then it hit her: Lord Maurin! The Count of Kosnick! Somewhere she’d read a history of the war by...—who was it, Duodène d’Écosse?—that had cited the Count’s memoir of Killingford as one of his primary sources for the great battle. And Maurin, she well knew, was still active, a man of perhaps five-and-sixty years. She would send a note to Kosnicksberg in the morning. Maybe he could tell her what she needed to know.
* * * *
Several days later, on the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, also known as Michaelmas, the Count Maurin III was ushered into her private conference room.
“Leave us!” she ordered Master Svyet, when Maurin had settled on the settee across from her. He was older than she’d remembered, with hair going white and waist going wide—or at least wider than it had been. She hoped his mind hadn’t followed suit.
“To what do we owe this honor, Majesty?” he finally asked, sipping slowly at the ruddy wine.
“We wish your assistance with a tome of historia we are preparing,” she said. “We require your memories of that time three and one-half decades ago when our nation was at war with the Kingdom of Pommerelia. Do you still recall those days?”
The nobleman very deliberately put his drink down on a square wooden table set to one side of his chair. Then he looked up at her, and stared unblinkingly into her eyes; finally, she was the one who had to look away.
“Majesty,” he said at last, “there isn’t a night that passes that I don’t revisit Killingford and all the horrors that I experienced there. I can’t escape those memories. There isn’t a day that I don’t recall all of the men who died on those Pommerelian hills and fields—died senselessly, in my estimation.”
“That is not the official position of the state,” Grigorÿna said.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it is my position, Lady. And I was there—you weren’t. With respect.”
“Would you tell me about it?” she finally asked.
“How can I not?” he said. “I relate it constantly to myself—to anyone, actually, who wants to hear (or doesn’t). I endlessly repeat the story of those days. How can I not, Majesty?”
“Then do tell me. Please.”
And then he began unraveling his tale of the greatest battle that Nova Europa had ever experienced.
CHAPTER ONE
“HE WANTS US TO FEEL FEAR”
Anno Domini 1205
Anno Juliani 845
During the early Spring the preparations for the expedition moved forward rapidly. By mid-April, the first contingents of troops were already gathering at Katonaí Field west of Paltyrrha, and on the Feast of Saint Zênôn, King Kipriyán decided to conduct a formal review of the soldiers who had assembled there. An official inspection was ordered for the first part of the morning, at tritê.
An hour before that time, General Lord Feognóst was in a state of unrestrained panic. Thousands of men were milling about on the muddy plain, trying to find their positions. Horses were still being saddled, draft animals had yet to be harnessed, several heavy supply wagons had tipped over, and all was in chaos.
“Get those men in order,” the general shouted at Commander Reményi.
His voice was hoarse.
“And you!” he yelled, turning to the cowering figure of Commander Rónai, “get those bloody beasts back under control.”
Slowly but certainly, the impossible was accomplished, and the conscripts began to form in orderly ranks, company by company. The few mounts that absolutely wouldn’t cooperate were taken back to the stables, but most were restrained and suitably decked out for parade. Their riders stood stiffly at attention beside their brushed and curried steeds, sweaty and uncomfortable in black leather boots polished to a “fare-thee-well” and bright new dress uniforms that designated, by color and cut, each person’s rank and place.
They were as ready as they were going to be when the king and his sons finally appeared, riding out gloriously, streamers flying, from Saint Ignatios’s Gate. Kipriyán paused for a moment to look out over the field, his good eye squinting against the sun.
Then he cleared his voice, and loudly intoned: “Very impressive, general. Kudos to you all.”
And he saluted them in grand style.
“Huzzah!” came the general cry, as five thousand men responded as one. “Axios!” they cried. “He is worthy! Long live King Kipriyán!”
Then the great monarch, resplendent in his finest military armor, neatly dismounted into the sea of mud that stretched before him, and with his boots squelching, slowly made his way through the ranks, commenting to this man and that on his fine appearance. Finally, he came to the head of the file, saluted the general, and offered his congratulations on a job well done.
Lord Feognóst smiled with pride, and bowed in acknowledgment, jauntily returning the king’s salute. Then he unsheathed his sword, and carefully placing it hilt-down into the wet ground, abruptly fell on the sharp blade, killing himself almost instantly.
A moment of wretched silence settled over the soldiers of Katonaí Field as the lifeless body of their commander slowly toppled sideways into the mud. Feognóst’s final grin was still frozen on his face.
“Nooo!” shouted the king, leaning over the bloody corpse.
Prince Arkády leaped from his mount and pulled his father back from the gruesome scene.
“Nicky,” he ordered his brother, “take the king back to Paltyrrha.”
Then to the assembled troops, he shouted: “Who’s second in command here?”
“I am, sir,” a shaken Rónai said.
The officer stepped forward and saluted.
“Dismiss the assembly,” the prince commanded, “and sequester the body. I want a death-probe done at once. You’re temporarily promoted to general, subject to confirmation by the king.”
“Yes, Highness,” the soldier said, promptly turning to his junior officers.
An hour later, Arkády received a report from Fra Jánisar Cantárian, the king’s physician, stating that the victim’s mind had been wiped almost completely clean, that there was only the hint of a compulsion, although one had certainly been in force, and that Jánisar could not tell the prince how the deed was done or who had done it.
“That’s not a great deal of help, Ján...,” Arkády began, as he finished reading the doctor’s statement.
“Well, sir, it wasn’t intended to be,” Cantárian said, throwing up his hands in resignation. “Although I’ve certainly tried, I have to admit that this is beyond my abilities. You need very specialized help to scry this kind of magic.”
“Can’t you even venture a guess?” the prince said.
“Only
