Sharing a skin of wine with Marsch and Andruw on the battlements of Hedeby, after their first battle together. Drunk with victory and the comradeship that had enriched it, momentarily believing that all things were possible.
“Yes, I will,” he answered when Macrobius asked him the question. And he had the cold gold slipped upon his finger. Odelia looking into his eyes, the years come crowding into her face at last. When he set the other ring in place she clenched her fist around it as if to prevent it ever slipping off. Her kiss was dry and chaste as a mother’s. A few moments later the crown was set upon his head. It was surprisingly light, nothing like the weight of a helm. It might have been made of tinsel and feathers for all Corfe felt it.
When he straightened, the sunlight caught the precious metals of his crown and set it aflame, and all the bells of Torunn’s cathedral began tolling at once in peal after jubilant peal, and outside he could hear the massed crowds of people who were now his subjects set up a mighty roar.
And it was done. He had a wife once more, and Torunna a King.
The Merduk ambassador was first in line at the levee that afternoon. Corfe and the Queen received him in the huge audience hall of the palace, flanked by guards and palace functionaries. The new steward was present-none other than Colonel Passifal, appointed by Royal decree. He stood to one side of the trio of thrones looking uncomfortable but oddly determined. General Aras, also present, had been elevated to commander-in-chief of the army, with Formio as a de facto second-in-command. The Fimbrian was Corfe’s first choice, but as Odelia had made very clear even a King had to think twice before placing the national army under the command of a foreigner.
Corfe needed familiar faces about him, and they were becoming increasingly hard to find. The third throne on the dais was occupied by another one, that of Macrobius. Standing beside him was Albrec and a gnomish old cleric named Mercadius, who could speak fluent Merduk. Corfe shared a history with almost all these familiar faces: he had fought side by side with Aras, Formio and Passifal. He had saved Macrobius’s life. He had escaped from Fournier’s dungeons with Albrec. The war had cost him his wife, and the best comrades he had ever known, but had it not been for the war he would never have known the friendship of men like these, like Andruw and Marsch, and he would have been the poorer for it.
Mehr Jirah entered the audience chamber without ceremony, flanked only by a pair of Merduk clerics who looked surprisingly similar to Ramusian monks, albeit without tonsures. Mercadius of Orfor translated his speech into Normannic for the assembled listeners.
“These are the words I was bade to say to the King of Torunna by my master the Sultan of Ostrabar.
“We send greetings to Torunna’s new King, and congratulate him on his unexpected elevation. Truly, God has been kind to him. We will suffer ourselves to speak to him now as one soldier to another, in terms as plain as we can make them. The slaughter of our young men has gone on long enough. We have carpeted the world with the bodies of our dead, and in the name of God and His Prophet we offer the Torunnan King this chance to end the killing. In our generosity we will withhold the wrath of our mighty armies and suffer the kingdom of Torunna to survive, if King Corfe will merely acknowledge the suzerainty of Aurungzeb the Great, Sultan of Ostrabar, conqueror of Aekir and Ormann Dyke. He has to but bend his knee to us and this war will come to an end, and we shall have peace between our peoples for all time. What says Torunna’s monarch?”
There was an angry stir from the assembled Torunnans as Mercadius translated the words, and Aras took a step forward, his hand going to where his sword should have been. But no-one bore arms in the audience chamber save the King alone. Corfe stood up, eyes flashing.
“Mehr Jirah, you are known to some of us here. I have been told you are a man of integrity and honour, and so I ask you to remember that what I say now is not directed at you or the faith you profess-a faith we know to be almost the same as our own. This is to Aurungzeb, your lord.
“Tell him that Torunna will never submit to him, not if he brings ten times the armies he possesses in front of her walls. At Armagedir he tried to destroy us, and we defeated him. If we have to, we will defeat him again. We will never surrender, not if we must fight to the last man hiding in the hills. We will fight him until the world cracks open at doomsday.
“Peace we would have, yes, but only if he takes his beaten armies and leaves Torunna’s soil for ever. If he does not, I swear by my God that I will drive him out. His people will never know a moment of rest while I live. If it takes twenty years, I will throw him back beyond the Ostian river. I will slay every Merduk man, woman and child who falls into my hands. I will burn his cities and salt his soil. I will make of his kingdom a howling wilderness, and wipe the very memory of Ostrabar and its sultan from the face of the world.”
A cheer erupted in the chamber. Mehr Jirah looked shocked for a moment, but quickly regained his dignified poise.
“That is our answer. Take it back to your master, and make it clear to him that there will be no second chance. I am King here now, and I will not hesitate to mobilise every able man in my kingdom to back my words. He no longer fights an army, but an entire people. This is his choice, now and only now-peace, or a war that will last another hundred years. Tell him to think carefully. His decision will alter the very fate of the world for him and all those who come after him. Now you may go.”
Mehr Jirah bowed. He nodded at Albrec, and then turned on his heel and left. Corfe took his seat once more. “Passifal, our next supplicant, if you please.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the surf of talk in the hall.
Odelia leaned over the arm of her throne and whispered fiercely in his ear.
“Are you out of your mind? Have you no notion of diplomacy at all? We had a chance to halt the war, but you are set on starting it again.”
“No. I may be no diplomat, but I have some military insight. He can’t fight on. We’ve beaten him, and he has to be told that. And I didn’t fight Armagedir so that I could place my neck in a Merduk yoke. He thinks he knows what war is; he has no idea. If he is stupid and proud enough to keep fighting, I will show him how war can be waged.”
There was such contained ferocity about Corfe as he spoke that Odelia’s retort died in her throat. At that moment she realised she had overreached herself. She had thought that Corfe, once King, would be content to lead armies and fight wars while she negotiated the treaties and dictated policy. She knew better now. Not only would he rule, and rule in all things, but other rulers would want to deal with him and him alone, not with his ageing Queen. It was he who had won the war, after all. It was he whom the common people mobbed in the streets and cheered at every opportunity. Even her own attendants looked first to him.
She uttered a bitter little laugh that was lost in the next fanfare. All her life she had ruled through men. Now one had come to power through her, and reduced her to a cipher.
Aurungzeb received Mehr Jirah in silence. In the sumptuous ostentation of his tent he had Corfe’s words relayed to him by the mullah and listened patiently as his officers and aides expressed outrage at the Ramusian’s insolence. His Queen sat beside him, also silent. He took her cold hand, thinking of his son in her belly and what world he might be born into. He had the makings of it here, at this moment. And for the first time in his life he was afraid.
“Batak,” he said at last. “That little beast of yours flits about the Torunnan palace day and night. What say you in this matter?”
The mage pondered a moment. “I think his words, my Sultan, are not empty. This man is not a braggart. He does what he says.”