Hawkwood and the Kings: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume One) by Paul Kearney Page A

wilderness. This thing will blow over once the true extent of the Merduk threat is realized." He paused. "After Ormann Dyke falls there will be less of this nonsense. The clerics will be brushed aside, and the soldiers will come into their own. We have only to ride out the storm."
    "After Ormann Dyke falls? What makes you think it will? Golophin, that would be a disaster to rival the taking of Aekir."
    "There is little hope that it will stand," Golophin said firmly.
    "Lejer's men were overwhelmed this morning, and soon the Searil line will be fatally disorganized by the refugees streaming west. Shahr Baraz's army will surely move once more."
    "You're positive?"
    Golophin smiled. "You have your imp, I have my gyrfalcon. I can see the earth spread out beneath me. The mobs of fugitives on the western roads, the blackened ruins of Aekir, the lines of Ramusian slaves trekking north under the lash, may God help them. And I can see the columns of Merduk heavy cavalry fanning out from where Lejer's men fought their last stand. I can see Shahr Baraz, a magnificent old man with the soul of a poet. I would like to talk to him some day. He has served kings as I have."
    Golophin rubbed his eyes. "Abeleyn knows this. It has helped convince him. I will not be going with him to the Conclave of Kings next month, though. I am needed here, and I must be discreet these days. It will be Abeleyn's job to try and convince the other monarchs of the knife-edge we teeter on. It may be that he will even save the dyke; who knows?"
    He stood up and retrieved his hat. "What about it, Bardolin? Will you take ship? Your little shifter can come along if you've a mind to continue your research, but I can do nothing for poor Orquil, I'm afraid. He must make his peace with God."
    Bardolin looked around at the rooms which had been his home for twenty years. He missed the breezy exuberance of young Orquil, and it was a shattering blow to realize the boy was beyond saving. The knowledge left him feeling very old, obsolete. But even his battered old nose could sniff the hint of burning flesh that hung on the air. The city would be a long time getting free of it. And Bardolin was sick of it.
    He raised his glass.
    "To foreign shores," he said.

Six
     
    A TERRACE SHADED by a canopy of stickreed stems, the earthen water jars hanging from every corner to add some moisture to the arid air. In the shade the heat was bearable, and Hawkwood had his hands about a flagon of cold beer as though he were warming them.
    The quayside tavern was busy both inside and out. It was an upmarket sort of place, not a sailor's haunt, more the kind of place a landsman would imagine a sailor to frequent. Periodically men watered the street in front of the tables so that patrons would not be sullied by the rising dust as the waggons and carts and mules and oxen and peasants and sailors and soldiers sauntered past.
    But the beer was good, straight up from a cold subterranean taproom below the street, and there was a fine view of the harbour. Hawkwood could just pick out the tall mainmast of the Osprey , berthed at long last, her hatches open and men hauling on tackles to bring the precious cargo out into the white sunlight. Galliardo had assured him that the Inceptines no longer came down to the wharves to check the ship crews for foreigners. Things had relaxed somewhat, but Hawkwood had still left orders that none of the Osprey' s crew who were not native-born Hebrionese were to be allowed ashore. The men had not protested: news of Julius Albak's fate had raced through the port like fire. Yawlsmen on the herrin run reported that Abrusio-bound ships were diverting to Cherrieros and even Pontifidad. The madness could not last. If it did, trade would be ruined.
    Hawkwood sipped his beer and picked at his bread. He could hardly hear himself think with the noise of the tavern and the wharves surrounding it. He wished the wind would pick up. He felt almost marooned by the unmoving air, though many