’s instructions came rushing back to him. Speed and precision were to be his allies now. One needed little force to bleed or kill an unarmored man.

The first assassin came directly at him, as the others rushed to right and left. His attacker cycled through the movements of a strange dance of blades, every step graceful and practiced, twirling his knives as he approached.

Connal did not wait to see more of the assassin’s art. He lunged ahead, lashed out with his sword, the blade cleaving the knife wielder’s chest. The weapon cut through skin and bone, lodging deep within his chest. The assassin gasped as his eyes went blank.

“Blood of Gallos!” Connal cursed, tugging on his sword. He had put too much force into the blow, enough to kill even a mailed warrior.

“Back, you servants of Anturr!” Goran wailed again. Had he been wounded?

There was no time to check. Sensing the approach of his attackers, Connal pushed hard against the dead assassin’s chest, ripped his sword free, and pivoted to the side, even as the second assailant lunged for him. Connal delivered a swift cut to the side of the assassin’s neck, severing the artery with a spurt of crimson blood. He back-stepped as the third attacker swung, shortsword swishing through the air where Connal’s head had been. His opponent followed after, pressing his attack with quick, frenzied swings.

Connal let him come, parried a fast cut, then countered, plunging Glámaire through the doomed man’s belly, all the way to the long sword’s guard. Again, he had used more force than required. The assassin emitted a strangled, gurgling cry, as blood leaked from the ragged wound, soaking Connal’s hands and arms. Up close, Connal could see his face more clearly. The pale skin. The red, maddened eyes. The reek of the grave.

A bloodquencher.

The assassin began to laugh, a demonic cackle. His mouth, wet with leaking blood, opened wide, as his head lurched forward, jaws snapping like a rabid dog for his assailant’s throat.

“Aonel’s blood!” Connal jerked back, as the madman’s teeth clacked together. He ripped free the sword, and the blade came loose with a sickening squelch.

Still the assassin did not fall, though blood gushed from his opened belly. The shortsword remained in his hand, and, with a wild, howling laugh, he committed his strength to a powerful thrust. Connal barely moved aside in time, frozen in horror.

Then, all at once, his training returned to him. As the cackling, bleeding madman lunged again, Connal pivoted away, then spun and hacked the blade into the bloodquencher’s back. It bit deep into his flesh, severing his spine.

The assassin’s blade fell with a clatter to the cobbled square. His body jerked, spasmed, and collapsed.

Connal paused, breathing heavily as he looked about. Behind him, Orthen stood with his sword drawn, his face pale with horror. Goran had risen again to his feet, scowling and leaning on the trembling cleric Aldwin for support. And the other priest lay prostrate upon the cobblestones, limbs twisted, a dagger protruding from his back.

Further on, the king’s knights battled the assassins, forming a twisting, roiling mass of men. Many were down—Baldren and three knights alone remained against five of the bloodquenchers. And the firecaster stood apart, still chanting his arcane words, spheres of swirling fire forming in his hands. Several of the knights had already tasted his flame, their bodies blackened and charred upon the ground.

Even as Connal watched, the fire-caster hurled another fireball, setting the clothes of a knight aflame. The poor man dropped his sword and fell to the ground, rolling back and forth in a vain attempt to extinguish the flames.

“The king, you fools!” the fire-wielder screeched. “Go for the king!”

Two of the assassins broke away, making their way for Orthen. But Connal barred their path.

“Keep moving,” he ordered Orthen. “If that firecaster comes in range, you’re dead.”

The assassins spread out to Connal’s right and left. Would they both attack at once, or would one engage him while the other murdered the king? Orthen did have a sword but seemed less than skilled in its use. If one of these trained killers reached him, he would surely die.

Connal watched as they slowly advanced, waiting to see what they would do. Quickly, subtly, he loosened his sword belt with his free hand.

There was a sudden burst of movement. The assassin on the left let out a fearsome howl, brandishing his short sword as he headed straight for Connal. The other sprinted towards the king.

Connal ripped his scabbard free and hurled it into the swordsman’s face. Then he darted to his right, intercepting the second assassin. He lashed out with Glámaire just as the bloodquencher flew past him, slashing him just below the buttocks. The man groaned, lurched ahead, and fell upon his face at Orthen’s feet, a thin, oozing line where Connal had hamstrung him.

Orthen had gone pale, looking aghast at the wounded assassin, and at Connal with his bloodied sword. The king stood frozen with his own unused weapon clutched in his thin white hand.

“Finish him, you stupid bastard!” Connal shouted, spinning round to face the swordsman, bringing his blade up just in time to deflect the other’s blow. From behind he heard the kiss of steel and flesh, the groan of a dying soul.

Back and forth, Connal and his opponent fought, striking and defending, each searching for an opening. He was good, this assassin, had surely trained under some manner of swordmaster.

Suddenly, the bloodquencher leapt back, farther than was humanly possible, and screamed, “Now, Torak! Strike him!”

Connal heard the chanting, chanced the briefest of glances to see the sorcerer Torak only a handful of paces away, weaving his hands through the shimmering air. Mere moments remained before the fire struck.

Connal rushed for the swordsman, snarling as he ran. The assassin’s eyes went wide, but he brought up his sword in time to parry the thrust.

But Connal did not thrust. Changing his attack at the last moment, he swung upwards, slicing through the assassin’s wrist.

The swordsman froze, silent as his weapon fell to the ground. Connal seized him by the cloak, dragging his opponent to himself as Torak formed a swirling cloud of fire. Only then did the assassin scream, his body registering the pain of a severed hand.

“Waer thi, tena, eyn gal o ney! Losc thi hwi!” Torak bellowed, the blazing ball of fire launching from his outstretched hands.

Connal ducked his head behind the assassin, the heat scorching even from behind his human shield. The doomed man howled again as the flames consumed him. He reeked of burning wool and searing flesh.

Connal pushed the burning, writhing wretch away before the fire could spread. “For Cregeirann!” he cried as he raced ahead, charging like a maddened bull. Only a few paces separated him from the firecaster. Torak was chanting again, and a spark ignited between his twisting hands.

The sorcerer fixed his blood-red eyes upon Connal, face black with soot. He stretched forth singed hands and screamed, “Waer thi—”

Connal struck, his shoulder colliding with the firecaster’s arms, feeling but for a moment the bite of fire. The sorcerer fell, cursing as he landed hard upon his back, Connal teetering above him. Torak sat up, reached for the sword at his belt, and Connal kicked him in the chest. With a groan and a crunch of ribs, the sorcerer’s head flew back and struck the stones. Yet somehow he had managed to draw his sword.

Planting his boot upon Torak’s wrist, Connal ground his foot until the man released the hilt, moaning all the while. Connal gripped his sword with both hands, the point hovering just above the sorcerer’s throat.

“Should have reached for the sword to begin with,” Connal huffed between panting breaths. Trying to form a fireball was a mistake. One that would cost this Torak his life.

“Lord Connal!” Orthen cried. “Stay your hand!”

Connal darted a look back and saw the king racing towards him. The tip of Orthen’s sword was red.

“Have you lost your senses?” Connal kept his eyes upon the sorcerer, meeting his hateful glare, watching for an attack. Who knew what other tricks this conjurer possessed? “This one killed half your men.”

“And he must be questioned.” Orthen came to a halt at Connal’s side. “I will know who sent them.”

“Question the others,” Connal growled.

“They’re all dead.”

Connal risked another look and saw what Orthen said was true. The fight was over. Sir Baldren and one other knight still stood upon their feet, swords bloodied to the hilt. Another two were wounded. All of the assassins were dead.

“Very well.” Connal said. “But you’d better bind his hands and mouth.” He slammed his boot into Torak’s head, knocking the firecaster senseless.

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