Jermak in England 1

Chapter 1 Autumn 1648



“I suppose you’re some kind of Papist, Colonel Or-zell?” asked the austere de facto leader of the British Parliament. He regarded the, to him, outlandishly dressed young man in amazement. The man wore a gaudy long coat of brocade in golds and browns and black, the split sleeves hanging entirely loose, not merely open with the wrists in the cuffs as some of the more fanciful fashions of the west dictated. Under the hem of this garment might be seen trousers of considerable width, which neither fastened to the knee nor hung with beribboned or lace edges, but tucked into neat, soft boots. His dark hair was in a single lock which hung from the centre of his otherwise shaven head as he doffed the extraordinary fur hat to bow down to the ground, in a very different fashion to the western making of a leg. His sword.... was very workmanlike and large.

“It’s Orzeł, my lord. Eagle, it means. And, my lord, I don’t ask your religion nor make any comment on it, and perhaps you will do me the courtesy to do likewise,” said Jermak. “We both love God; let us leave it at that, for I wager when we both stand before the Almighty, naked and stripped of all human vanity, he will explain to us both how mortal men’s forms of worship fall short of His design, and we shall run, exposed and ashamed, on His mighty palm until we are forgiven the transgressions we repent, and permitted into Paradise. How can any mortal man frame the Almighty in such a way as to comprehend His will? To try to do so is arrogance, and pride, and a deadly sin.”

Cromwell stared. Then he nodded.

“Well spoken, young man; I hear the sincerity in your voice. I like a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to speak it; your king has chosen well.”

Jermak hid a grin that Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki had suggested his name to King Jan Kazimierz, to get Jermak out of the way of Chmielnicki who had taken it into his head that Jermak was some kind of spymaster, because of his ward, Ninochka, sending intelligence to Jeremi.

“I’m a plain, blunt man, my lord, and I believe in plain, blunt speaking,” said Jermak.

“Good; I shall like you the more for it,” said Cromwell. “Your wife, as I understand, is the child of a Royalist.”

“Nominally,” said Grace. “My father, Charles Greville, believed firmly in the divine right of Charles Greville, and it got him poisoned by a Russian Prince. I am a believer in the Royal Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania, but as a native English speaker, I am of use to my husband. We elect our kings in Poland, from those eligible, which seems more sensible than strict primogeniture. I knew both the deposed king’s young sons, and unless they’ve improved, I wouldn’t trust either of them with the running of more than a whelk stall in Billingsgate.”

A rare smile ghosted across Cromwell’s face.

“They teach you to be forthright in Poland,” he said.

“We’re Polish Cossacks; the word ‘Cossack’ means free man,” said Grace. “In its literal interpretation, not the freed-man of ancient Rome, who was a freed slave. We have a patron in Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, who put forward our names as ambassadors, but for mutual loyalty only. We named our eldest for him.”

“There are others logged as your children who are surely too old for either of you to be parents to?”

“Our adopted children; yes,” said Jermak. “The Tatars raid, and seize young people for slaves. Sadly, many communities will not take them back, declaring them dead, because they cannot cope with the trauma such youngsters have been through. Even those not deflowered. We were in a position to rescue a number. One community took their own back; another ... did not. We split them between my Uncle Osyp and his English wife and ourselves, and also the orphaned daughter of the szlachcic ... the lord ... of the lands I inherited. Kamila and Aleksandra are both fifteen. They are adequate warriors and can take care of themselves. They wish to be as martial as my wife and aunt, who learned to be warriors through your civil war.”

“Women have no place in war,” said Cromwell.

“Tell that to the rapacious soldiers who overrun cities raping, looting and burning,” said Grace.

“My men do not do that.”

“My lord, you are a strong warlord like Prince Jeremi. Not all are,” said Grace, dryly. “I can defend my lord’s lands at need, and my son, and our adopted daughters.”

She did not mention that she disliked Prince Jeremi intensely.

She disliked Cromwell intensely too.

And she suspected that if he thought his soldiers behaved themselves, he was fooling nobody but himself. Soldiers under bloodlust commit acts unthinkable to them outside of war.

“Well, I will assign you a bodyguard, none the less; a man who will be there to help prevent any misunderstandings between different cultures,” said Cromwell, dryly. “I am sure that without some mediation, you may find yourself in more conflicts than you would like.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jermak. “I enjoy a good brawl, any Cossack does! And if any offend against me who carry steel, I’ve no problem in killing them.”

“I, however, have a problem with you killing them,” said Cromwell. “I don’t say duels don’t happen because they do, but it is to be avoided. As are... brawls. I can find you somewhere to live while you are here...”

“You do not need to bother, we took a house in Watling Street. We liked the look of St. Mary’s Aldermary church; we are sufficiently ecumenical not to make a fuss about the service not being as we are used to,” said Grace.

“And the road is so delightfully narrow, it is defensible,” said Jermak. “Makes me feel safer, somehow.”

Cromwell glared at him. Damned independent Cossacks! They should be grateful t o him for looking after them, not setting themselves up to protect themselves.

“I also have orders from my king to tender apologies to yours that he has been unable to send military support to him, because we have had some trouble at home,” said Jermak. “And you can afford to be generous in permitting me to meet with him, since you wouldn’t be sitting there had we sent a few thousand winged hussars and as many Cossacks to aid him militarily, since we are the pre-eminent warriors in Europe, and the only infantry capable of holding before a winged hussar charge are Cossack infantry. Your pikes are too long to be much good,” he added, “And your muskets too slow to reload. So, we come in diplomacy instead, and the offer to negotiate a settlement between you, as representative of your Sejm... parliament... and your king. As well as to point out that if you prefer to be a republic, we’ve been doing it successfully for a long time, and to offer treaties.”

Cromwell managed not to grind his teeth.

“It is too late for such negotiations, and I cannot think that your troops would have made any difference. I recognise that you exaggerate over sending thousands.”

“Why would I exaggerate?” said Jermak, surprised. “A battle is usually fought by many thousands on each side.”

If this shook Cromwell, he kept it to himself.

“I will consider having you escorted to meet Charles Stuart, former king of England,” he said.





oOoOo



The Poles found the streets to be tense. Soldiers patrolling prevented open violence, but there appeared to be distinct divisions between royalists and parliamentarians, even amongst the common townsfolk. They appeared to be waging war by song. Some young men sneaked up behind the soldiers, and sang, at first all together

Three merry boys came out of the west to make saltpetre strong

They turned it into gunpowder to charge the king’s cannon!

Three merry boys came out of the west to make saltpetre strong

They turned it into gunpowder to charge the king’s cannon!

Then they broke into a round,

And let his health go round and round and let his health go round

And let his health go round and round and let his health go round

Which being repeated several times, a second part came in,

And though my stocking be made of silk my knee shall touch the ground

And though my stocking be made of silk my knee shall touch the ground

Returning to the previous line and finishing in unison,

God bless his majesty

And send him victory

Over his enemies, over his enemies,

All or none. [1]

Jermak was amused by the way they approached to sing their line and then dodged back as the irritated soldiery turned. The soldiers were grim in their buff coats and striped sleeves, and very businesslike helmets, not quite as effective as the hussars’ szyszak helms but for plainly mass-produced pieces of armour, fairly effective.

Some supporters of the soldiery took up singing their own song to try to drown out the royalists, and sang psalms, loudly.

“They aren’t as tuneful as our psalms,” said Grace, critically.

“I love that you are so much one of us as to prefer our psalms,” said Jermak. “No, they don’t seem very jolly, do they?”

The royalists jeered, and countered,

It’s a mad world my masters

Where kings may lose their crowns

And commoners take prominence

Set up yet soon put down.



The captain of the guard appeared to have had enough by now, and called his men to run off the tuneful royalists. One of them dodged around Jermak and his party, and with a flourish, presented Kamila with a cockade from his hat, which he hastily doffed to the women.

“Cheeky,” said Aleksandra.

“Yes, but handsome too,” laughed Kamila. “Like Papa; dashing.”

“I did not care for his manner,” said Aleksandra. “I felt him forward.”

Kamila frowned.

“I know what you mean, but young men can be brash.”.



The guard turned and came up to the small party.

“I trust those ne’er do weels didnae cause ye any throuble,” said the captain. He was a tall, rawboned man in his twenties, with a nose which had been broken at some time, and ginger hair, as might be seen when he doffed his helmet to the ladies. Unlike the beribboned and belaced bravos, his garb was sober in hue, and his piccadill, the broad linen collar, and his cuffs were devoid of lace, though of the finest linen.

“Are they ne’er do wells?” asked Kamila.

“Aye, iphm, being royalists for one thing, and o’ the ilk o’ sich over-indulged wee hellions as cause throuble for the sake o’it,” he replied.

“We’re royalists for our own king,” said Jermak. “We’re Polish; we elect our kings.”

“Weel, if they elected kings here, we’d mebbe no’ hae oor current problems,” said the captain. “If ye need onything, I’m Captain Somerled Macfarlane.”

“Thank you, Captain Macfarlane,” said Jermak. “fairly self-sufficient, but you appear to be having an exciting time of things at the moment.”

“Exciting! Aye, weel, I micht ca’ it ither things, but exciting will mebbe do the noo,” said Macfarlane. “Ye’ll mebbe be the outlandish folks Ah wis tae find and put masel’ at the disposal o’ ye.”

“I think you’ll find we’re ordinary Poles in an outlandish country without need of disposal,” said Jermak.

“Och, I mean that ye may use us for escorts and defence o’ yer household,” said Macfarlane. “It’s easy tae get confused wi’ the factions, and end up inadvertently in trouble.”

“Oh, I believe I understand,” said Jermak. “You’d not want us to be in a situation to attempt to liberate the king from his current gaol and spirit him to rule in exile. That isn’t in my instructions, only to offer him succour in exile if he is permitted to flee the country; or indeed if any of his followers rescue him. Please be aware that I have no desire to rescue a foreign king and thereby risk my family. I’ve no interest in England. If you did the civilised thing of electing your kings, and if my wife were of a royal house to add distinction to our offspring, I’d consider standing for election. But as she is not, I’d be wasting my time.”

“Losh, man! You’ve an awfu’ cheek,” said Macfarlane.

“You never get anywhere without cheek,” said Jermak.






[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzBm0uuPrb0

Scratch an errant lich 5

 

V

 

Jeronim returned to the group with a grubby bag.

“He left the knife,” he said. “They frightened him away; and I said I would take it to destroy it and him. I managed to heal the foal a little more; you felt me draw on you?”

“Yes; it was a good call,” said Amber.  “Let me see this knife.”

She unwrapped it carefully, using magic to do so, and with shields to prevent it from attacking, studying it astrally and with spells.

“Can we use it?” asked Jeronim.

“Hell, yes,” said Amber. “However, it’s going to be hard; I can get some sense of how hard he is from this, and I would like everyone to take a day or so to consider making a blood-bond of ourselves, not through amulet.”

She left them to discuss it whilst she and Wulf used their combined strength to forcibly scabbard the knife in a silver sheath to render it harmless.

 

“Well, you’ve had time to consider whether you want to go the whole way with the blood link ritual,” said Amber.  “I’m already blood-linked to Wulf, because I used it to cleanse his blood of being a werewolf. I think a lot of you have guessed that.”

“I don’t want to be linked closely enough to be in your head when you and he make out,” said Lázló, bluntly. “It’s bad enough overhearing you making little wolves and howling at the moon.”

“Oops?” said Amber. “No, there is the ability to step aside, as with the amulets. He doesn’t want to have periods, either, so ...”

“Oh, in that case, I have no objection,” said Lázló. “I like the feeling from the amulet, of closeness.”

“It would be nice to belong,” said Takeo.

“I need the protection,” said Zhanargul. “And I have liked the closeness.”

“We will be closer than siblings,” said Wojciech. “Yes? But it will not affect what is between Gosia and me?”

“No, it’s like the amulets but more,” said Amber. “And easier to reach for each other, and share power.”

“Then go for it,” said Wojciech.

Ritter was healed by now, and he nodded.

As the most stiff-necked of the group, Amber knew that if he agreed, all would be agreeable.

“I worked out a time, based on our names and birthdays,” she said.

“Of course you did, Amber,” laughed Jeronim.

“Well, on my mark, slit your palms and share,” said Amber.

 

The feeling of heady exhaustion and satisfaction on the part of the newly blood-joined was not expected, though with the level of ritual, Amber gave a rueful grin that she had not considered it.

She managed to summon chocolate from the cupboard, and that gave her the energy to make coffee and find kuchen of various kinds.

“Well, that does feel good,” said Lázló.  “I feel as if I could take on fifty zombies alone.”

“You could,” said Amber. “And we may need to concentrate power to deal with Abaris. I’ve been getting in reports, and I think we can move now; Orme made a computer projection based on his movements to date, using other ritual now, and we can combine that with a dowsing from Ágnes.”

“Well, finally!” said Wojciech.

 

Amber accordingly dressed in jeans and a blouse, transmogrified an ordinary hat into something akin to the disreputable object worn by Harrison Ford and transmogrified a whip into the semblance of a snake, because symmetry was symmetry and she was not Indiana Jones, who disliked snakes in any case, but coiled about her waist there was the suggestion of his whip.

Indiana Jones never wore New Rocks either.

But at least with the hat there was no chance anyone would mistake her for Lara Croft.

 

Ágnes was ready to dowse; and Amber passed her the now innocuous knife to ponder on.  Having belonged to Abaris for as long as it had, there was bound to be something about it that remained that could give a dowser a clue.

And the map globe was scrolling, moving, projecting; and a small light showed as Ágnes’s divining rods came together to project it to the place where the knife had its counterpart.

“Baghdad?  Well if there’s a place he can get away with gratuitous violence, that’s it” said Amber “With the current mundane conflicts and political and religious murders one oddball sacrifice or a dozen ain’t going to show up.  Hats, my children; it’s a hot place and I don’t want you dying of sunstroke on me, no I’m not joking.”

She had no intention of taking Lázló’s siblings, but the rest, the blooded would go. Jeronim, Lázló, Wojciech and Gosia, Ritter, Takeo and of course Wulf.  And Amber debated wearing a robe to blend in with the local women, decided that she could never blend in with Arab women and stuck to the jeans.  With her blonde hair she was obviously a Westerner and would either be avoided or likely to be marked for attack in any case.

“Be aware” said Amber “The women of this place tend to be treated like valued but non sentient house pets and are supposed not to show their faces and to cover them up.  We aren’t going to pretend to be locals; it’ll either make people avoid us or they’ll try to kill us.  Use non lethal force.”

 

They teleported smoothly in.  They linked hands and made sure they all landed in the same place. 

The heat beat down upon their heads and Amber thought of Sparhawk’s description of his time spent in such searing heat in David Eddings’ book.  It really was like hammer blows.  They moved into such little shade as there was; which was precious little and Lázló muttered,

“By the powers, you made no joke about dying of this heat; how can people live here?”

“Because they are used to it” said Amber.  “Which way?” Lázló had not the skill of his sister, but he could get something out of divining rods, and had volunteered to try.  

He wavered; then pointed with the rods. 

They set off.

The first encounter they had was with a patrol of American soldiers; and Amber said a brief, ugly word and smiled at the sergeant in command of the patrol.

He smiled back; she was worth looking at.

“Now then ma’am, I’m going to have to ask to see your pass; reporters aren’t supposed to be in these parts” he said.

Amber smiled brightly.

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” she said “We can go about our business and move along”

“These aren’t the droids we’re looking for” said the sergeant obediently to her voice control “You can go about your business; move along!”

They moved, hastily.

“Since when was I C3PO?” asked Jeronim as they got round the corner. StarWars was a film they had seen. Amber grinned.

 “I’d love to be a fly on the wall when the report of that goes to his colonel,” she said, chuckling. “Using the quote enhanced the suggestion.”

She reflected, on consideration, that a British sergeant would almost certainly report the incident however bad it made him look; an American sergeant almost certainly would not.  Americans hated things that were out of the ordinary; almost as much as Germans.

They had dodged down a couple of back alleys anyway in case the sergeant had the strength of mind to turn back and look for them; and Lázló plied divining rods again.

The half dozen Arabs with Kalashnikovs that glided out of houses did not look friendly.

The apparent leader said something harsh that presumably meant that the interlopers were to go with him.

Amber smiled brightly again.

“Wezwać broń” she said.

All the kalashnikovs flew from the hands of their wielders to her; Amber was that powerful.

She pointed one at the shocked insurgents.

“I count to ten” she said, checking her weapon was ready to fire. “One…two….three….”

The inference was obvious even if the words were not understood; and the erstwhile enemies fled howling some word that Amber guessed was ‘witchcraft’.

Well they were right on that score.

“Pick up the AKs” she said. “Treat the baby of Comrade Kalashnikov with due respect my children; and pass me the ammo.”  Extra ammunition never came amiss.

Lázló had a direction by this time and moved off, rods at the ready, Amber on point preceding him, doubling back if he had to change direction to take account of the lie of the streets.

They were soon in the narrowest and meanest streets; and eyes watched them constantly.  Amber muttered a chant and made sure to keep chanting to hold up a physical shield against supersonic as well as subsonic missiles; this was the sort of place where strangers were shot first and the corpse used for augury of what it wanted after.  She was using Yiddish to chant with; Amber was like that sometimes.

Once she was certain she had the shield up, Amber held it by whistling the theme from Indiana Jones because it seemed right.  It dragged the shield along with them which was what she had intended.

Lázló stopped at a low door.

Amber left off whistling; the shield should stay put for a while, at least until disrupted by the first bullet.  She looked around; and pounced.

The small boy was hiding in a pile of rubbish; and was doing a fairly successful job of it.

Amber gazed intently into his eyes and learned his language.

“Who lives here?  When did the scary man come?  What do you know?” she asked, again using voice control to prompt speech.  The child sobbed.

“It is my mother’s house and I was out getting supper when he came; and I did not go in because I heard a man’s voice and thought mother had a client and they do not like a boy around; but then mother started screaming and I looked in and he had tied her up and he was cutting her open and – and I ran away!”

The poor child was no more than six years old.

He was also entirely mundane; well, something would be done to care for him as he was probably now an orphan.

“Wait outside; we have come to kill the scary man,” said Amber.

“But you are only a woman!” said the boy.

“And what means that?” shrugged Amber, hefting her Kalashnikov in the professional manner of one well used to the weapon. “Salaam brat; your mother will be avenged by a woman as is only right.”

And then she exploded the door inward.

The woman still moaned feebly; Abaris was taking his time draining her life a little at a time to allow his ritual to work.  Abaris was chanting, deeply immersed in his ritual as coloured bands of light flowed from the dying woman into his own body, almost in a trance like state that the most complex of chants engendered.  He scarcely even registered the explosion of the door, certainly could not react in time as the young Talented burst in on him.  And then Amber was drawing on her new blood sibslings, and she hurled the lightening curse at Abaris, absently linking with Wulf that he throw up a lightening conductor not to burn the house down around them. 

It was spectacularly successful; the lich was himself a creature of magic, held together by enchantment.

Several thousand volts passing through his undead body did more than char it; it undid every last charm that had created it and the two thousand year old desiccated corpse crumbled into dust.

There was a small girl bound as well, a year or two younger than the boy; and the woman’s womb was exposed with the dead baby within it.

Amber removed the foetus; it would only complicate matters and if she was to have any chance at all of saving the woman she could do without complication.

Then she began chanting.  She did not need a projection to tell her where the damage was; she had read about rituals of this sort where the life force was gradually drained; it had to be slow to enhance the pain of the victim which enhanced the ability to use the ebbing life on the part of a seriously dark Talented.  And if he was ready to do this, Amber had no compunction about killing the lich.

The little boy sidled in.

“What are you doing to my mother?” he cried, running to Amber to hammer her with small fists.  Jeronim caught him. He still recalled some of the language he, too, had learned in a hurry, and had some knowledge of as well.

“Child, thy mother may yet live; the good lady is very powerful and may yet save her but not if thou disturbest her” he said “Cease thy wailing lest it kill thy mother!”

The boy gulped and was silent.

Takeo, Gosia, Wojciech, Lázló and Wulf were assisting Amber with basic healing chants; and observing her techniques to learn from.  Amber used power from the blood group to pour into the woman to replenish her almost absent life force.

“Boy, call her,” she said roughly.

The small boy complied; his little sister, untied by Gosia, was too terrified and traumatised to make a sound; and the little Polish woman was cuddling her.  Amber had little doubt that her fear had fed the ritual too; and that she would have been next to die.  Wojciech, not a chanter, was searching the clothes that were all that remained of the dead lich to remove anything dangerous and containing magic, even if as it seemed likely they had been disenchanted by electricity; as the creature also had a pack that seemed to contain most of his treasures he stuffed the gem focus and amulet of protection against efreet into that to take back. 

And the ugly wounds on the Arab woman healed; and her breathing became laboured and then easier; and her heartbeat stabilised.  Amber sank to a squat.

“She’ll do” she said.  “Can you hear me, little sister?”

The woman’s eyes flickered open.

“I – I am still in my home?  Have I not died and gone to paradise?”

“You are alive,” said Amber “The evil one who did this to you is dead; your brave son has helped call you back to care for him and his little sister.  Wojciech, see if the creep has any gold in his pack; they should have compensation.”

Wojciech nodded and searched.

“Here is strange coinage” he said.

Amber glanced.

“Lumme, it’s normal Ancient Greek coinage of his time, some of it” she said “That’s worth far more than the value of the gold.  Wojciech, take it to Marcus and ask him for a fair amount for the woman’s compensation in gold, perhaps in jewellery; and he can deal with selling the coins. She could get murdered for anything this valuable; and people trying to find out where it came from because of treasure hunters.  Marcus will know exactly what to do.”

Marcus did; and Wojciech returned queasy from jump-lag, with heavy gold bracelets that he presented to the woman.

“This for your trouble; because we would have wished to have found this evil before you were troubled by it,” said Amber. “Salaam little sister; may you and your family be well.”

“Salaam, noble stranger,” said the woman , bemused.  “Insh’Allah we will be very well with this kind gift.”

 

And then they teleported back to Festung Amber, and examined the belongings of Abaris.

The amulet of protection against Efreeti was, as Amber said, apart from now being only a decorative disc of metal, only of use against those of the fey who chose that form; because in the time of Abaris it was not known that they and Genii were but forms of the fey. 

“Fortunately, once the fey tie themselves into a form to be summoned, they find disassociating themselves from that form quite hard because it is there one tie on substance” she explained.

“There’s a crystal ball in here” said Ágnes, who was helping them look now they were home. “Why didn’t he use that?  He’d surely only keep it as a treasured item if he was a diviner; surely he could have used it to tell that you were coming for him?”

“For one thing, divination is a bit hit and miss; always in motion is the future,” said Amber “And for another, you have to kind of understand the nature of the future before you can actually tap a backwards memory from it; and he’s having enough trouble adapting to the future that is the present because we’re so way into his future that any future he sees might even be the past.”

“Run that past us slowly” said Árpád.

“Space and time make up the four dimensions of the universe” said Amber “And there’s a degree of mutability about it that enables some people to remember as it were into the future; or one future.  There are many paths which are changed as decisions are made; choosing to believe in a prophecy may make that prophecy path be the true one.  Now to deliberately look for the future – rather than being a true seer and falling into a trance which is no bloody good unless someone’s there to write down what you said – you have to have a feel of time passing and to know exactly how you relate to the nowness of now; to have some idea of what may happen in the then-ness of then, as you might say.  I’m no diviner; I’m translating the odd stuff I’ve heard from the more esoteric into language anyone might understand.  They have technical terms but that’d be like talking to twelve year olds about assimilative correlation and even so half of you don’t have a clue so I might as well be talking Scythian.  And I can’t remember the proper terms anyway because I was never that interested.  Anyway, Abaris had to adapt to the idea that the world had moved on more than two thousand years since he was last around; and even if he’d got his head round that intellectually, it was hard to assimilate deep down where it counts; so he couldn’t readily, I believe, connect with our future and his true future because to him the last couple of millennia in the past was still in his heart the future.”

“I think I kind of followed that” said Árpád.  “Twin?”

Ágnes nodded.

“I guess I’m going to have to get books and study on my own time” she said.

“’Fraid so; I can’t really help you” said Amber.

 

Amber contacted Orme so he could tell his Cairo contact that the nutcase had been finally caught up with in Baghdad and had received a rather summary death sentence; true enough and, too, believable. 

“Of course if he has more than one Phylactory he might return” said Orme “You know; return of the mummy, cue Imhotep.”

“I rather like Imhotep” said Amber mildly “Much nicer character; Ankh-sun-amun was a silly moo.  Abaris really had lost all his humanity in becoming undead; and actually if he’d had another phylactory I bet it would have been among his treasured items and I don’t think that mere electrocution would have disabled it; and none of the amulets and stuff we took back had any power left in them once I let loose a sub-station worth of spell-lightening.  Even his gem focus was a bit pathetic and it takes a lot to phase foci unless you actually ground the electricity through them.  I’d say that the knife was much more and much less than a phylactery. I’ll melt down all the metal and break the stones as a matter of precaution and send Wojciech and Lázló to look again at his tomb for anything that might be a phylactery; I don’t know if I believe in it but let’s be paranoid.”

“Damn right” said Orme “I’ll nip over and assist them; I’m a better chanter than either.”

 

The report came that nothing that could be any kind of phylactery or hidden life storage of any kind existed in the tomb; they used the summoning charm as well as going through the place with a fine tooth comb and a chanted form of power-revealing that would make to glow anything with any form of life or enchantment; they uncovered a recent colony of ants and that was it. Orme had dug out a book from Bellamy Manor on the kinds of undead which stated that the lich or thinking undead required constant sacrifice of life force or it would go torpid and return to a death-like state until it was fed by some means with life force, whether by deliberate sacrifice through the agency of a third person or by some pre-enchanted means.  There was no mention of any hidden life or phylactery and as the instructions for how to prepare your body for this form were fairly specific Amber felt sure that they were safe enough.

“Well it was a learning experience” she said to Orme. “And we have successfully scratched a lich.”

Orme poked her.

 well that's this odd little tale over, next up, Jermak in England.

Scratch an errant lich 4

 

IV

.  Amber was not sanguine about running to earth a wily lich on the loose because even if he underestimated her ability to track happenings in the mundane world through not understanding electronic communication – something Nurtazin probably did not even know existed either, in common with many from isolated Talented communities – the fellow would not have become powerful in the first place by being a total fool.  Abaris was potentially more dangerous than some,  because he had known how to make allies and exchange favours where he could not dominate.  And he felt Nurtazin too weak to do anything but dominate. It would be interesting to know the extent of Nurtazin’s ability; but from what Zhanargul had said, Amber strongly suspected he relied heavily on the abilities of those he summoned and had one main skill of conjuration and enough ability to protect himself.  A lot of the texts Amber had seen from his stronghold, for she had glanced at the titles, were concerned with ancient runes and protective glyphs.  Which she was aching to read!  And some she would need to learn Arabic to understand; for though familiar in passing with some of the script, Amber neither spoke nor read Arabic.  Yet.  The Cyrillic texts would at least pose her no problems; and Amber gave Nurtazin more respect as a conjuror for being prepared to use appropriate runic bases for his summoning.  Even so it was still sloppy to rely on the powers of the great form spirits he conjured rather than making himself knowledgeable too. Right was right, after all. If Abaris had taught Pythagoras – who had invented much numerology as well as Arithmantic principles used by mundanes and Talented alike – he was probably rather hard.

And he must have been clever enough to hide any megalomania from that Greek philosopher who was reckoned to be virtuous and ascetic and to hate tyranny.  And who – if indeed he had learned magic from Abaris – had probably been moved by a spirit of learning everything about everything.   And what was not known as such to mundanes, though they knew that Pythagoras was learned in herb lore and healing, was that he was a celebrated potion-maker of the Talented, despite being Unfamilied.  That Pythagoras had put forward a model of the solar system with the sun at its centre meant that astronomy amongst the Talented had been advanced beyond mundanes whose religious intolerances until recent times had chosen to ignore and pooh-pooh  the model until Nikolas Copernik, known as Copernicus, had also come to the same conclusion.  And he was threatened with excommunication at that. The Council already existed in its earliest form then, and there were oaths of tolerance to all beliefs. Something else borrowed from Medieval Poland, thought Amber, whimsically.

But with having learned as much from Pythagoras as the Greek had learned from him, Abaris was a very dangerous character indeed and quite capable of learning how the mundane world worked.  It was perhaps as well that the centres of learning known to him, the centre of the ancient world, was now scarcely comparable to the western European world in technological achievement and day-to-day use of things the western Europeans took for granted.  And it might take a while for Abaris, already finding so much that was new, to adjust to the concept that the barbarian tribes were more now the centre of the European stage than Greece and its environs, or Egypt or Mesopotamia.  And into Iraq of the modern era he might disappear and a few extra deaths a month utterly insignificant against the backdrop of internecine warfare.

Marcus alerted a number of other teams to keep their eyes open with regards to thefts of artefacts, or news of horrible deaths. Abaris was too dangerous to talk to, his cursed dagger lost him any sympathy anyone might have had over him having been disturbed by Nurtazin. It gave some credence to the legend that Pythagoras had gained knowledge by visiting Hell – presumably in a metaphorical sense– that had disturbed him mightily.  Perhaps his apprenticeship with Abaris would account for that, especially if Abaris used zombies, such that the philosopher might have believed himself in the underworld.

“And what do I do, Amber?” asked Zhanargul.

“Carry on learning protocols and procedures and paperwork and otherwise taking the pee out of boring side of our craft,” said Amber. “Nothing we can do without intel; and we’re a reaction team, not an intel team. No point getting unduly itchy about liches. I’m paid to be the one to do the worrying,” she added, laconically,  “and I have people out looking.  I shan’t leave you out of anything, so just ignore Abaris until he makes himself obvious.  We’ll pick him up as he builds a power base; but he may want to spend a couple of years even studying the changes to the world before he even starts doing so.  After all, he’s now essentially immortal.  I certainly would not hurry myself if I was in his shoes.”

Marcus called Amber on a communications globe; mobile phones got temperamental near power bases.

“Come over and see what I uncovered,” he said.  Amber made a two-jump teleport, which decreased jump-lag, which was like jet-lag only more extreme. Marcus was waiting with a bowl and water to wash her mouth out.

“It’s not as bad as going west to east,” said Amber, when she had freshened up.

“Truth,” said Marcus. “This is what I found; It’s a Russian edition of a sixteenth century work, ‘Ancient Greek Wizards, their lives and deeds’ by a chap who names himself Apollodorus after the historian of the same name” he said. “Nowadays we’d call it a coffee table book; a lot of rather fanciful illustrations and slightly jazzed up histories.  You get a better idea from the mundane works; John Lemprière’s Classical Dictionary is actually about the best work there is for potted histories, and one works from there.  There’s a reference to Abaris as a teacher of Pythagorus – he isn’t in the mundane work but Orme found him referenced on an on-line site about Scythians, and I hope you’re pleased with how well the terminology tripped off my tongue.” Orme was Marcus’ son, a few years older than Amber, with his own team, and had been one reason Marcus had been susceptible to reason.

“I’d be prouder of you if I didn’t suspect you of practising for hours just to impress me” laughed Amber “So what does it actually say?”

“Basically that Abaris was killed by his detractors and waits until one will uncover him and be the means of arousing him,” said Marcus. “And you’re right about me practising.  Orme has it so pat now I feel I need to try to sound knowledgeable.  I have an English edition of the same work too; the wording is subtly different and in English the hint is that he will rise again using the one who uncovers him – a far cry from ‘by the agency of’ as is implied in the Russian.”

“Rather,” agreed Amber. “How did Nurtazin track him down?”

“There’s a letter from a student of Pythagoras in one of his books who spent more time at the wizardry and less at the Arithmancy who mentions that they ‘buried Abaris deep in his own filthy lair after he almost broke our master’s heart and mind’ and asks the reader to take a turn at guarding the burial, and gives fairly specific instructions about where it is.  Apparently they covered his abode with sand magically conjured; but of course any zombies he had and items remained there too.  The zombies you dealt with; the items we have to assume he took.”

“There wasn’t anything else there; we checked,” said Amber.  “If he missed anything it was minor enough to have been destroyed in our firestorm.”

“That is likely to be powerful enough to deal with any minor items,” said Marcus dryly. “You and your family, when you get going, are rather thorough.”

“I wanted to let the kids dispel their fear of zombies,” said Amber mildly “Anything else?”

“Orme tells me that Wikipedia is his friend” said Marcus. “And what he found actually agrees with my own book on classical and pre-classical wizards, a slightly more scholarly work than Apollodorus’ sensationalism.  Though not one your friendly Dark Talented had in his collection.  Abaris, son of Seuthos, was said to have the gift of prophecy and to be a healer of remarkable simplicity and honesty who cured plagues.”

“That don’t sit with him being a lich,” said Amber.

“He is also reputed to have corresponded with the tyrant Phalaris, though it’s considered dubious,” said Marcus.

“What, him of the brazen bull for cooking people in?” said Amber in disgust.

“The very same,” said Marcus.  “And though it is said to be spurious, if they did correspond, supposing there were traps in Phalaris’ words that turned Abaris to er, the Dark Side?”

“It’s certainly plausible” said Amber “But, too, I can see him, being a scholar, investigating off his own bat such arts as are at best dodgy; and maybe being drawn in to the dark arts at first all unwittingly.” She shot a shrewd sideways look at Marcus. He held up his hands.

“Yes, your father and I got in too deep, and he got out and dragged me out of the mess I was making for myself, I acknowledge it freely,” he said. “A clever man, not seeking glory but feeling he deserved some recognition for his trouble could well fall from grace. I think you have it; and my fancy theories about Phalaris are probably spurious.”

Amber shrugged.

“He may have written to Phalaris; and it contributed.  The point is, he fell.  And we have to pick up the pieces.  And I think that even if his knife was not a phylacterion, it and his body combined formed something similar so it’s likely he has shattered his soul.  Should I work on getting him to repent and see what he has become and what he should have been?”

“Once he’s agreed to undeath?  No.  Too much risk.  Priority one is to get rid of him.”

Amber nodded.

“You’re a pragmatist, Marcus. And though I’d like to go the route of compassion I don’t think it’s practical.”

 

 

“Amber, we got a message from a tribal Kurdish Talented,” said Jeronim. “A buraq foal was found with terrible scars on its throat, almost dead. Fortunately that was enough to unite warring factions to unite in a chant. Whether the poor creature will recover fully or not they don’t know, but they stabilised it.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Amber. “Buraq, that’s a unicorn, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Jeronim. “Did you want us to go and add some ritual chanting?”

“Well, yes, but also, well, no,” said Amber. “Standing on the toes of people who have put their all into saving the beast just because I’ve gathered some of the brightest and best in the world is not good for international relations. We might pop in and ‘speed up the healing’ as ‘chanting can only help once from any one group’.”

“Cunning,” said Jeronim.

“I have to be,” said Amber. “I liaise with the Great Snake in the Ukraine and Piotr Ladygin in Russia, and Tiina Turunen in Finland, not to mention Carlo Bottazzi in Italy. Balancing the egos takes more cunning than running a preschool nursery.”

Jeronim laughed.

“I see what you mean.  Well, it gives us something of a location. But with that amount of life-force power, he could be anywhere.”

“Yes, but I fancy he will be more comfortable in the middle east where the way of life has not changed significantly in millenia for the poor.”  Amber shrugged. “It’s a start, and I’ll star it on the map.”  She made a face. “I fear that the knife might continue to drain the poor little thing, so the villagers have given their power to him, but we shall see. Mooch in and take a look?”

Jeronim nodded. His swarthy Cossack looks allowed him to pass as Arabic at need.

 

It was Orme who came up trumps.  Orme was a more conventional law and order operative in InterTal, the International Police of Talent. As such, he kept in touch with Interpol and a selection of other contacts.

“One of my contacts came up with some killings in Cairo, by exanguination,” said Orme, who had blown in to impart the news. “They began suddenly, out of nowhere; and stopped as suddenly. As the unfortunate victims had all been prostitutes it had been put down to turf wars of pimps and had been effectively ignored by all but one conscientious policeman who actually posted the fact of the killings on the internet after they stopped in the hopes that if they started elsewhere they might attract the attention of someone who would put two and two together.  I went to see him.”

“Was it credible?”

“Hell, yes. Frighteningly so. I told him that I believed they were ritual killings by a man who believed himself to be a mighty wizard who needed blood to maintain his power and to call Djinn and Efreeti. I’ve found positing madness and belief in magic power gets mundane police alongside us much quicker than any other way of covering up.  Anyway, as they passed with damn all official notice, I left him my mobile number to contact if he returns. He feels validated, anyway, and that someone cares.”

“Brilliant,” said Amber.

“All of them were a few months pregnant,” said Orme. “Easy to determine with a health-checking spell. It was one of the things that puzzled my contact, how he had know. I shrugged and told him that some people have extraordinarily acute senses of smell, and the hormonal scent would be subtly different, and the fellow was probably convinced he cast a spell to determine which ones would have most life force, as madmen don’t have to be logical, as long as there is some logic to their belief.”

“And he bought it?”

“Well, some people can tell more than others.”

“True, O best beloved.”

“Leave Kipling out of this; I never kipple,” said Orme, rudely.

“Did you get anything else?”

“Only a taste for Turkish coffee,” said Orme.