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CHAPTER TWO

“IS THIS NORMAL?”

Hundreds of miles to the east, deep within the rolling hills of Arrhénë, the Archpriest Athanasios was be­ginning to develop a real hatred of rain. It had poured without relief now for at least three days, ever since he had transited to the count’s palace in Aszkán, and he could not imagine a more miserable existence. One of the servants told him they hadn’t seen the sun in two weeks.

“Is this normal?” the hieromonk asked, making ordinary conversation.

“We had one spring thirteen or fourteen years ago where it rained, off and on, for two months,” came the re­ply.

No wonder the place was always so green! he thought, regarding his damp, moldy gear with disgust.

Athanasios had been sent by the War Council to check the inventories of foodstuffs and materiel supporting the Arrhéni levies, which were supposed to gather here in another week for the trek to Paltyrrha. From what he had already seen, however, he doubted that they would be ready to march until mid-May.

Only a thousand men had straggled into the capital thus far, and they were a wretched lot: wet, tattered, and poorly armed with old, rusty weaponry. The higher re­gions of the county were still snowbound, the rivers were overflowing their banks, and the mud was ubiquitous, in one’s footwear, clothing, bedrolls, and food. He had seen one man lose his boots that very afternoon to the sucking grip of the grasping goo, which ofttimes had the consis­tency of sticky clay pudding, and which in some places reached two or three feet deep.

The boy Count Valentín was doing his best, he sup­posed, but something more was clearly required.

“Count Sándor,” he shouted, as he spotted the commander of the regiment hurrying by, “I still need to talk to you about those supplies....”

But he was ignored. Again.

Why had they sent a cleric to deal with these coun­try rubes? He sighed most heavily, and went back into the storehouse. There wasn’t enough food here to keep three thousand Arrhénis happy even for the trek to Paltyrrha, much less for an entire campaign. He looked out the door again, and spotted Lord Valentín Senior, the ruling count’s uncle and the commander’s younger brother, who was vis­iting from Susafön.

“Your Excellency!” he yelled.

The baron, a powerful man in his early thirties, slid to a stop, and saluted the archpriest, water dripping from his hand.

“Father Athy,” he said, “how goes the quartermastering trade?”

“Not well, sir,” the monk said, “not well at all. I’ve tried to convey to Count Sándor that this just won’t do. There’s not enough food here, there’s not enough variety of victuals, and what goods we have are rotting from the damp and being devoured by rats.”

“Hmmm. And what did he say?” the baron asked.

“I don’t know what he said,” Athy shouted in frus­trated anger, “because he won’t talk to me. I can’t get an appointment to see him, and he doesn’t respond otherwise. What am I supposed to do?”

Valentín scratched his bushy sideburns, idly popping a flea between thumb and finger.

“Well, father, it’s like this, see. We had a bad winter here, and there aren’t any crops in yet. Nobody in these parts has much in the way of food stocks left after all the cold, wet weather, and we can’t just strip the peasants of their last supplies. We’d have a revolt on our hands. So, this is basically all we’ve got or are going to have. However, don’t worry about it: the men’ll make do. They always have. They’re used to getting by on minimal ra­tions.”

Suddenly Athanasios heard his name called, and Count Valentín Junior came bounding up, cheerful as a new pup.

“Father Athy, how are you?” said the enthusiastic voice.

“Count Val,” the archpriest said with real pleasure, “it’s good to see you again, sir.”

The lad had been his student at the Scholê for two years, one of his more promising pupils there.

“How’s your new life?” the priest asked.

He gestured at the camp.

“It’s great, father,” the boy said. “I just wish I could join this expedition with all the rest of you. But the king says I have to stay in Aszkán to guard the eastern frontier, so stay I will, I guess.”

He sighed.

“Uncle Sándy and Uncle Tine will get all the fun, and there won’t be any Walküri left for me to kill.”

Athanasios snorted.

“Oh, I think there’ll be plenty of enemies for you to fight, Val. We never seem to run out. But will you be ready to march on time?”

“Uncle Sándor says we’ll be a week or two late,” the count said, “but ‘we’ll get there just the same.’ He says we’ll try to march for Paltyrrha by the first of May, two weeks from now.”

Athanasios looked up at the dark skies threatening even more rain, and shuddered.

“I think it’s time I returned to the capital,” he said. “I should attend the council meeting scheduled for this af­ternoon, and I have to report to them on the conditions here. Can I carry any messages from you to court?”

The boy scrunched his face into a grimace.

“I was supposed to write to Stepmamá,” he said, “and tell her how I’m doing, but I’ve been so busy these last two months trying to get the troops organized that....”

“I understand. Do you want me to speak to her?” Athanasios asked.

“Oh, would you?” Val said, much relieved. “I don’t want her to worry about me.”

“I’d be happy to, sir.”

The priest pulled his hood up over his head, and shivered.

“Now, lead me to a dry place with a viridaurum transit mirror, if you please, and let me out of here. I’ll never complain about the heat again.”