Justice

by Ian Irvine

  “To find out about the circlet. Who knows about it?”

  “Holm and Tali—but I’m not going into Grandys’ camp looking for them. That’s exactly what he wants me to do.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I dare say Tali told Rix about it.”

  “Rix has an army to protect him; he’s also out of your reach,” said Errek. “What about Tobry?”

  “The mad shifter?” cried Lyf. “He’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My spies said Rix and Tali were going to put him down weeks ago. Just before the great quake.”

  “Did any of your spies see the body?”

  “No, but even supposing Tobry is still alive. And supposing we can find him, and subdue him, how do we get any sense out of a mad shifter?”

  “If he’s the only other one who knows, you’d better think of a way. Grandys’ endgame is fast approaching.”

  Half an hour later, Lyf took his seat on Grolik, the greatest of his gauntlings. He detested the beasts but Lyf no longer had sufficient magery to fly and there was no other way of getting there in time. Errek was mounted behind him, for wrythens were bound to the vicinity of their place of death. They could only roam further afield in the shelter of someone else’s magery.

  “To Reffering, Grolik,” said Lyf.

  Grolik turned her long, leathery neck back on itself and aimed a gob of slimy saliva at Lyf’s eye. He raised his hand.

  “If you ever try that again, I’ll burn your eyes out,” Lyf said coldly.

  Grolik’s stinking gob hissed past Lyf’s ear. She snorted, propelled herself ten feet in the air and flapped off, west-north-west.

  “Disgusting creatures,” Lyf muttered.

  “You created them,” Errek said cheerfully, leaning back so the air ruffled the few threads of white hair remaining to him.

  *

  “Are you sure this is the place?” he said several hours later.

  They were standing in what was left of the clearing by the stream.

  “Yes,” said Lyf. “My spy said Tobry was chained to a great tree here, but it toppled in the quake. This must be the tree—see the chains running around it.”

  “And here’s the remains of a packet of powdered lead,” said Errek, drifting weightlessly across the leaf-littered ground.

  “Whether they put Tobry down or not, he could not have survived that tree falling on him.”

  “I’m old-fashioned. I always like to see the body.”

  Lyf conjured a saw and set it to work on the trunk above the chains. The trunk was two yards through; it took a long time. He then had it saw through below the chains and when that was complete, with considerable effort he rolled the sawn disc of wood out of the way.

  Errek hovered overhead. “Broken chains, with a length missing, and no body. Tobry got away.”

  “Even so, once a shifter goes into its final madness, it rarely lives long.”

  “Ah, but this shifter was treated with Tali’s healing blood only hours after being turned. It may have given Tobry a longer life—or made him a different kind of shifter entirely. You can’t assume anything. Besides, he’s the only chance you’ve got.”

  “How to find him, though?” said Lyf. “He could be anywhere.”

  “You must have faced this problem before,” said Errek. “Mad shifters have been a menace ever since our people emerged from Cython.”

  “Normally they were hunted down with specially trained dogs.”

  “Gauntlings have a keen sense of smell, don’t they?”

  Lyf grimaced. “Very keen. Though I was hoping to minimise contact with the vile beast.”

  “Think of this as your penance for creating them,” grinned Errek. “And while Grolik’s sniffing Tobry out, start working on a shifter-hunting spell to take its place. Tobry is liable to be hiding somewhere a gauntling can’t go.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Lirriam, who had refrained from provoking Grandys further since rescuing him from the pit in Lyf’s temple, came galloping back to his battered, exhausted army. “Oh, this is ripe. Grandys?”

  “What?” he said.

  After collecting Rufuss, Holm and the hundred men left at Flume they had plodded north to Castle Swire, which was now only a mile away. Despite his personal defeat by Lyf and the agony in his feet, Grandys was marching at the head of his men, singing their victory song in his rich bass voice. It had been a brilliant victory, he had to keep reminding himself. One of the greatest military victories of all time—and he had led them to it.

  “Mount up and you’ll see,” said Lirriam.

  He mounted, rode to the crest of a small rise and looked around him. Rufuss followed, looking more bitter than Grandys had ever seen him. A broad plume of smoke was rising from due north.

  “That must be close to Castle Swire,” said Grandys.

  Rufuss sniffed the air. “Bodies are burning,” he grated. “You didn’t light the pyres, did you?”

  Grandys resisted the urge to spur his weary horse and gallop the rest of the way, though not out of consideration for the horse. He did not want to look desperate in front of his men. His triumph had already been badly tarnished.

  He dismounted and walked the rest of the way at the head of his army. His guts were knotted, his feet throbbed and rancid sweat oozed out from between the cracks in his opal armour. Then, as they topped the final rise, the dreadful truth became evident.

  Castle Swire had been burned to a shell and most of the internal walls had collapsed. Only one small section remained; the part of the tower at the rear where his chambers had been. He’d left his ice chest and script cabinet there, protected by Maloch’s strongest enchantment. But had it been enough?

  Worse was to come. Attached by a bloody dagger to one of the broken gate beams was a piece of parchment, and on it was scrawled a brief note.

  Thanks for the supplies.

  Deadhand.

  Fury gave way to fear. Was the tide turning against him, as Lirriam kept saying? No, he was Axil Grandys, the greatest of the Five Heroes, the greatest warrior Hightspall had ever seen, the most brilliant strategist and the most creative tactician. He had a destiny, and he was never going to give in.

  He forced his way inside. All his supply wagons were gone, and so were his supplies, spare weapons and provisions. He had a hungry army to feed but nothing to feed them with—and even worse, not a drop of drink for the long-promised victory feast. Worst of all, after the forced march, the furious battle and the long trip home, the men were desperate for sleep, yet he had no beds, spare blankets or tents, and the yard reeked of burnt bodies. He could not camp them here.

  Throb, throb, throb went his scarified feet, and the more his fury grew, the more they hurt. Curse Lyf to the grave and beyond, and curse Rixium too!

  With an effort, Grandys held his temper. He gave orders for the men to be looked after with what little food and drink could be found, then scrambled up onto the rubble, which was still hot. He climbed up to the top of the precariously leaning tower and peered into what was left of his rooms.

  Part of the wooden floor had survived. There was still frost on the ice chest and the cabinet and crate were unscorched. He wiped his brow. All was not lost.

  Not yet.

  He carried the chest down and set it by the gate, under guard. Two men assisted him with the script cabinet and the immensely heavy crate. He made a padded litter so the chest, cabinet and crate could be dragged behind his horse. Grandys needed the work; it was the only way he could distract himself.

  “Scour the land for food and supplies,” he said to his lieutenants.

  “Now?”

  “Immediately! Take food from the mouths of babes if you have to. We ride after Deadhand in two days.”

  He was walking inside when an unobtrusive, balding little man called Yurd galloped in. Grandys’ most accomplished spy had been at work in Caulderon for weeks, and he had sent much useful intelligence. What was he doing here?

  Yurd
stopped at the broken gates, waiting for the guards to allow him through. Lirriam went to his stirrup, spoke to him briefly, and pointed. Yurd nodded and turned his horse down the side of the yard, towards the stables.

  Lirriam came in, spied Grandys and turned his way, smiling.

  “Good news?” said Grandys, hopefully.

  “Not for you.”

  Throb, throb, throb. “Spill it, then.”

  “Guess who was in Caulderon when you attacked?”

  “Deadhand?” That would have been the last straw.

  “No,” said Lirriam. Her fingers slipped to the chain linked to Incarnate, but withdrew without taking it from her cleavage.

  “Then how the hell would I know?” snarled Grandys.

  “Tali was there!” Lirriam said gleefully. “She was in the tunnels under Tumbrel Town when we fought our way to the temple. She was only half a mile away.”

  He restrained his fury—something he’d done more than enough of lately. Lirriam was enjoying this too much, and judging by her expression it was only the beginning.

  “Tali was held prisoner by the Resistance,” said Lirriam. “And if you hadn’t driven their deputation away unheard, if you had agreed to hear and help them, they would have given you Tali and Glynnie in exchange.”

  “Tali and Glynnie,” he whispered. The two women he hated most… apart from Lirriam. “Together?”

  “Tali rescued the maid from Lyf’s gallows. This is your biggest error of judgement yet, Grandys. It’s the beginning of the end.”

  He pulled out a dagger and twisted it in his armoured fists until the hilt snapped off. “I’ll go back. I’ll get her if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “If you try to return to Caulderon with three thousand hungry, exhausted men it’ll be the last thing you do. You can only push them so far—but cross that line and they’ll turn on you. Besides, Hramm has already put the Resistance down, so Tali will either be dead or in Lyf’s hands.”

  He hurled the shards away. “Where’s Holm?”

  “Rufuss has him under guard.”

  “Then he’s probably escaped by now,” he said sourly. “Rufuss!” he bawled. “Bring Holm.”

  Rufuss appeared a minute later, thrusting Holm before him. The old man looked grey and ill; no doubt Rufuss had been up to his sadistic tricks. Normally Grandys would have left Rufuss to it, but he was in too foul a mood.

  “What the hell have you done to him?”

  “Did you expect me to coddle the swine?” said Rufuss.

  “You know what I want him for.”

  “What do you want me for?” said Holm.

  “After I get Tali back, you’re going to cut the master pearl out of her head.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “I’m in no mood to be defied. The pain you’ve suffered in Rufuss’s hands is nothing to what I’ll put you through.”

  “If you want me to remove the master pearl, you’d better look after me. Only a fit and healthy surgeon could hope to succeed.”

  “You’re a master surgeon; you’ll manage.”

  “I haven’t done that kind of operation for more than thirty-five years.”

  “I’ve plenty of injured men you can practise on. But first, you’ve a little secret I’d dearly love to have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The key to king-magery.”

  “Didn’t know there was one,” said Holm.

  “I know you know,” said Grandys. “Either you tell me, or I make you suffer the most excruciating pain any man can experience. Magery pain—the kind that leaves no trace and does no lasting damage. The kind of pain Lyf has been suffering for two thousand years.”

  “Do your worst,” said Holm.

  Grandys drew Maloch. “I’ve had a bad day, Holm. A very, very bad day. I’d prefer this was quick, but I can take it slowly…”

  Holm’s eyes were fixed on the blade, which had a faint greenish shimmer, and Grandys could read the fear there, no matter how hard the old man tried to conceal it.

  “Maloch is especially good at pain,” Grandys said.

  “I doubt if you can put me through more pain than I’ve put myself through over the years.”

  “Oh, I think I can.”

  And he did. After only twenty minutes of Maloch’s excruciations, Holm gasped, “The key is Lyf’s platina circlet.”

  “You’re saying that Lyf’s circlet—his kingly crown—is the key to using king-magery? That the circlet allows king-magery to work?”

  “So I’ve been told,” said Holm.

  “And I know where it is,” Grandys said to himself. “It’s in the treasure hoard I hid long ago.”

  He turned to Lirriam. “Would you be so kind as to lock Holm up, somewhere where he’ll be safe from Rufuss?”

  Lirriam took Holm away to one of the unburnt outhouses.

  Grandys called his lieutenants. “How long until we can go after Rixium?”

  “I won’t know until the men come back with supplies, Lord Grandys. They’re doing their best.”

  “Tell them to redouble their efforts. We must ride in two days.”

  After Lirriam had gone out and locked the door, Holm poked his little finger into his left ear, picked away a covering of earwax, and carefully eased out the small orange crystal he had secreted there during his abduction from Bolstir. It was one of the two crystals he had found on the Reffering battlefield weeks before. Holm had never stopped thinking about all the Cythonian devices he had collected that day, and how this one might work.

  He cleaned off the wax. He was sure that the crystal was some kind of battlefield communicator, though he still wasn’t positive how it worked. But he had to take the chance.

  Holding the crystal by both ends, he pressed its middle against a sharp window edge, bent over it, and thrust hard. The crystal snapped with a small cracking sound. A tiny orange bubble formed at the break and swelled to the size of a lemon.

  Holm pressed his mouth against the bubble. “Rix, go home. Grandys knows!”

  The bubble collapsed with a little, reverberating pop. Had it worked?

  There was no way of telling.

  CHAPTER 51

  Rix was working in his tiny stone room at the back of Manor Assidy when he felt a sharp stinging sensation on his right thigh, and a hollow voice echoed through the room. Holm’s voice. He sounded as though he were in considerable pain.

  Rix, go home. Grandys knows!

  Rix felt in his pocket and brought out the small orange crystal Holm had given him weeks ago. It was broken neatly in two and the orange colour had faded. He walked in circles around the central table, trying to suppress the panic.

  “Go home. That’s got to mean Garramide. It’s the only home I’ve got left. But what does Grandys knows mean? If it means the circlet, then he must have tortured the secret out of Holm, and I’ve got to assume Grandys knows everything Holm knows.”

  “Unless it’s a trick,” said Jackery, who was sitting quietly in a corner.

  “I can’t afford to think so. We’ve got to get moving.”

  “What are your options?”

  “I haven’t got any. Grandys has been after king-magery ever since he came to Hightspall. He’ll go after the circlet right away.”

  “Then the real war is about to begin. How many ways are there to get to Garramide?”

  “Not many.” Rix unrolled a map on the table. It hung over all four sides. “The shortest way through the Nandeloch Mountains is from the north-west. But the mountains are higher there and the last two passes are usually closed for months in winter… and spring.”

  “Why closed in spring?” said Jackery.

  “Avalanches. You can also get to Garramide from the east coast—assuming you’re already on the east coast. But from here that route would take weeks.”

  “The main way in is this way?” asked Jackery, tracing the route marked from Caulderon north-east to the plateau of Garramide.

  “Yes. I don’t know it well, though
I have travelled it in each direction. That’s the way Grandys will go, so we’ve got to stop him getting there first. We have to make time.”

  “For what?”

  “For us to find the circlet and hide it—and Grandys’ ancient hoard won’t be easy to find. We have to delay him as long as possible, which means defending the three passes on route.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult, as long as we can get into good positions,” said Jackery.

  “Leaving out the sick and wounded, I’ve got 1800 men. Grandys, I’d guess, has three thousand.” Rix knew about the attack on Caulderon.

  “It costs a lot more men to take a defended position than it does to hold one.”

  “Grandys has never been afraid to lose men. If he’s prepared to lose three men for every two of mine, and he will be, he’ll win.” Rix rolled the map up, packed spare clothes into his pack and gathered his bedroll. “And his magery is an added advantage. We’ve got to be on the road within the hour.”

  Jackery stood up. “Why the hurry? Our spies say his army is still at Swire, desperately scouring the land for supplies. We’re ten miles closer to Garramide than he is.”

  “That’s true,” said Rix, the panic easing.

  At this time of year supplies would be hard to come by. It had been a long, hard winter and several armies had already ransacked the land. Most of the common folk would be on the edge of starvation—or over the edge—and not even Grandys could glean food where there was none to be had.

  “Of course, he could have ridden ahead by himself,” said Jackery.

  The panic was back, worse than before. “Grandys doesn’t need an army to search Garramide—he knows exactly where he hid his treasures. Come on!”

  They raced downstairs and Rix gave the order to move out. Though all was in readiness, it would still take an hour or two. He packed his saddlebags, mounted and walked around his troops, making the automatic checks he did every time they decamped, and cursing every delay. How long ago had Holm sent the message? This morning? Yesterday?

  “I can’t wait any longer,” he said after fifteen frustrating minutes. “Take charge, Jackery. I’m riding for Tuling Pass.”

  “You can’t defend it by yourself.”