The Hidden City

Komier muttered darkly. ‘I think I’ll run him down and set him up as the centerpiece in a bonfire.’
    ‘Lets not stir up the locals any more than they already are, Komier,’ Darellon cautioned. ‘We’re not in any condition for confrontations at the moment.’ He glanced back at the battered column and the long string of wagons bearing the gravely wounded.
    ‘Did you see any signs of organized resistance?’ Heldin asked Komier.
    ‘Not yet. I expect we’ll find out how things really stand when we get to Darsas. If the bridge across the Astel’s been torn down and the tops of the city walls are lined with archers, we’ll know that Sabre’s message of peace and goodwill’s reached the people in authority.’ The Genidian Preceptor’s face darkened, and he squared his shoulders. ‘That’s all right. I’ve fought my way into towns before, so it won’t be a new experience.’
    ‘You’ve already managed to get Abriel and about a third of the Church Knights killed, Komier,’ Bergsten told him pointedly. ‘I ‘d say that your place in history’s secure. Let’s try a bit of negotiation before we start battering down gates and burning houses.’
    ‘You’ve had a clever mouth ever since we were novices, Bergsten. I should have done something about it before you put on that cassock.’
    Bergsten hefted his war-axe a couple of times. ‘I can take my cassock off any time it suits you, old friend,’ he offered.
    ‘You’re getting side-tracked, gentlemen,’ Darellon said, his speech slightly slurred. ‘Our wounded need attention. This isn’t the time to pick fights—either with the local population or with each other. I think the four of us should ride on ahead under a flag of truce and find out which way the wind’s blowing before we start building siege-engines.’
    ‘Am I hearing the voice of reason here?’ Heldin rumbled mildly.
    They tied a gleaming white Cyrinic cape to Sir Heldin’s lance and rode ahead through the cheerless afternoon to the west bank of the River Astel. The city beyond the river was clearly Elene, an ancient town with soaring towers and spires. It stood proudly and solidly on the far shore of the river under its snapping pennons of red and blue and gold proclaiming, or so it seemed, that it had always been there and always would be. It had high, thick walls and massive, closed gates. The bridge across the Astel was blocked by towering, bronze-faced warriors wearing minimal armor and carrying very unpleasant-looking weapons.
    ‘Atans,’ Sir Heldin identified them. ‘We definitely don’t want to fight those people.’
    The ranks of bleak-faced infantry parted, and an ancient, bald Tamul in a gold-colored mantle flanked by a vastly-bearded Astellian clergyman all in black came forward to meet them. ‘Well-met, Sir Knights,’ the hairless old Tamul greeted the armored men in a dry, dusty voice. ‘King Alberen’s a trifle curious as to your intentions. We don’t see Church Knights in this part of the world very often.’
    ‘You would be Ambassador Fontan,’ Bergsten said. ‘Emban described you very well.’
    ‘I thought he had better manners,’ Fontan murmured.
    Bergsten flashed him a brief smile. ‘You might want to send word back to the city, your Excellency. Assure His Majesty that our intentions are entirely peaceful.’
    ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that.’
    ‘Emban and Sir Tynian came back to Chyrellos a couple months ago,’ Bergsten continued. ‘Sparhawk sent word that things were getting out of hand here. Dolmant dispatched us to help restore order.’ The huge Patriarch made a sour face. ‘We didn’t get off to a very good start, I’m afraid. We had an unfortunate encounter near Basne and we have many wounded in need of medical attention.’
    ‘I’ll send word to the nearby monasteries, Sir Knight,’ the bearded clergyman standing at Fontan’s elbow offered.
    ‘Bergsten’s not a knight any more, your Reverence,’ Komier corected him. ‘He used to be, but God had other plans for him. He’s a Patriarch of the Church now. He prays well enough, I suppose, but we haven’t been able to get his axe away from him yet.’
    ‘My manners must be slipping,’ Fontan apologized. ‘My friend here is Archimandrite Morsel, the duly anointed head of the Church of Astel.’
    ‘Your Grace.’ Bergsten inclined his head politely.
    ‘Your Grace,’ Morsel replied, looking curiously at the warlike churchman. ‘Your friend Emban and I had