The farmer’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a shame about the good Brother. Maybes he should have prayed harder. I’ll see it done, my lord.”
At this time of year it was seven days’ hard ride to Brightwater, so he took ten at an easy pace, increasingly worried by what he saw as he approached the capital. Gibbets had sprouted like wildflowers in every village along the road and many of the condemned were still alive inside those iron cages, their blaspheming tongues burned from their mouths. The rest of the people not in gibbets were extremely vocal in their worship and their faith was on show for all to see.
Spring had arrived in the city of Brightwater and the streets had never looked so clean, not a speck of garbage or a single thieving, pox-ridden beggar in sight. Despite the drizzling rain, Daryn pulled the sodden hood of his cloak back to get a better look.
It had been many years since his last visit to the capital, and on the surface the city had never seemed so wealthy and prosperous, or so devout. The golden sunburst of the Bright One was proudly displayed on signs and doors everywhere, yet to a keen eye the smiles on the faces of shop workers and baker’s boys, laundresses and bread sellers all seemed forced, and suspicious eyes followed his party’s progress. The dark rumours he had heard back in Allstane had barely scratched the surface.
The sun finally peered through the blanket of grey cloud and set the waters of Ellsmere shimmering. The castle in the middle of the lake looked inviting, with white and gold flags atop its four lofty towers catching the sun. But Empire inquisitors, holy knights in full silver mail and plate, guarded the gates and bridges leading to the centre of the lake, and their presence made Daryn dab sweat from his brow with a kerchief. It wasn’t like the old days of the queen, when a man might dine and dance and enjoy good company. This would be… something else entirely. He was one of the few members of the old court to keep his head on his shoulders after the coup, but that could change with but a click of this Falcon Prince’s fingers.
As his party clopped across the bridge an inquisitor in white and gold emerged from the gate to greet them, arms clasped behind his back.
As they drew closer, Daryn recognised the dark bushy eyebrows, shaved scalp and severe features of Grand Inquisitor Malleus. He cursed under his breath and urged his mount on ahead of his party. “Well met, Grand Inquisitor,” he said as he dismounted, with some difficulty thanks to a complaining back and sore arse. “I trust you are well?”
“May the Bright One’s blessing fall upon you, Landgrave Daryn,” Malleus said in rebuke. To his mind every meeting should start and end with Her blessing. The man’s eyes dipped to Daryn’s paunch and his bloodless lips tightened.
Daryn took the words for the veiled threat they were but kept his smile on. “Indeed, indeed. May it fall upon you as well.” He thought it likely the odious creature asked for Her blessings before taking a shit.
Malleus’s eyes flicked from face to face of Daryn’s retinue. “Where is Brother Orndan? I had expected to see him by your side.”
So he can inform on all my supposed sins? the landgrave mused. I think not. “Sadly Brother Orndan slipped on steps and broke his legs. He is recovering back in Allstane. Let us pray the Bright One hastens his healing.”
The Grand Inquisitor narrowed his eyes but said nothing. “The Falcon Prince awaits you within the East Tower. Come, your men will be seen to.”
Daryn took a deep shuddering breath, unclasped his sodden cloak and handed it to his squire. “Lead on, Grand Inquisitor. I would not want to keep His Highness waiting.”
“No, you would not want that at all,” Malleus agreed, ushering him through the gatehouse.
Daryn couldn’t help but eye the murder holes in the ceiling as he passed beneath. The scent of blood and hot oil was acrid in his nostrils. No, things were very different from the old queen’s day, when visitors were welcomed with wine, meat and song. But then she had grown lax and the entire queendom became decadent with its wealth. This new “holy” Lucent Empire was young and hungry for both land and believers. Wealth was only a secondary concern at best for them, a means to an end – it was minds and souls they were interested in.
After Black Herran and her monsters slaughtered their way across the continent, the Falcon Prince had arrived to offer the people all the safety and security they had prayed for. While the queen entertained her noble favourites at lavish balls, he had travelled the land killing the bandits and hunting down the monsters, rooting out traitors and criminals. He had become a hero. He gave the people everything they thought they wanted, and then he took everything from them – and they loved him for it. His priests inflamed the superstitious peasantry into a terrified, angry mob with tales of dark magic and monsters, ensuing he had their allegiance mind and soul. The people of the Lucent Queendom abandoned the old gods and old rulers that had failed to protect them and bought into this new goddess, the Bright One, setting themselves up as true patriots and holy warriors standing against evil.
Now? The inquisitors had total power over life and death in the empire and it was much too late for anybody to back out. To publicly criticise the Falcon Prince was to publicly side with evil, and that could only lead to rotting in the gibbet or roasting on a pyre.
Beyond the gate lay a courtyard filled with young men sparring in full gambeson, chain and helm, the clang of steel and gasps of pain oddly devoid of cursing. The silver forms of senior inquisitors passed among their lines, scrutinising their skills. Their presence explained the lack of cursing only too well. A new batch of armed fanatics in the making.
Daryn held in his groan as they entered the east tower and began climbing the three hundred and thirty-three steps spiralling up to the Falcon Prince’s chambers. As a much younger man, he had deflowered a pretty young maid up there after one of the queen’s legendarily debauched gatherings. This would not be nearly as much fun.
Malleus wore heavy armour but he didn’t break a sweat as he ascended at a punishing pace. Daryn’s calves began to burn halfway up. By the time he reached the top he was drenched in sweat and his legs were trembling.
The Grand Inquisitor awaited him by the door, a sneer on his face. “Indulgence in food and drink makes men weak in body and mind.”
Daryn was too exhausted and out of breath to make any kind of answer to that and could only do his best to quickly straighten up and wipe the sweat from his face before Malleus had the door open and he was ushered into the presence of the Falcon Prince.
The ruler of the Lucent Empire was sat cross-legged before a pink marble statue of the Bright One in Her guise as the warrior: a beautiful woman in a simple homespun dress crouching to take up a fallen sword, Her face determined and defiant as She looks up to stare some unknown evil in the face. The Falcon Prince was dressed in a loose, flowing robe of pristine white, his blonde hair left loose around his shoulders, framing chiselled features worthy of a demigod. Two of his holy knights stood on either side of the room, swords raised and ready in their hands. The Prince stood, waved his guards to be at ease and then approached with his hands wide in welcome. “Landgrave Daryn,” he said. “The Bright One’s blessings be upon you in this most holy place.”
His eyes… Daryn could not help but stare. The man’s burning golden orbs drew him in, twisting something inside. He gasped and fell to one knee, the words flowing out unbidden as unaccustomed awe flushed through him: “Your Highness, I live to serve.”
“Do you, Daryn? Do you serve the Bright One and Her holy Lucent Empire? Do you serve me?”
Daryn’s throat turned to a desert and his legs trembled beneath him as his lord’s power washed over him. “I… Pardon, my lord, but have I ever given you cause to doubt my allegiance? I was one of the few lords not to oppose your–” a choice of words flashed through his mind: coup, revolution, insurrection, “–ascension.”
“That is not an answer, Landgrave,” Grand Inquisitor Malleus said, eyes lit up with malicious glee. He was hoping to uncover another traitor to the faith.
Daryn
cleared his throat. “I serve the Bright One, my lord, and I serve Her empire, Her people and Her sword, the Falcon Prince.” He did not dare to even think the true name of the conscientious boy he had once known. Nor would he think of him as the bold knight at arms who rose to prominence exterminating the remnants of Black Herran’s broken army, including those Cahal’gilroy savages. That was another man, a mere mortal. Now he was something more.
The marble statue of the Goddess turned Her face to Daryn. Her gaze evoked an exultation that lifted him to his feet, legs no longer sore and tired. He gasped as holy power burned through his body, the skin of his hands smoothing, age spots fading, grey hairs replaced with thick black. His paunch retreated into hard slabs of muscle, eyesight sharpening on the face of a god incarnate.
And then the statue returned to merely well-crafted marble, as if it had all been a fevered hallucination. He staggered back and Malleus caught his elbow, steadying him. The man’s sneer had vanished, replaced with a look of religious fervour. “Blessed!” he cried. “You have been blessed.”
Daryn stared at his hands, flexing strong supple fingers. His gaze rose to the Falcon Prince and he could see his own youthful features reflected in his lord’s eyes. He took the knee once more, this time gladly. “Command me, Highness!” The need to prove himself worthy of Her blessing burned inside him, an insatiable desire to serve. He was no inquisitor, no holy knight, but She had still deemed him worthy of a sliver of Her power.
“Arise, Landgrave of Allstane.”
Daryn rose, his muscles strong and smooth and seething with the power of youth. The two inquisitors stepped forward, one on either side of him and turned to face their leader.
The Falcon Prince laid a hand on Daryn’s shoulder. “Our vigilant faithful among the heathens have uncovered a dreadful plot against our people. Evil gathers beyond our borders and we require your great skill as a general to cut out this disease before it spreads. Raise the Allstane levy and bring them here to join up with two hundred of my veterans. You will then make your way south to the corrupted land known as Hive. You will watch that town of unclean creatures and await the coming of the enemy. Sir Orwin, Sir Arral and a dozen acolytes will accompany you to behead this evil once it rears its loathsome head.”
Daryn grinned, the joy of being able to serve his lord and his god pounding in his breast. This feeling was not always so, a small part of him whispered. This is not natural. It was quickly quashed.
“What is the nature of this evil, Highness, that it requires the presence of holy knights?”
Malleus stepped forward. “It is an abomination, Landgrave. A group of sorcerers and corrupt creatures empowered by blood sacrifice.”
“The old magic lives on?” Daryn said.
“Dark sorcery,” Malleus rebuked. “Evil itself.”
Daryn ignored the foul man. At least those feelings had not changed… “We shall destroy this enemy, Highness,” he vowed.
The Falcon Prince smiled, his pleasure suffusing the landgrave with righteous wrath.
CHAPTER 10
Near the town of Garsak, Orcish Highlands
Amogg Hadakk squinted into the night, spat, hefted her axe and threw. It spun through the air to crunch deep into the trunk of the distant pine, dislodging enough snow to bury several squealing grubbs.
The huge, battle-scarred orc laughed uproariously as the smiling green faces of young, unringed, would-be warriors fell and faded to grey, their ears drooping. As their fellow grubbs dug themselves free, those around her groaned in disappointment and sullenly heaved small jars of mead up onto her table. For the most part they took their loss well. A bet was a bet. To orcs, honour was all.
One of the younglings hissed and complained and held on tight to their prize, trying to slip back into the crowd. Amogg stormed over and cuffed them to the ground. They lay dazed and drooling as she took her jar from their limp fingers. A few of the other grubbs sneered at their broodmate. This one was now marked as dishonourable and likely wouldn’t survive to grow into an adult. Orcs did not tolerate cheats and liars, but all grubbs were allowed one mistake. Only one.
Two of the clan’s other elders, warleader Ragash and the aged shaman Wundak sat around the flickering embers of the burn, silhouetted big and black as they warmed their calloused hands. Gold rings through their ears and around their tusks glinted in the burnlight as they shook their heads knowingly at the impetuous younglings’ groans and grumblings.
“Gardram’s Tusks! Never bet against Amogg of the Hadakk,” Ragash said. “Not even at fifty paces in the dark. If you grubbs learn anything, learn that.”
Amogg nodded, pleased at her haul. A chieftain should live in such style, she thought, but food-gatherings and huntings had been weak this year and even the bees had produced less sweet than usual. One of the older and stronger grubbs tried in vain to prise her great axe from the tree, grunting with effort. She chuckled, strode over and wrenched it free in a shower of splinters.
The young grubb eyed the gold rings Amogg wore, each one denoting a hundred kills. “What’s the secret, Chieftain? How does we get so good and strong?” Their eyes were bright and eager and the nubs of adult tusks were beginning to jut from their lips. Downy fuzz was spreading across their neck, lower chin and chest, indicating that this grubb had chosen to become a male.
She grunted and dropped her axe into his arms. The slender grubb staggered under the weight of steel. “You carry the axe of my ancestors and you get plenty strong soon enough. Good? Hah, that takes practice. Chopping logs comes first, heads come later. And see this scar–” she traced a line down her entire torso, “–most of all, you need brains to survive and grow strong.”
The grubb sighed with relief as the chieftain took back her axe and leaned it against her shoulder, then he nodded earnestly and grinned at the dwindling fire. “Thank you, Chieftain. Burn needs more log so I start work on getting good now.” The grubb scampered off into the wood-housing with the heaviest axe he could find.
Amogg smiled, grabbed two of her new jars of mead and squatted by the fire, wincing as she did so. She handed the drunk-makers to the elders and began wiping tree blood off her axe head with a rag. She wasn’t fond of mead. Far too sweet for her tastes, and too easy to lose control. It was good for trading though.
Ragash noted her twinge of pain and glanced at her leg. “Pulled a muscle chucking that big axe, eh?” He stroked his white mane. “You’re an old boot almost worn through.”
Amogg winced again. “Nothing gets past you two, but the younglings don’t need to know that. That’s what the mead is for – to shut your yapping holes before I shut them for you.”
The elders chuckled and exchanged glances, coming to an agreement. “Amogg is strong like steel and enduring as the mountain,” Wundak said in the same tone she used when telling stories to gullible grubbs.
“And very generous,” Ragash added, taking a sip and smacking his lips.
Amogg grunted and set her axe to one side. “Why do I suffer you two fools?”
Ragash grinned. “Who else would put up with your ugly face and stinking farts?”
Wundak laughed at that, adding: “Reeks like a human!”
Amogg growled and swiped for their mead, but a worried shout from the forest gave her pause.
“Chieftain! Chieftain!”
Amogg heaved herself up, axe in hand, as a ringed orc in green and brown leathers crashed through the treeline. It was one of her eyes ’n’ ears out and about. He dashed over and stood panting before her.
“Three big ships have slipped past Gardram’s Tusks,” he gasped. “Lots of armed humans come ashore on smaller boats.”
The grubbs clustered round, shoving and kicking to get closer, babbling about wanting to go see the bad humans.
Amogg’d had enough of them. She punched one and it went down, skull smashed. “Still your tongues or I’ll rip them from your heads.” It was no great loss. Only a handful of their number, the strongest and brainiest of their brood, wou
ld survive to grow into an orc. Food was scarce until summer and the grubbs were many, so the weak or wrong were fed to the pigs or went straight into the pot.
Three of the grubbs tried to shut the others up. Amogg was impressed and noted their faces – those ones might grow to be leaders. “Orcs listen and learn from their elders,” she said. “Now, how many humans, and what drawing on the boat’s flag?”
The panting orc thought about it, his lips twisting from the effort. He held up ten fingers. “Ten of tens, I reckon. Black flag with a red whip. Barbed it was too.”
Amogg growled deep in her belly. “A hundred,” she replied. “Ten of tens is a hundred.” She licked the gold rings on her tusks as she tapped her axe against her shoulder. A hundred humans under the flag of the Scourge of Malice. That meant trouble. That meant the Chieftain of the Awildan Isles was on orcish shores.
“Grubbs!” she bellowed. “Get your shitty little arses back to the village and tell them to gather weapons and join us at the cliff. I’m off to cast an eye over Gardram’s Tusks.”
She didn’t wait for an answer before taking to her heels and heading west. The orc that had brought the warning accompanied her, ears hard against his skull and lips peeled back into a feral snarl.
The carpet of pine needles was fragrant and springy underfoot as she pounded along the forest floor. Twigs and icicles scraped her face and hands, but she barely felt it as she crashed through every obstacle. There wasn’t much that could stand in the way of a charging orc.
Ragash and Wundak quickly caught her up, bow staves slung over their shoulders and axes in their hands. A stag lifted its great antlered head as the four of them crashed through the undergrowth. It took one look and leapt a stream to escape.
The sound of surf crashing against rock grew louder and the soft dirt and pine needles underfoot were replaced by crumbling stone and a smattering of snow. Ahead of her the thick forest gave way to cloud and sky. Amogg slowed, settled down onto her belly and crawled forward to peer over the edge of the cliff.
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