CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“TAKE HIM AWAY”
Another meeting of the council was held on the following Saturday, the Feast of Saint Boulmaros. Doctor Melanthrix continued to preside as grand vizier. Although the patriarch had been released from prison a week earlier, he had not been allowed to return to the council, and the Bishop Varlaám, the king’s choice for Locum Tenens, sat in his place. Father Athanasios had returned to the council as grammateus.
“Is everyone here?” the king asked. “Very well, let’s begin. General Lord Rónai, please provide us with an update of our military situation.”
The officer rose in his place and shuffled some papers.
“My lords,” he intoned, “the Arrhéni and Velyaminóli Brigades have arrived intact at Myláßgorod, under the joint command of Count Sándor. Count Zygmunt assures me that provisions are adequate, and that the troops will be ready to march whenever we call on them. In the meantime, Sándor has instituted a regimen of intensive training over the next three weeks.
“Seven other brigades are in the process of being formed, using as a nucleus some of the experienced surviving commanders from the previous expedition. We’ve also secured the services of a brigade of Ras ash-Shamra mercenaries, who are presently sailing to Dnepróv. Our target date for leaving Borgösha is a month from today.”
“Thank you, sir, for your excellent presentation. Any questions?” asked Melanthrix. He nodded towards an elderly councilman. “Lord Bunénë?”
“Yes, sire,” the gray-bearded baron stated. “I was wondering about your plan of action once we re-enter Pommerelia.”
“Good question,” Melanthrix responded. “General?”
“Uh,” the officer was fumbling again with his notes, “here it is. We propose to occupy the Valley of the Spargö permanently, establishing a line of forts cutting off the County of Körvö at its lower end, and also moving to the southern end of Lake Zhordán, thereby sealing off any threat from Dharmagrigg. To the north we will place a line of forts across the end of the valley from just above Karkára to the top part of the Läuterung Hills, and gradually add Einwegflasche, Mimmäma, and the other northern counties of Pommerelia to our control.
“Eventually,” he continued, “the pressure on the Walküri will be so great that they will have no choice but to move against us, and when they do, we’ll be waiting for them in our fortified emplacements. Once their main army has broken itself against our line, the road will be open to the Pommerelian heartland, and we’ll put Balíxira and Dürkheim under siege.”
“A worthy plan!” endorsed the king. “Anything further before we move to our next topic?”
“Yes,” said Lord Bunénë, “I wonder....”
But what he might be wondering was lost forever, when he sprawled forward on the table, his forehead hitting the wood with a distinct “thunk.”
“What’s wrong?” Kipriyán yelled.
“Call a physician!” Prince Kiríll shouted.
Lord Gorázd helped ease the distressed baron back into his seat, then looked up in anguish.
“He’s dead!” he announced, then quickly moved back out of the way as Fra Tibor Türdetány rushed in.
The doctor thoroughly examined the old man’s body, feeling him all over and poking into his orifices.
Suddenly there was a flash of green light off to one side, and a squawk from the king that turned into a loud gasp for breath. The attention of the council members immediately swiveled to the end of the table, where Lord Gorázd was sending bolts of energy at close range straight into Kipriyán’s body.
The king had been caught completely by surprise, with barely enough time to raise his rings, and he was weakening rapidly under Gorázd’s relentless attack. If his strength failed, his mind would be emptied and his body fried.
Father Athanasios, sitting to the king’s right, immediately centered himself, activated his own rings, drew his feet up towards his stomach as far as they would go, pressed them firmly against the end of the table, and then shot them out with all of his strength, pushing his solid wood chair directly back into the body of Gorázd, knocking the attacker off his feet and into the wall.
The Princes Kiríll and Zakháry were immediately on top of Gorázd, pouring their combined energies into the prone body of the attacker. He fought back with ferocious strength, singeing Zakháry’s shoulder, before a blow from Kiríll’s mighty right arm sent him into unconsciousness.
“Fra Tibor,” Athanasios called, “sedate the man.”
The physician puffed some powder from a phial under the attacker’s nose, but was unprepared for the sudden reaction. The former grand vizier first went rigid, then convulsed several times in massive, body-wide spasms, before finally going completely slack.
The doctor checked for a pulse, and looked up in amazement, shaking his head.
“Gone,” he said.
King Kipriyán got to his feet. His hands were trembling from exhaustion and in reaction to the aftermath of the attack.
“Tibor,” he ordered, when he had regained his composure, “have a necroprobe done as soon as possible on both men. We’ll adjourn this meeting until this afternoon, when I want a complete report. Now, I must rest for a few hours.”
His sons helped him out of the room, followed slowly by the rest of the stunned councilmen, leaving only Doctor Melanthrix behind.
The philosopher looked around the empty chamber, idly fingering his chain of office. He stooped to pick something from the floor, and secreted it in his purse.
A guard came rushing back through the door.
“Sir,” he shouted, “it’s the king!”
Melanthrix immediately came to his feet, and hurried towards the exit, brushing aside the soldier.
What is it now? he thought.
He was almost to the exit when some instinct, perhaps the hint of a slight rustling behind him, made him suddenly fling himself sideways to the floor. A short sword or long knife slashed across his back, cutting through his cloak and breaking the skin. He rolled over without thinking, gathered his energies, and sent a bolt of ruby flame straight at the guard.
A high-pitched scream brought the other guards on the run. They entered to find a tower of moving fire, something that had once been a man, trying desperately to find some relief from the all-consuming pain. The old philosopher was sprawled on the floor nearby, his back soaked in blood.
The assassin toppled onto the table, finally removed by death from his misery. Melanthrix staggered shakily to his feet. A few inches deeper, and it would have been his death they would be celebrating.
“Take him away,” the philosopher gasped, waving at the blackened body, and then limped heavily out of the room.
No one there offered to assist him.