Again the murmur of the city seemed to speak. “Our Lord is well served by subtlety. The strong fall as surely as the weak.”
He shook his head to clear it, and blinked repeatedly. Had he been hypnotised? He would not doubt the powers of the Dark Arkon. But now he was in control of himself. He was Augustyn, duke Relyan. His political strength was indisputable. Men feared him, from Suut Seltica in the west to Vrongwe in the east, from the northern forests of the Ropeuan peninsula to the archipelagos of the southern seas and the ruined cities of Kemet. He feared no man. And he had a plan that this servant must put in motion.
He said, “And sometimes life is the breeder of more death than murder.”
“By my troth, the ways of Death are many,” the arkon answered.
Chapter 21: Jasper: Lurvale
Finally Jasper had convinced king Louis to bring forward his siege engines to shatter the Kumese palisade. The engineers had been unhappy working by the prismatic light of the moon, but when the sun had risen the catapults had found their range and hurled a hail of stones into the makeshift fortification. The Kumese crossbowmen and Gwendurian archers, lacking the range of the catapults, had abandoned the palisade and fled back across the ford. It would only delay the inevitable though. Still the Gwendurians would prevent the taking of the castle, wait patiently, then take back all of Louis’ conquests as far as the northern reaches of the valley.
A rider now cantered toward the battlefield from the north. He passed through the mangle of bodies and made his way to Jasper’s camp. The man reached into his sleeve and took out a small sealed scroll. Jasper took it. The seal was the hart of Vrong Veld, Amery’s. He broke the seal, unrolled the scroll and read it. For a moment he frowned with annoyance. Then, stoically, he said, “Urysthra’s will be done.”
“What is it?” Marcos asked.
“The duke calls us home. We return to Ropeua.”
Chapter 22: Strange Creature: Thedra
The moon was bright above, shedding its prismatic light on Thedra.
In the garden beneath the necromancer’s tower there was a sound of lamentation. It was not the tears or moaning of any man or woman. Instead it was a whimpering, whining sound. The small creature from which it came, no more than three feet tall with disproportionately large feet, large hands and large head, kneeled inside the hole in which the necromancer had been buried. Its eyes protruded from its head, so that when they swivelled it might have been able to see behind itself.
Its long nails were dirty from digging, but it had reached its goal. It whined and licked dirt off the face of the necromancer, but there was something it knew it must find. It had not be certain that the thief had not taken it. The thief had taken so much. But here it was; the necromancer Phisphul’s amulet, hidden in the folds of his robe. Carefully the creature took the amulet off and pressed it to its misshapen chest, with protruding ribs and translucent skin beneath which its green heart could be clearly seen pumping its green blood.
“Why have you forsaken us, master?” the creature whimpered.
The yellow jewel in the amulet began to glow, a sickly colour that made the creature more ghastly than could the spectral light of the moon.
“We do not abandon our servants,” a voice said, and many seemed to speak, and yet only one. It did not come from the amulet, nor from the air, but from the creature’s own throat, compelled by a force it felt in its green heart. It did not whimper like the creature, but twisted the vocal chords to command proudly. “We are near. We cannot stay long. This place has been cleansed. It no longer tortures the living. It no longer loves the dead. The researches of Phisphul have been disturbed. He was a powerful servant. Much is lost. But there are others. The work must continue. Soon. We grow stronger every day, but we are not yet strong enough. We must contend with another god. In his arrogance he will not recognise us. But he will learn. They will all learn. Soon we will come. We feel his power waning. The time of change is upon us. Do not lose heart. Your loyalty will be rewarded. You will feast on the bodies of living men and they will watch you dine as they die, those who are unkind to you, those who hate you will fear you. Until then, for you there is another task.”
“Yes master, please command me,” he whined, his vocal chords his own for a moment.
“You must prepare for our return.”
“How, master?”
The voice that was one voice but many instructed in whispers that quickly faded to thoughts then was gone. The light of the amulet faded with the thoughts.
The creature took out a knife almost as long as itself and cut open the necromancer, throwing his organs one by one up on the grass.
Chapter 23: Alex: Thedra
The night was overcast and a slight drizzle fell.
Alex was climbing the slope to the west side of the western outlet of the caldera lake. He would not have come this way normally, but he had felt eyes on him as he had reached North Bank Bridge, on his way to Thedra Bridge, and he could take no chances given his final destination. So he had leaned on the bridge banister and gazed at the first of the eastern outlet mills, as if in a reflective mood, then he had turned back to North Bank and given his follower the slip through the winding narrow streets there before continuing down the High Road, past Lower Plateau, just in case. He had crossed the streams at the two small bridges just below Lower Plateau, and climbed up this way.
It was an awkward landscape to cross, rocky and sparsely vegetated with footholds as likely to give way as support your weight. Though he was a skilful climber, most of his experience was on the rooftops and walls of the city. Many of the skills were transferable, and he tested his footing nimbly to find which rocks were solid and safe before transferring his weight, but the terrain was less regular than the walls and roofs of the city. It was also less reliable. While a roof tile or a brick or stone masonry or wattle and daub walls were nice regular shaped objects and gave way in predictable ways for which fast reflexes could compensate, a stone on the mountainside could have any shape, and could give way in unpredictable ways. He had what seemed like a reliable handhold, tested a foothold, and transferred his weight. The stone to which he transferred his weight gave way, and as it did the handhold also. His weight was already off his other foot, so his balance would not allow him to rock back to a firmer foothold. He flung up his other hand and scrabbled at the rock face as he fell. His scrabbling hand slid down the stone face and jammed into a gap, catching at an awkward angle, and a sharp pain shot up his arm. He was now hanging from nothing but a hand which had been twisted painfully at the wrist. Desperately he reached around with his other hand and found another hold. Then he found a foothold, then another. Now he had to extricate the hand which had caught. It would not easily come loose, since it had held his whole suspended weight, jamming it tightly into the rock face. After that near fall he did not like the option of trusting any of his holds, but saw that he had no choice. He rose to his toes, pulling himself up with his available hand, and wriggled the trapped hand free.
At the top of the rock face he faced another conundrum. He could not go all the way to the caldera rim if he wanted to get to the bridge. The currents around the outlet were too strong to swim near there, and he would be swept into it and down to the first of the watermills where he might be crippled or killed by the water wheel. He had to cross over at the watermill. That would have been easy enough, if his hand had been alright. He tested it. It stung. He flexed it. It would grip, but the grip would not be strong. Still, it was only the housing of the watermill. He might have more problems later, at the bridge. He rubbed and squeezed the wrist. He looked back down the way he had climbed. Nobody. Listened. Nothing but the splashing of the stream against the mill wheel, the clunking of the wooden cogs inside. Using a grappling hook he climbed to the roof. He looked back the way he had come. He knew that if anyone was following closely behind him he would have heard them. If they were more distant they would have lost him by the time they negotiated the rock face he had come up. He w
as pretty sure that he had lost them before he had even reached the rock face, but it paid to be careful. He looked down the eastern side of the stream, and back up to the caldera rim. No moving shadows. He closed his eyes and listened. No sound out of place. He climbed down the other side of the watermill.
From there the climb was easy enough, but he had to keep close to the stream, where the bank sloped down to the water, obscuring his passing from any curious eyes to the east. He looked up to Upper Plateau, near Bridge Gate, and could see the guards outside the lowered portcullis, leaning against their halberds lazily and paying more attention to each other’s jokes or stories than either of the roads leading to the gate – one from Lower Plateau, the other from North Bank – let alone the shadows by the outlet streams. Alex crept up to the caldera rim. The upper plateau came all the way to the stream at that point, but a path had been dug below it for the men who maintained the outlets, so he would be able to edge his way all the way round to the bridge.
A refuse barge was approaching, its torch shedding unwelcome light on the scene. Alex waited for it to pass and looked to the west. The next barge he could see was far away, under the Outer Ring of the city. The barges could move quickly when they were full and heading for the refuse tip, but rowed at a sedate pace at other times, from one collection point to another. Even at this distance, in the light of the torches on the barge, he could see it was stopped under one of those holes, and the rubbish was pouring down, pushed through the hole by the men above. He edged along the path to the western tower of Bridge Gate.
His wrist was not as badly injured as he had feared, and the stones of the gate provided plenty of foot and handholds. He quickly climbed around to the first of the bridge pylons, only occasionally resting to shake the sprained wrist.
He climbed the shoreward pylon, then with grapple thrown to window ledges and protruding beams, and careful searching for footholds worked his way up toward the roofs. Though he was small for his age he had been climbing the walls of the town since a child and had a muscular build and good stamina, and made his way to the top without being out of breath. Despite this he felt an almost pleasant ache in his muscles, especially on the side opposite his injured wrist, as he had favoured that side to rest the wrist. Though that wrist had seemed to recover before the climb, and gave him no trouble but a little weakness during the climb, it now flared up as he was about to peer over the edge. He hung from his good hand, surer of his hold here than he had been on the rock face, and shook the wrist again, letting it dangle. When it was rested enough he placed it carefully beside the other on the eaves of the house which fronted the lake. Before hauling himself over the eaves he peered carefully, straining ears as much as eyes for any indication of company.
Once up, he crept along the roofs, his sensitive feet, with light leather boots, able to sense a loose tile before he had committed his weight to it. If only the rocks were so predictable, he thought, shaking his head. He was a city boy, not a goat herder. The roofs were steep here, which made it slower going than in some parts of the city, but also gave him extra opportunities to spy for possible witnesses, and to hide if he spotted any.
He heard the sound of quietly padding feet. Most people, even thieves, would not have heard it among the patter of light rain. A thief like Alex might have made such a sound, if he had been much smaller. Two eyes stared at him, amber rings around black in a darkness darker than the night. The black cat hissed, its back arched, then disappeared behind a peak in the roofs. Alex waited, listening intently. An owl hooted. The sound of human feet, heavy booted. The city watch patrolling the bridge. Through spaces between the roofs which extended over the whole width of the bridge the light of their lantern filtered up. Their voices became louder as they passed underneath him. The light passed, the voices faded. Alex waited. Then he was moving, swiftly and silently, from cover to cover, peering, listening, moving again.
The upper stories of the Bimateya Carvers’ Guildhall stretched over the bridge from east to west. The top floor of the east wing contained their treasury. No Thedran guild thief would dare to rob the carvers’ guild, for if they did the master of that guild would protest to the Lord of Law. The master of the thieves’ guild would recompense the carvers’ guild from his own guild’s revenues, then make an offering in the Temple of the Harvest. Soon after that an assassin would kill the thief, cut off his balls and shove them in his mouth, then hang his mutilated corpse from the gallows, a public warning against one of the rare kinds of sacrilege no native Thedran, however criminal or corrupt, would condone.
He knew the penalty for stealing from the carvers’ guild. The guild was not a sane destination for a thief who valued his life. Which was precisely why it was perfect for his purposes. He reached the east side of the guild roof and waited, looking up to the dark sky, opening his mouth to taste the drizzle. He closed his eyes and listened.
Though the rain was not heavy it had been coming down for a while and had started to accumulate in small reservoirs, and then to drip. The drips were occasional, but made it more difficult to clearly discern other subtle sounds. He waited patiently, allowing his mind to adjust to the rhythm and reduce it to another element of the sleeping city’s snore. A distant shout, a bark, a replying bark, a cat yowling, perhaps the one he had encountered earlier, then another, then their screeching fight. The muffled sound of a wife screaming, maybe at her husband; crashing like the shattering of earthenware, a clang, perhaps a pot or kettle hitting a wall; then a dull thud and the screaming stopped. The clatter of the refuse carts as their wheels bounced against the uneven cobblestones. The swishing of oars on a refuse barge under the bridge, the barger’s whistled tune, the winching of another barge up the incline to the tip. A scream of female laughter, a group of drunken men singing as they staggered home. The complaint of a child waking from a nightmare; an infant squalling then silent as the mother woke and sung a lullaby and probably offered her breast. The creaking and cracking of timbers along the bridge and in its buildings. His own breath. He breathed in. The smell of rain on tiles dusty from the heat of summer. Of vomit and shit wafting up from the cobblestones. A faint whiff of Penya pollen from the smoking den further down the bridge, where dreams were sold that might reveal the minds of gods or show you your own mad face.
After a few minutes of this he was sure there was no other human presence up there. He moved across the roof and squatted, looking around one last time. Then he pried out a slightly loose tile. He removed another tile which was movable once the first was removed. In the space beneath, in a dark angle where even bright moonlight on a clear night would not penetrate, was a large bag, a small chest, and a dusty grey cloth. He took out the chest, disarmed the poison needle trap, and opened it. Inside were large gems, rubies and amethysts, diamonds and sapphires, emeralds set in golden earrings, and a golden necklace of huge pearls supporting a gold rimmed broach with a sapphire fashioned in the shape of a hart surrounded by hounds carved in amber. And there was the large transparent phial he had taken from the necromancer’s tower. Tears of whatever that mysterious, beautiful creature had been sparkling within, as weightless as air. He remembered her kiss. He had never seen a woman so beautiful. She had disappeared so mysteriously. She was certainly magical. Even divine. He wondered whether he would ever see her again. He unstoppered the phial and sniffed at it. It had no odour, but he felt a rush of energy, flowing over him and through him. The sensation was intense, similar to what he remembered feeling when the beautiful, magical woman had kissed him. His twisted wrist tingled pleasurably, and then all pain vanished from it. He put the stopper back, carefully placing the phial back with the gems, closing the chest and resetting the trap. He massaged the wrist, and gingerly tested it by twisting it carefully beyond its natural range. No pain. Now that he thought of it, the slight muscle ache from the long climb up the mountainside and the side of the bridge had also vanished.
Taking out the large bag, he undid the knot of the leather thong around its neck. It was full
of gold from the necromancer’s tower, as well as other lesser coins. Taking out twenty pieces of gold he carefully distributed them around his body in various well concealed places. While a careful thief would be able to find them, a city guard or a moronic mangler like Randy would miss most. He distributed as many silver across his body, though in less well concealed places. Then he added a handful of copper coins in pockets that only an amateur would consider concealed, as well as a few fake coins, made of tin, in ordinary pockets and in a purse that would dangle temptingly at his side, wrapping a chord several times around it to suppress jingling while he was working. He would remove that chord during the day. He placed the bag and chest back in their hiding place and unstrapped the sword belt which he had recently bought. Putting the sheathed sword and its belt in with the rest of his treasure cache, he reached for a tile.
He hesitated.
Surely the guild manglers would be back for more pleasure in his pain, and now the blacksmiths might want a piece of him, or maybe the whole of him, preliminary to his dismemberment. Of the first he was sure. The second was only an entertaining hypothetical with a slightly sickening conclusion. But would the blacksmiths even know who had stolen the blade? Even if Brandon Smith guessed who had taken it he would not know where to find his quarry, and if he followed up on the ridiculous story about Alex being Sam Tillerman, a very young gentleman farmer from near Pine Hill, that would lead nowhere enlightening. He was not even sure that any village called Pine Hill existed; though the Hawk and Hallows Inn he had said he was staying at existed sure enough in South East Quarter. A right bloody shithole of a tavern it was too, that no self-respecting gentleman would dirty his spit on the floor of, let alone sleep in. Not that the blacksmith had seemed very convinced by that bit of ad lib fibbing. Then there was the little issue of a dead smith. Would the blacksmiths report that to the watch? Or to some noble patron influential enough to find out for them who their nemesis was, without the bother of paying corrupt constables to do their job poorly?
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 25