A MAN OF FAITH

If we instinctively seek a paradisiacal and special place on earth, it is because we know in our inmost hearts that the earth was given [to] us in order that we might find meaning, order, truth, and salvation in it. The world is not only a vale of tears. There is joy in it somewhere … But the joy is not for mere tourists.

Thomas Merton

Would you swim with an angel in the abyss?

J. Penley

Prologue

He woke with a start. The devil’s laughter that had kept him on his feet for the last four days must have ended just before dawn. Now there was no shouting, no clash of metal, no screams, trumpets or thundering charges of cavalry. In fact, he could hear birds chirping in the distance. Up until last night, when he had been pulled from his horse, forced into hand to hand melee, forced down into the mud with hell's fury, a pungent curtain of hacking blades and swinging shields wielded by sweating men facing death with panic and exhaustion, here the haggard roar of humanity had waxed cruelly. And when he had moved back to his encampment on the low rise, the numbing cacophony of war had filled the valley and echoed off the mountain looming up around the besieged citadel … that is, up until now. It was that voluminous snarl and yelp of chaos that kept him fighting, kept him in command of an army trained to fell an enemy like wheat ... it was this very vocal passion for life that almost kept him sane. Scratching absentmindedly at his crotch, he slid his feet wearily to the dirt floor and froze. With his eyes still filled with sleep, the pain in his back and arms caused him to wince, yet his soft groan was not for any physical discomfort. Rivaling any battle he could remember, the fields and low hills of this river valley played host to a seething hatred and barbarism unknown to the weathered general. As a youth, he had strolled here, listening to the bells ringing from the necks of grazing goats; whatever had been green was now slick with red and brown. There certainly were no more goats. Before exhaustion had forced him to rest, he recalled the crescendo, when his enemy on the field were routed and when he gave the order to mount the siege, sending the bulk of his army up against the red walls with their demolition machines. He cracked his neck and sighed. Sitting up with some difficulty, he still heard the echoes of the breach and the final charge … and later, the sounds of looting, rape and murder that rose like a curse, a slap in the face for all his good intentions. It was this play of savage passions the general called the devil’s laughter.

"I’m too old for this shit," he grunted to no one, heaving himself out of the cot. If the volume of human agony and lust had kept him awake for four days, then surely even the heavens could not ignore it; if Masdreth knew what was committed in his name, under his banner, why then had he not raised his hand and put a stop to it? In fact, he might have, thought the general with a sudden shiver, turning an ear to the silence. It was too quiet. Maybe he had put a stop to it, he wondered aghast, listening to the flags outside his tent snapping in the morning breeze.

As he pulled on his blood-lacquered boots, his first lieutenant, a young, ambitious man named Vandreas of Whyllan, threw back the tent flap to stand before his commander. Excitement twisted the young man’s normally cold, emotionless face. The general stared briefly, recognizing both the intense faith and quick sword of the good officers, those who served and killed unquestioningly. Too intense, too quick, the general appraised, a good officer without holy compassion. He was still young. Waiting for the report, the general knew the outcome even before Vandreas opened his mouth.

"You’ve won, general Tamaloss, and now the men wait for your march into the city," he announced, standing crisply to the side of the tent flap to wait. So, we’ve won, the general acknowledged. Why shouldn’t we win? We’ve got Masdreth, the Stargod on our side ... could we actually have lost? A bitter taste of bile filled his mouth. Clearing his nose, he spat in the corner and began to dress slowly. All his life he had scorned the services of valets, but now he wished otherwise as his fingers trembled while buttoning his leather britches.

"When did they breach the inner walls?" he asked, turning from his lieutenant to continue dressing, to hide his emotions. Why the bitterness? Why should he be the only man in this army not to feel the elation of victory? No, he was not entirely alone. The heathen Druids had got them through the first and most formidable gate … and then they disappeared up the river, back to their hallowed oak groves along the northern foothills of the Barr, gone from the battlefield as his army swept up the blood-slick incline to bring the citadel to its knees. Had those strange mystics left the field in shame? he wondered.

"As the moon disappeared behind the mountain, sir. As the shadow fell, so did a section of the eastern inner wall."

"Who lead the assault?" he asked, knowing it was one of three assault batteries whose core of engineering expertise lay with the Barrmen miners. Those sturdy men of hard faith would be on a weak spot in a blink and have it down in the next ... didn’t their grandfathers help build the damn thing? The east wall? Who had been assigned that post … the details of his command were slipping. Petty soon he’d be propped up in some northern academy as a master; perhaps they’d even give him a bell, like the goats put out to pasture. He struggled into his uncomfortable chest plate, a beautifully tooled piece of armour that gave him the body of a younger man, one of those effeminate, body-sculpting athletes from the northern capital of Rangor. Not entirely as a joke, he had once asked the royal armourer to craft a chest plate depicting the chest of a man of his years. With wry and familiar laughter, the smith had delicately refused the general, offering the excuse that the queen would surely have his head for crafting such a monstrosity.

"Rynholen," came the efficient reply. Vandreas remained at attention, knowing that his general expected no assistance: all soldiers, regardless of rank, title or wealth, were forbidden paid valets or slaves while serving under Tamaloss' command. This, however, did not prepare the younger man for the discomfort he felt watching his general dress.

"Good man, Rynholen. His family’s from the east ..." he praised abstractly, fitting his sword and placing the battered old helm atop his crown of tightly bound white hair. Snow white before middle age, he smiled sarcastically, a wise, old fool in the service of both god and queen ... an old man ready to die even before four decades. Then he spun about to face his lieutenant, announcing he was ready. While passing Vandreas, he asked about the health of the royal prisoners.

Vandreas cleared his throat nervously. "Tamaloss ... Sir ... when Rynholen’s men breached the walls, we did our best to continue as ordered, but the men have been living to see this day for many generations, their fathers and their father’s fathers ..." he stuttered with his thick northern accent. The general’s hand stopped short of raising the tent flap. He suddenly noticed a look of defeat creeping into the corners of his officer's eyes, an officer who only moments ago did his best to conceal victory’s lewd grin.

Tamaloss nodded wearily. Of course, how could he have expected otherwise. "They fought like demons for the last year, suffering first at Pollom and then surviving the blow of the king's death at Keelb. But our luck held, and with every success our ranks flooded with men eager to throw off the chains of occupation, of enslavement. I know, Vandreas, I know ... even a general can sometimes demand too much of human nature. For years I have encouraged the beast that fires the killer in men’s hearts, and then I suddenly expect him to follow, not only the commands of a distant hill-top general or his heart's feeble yearning for compassion, but the commands of the Stargod himself, under whose banner this war is fought." His brows then, suddenly buckled. "For that matter, where were our worthy priests when the men fell on the soft heart of the Miran?" he grunted, almost as an aside, and grunted again seeing his officer's surprise, "Never mind ... I wanted a disciplined animal willing to throw its body and soul against an enemy, ready to offer up its life on my word, and then I expect humility when it has its foot on the throat of the enemy ... and now, like a dog that drags home its mauled prize, they wait patiently for my praise."

His general's obvious anguish confused Vandreas. The stern young officer had been so excited entering the tent, that he had neglected appropriate decorum; not that general Tamaloss would mind as much as other, lesser officers. But the general was not angry about his drill. As he watched, he saw too, that it was not weariness crippling the youthful man with a mane of white hair. No, it was grief. There was pain in the great man’s face. And this pain was not directed at him, for Vandreas knew that the general no longer talked to him, but to his god, Masdreth.

He had been through much with this general, from the palace court of Rangor, down the Grey Ribbon to the Shaan … the campaign to liberate the border towns around the Lakelands … especially the hard winter battle for Wheran … and now, at the end of spring, they were bringing about the fall of Dassak, the Redhouse, last Citadel of the heathen Miran Empire. If Tamaloss asked, Vandreas knew he would willingly lay down his life. And now, watching his general pause before the exit, he thought ridiculously for a moment that he would offer to take Tamaloss away through the back, crawl under the tent and away from the blood-drenched fields that coloured the shallow river red. He would take him away from the magnitude of horror that awaited this good man. He understood at once that victory was killing his friend. But instead of escape, Vandreas’ eyes dropped to the dirt floor in shame as Tamaloss looked up.

"Come Vandreas, let us review the victors with all the ceremony that befits them. Then I’ll take a nice, long rest." The general threw the tent flap back and strode out into the cool rays of the morning sun. For a second, he was blinded … but then he saw them. Thousands of men lined shoulder to shoulder on both sides of his quarters, an avenue of muscle and hot, sweaty limbs leading him towards the now open gate of the Redhouse, palace of the now deposed Miran prince. To his left, a group of officers stood by with their horses. Rynholen, recognizable by his red braid, polished bullet-shaped helmet and family crest, stood beside his own black stallion. This victorious knight held the general’s own mare for him to mount. Tamaloss smiled. Stroking the nose of his speckled grey mare, Gampon, he whispered a familiar greeting. This horse had carried him into more conquered cities than any other beast in human history, he reflected … she had even carried him against the dragon, Bloodring, so long ago. Quickly, he congratulated all his officers, distinguishing Rynholen especially. Then he turned to the army and saluted.

A cheer accompanied him as he swung up into the saddle. The men commenced to rhythmically clash their weapons against their shields. The peaceful dawn suddenly erupted in a riot of noise that startled even the war-horses. Getting Gampon under control, the general surveyed the army that had lead him to this, what was supposed to be, his greatest victory. The enemy had finally been crushed. Dassak had been the last great bastion of Miran power on this side of the God’s Port, the inlet that officially divided the two continents, north and south. The foreign enemy had been driven home after centuries of occupation ... centuries of relative peace, wealth and for the most part, good rulership, he thought wryly. From his saddle, he could see the queen’s royal colours flying from the towers rising from the famous squared, red granite battlements of the fortress-city. White and true purple and gold snapped lazily against an early morning blue. After two years of earnest warfare, this region of Akkor-Uls had been won back. The peninsula, was again united under one royal flag and one faith, united as it had never been in its long and bloody history.

And now, he was unquestionably the greatest conqueror in the world.

Yet, if this was true, why did he feel such bewilderment? Why the mounting rage? The deafening noise of clashing arms beat a rhythm different from his heart. The men had fought hard. Thousands had offered their lives at his command. These officers were the best he had ever had, almost without exception. The greatest prize left in Akkor-Uls had been claimed. Why? Why then the pain? he demanded in silent prayer, gripping the leather reigns so tightly that the bones of his big hands cracked.

Gampon, as if sensing her rider’s confusion, turned to face down the column of cheering men. The other horses gathered nervously behind. Twelve young knights stepped forward and began the procession with blasts from their brass horns, who were then followed by twelve young vassals proudly bearing the colours of the various noble families present on the field. The cheering doubled; the metallic drumming and chaotic chanting of song threatened to spook all the horses. The devil’s laughter, Tamaloss thought bitterly. It was their day. If their god would not honour them, then as their general it was his duty to do so. Get a move on it, he grumbled, nudging Gampon down between the gauntlet of warriors.

He started the wedge of officers, a parade of heraldic pageantry, down the hillside. Tamaloss regarded the faces of these victors, those men who had survived and would go back to their homes relating this glorious day to all. Would they mention the murder, when they returned home with stained hands? Would they tell their wives about the daughters and sons of heathen Miran they raped and tortured? Would they explain the jewels, the spoils of pillage, stuffed into their pockets as souvenirs? Or would it be honour and loyalty in the service of god and country at confession? Would they be keen to send their sons to war ... what would they pray for?

Gampon slipped.

Trying to keep his eyes up and focused on the citadel, the general wondered if the muddy field been paved for this procession? Ribbons of smoke rose above the walls to be carried away on the breeze; fires still burned beyond the walls. Gampon trod on, but continued to loose her footing on the round stones that did indeed pave a road down to the Grass River and back up to the gaping black wound of the breached outer doors. He kept his eyes up as they screamed his name and chanted his praise. Salutes were offered by unit commanders, which the general immediately returned.

Gampon slipped again.

The trumpets blared from behind and the bright colours of the coats of arms flashed into view as he turned his head. Finally, when his horse pitched dangerously forwards in an effort not to stumble once more, he looked down with annoyance. The stones were wet with morning dew. They’d probably been fished from the river that morning, each man carrying an armful. The stones glinted; didn’t the fools know that rounded stones were hard enough for the horses? Plodding through the mud would have been easier, he was thinking, when suddenly he wanted to cry out against the tumult.

Heads.

Heads paved the road to victory. A hundred thousand, maybe more, individual heads sunk into the mud during the night. Human heads lead this conqueror’s procession to the gates of an empty city. No royal prisoners, Vandreas had warned him ... no prisoners at all. Raising his face to the morning sky, Tamaloss opened his mouth and screamed. His cry rose and mixed with the shouting men around him. 'Victory is ours!' they cried together with their general. Steel clashed on steel and feet drummed the ground. All the land was one ... made one by a general’s strong hand. One faith brought together by the faith of one man. Knights and warriors from all corners of the kingdom, men following the royal flag under which he served … A northern queen, a godless bitch with her greed-poisoned eyes on the Miran lands of an occupied south. But they had fought for their general, not their queen.

Rage washed over him, scorn and loathing for the humanity around him. If Masdreth had willed this, then he would refuse his god. No more, no more can be asked of a sane man. This was murder, not war. Never had so much blood been spilled and never had such a heinous crime on mankind been perpetrated under the cloak of faith; in name it was simply greed and power.

Your faith! Masdreth! Your sword! Tamaloss! Our enemy has been driven from our shores! They screamed, together with their general, who still yelled loud and strong, mixing his fury with the devil’s laugh. Praise Masdreth! Masdreth! the faithful cheered, together with a large contingent of remarkably well rested and tidy priests and monks. And as the breath emptied from the general’s lungs, the gasp that refilled them rasped with choking pain. Even if he tried, he could not flush the life out of his lungs. He was damned to witness this victory. Tears streamed down his face as his choking sobs continued. Yet, there was no second scream. A numbness swept through the rider. There on that monstrous road, general Tamaloss knew he had finally died.

end of prologue