The bone fields, p.17
The Bone Fields, page 17
It was done. The Caelestia had spoken.
XVIII
Tyler’s heart sang as Stanek drove him through the Ochil Hills, down the deep slash of Gleneagles and into the gentle countryside of Perth and Kinross.
The little cottage in the Lomonds had served its purpose. It had provided peace so he could think and refuge from the storm blowing through the Pantheon, but now his time there was over and beside him on the seat sat a kitbag into which he had packed his belongings. At last he was returning to his Cavalry and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips. It had been only two weeks since the Battle, but it felt like an eternity and now he had friendships to rekindle, horses to love and recruits to train.
Dio was waiting in the yard when the BMW came up the track, and the moment it halted he strode forward and threw open the rear door.
‘My Captain,’ he grinned, standing smartly to attention in his mucking-out overalls. Then the two men embraced and he whispered into Tyler’s ear, ‘It’s damn good to have you back, Heph.’
‘Damn good to be back. I’ve been kicking my heels.’
They stepped apart and Dio grabbed Heph’s kitbag, as though about to escort an important guest to his accommodation.
‘I’ve only been getting snippets of news out here,’ he said, ‘but I think we might have stirred up a hornet’s nest.’
‘You could say that.’
‘So, Cleitus is King. We got messages on our phones announcing his accession, all proper-like, with every last one of his damn titles.’
‘I hope one of them was “twat”.’
‘You and him not hitting it off?’
They had been approaching the door to the farmhouse, but Heph pulled away and went to perch on the gate into the fields, where he lit a cigarette and squinted at the hills.
‘He’s destroying the Horde – and doing it with malicious glee. Valhalla’s been renamed Alexandria and every Viking image has been torn down. I hear rumours he’s had all the men’s beards and hair shorn and he’s turning every Viking into a low-rank hoplite and forcing them into a new auxiliary infantry regiment called the Hellenes.’
A shadow passed across Dio’s face and he dumped the bag and leaned on the gate next to his Captain. ‘That is a grave slur on the memory of Valhalla and everyone who ever fought beneath the banner of Odin.’
‘It’s not just a slur, it’s thick-headed and brainless.’
Dio examined his friend and chose his words with care. ‘Isn’t it exactly what we expected to happen once we killed Sveinn? Valhalla must become Titan, just as we had to bend a knee and become Titans after our surrender. We were shaved of our beards and told we must learn new customs, grip new blades and fight with new skills.’
‘Of course Valhalla must become Titan, but we could have been so much more ingenious. Cleitus could have sworn them to the Lion banner, then granted them the right to fight as Vikings. We would have led a hundred and fifty experienced blades into battle, with their units, their hierarchy and their pride intact. Instead, we’ve got a single bloated, unwieldy regiment of foot, with few honed battle tactics and zero morale.’
Heph was becoming riled and Dio decided to close the subject down. Instead, he shrugged and asked gently, ‘So, would you rather say hi to the people first or the beasts?’
Heph smiled despite himself, hopped off the gate and stamped out his cigarette. ‘The beasts.’
‘Boreas!’ he cried in delight when they entered the stables and his stallion came to the front of his stall and nickered in welcome. Heph climbed in beside him and ran his fingers lovingly through his mane and along his coat. ‘He’s in fine form.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Dio, perching on a haybale. ‘You think I’d have it any other way?’
Heph placed his head against his steed’s neck and felt the warmth and the gentle rumble of his breath. The stable was scented with hay and dung and animal musk, and its peace was broken only by the shifting of hooves and the occasional tossing of a mane. For long moments, he did not move and was content just to drink it in.
Then he lifted his face. ‘You know, this is my happy place.’
‘Mine too, fella. Everyone in this heartless world needs a happy place.’
Heph spent another twenty minutes greeting the rest of the horses and Dio’s mighty stallion, Xanthos, gave him a soft headbutt. Then he came to the stalls at the end of the block and found them filled with five new beasts – two chestnuts and three greys munching on nets of hay.
Dio came to lean on the stalls next to him. ‘Same fine stock. Arabian. All stallions again. Great leg strength and bone structure, and pretty good dispositions. Whoever finds these for us knows their stuff.’
‘So we are to be eleven.’
‘I know it sounds so few,’ said Dio, contemplating the horses, ‘but there’s a hundred and ten Blood Credits in these stalls. Zeus is doing what he can for us.’
Heph broke his own gaze and turned to his friend. ‘And what of the riders?’
Dio grinned. ‘They’re in the house, awaiting the arrival of their Captain.’
‘Then let’s meet them.’
They headed out of the stable and strode back across the damp grass.
‘Things have changed,’ Dio said as they walked. ‘You remember how sceptical Zephyr and Spyro and Lenore were when they first arrived?’
‘Too well. We were just some mad experiment back then that no one wanted to be part of.’
‘It’s different now. We’re the heroes of Macedon. Every last Titan witnessed our arrival at Knoydart and cheered our charge across the valley, and now we’ve been inundated with volunteers to join.’
‘Any of them good?’
‘I discounted those with no riding experience, then had the rest brought here. Even some of those were pretty abysmal and I kicked them straight back to the city. But I’ve picked six for you. Like us last year, they’ve no experience of riding without saddle or stirrups, but this time there’s one essential new ingredient.’
‘Which is?’
‘They’re keen, Heph. They want to be under your command; to claim a place in your Companion Cavalry.’
Heph laughed. ‘Well I hope I don’t disappoint.’
The farmhouse smelt of coffee and toast when they entered and the kitchen was crammed with nine bodies breaking their fasts.
‘Attention!’ Spyro cried when he spotted Heph at the door and the bustle died.
Spyro stepped into the middle of the room and brought a fist smartly up to his heart. ‘Welcome back, my lord.’
Heph examined the proud Titan, a former elite soldier in Agape’s Sacred Band, and saw the sincerity in his eyes. He stepped forward and took Spyro in a hug. ‘It’s good to see you.’
For a moment, Spyro was shocked, then he relaxed and hugged Heph in return. He was grinning broadly when they parted and others came forward. Zephyr gripped Heph’s hand and then there was Lenore, her eyes dancing, her lips an enigmatic crescent.
‘We’ve missed you,’ she said softly, just for him, and took him in a light embrace.
Heph wished the room would light up with Pallas’ smile, but the lad’s arm was still in a cast and he would lie in a Pantheon ward until next Season. So Heph looked instead at the six new faces circled around the table. Two men and four women, all wide-eyed and transfixed by his presence.
Spyro took the initiative. ‘Introductions are in order.’ He beckoned them forward one at a time and Heph shook their hands.
He knew the men already. Thales and Philemon. They were both from Parmenion’s peltasts and he had met them at the Agonium Martiale.
‘You helped me on with my scale armour,’ he said to Thales, remembering the streaks of silver along the sides of the man’s hair.
‘I think I did,’ Thales replied. ‘About the only time you wore the peltast rig.’
The women he might have seen in the Titan lines, but he could not place. Melitta and Phoibe came from Nicanor’s Heavy Brigade, sarissa bearers, the former very tall, the latter thick-set and strong. Elinor and Roxana were Companions, blade-sharp troops once under the command of Menes.
‘Alexander’s Bactrian wife,’ Heph said to Roxana and she frowned in puzzlement, but let the comment pass.
He studied each of them as they waited on his words. Tension creased their faces, but they looked fit and ready for the challenges to come.
‘Thank you for volunteering,’ he said. ‘You come from fine units and I am grateful that you deem a place in my Cavalry worthy of your commitment. Dio tells me you are all strong riders and I believe you have already been introduced to our friends in the stables.’
He paused to consider. ‘I can’t promise it’s going to be easy in this unit, nor can I tell you what awaits. Last year, we were Zeus’ secret little unit, without much pressure of expectation, but with a carefully timetabled schedule to be ready in time for the Grand Battle. Now we are famed throughout the Pantheon and watched by every eye, but our schedule is shrouded in mystery. We may have months to prepare or we may have weeks. No one is privy to the plans of the Pantheon gods. Most challenging of all, we don’t even know the identity of our foe. Will we face foot soldiers or cavalry? Shieldwalls or mounted charges? Your guess is as good as mine.
‘So all we can do is focus on being the best we can. Work hard. Wake every morning with the will to learn. Listen to Diogenes. Follow the examples of Lenore, Spyro and Zephyr. Love your horses. Put their welfare and comfort first at all times. You will fall. You will hurt. Riding without saddle and stirrups, while mastering the skill to attack and defend, is a steep challenge.
‘I can’t say what we will achieve. I can’t tell you what will be demanded of us. I can only promise that if you give me your sweat, your willpower and your hearts, I will champion you and we will have fun and we will be one family.’
They cheered at this and thumped their hands on the tabletop and Heph hoped they would release him from their gaze.
‘I think that deserves a coffee, sir?’ Spyro suggested.
Heph nodded gratefully. ‘I think it does.’
They fed him toast too and while they were busy, Dio laughed in his ear. ‘Where’d you learn to speak like that? Have you been practising in front of a mirror?’
When they were ready, Heph led them out into the morning sunshine and across to the stables, and watched as Dio slipped into training mode and walked between each of them with words of advice as they prepared their horses. For the time being, they would ride with saddles and full tack, but soon they must slip into the ancient ways of their Macedonian forebears.
Heph waited with Boreas beside the stable door, the merest smile of pride on his lips, as his little Cavalry mounted up and took to the field.
Valerius, Consul of the Legion, was being chauffeured home from his Palatinate when his private phone rang. He had spent six days at Caesar’s field camp in the forests beyond Mount Navegna and he was considering how he would spend the weekend at his city home in the Scala quarter of Rome.
He was tired after the rigorous demands of the camp. Caesar had been in one of his more manic moods and, as usual, his instructions had fallen into the Consul’s lap to action. Now Caesar had departed for Capri and the camp was settling into weekend training, so Valerius felt at liberty to steal forty-eight hours amongst the distractions of the metropolis. He would most likely partake of a quiet lunch at his favourite restaurant, then arrange one of his more flamboyant parties for that evening.
He consulted his phone irritably. Very few souls had access to this number, but the caller was one of his fellow Quartermasters, the new Thane of Valhalla. He had known Radspakr well since the early years and been shocked by his sudden disappearance. ‘Retired’ was the official parlance, but Valerius wasn’t so green as to believe that. Radspakr had been removed permanently; almost certainly killed. Valerius kept his nose out of Valhalla business, but he was deeply curious to learn what the Thane had done to deserve his demise.
He racked his brain to think of the name of the new Thane. Kustaa, that was it. Some fellow from the back-offices, got a lucky break. Or maybe not so lucky, now that the whole Valhalla Palatinate had fallen during the man’s first year in post.
And then Odin had been murdered. A Caelestis killed by an unseen hand. Something was very rotten at the heart of Valhalla and now this Kustaa – a fellow with whom Valerius might have exchanged a forgettable word during one of the Quartermaster meetings – was calling him.
‘Yes?’ he said, putting the phone to his ear.
‘Is this Valerius, Quartermaster of the Legion?’ came a strained voice.
‘If you have this number, I assume you know whom you are calling. And am I speaking to Kustaa?’
There was a long, hesitant pause. ‘No.’
Valerius straightened. ‘Then you had better get off this line, very quickly.’
‘Wait. I’m calling from Kustaa’s phone. My name is Skarde. I am the Housecarl of Wolf Company in the Horde of Valhalla. I have very important information to impart.’
Valerius had not heard the name before, but his instincts stopped him from disconnecting. If this was indeed a housecarl from the former Valhalla Palatinate, then he would most certainly be a man in desperate plight. And desperate men invariably had loose tongues. ‘Then tell me.’
There was another pause. ‘My information is for Jupiter personally.’
Valerius barked a laugh down the phone. ‘Ha! Is that so? Who do you think you are to propose a meeting with the Lord High Jupiter? And why should you think I can help you? This call is over.’
‘No, wait! Don’t hang up. I swear she will really want to hear what I have to say.’
Valerius brooded. He needed to be cautious. Kustaa’s phone could have been stolen by anyone – a scammer, a reporter, even someone from law enforcement. On the other hand, pretending to be the Housecarl of Wolf Company would be an audacious story if untrue. ‘I need more than that.’
A muffled curse came down the phone. ‘Okay. It’s about the King Killer and the murder of Odin. I know who the King Killer is and I can give Jupiter the God Killer.’
Now the caller had Valerius’ undivided attention, but still he was careful. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘I expect you to believe that Odin was killed in his office in Edinburgh by a single stab wound to the throat. Contact Atilius. I’m guessing you can get that verified.’
‘And what do you desire in return?’
‘I have my demands, which I will put to Jupiter in person.’
‘You have demands, eh? I suspect Jupiter is unaccustomed to listening to demands.’
‘Do we have a deal, for Christ’s sake?’ the man cursed.
‘A deal?’
‘Will you arrange an audience with Jupiter? She’s your damn Caelestis.’
Valerius pondered this unexpected development, peering out at the suburbs of Rome. ‘Where are you?’
‘Scotland. Edinburgh.’
‘I will organise a flight.’
‘And no bloody funny business. Anyone tries anything and I’ll destroy what I have.’
‘My dear man, if I wished to employ any funny business, you’d be dead before I tuck into my dinner tonight. I’ve said there will be a flight and there will be. I will have the arrangements sent to your— To Kustaa’s phone. Will we be having the pleasure of the Thane’s company as well?’
‘No. Just me.’
‘Very well. Be on the flight. And when you land, we can decide if what you have is valuable enough to disturb Jupiter. Buon viaggio, Housecarl Skarde.’
XIX
News of the Caelestia’s decision spread like wildfire.
The Palatinates of Kyzaghan’s Sultanate, Ördög’s Huns and Zeus’ Titans would come together on a Field of Battle on the Hortobágy steppe in Hungary on the twelfth of May, three weeks hence, to bring the Blood Season of the Twentieth Year to a dramatic close. It was shared on Pantheon messaging systems and proclaimed in the halls and camps of every Palatinate. Phones beeped across continents as the privileged and the wealthy were sent live links to the latest odds and invitations to Pantheon viewing channels.
Unofficial briefings also lit up the unofficial channels. Of the three Kings – Mehmed the Conqueror, Attila the Scourge of God and Alexander the Lion of Macedon – it was said that one must die that day. A Palatinate must fall. This was how the Pantheon would restructure after the actions of the King Killer.
Monetary speculation went into overdrive.
In Persepolis, Alexander had a private audience with Zeus. Those who witnessed the King emerge said he was white with shock. His anger fell on anyone who crossed his path as he stormed to his private chamber and locked himself away. If the rumours were true, if a sovereign must die, then Alexander knew well enough of the might of the Janissaries and the endless black cavalry lines of the Huns, and terror leaked from him. After the Battle in Knoydart, he had grabbed at the crown with lascivious glee, but perhaps he had also grabbed unwittingly at his own death warrant. A King for just a few weeks. The shortest reign in Pantheon history.
At his camp in Hortobágy, Attila gathered his commanders under the roof of his mighty log house and plotted tactics. He realised as clearly as his master, Ördög, that this was the opportunity to break the cycle of conflict with the Sultanate. Over the years, the two sides had come to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses too well. They could guess manoeuvres before they occurred. They could respond to every enemy probe and every new formation. And, most of all, the Kings could read each other’s minds like long-lost family. But this time, the presence of the Titans changed everything. There would be a new dynamic on the Field, new patterns and new unknowns. And where there were new unknowns, opportunities were never far behind.
So Attila – frugal, vulpine and dangerous – hunched around the great fire at the heart of his log house and listened, gimlet-eyed, to the thoughts of his commanders. There was Uptar, Horse Lord of the First Horn, which consisted of a hundred and fifty of Attila’s most loyal warriors, who provided a swirling blanket of protection around their King. Then there was Ellac, Horse Lord of the Second Horn, once again a hundred and fifty strong – the fleet and fast archers, who could rain storms of iron onto an enemy and disappear in a heartbeat. Finally, there was Bleda, a commander so wild and intimidating that even Attila wondered if he could control her. The light from the flames flickered over her gaunt face, glittered on her blood-red fingernails and illuminated the disconcerting sight of her front teeth where she had filed them to points. She led almost three-hundred Black Cloaks, the punch of his heavy cavalry, which could sweep across a Field and fall upon the foe like a wave.
