Lackey, Mercedes - Heirs of Alexandria 01 - The Shadow of the Lion

906 Pages·2016·2.48 MB·English

by  Lackey Mercedes

The Shadow of the Lion
by Mercedes Lackey, Eric Flint & Dave Freer
copyright 2002

To the world's firefighters;
and, especially:
to the hundreds of those in the
Fire Department of New York
who died in the line of duty on
September 11, 2001.
Prologue
April, 1537 A.D.
MAINZ
The yellow lantern-lights of Mainz's dockside inns reached out across the
dark Rhine. Standing on the prow of the riverboat, Erik Hakkonsen stared at
them, thinking of little more than food and a bed. He'd left his home in Iceland
three weeks earlier, to answer the Emperor's summons. They'd had a stormy
crossing. Then the late spring thaw had ensured that the roads of the Holy
Roman Empire were fetlock deep in glutinous mud. And, finally, the river had
been full and the rain steady. Tomorrow he would have to go to the Imperial
palace, and find out how to seek an interview with Emperor Charles Fredrik.
But tonight he could sleep.
The riverboat nudged into the quay. A wet figure stepped out from under the
eaves of the inn. "Is there one Erik Hakkonsen on this vessel?" he demanded,
half-angrily. The rain hadn't been kind to the skinny courtier's bright cloak. The
satin clung to him, and he was shivering.
Erik pushed back his oilskin-hood. "I'm Hakkonsen."
"Thank God for that! I'm soaked to the skin. I've been here for hours,"
complained the man. "Come. I've got horses in the stable. The Emperor awaits
you."
Erik made no move. "Who are you?"
The fellow shivered. "Baron Trolliger. The Emperor's privy secretary." He
held out his hand to show a heavy signet. It was incised with the Roman Eagle.
That was not a seal anyone would dare to forge. Erik nodded. "I'll get my
kit."
The shivering baron shook his head. "Leave it." He pointed to the sailor who
had paused in his mooring to stare. "You. Watch over this man's gear. Someone
will be sent for it."
As much as anything else, the alacrity with which the sailor obeyed the order
drove home the truth to Erik. He was in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, for
a certainty. In his native Iceland—or Vinland, or anywhere else in the League of
Armagh—that peremptory order would have been ignored, if not met with
outright profanity.
"Come," the baron repeated. "The Emperor is waiting."
*
Passing from the narrow dark streets and sharp-angled tall houses into the
brightness of the imperial palace, Erik had little time to marvel and gawk at the
heavy gothic splendor of it all. Instead, Baron Trolliger rushed him through—
still trailing mud—into a large austere room. As soon as Erik entered, the baron
closed the door behind him, not entering himself.
In the center of the room, staring at Erik, stood the most powerful man in all
of Europe. He was a large man, though now a bit stooped from age. His
eyebrows seemed as thick and heavy as the purple cloak he was wearing; his
eyes, a shade of blue so dark they almost matched the cloak.
Charles Fredrik. The latest in a long line of Hohenstauffens.
Guardian of the Church, Bulwark of the Faith. Lord of lands from northern
Italy to the pagan marches in the Baltic. Ruler over millions of people
throughout central Europe.
The Holy Roman Emperor, himself. In direct line of descent from the great
Fredrick Barbarossa.
All of that mattered little to Erik. His tie to the Emperor was a clan tie, not a
dynastic one. He was there to become the Emperor's servant, not his subject. So,
Erik simply bowed to the old man, rather than kneeling, and spoke no words of
fealty. Simply the old oath: "Linn gu linn."
The words were Gaelic, but the oath that bound him came from the cold fjells
of pagan Norway. An oath that went back generations, to the time when a
Hohenstauffen prince had rescued a pagan clan from demons set loose by their
own foolishness.
Charles Fredrik spoke like an old man—despite being no older than Erik's
father. But he voiced the ritual words strongly. "From generation to generation."
He held out the dagger that Erik had heard described with infinite care all his
life. The dagger was iron. Old iron. Sky iron. Hammered with stone in the pagan
Northlands, from a fallen thunderbolt. The hilt was shaped into a dragon head—
the detail lost in the blurring of hundreds of years of use.
It still drew blood for the blood-oath like new steel did. "Blood for blood.
Clan for clan." Erik renewed the oath calmly.
After binding their wounds himself, Charles Fredrik took Erik by the elbow
and led him across to a window. The window was a mere arrow-slit, testimony
to the palace's ancient origins. Against modern cannon, such fortifications were
almost useless. But... there was a certain undeniable, massive dignity to the huge
edifice.
There they stood, silent for some time, looking out at the scattered shawl of
lights which was the great sleeping city of Mainz. Erik was quite sure that those
lights represented more people than lived in all Iceland. Their lives, and those of
many more, rested in the hands of the old man standing next to him.
The Emperor seemed to have read his thoughts. "It is a great load, at times,"
he said softly.
His heavy jaws tightened. The next words were spoken almost harshly. "I
have called for the Clann Harald because my heirs have need. My son is... very
sickly. And I do not expect my only surviving brother to outlive me. Not with
his wounds. So I must take special care to watch over my two nephews, for it is
quite likely that one of them will succeed to the throne after I am gone."
The Emperor sighed. "Your older brother Olaf watched over my nephew
Conrad for his bond-time, as your father Hakkon watched over me." A slight
smile came to his face. "To my surprise, I find I miss him. He used to beat me,
you know."
"He has told me about it, Godar of the Hohenstauffen." Erik did not add:
Often.
Charles Fredrik's smile broadened. "According to your brother Olaf—'often.'
" He chuckled. "It did me the world of good, I eventually came to realize.
Nobody had dared punish me before that. Do you know that your family are the
only people in the world who don't call me 'Emperor,' or 'Your Imperial
Highness?' I think it is why we trust you."
"Our loyalty is to the Godar of the Hohenstauffen. Not to the Empire." That
too his father had said. Often.
"You must sit and tell me the news of them once I have given you your task.
I warn you, it will be a more onerous chore than Olaf's. Manfred, my younger
nephew, reminds me of myself at that age. You will have to—as your father did
with me—serve as confrere in the monastic order of the Knights of the Holy
Trinity. Of course—as then—your identity and purpose must remain secret.
Manfred's also."
Erik nodded. "My father has told me about the Knights."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "Yes. But things have changed, Hakkonsen. It
is one of the things that worries me. The Knights have always been—nominally,
at least—independent of the Empire. Servants of God, not of any earthly power.
In practice they have served as the Empire's bulwarks to the North and East. In
your father's day the nobility from all the corners of the Holy Roman Empire
came to serve as the Knights of Christ, in the pious war against the pagan. And
many brave souls came from the League of Armagh, not just the handful of
Icelanders sworn by clan loyalty to the service of the Emperor."
Erik nodded again. "My grandfather says that in his day, Aquitaines made up
as many as a quarter of the order's ranks."
The Emperor clenched his fist, slowly. "Exactly. Today, no knight from that
realm would dream of wearing the famous tabard of the Knights of the Holy
Trinity. Once the brotherhood Knights were truly the binding threads in the
cloak of Christianity. Today... the Knights of the Holy Trinity come almost
entirely from the Holy Roman Empire. Not even that. Only from some of its
provinces. They're Prussians and Saxons, in the main, with a small sprinkling of
Swabians. A few others."
He paused. Then he looked Erik in the eyes. "They're beginning to take an
interest in politics. Far too much for my liking. And they're also—I like this even
less—getting too close to the Servants of the Holy Trinity. Damn bunch of
religious fanatics, that lot of monks."
Charles Fredrik snorted. "All of it, mind you, supposedly in my interests.
Some of them probably even believe it. But I have no desire to get embroiled in
the endless squabbling of Italian city-states, much less a feud with the Petrine
branch of the church. The Grand Duke of Lithuania and King Emeric of
Hungary give me quite enough to worry about, leaving aside the outright pagans
of Norseland and Russia."
Again, he sighed. "And they're not a binding force any more. Today, the
common people call the church's arm militant 'The Knots,' more often than not.
And, what's worse, the Knights themselves seem to relish the term."
"The Clann Harald do not mix in Empire politics," stated Erik firmly. His
father had warned him that this might happen.
The Emperor gave a wry smile. "So your father always said. Just as I'm sure
he warned you before you left Iceland. But, Erik Hakkonsen, because you guard
Manfred... do not think you will be able to avoid it. Any more than your father
could."
The old man turned and faced Erik squarely. "Politics will mix with you, lad,
whether you like it or not. You can be as sure of that as the sunrise. Especially in
Venice."
Erik's eyes widened. The Emperor chuckled.
"Oh, yes. I forgot to mention that, didn't I?"
He took Erik by the arm again and began to lead him toward the door. "But
we can discuss Venice tomorrow. Venice, and the expedition of the Knights to
that city, which you will be joining. An expedition which I find rather...
peculiar."
They were at the door. By some unknown means, a servant appeared to open
it for them. "But that's for tomorrow," said the Emperor. "What's left for tonight,
before you get some well-deserved rest, is to meet the cross you must bear. I
suspect the thought of Venice will be less burdensome thereafter."
About halfway down the long corridor leading to the great staircase at the
center of the palace, he added: "Anything will seem less burdensome, after
Manfred."
*
It took the Emperor, and quite a few servants, some time to track down
Manfred. Eventually the royal scion was discovered. In the servants' quarters,
half-drunk and half-naked, sprawled on a grimy bed. Judging from the half-sob
and half-laugh coming from under the bed, Manfred and the servant girl had
been interrupted in a pastime which boded ill for the prince's hope of attaining
heaven without spending some time in purgatory.
Erik studied the young royal, now sitting up on the edge of the bed. Manfred
was so big he was almost a giant, despite being only eighteen years old. Erik was
pleased by the breadth of shoulders, and the thick muscle so obvious on the half-
clad body. He was not pleased with the roll of fat around the waist. The hands
were very good also. Thick and immensely strong, clearly enough, but Erik did
not miss the suggestion of nimbleness as the embarrassed royal scion hastily
buttoned on a cotte.
He was pleased, also, by the evident humor in the prince's eyes. Bleary from
drink, true, but... they had a sparkle to them. And Erik decided the square, block-
toothed grin had promise also. Whatever else Prince Manfred might be, he was
clearly not a sullen boy.
It remained to be seen how intelligent he was. There, Erik's hopes were much
lower.
The Emperor, standing in the doorway of the servant's little room, cleared his
throat. "This is your Clann Harald guardian, you young lout. You'll have to mind
your manners from now on."
The prince's huge shoulders seemed to ripple a bit, as if he were suppressing
a laugh.
"This—willow? Uncle! The way you always described these Icelandic sheep
farmers, I got the impression—"
Manfred gasped, clutching his belly. Erik's boot had left a nice muddy
imprint. The prince choked, struggling for breath.
"You stinking—" he hissed. A moment later the prince was hurling himself
off the bed, great arms stretched wide. Erik was pleased by the rapid recovery.
Just as he had been when his driving foot hit the thick muscle beneath the belly
fat.
Manfred's charge would have driven down an ogre. Unfortunately, ogres
don't know how to wrestle. Erik had learned the art from an old Huron thrall on
the Hakkonsen steading, and polished it during his three years in Vinland—
much of which time he had spent among his family's Iroquois relatives.
Manfred flattened nicely against the stone wall, like a griddle cake. The
palace almost seemed to shake. The prince himself was certainly shaking, when
he staggered back from the impact.
Not for long. Erik's hip roll brought him to the floor with a crash, flat on his
back. The knee drop in the gut half-paralyzed the prince; the Algonquian war
hatchet held against the royal nose did paralyze him. Manfred was almost cross-
eyed, staring at the cruel razor-sharp blade two inches from his eyes.
"You'll learn," grunted the Emperor. "Give him a scar. He's overdue."
Erik's pale blue eyes met Manfred's brown ones. He lifted an eyebrow.
"Which cheek, Prince?" he asked.
Manfred raised a thick finger. "One moment, please," he gasped. "I need
some advice."
The prince rolled his head on the floor, peering under the bed. "You'd better
decide, sweetling. Right or left?"
A moment later, a girlish voice issued from under the bed. "Left."
The prince rolled his head back. "The left, then."
Erik grinned; the hatchet blurred; blood gushed from an inch-long gash. He
was still grinning when he arose and began wiping off the blade.
"I think the prince and I will get along fine, Emperor."
The most powerful man in Europe nodded heavily. "Thank God for that." He
began to turn away. "Tomorrow, we will speak about Venice."
"No politics," insisted Erik.
There was no response except a harsh laugh, and the sight of a broad purple
back receding into the darkness.
ROME
"Come, brothers," said the slightly-built priest who limped into the small
chapel where his two companions awaited him. "The Grand Metropolitan has
made his decision."
One of the other priests cocked his head quizzically. "Is it the Holy Land,
then, as we hoped?"
"No. Not yet, at least. He has asked us—me, I should say—to go to Venice."
The third priest sighed. "I begin to wonder if we will ever make our
pilgrimage, Eneko." The Italian words were slurred, as always, with Pierre's
heavy Savoyard accent.
The small priest shrugged. "As I said, the Grand Metropolitan only requires
me to go to Venice. You—you and Diego both—are free to carry out the
pilgrimage we planned."
"Don't be a typical Basque fool," growled Pierre. "Of course we will
accompany you."
"What would you do without us?" demanded Diego cheerfully. Again, he
cocked his head. "Yes, yes—granted you are superb in the use of holy magic.
But if it's Venice, I assume that's because of the Grand Metropolitan's scryers."
"Do those men ever have good news to report?" snorted Pierre.
The Basque priest named Eneko smiled thinly. "Not often. Not since
Jagiellon took the throne in Vilna, that's certain."
Pierre scowled. "Why else would we be going to that miserable city?"
Eneko gazed at him mildly. "I wasn't aware you had visited the place."
Pierre's scowl deepened. "Not likely! A pit of corruption and intrigue—the
worst in Italy, which is bad enough as it is."
The Basque shrugged. "I dislike the city myself—and, unlike you, I've been
there. But I don't know that it's any more corrupt than anywhere else." Then,
smiling: "More complicated, yes."
Diego's head was still cocked to one side. The mannerism was characteristic
of the Castilian. "Eneko, why—exactly—are we going there? It can't be simply
because of the scryers. Those gloomy fellows detect Lithuanian and Hungarian
schemes everywhere. I'm sure they'd find Chernobog rooting in the ashes of my
mother's kitchen fire, if they looked long enough."
"True enough," agreed Eneko, smiling. "But in this instance, the matter is
more specific. Apparently rumors have begun to surface that the Strega Grand
Master was not murdered after all. He may still be alive. The Grand
Metropolitan wants me to investigate."
The last sentence caused both Diego and Pierre to frown. The first, with
puzzlement; the second, with disapproval.
"Why is it our business what happens to a pagan mage?" demanded Pierre.
Again, Eneko bestowed that mild gaze upon the Savoyard. "The Church does
not consider the Strega to be 'pagans,' I would remind you. Outside our faith,
yes. Pagans, no. The distinction was implicit already in the writings of Saint
Hypatia—I refer you especially to her second debate with Theophilus—although
the Church's final ruling did not come until—"
"I know that!" grumbled Pierre. "Still..."
Diego laughed. "Leave off trying to teach this stubborn Savoyard the fine
points of theology, Eneko. He knows what he knows, and there's an end to it."
Eneko chuckled; and so, after a moment, did Pierre himself. "I suppose I still
retain the prejudices of my little village in the Alps," he said grudgingly. "But I