by Andy Sparrow
The various bands of rebels gathered out of curiosity. Torrin did not waste time urging them to join him; he simply told them what he planned to do, confident that they would stay if only to watch the spectacle. But he was also sure that they would take their chance for vengeance and victory if it presented, first against the Synod, and then probably against each other. The gathering in the plaza was not unnoticed by those within the citadel, darting shapes moved between the battlements and the clinking of steel could be heard from invisible sources behind the slit windows. The defenders, looking out, saw the gathered forces withdraw, leaving only an empty expanse of flagstones, smeared here and there by blackening bloody stains. All became quiet, disturbed only by the chattering birds that made their perch on the stone shoulders of the statue of God. The defenders waited, fingers teasing the crossbow latches, knuckles white around the sword hilts. Then there was a rumbling of iron wheel rims on stone.
Torrin had the two carts loaded with as many bottles and jars of oil as could be gathered. Ten men pushed each of them, gripping the shafts between which horse or oxen would be yoked, sending the wagon rattling backwards onto the plaza. Archers ran out too, ducking, weaving, then crouching as they loosed their strings. The covering fire they gave reduced the volleys that rained from the wall-tops, but did little to diminish the deadly barbs that issued from the window slits. Torrin gripped the end of the shaft of one wagon, trying to steer it without much success. The men around him were skewered one by one and fell. As each man tumbled or clutched at the arrow that pierced him, the load became greater and the cartwheels slowed. The second wagon veered from its course and caught a wheel upon the statue plinth. The timber spokes splintered and collapsed. The cart tumbled over shedding its load, the jars chinking and splintering, oil spreading in a glassy film across the flagstones.
Torrin’s cart rolled to a stop with only half the distance to the gate completed. He dived underneath, gasping for breath, as the arrows fell all around. The stone was greasy with oil leaking from the broken vessels. He looked back into the streets and alleys where many had gathered to watch the drama play. He saw the man Aracus and his band who had not yet drawn their weapons.
‘Well then,’ he thought, ‘let us see if you are the man I believe you to be.’
Torrin rolled out from his refuge and put a shoulder to the wagon. It was a load too great for one man to move, but still he pushed, and then the arrows flew down at him again. The wheels shifted suddenly as other muscles shared the load; Aracus was beside him bellowing orders to his men and the now the wagon was gathering speed. An arrow splintered the timber of the cart between them, an arrow bound with wadding, dowsed in fat that burned and flamed.
“They are trying to light our fire too soon,” shouted Aracus. There was an eruption of flame and a searing blast of heat as the pool of oil surrounding the other cart ignited close behind them. More fire-arrows fell upon them and caught the timbers ablaze, but they pushed onwards, gathering speed, rattling and rumbling towards the gate. Many arrows found their mark, men fell, timber blazed, but no power now could hold the wagon from its course.
“Steady, steady!” shouted Torrin as they came to the final push, as he fought to steer and guide the wheels towards the target.
“Now!” he yelled out, “let it go!”
Those surviving jumped and rolled aside. The burning wagon hit the gate. Jars smashed, tumbled, and ignited on the flaming timbers; Torrin felt a wave of heat scorch him, saw the brightness through his hard screwed eyes, heard the roar and crackle of the fire. He rolled away from the searing heat, from the arrows, chinking upon the flagstones, and lurched up, weaving and stumbling his way across the open space until the walls of an alley closed around him.
They watched as the timber of the gate blazed and ruptured, as the spars became twisted ebony that sheared and fell. Torrin faced the Captain of the bodyguard, Aracus and other leaders of the diverse armed groups.
“If we will all move together,” said Torrin, “our number will be more than two thousand. We will take the inner circle and then move upon the Cloisters.”
“It is the tower we must take first, before we concern ourselves with the Brothers,” said one of the listeners, followed by many murmurs of agreement.
“They hold Valhad,” stated Torrin, “and that is where I must go.”
“What is left of Valhad by now, would be better left to die,” said Aracus, sadly.
“Let him heal himself this time,” someone called out in scathing, bitter tones.
“You must all make your choice,” said Torrin, “but it is not only Valhad that the Cloisters hold. All of you know some that have been taken there, who could live still; it is there that I will go.”
“I still say the tower should come first,” said Aracus, “but if you must go to the Cloisters then I shall fight beside you. What do you all say, shall we make our first call upon the Brothers?”
There were angry shouts of agreement, for Torrin had been right and every man had his own score to settle with that fraternity.
“Then that is decided,” said Torrin, “now go and prepare your men, for the gates will soon be ash and there must be no delay.”
As they dispersed, Torrin turned to the commander of the bodyguard.
“Where is His Lordship, Captain?”
“I do not know. I last saw him before the assault upon the gates.”
“We have managed well enough without him. Are your men ready?”
“They are.”
“Will you fight beside me, Captain?”
“Yes, and die; if God should will it.”
They massed in every street leading to the plaza. Torrin, Aracus and the Captain stood at the head of the greatest column, swords drawn, hearts thumping, watching the blazing gate in its dying contortions. A great timber fell in a shower of sparks and through the heat-haze they saw the avenue of the inner circle, and the gate of the tower beyond. There was no barricade, as Torrin had feared, no ordered ranks of waiting bowmen to bring the first wave of their attack tumbling to a bloodied halt.
“Maybe they have withdrawn to the tower,” said Aracus.
“The Synod retreat?” said the Captain, “with God as their ally?”
“Well, now we shall see,” said Torrin. “Shall we let them know that we are coming?”
“Why not?” said Aracus, and the three let a scream rent the air as they waved their swords and led the charge upon the gate. Behind them the scream became a roar of two thousand voices; of twice that many pounding feet, of steel sliding from leather, of bowstrings drawing tight. The plaza was engulfed by the tide of running bodies, by an eruption of sound, by lifetimes of deep burning anger finally unleashed upon the world.
They leapt the smouldering timbers and emerged into the space beyond. They did not stop running, did not make themselves targets for any bolts that might fly. Only when they saw what lay strewn upon the ground did they halt, and crouch, eyes darting all around. Bodies lay scattered; priest soldiers pierced by arrows and slashed by blades.
“What’s happened here?” asked Aracus, “and are any left for us to fight?”
“We can hope not,” said Torrin. “Come on quickly, to the Cloisters.”
They ran on toward the high forbidding wall that shielded the Brothers of Redemption and their dark practices from the eyes of the world. Behind them their disparate army surged through the gate. Some stopped to hack at the bodies of the fallen priests, others to set ablaze the lush villas of the elite, but most ran in an angry, shouting, surging mass close behind them.
The gate of the Cloisters was open. They halted panting, sweat stinging their eyes.
“A trap?” suggested Aracus.
“Aye,” said Torrin, “it could be. There is a dark tunnel beyond and we would make easy targets against the light.”
“They may have arrows enough for three,” said the Captain, “or even thirty…”
“But not for all of us,” said Torrin, as their men massed beh
ind them. He raised the curved blade and led the charge, screaming defiance to whoever awaited them beyond. As the roar of voices and running feet echoed in the dark tunnel Torrin expected every moment to be his last, but again no arrows flew. The gate at the tunnel’s end stood ajar and he rushed through to the courtyard where there were more bodies; the Brothers of Redemption lay all around where blades had cut them down. Some had arms raised in impotent defence but all had a look in their rictus of confusion and disbelief; as if death had come from some unexpected quarter. The courtyard was filling quickly with angry milling warriors. Doors and archways surrounded them. Torrin hesitated, trying to recall; agonising over which to choose.
“Through there,” he said, pointing to heavy double doors with his blade, “that is where they hold their ‘heretics’.”
Some of their men were already advancing up the few broad steps to the portal when the heavy doors began a slow outward swing. They stopped, clasping their weapons tightly, an expectant, brooding silence crept over them. From the shadow within the archway, figures stepped forward.
They were priest-soldiers, but with the symbol of the triangle and the circle torn from their uniforms. Their blades dripped blood. They gathered before the open doors, giving hard stares and stern looks, still holding their weapons tightly. The impasse was brief, for then they stepped aside to reveal another figure emerging from the gloom. There was a collective murmur, a sigh, a bowing of many heads as they saw the burden that was carried. The body of Valhad lay limp in the arms that held it. The flesh was scored and scorched, but the face seemed at peace, resting in final perpetual sleep; the task that was appointed now complete.
Torrin let his sword arm hang limp at last, and felt the failure overwhelm him. It was only then he let his gaze rise higher to the second face, to the man who stood now cradling his young friend’s body and whose cheeks were wet with tears, whose clothes were cut and bloodstained from the assault upon the Cloisters; Cardinal Saloxe. As Cardinal Saloxe stood forward now, preparing to speak to those assembled, Torrin’s hand tightened again on his sword. He had his own words to say, and they would be loud and angry. Then he felt the knife prick his skin and heard the whispered words in his ear.
“I regret,” said the Captain, “that I cannot let you speak.”
Other figures sidled to him. A second dagger teased his skin. They pulled him towards another doorway, blades threatening to puncture when he resisted. All eyes were turned towards Cardinal Saloxe and none saw Torrin taken.
“Brave men of Etoradom,” the Cardinal called out, “noble men, blessed by God in your victory over evil and oppression….”
Torrin heard the beginning of the speech but then the words were lost as he was dragged and bundled along a dim passage. They pushed him into a dank unlit cell and manacled his wrists; the cold metal clasps pinching his flesh as they were snapped shut and locked. Then, without a word, his captors left him; the door slammed, the bolts latched, and the waiting began.
The flagstones were chill beneath him but his chained wrists were anchored to the floor such that he could not stand or even rise above a crouch. As the time passed in chill darkness, sound became his only contact with the world. The speech begun by Cardinal Saloxe continued. He could not hear the words but he did hear the chorus of the audience, of the men he had fought beside. First murmuring in approval and agreement, then roaring and cheering as the speech reached its conclusion. When the ovations finally faded other sounds began.
There were shouts of orders being given, some muffled, some distinct, and heavy footsteps passing with a clank of steel. There were the echoing thuds of prison doors thrown open, and then sometimes sobs of joy and gratitude from those released. There was angry cursing too, with protestations of innocence and betrayal, as the newly emptied cells received fresh occupants. Finally, marching feet approached and halted at his door; a key turned, and a figure was silhouetted in the open doorway.
“Vasagi?”
“Lordship,” replied Torrin with an undertone of both relief and lurking suspicion. Then his anger eclipsed the other emotions and he spat out his next words.
“I somehow guessed you had a part in this. Now tell me why Saloxe walks free and why I am in here.”
His Lordship did not reply at once but pulled the cell door closed. He crouched down until his eyes were level with Torrin’s and set between them a flickering lantern. Torrin squinted, dazzled by the little beacon that dispelled the long darkness as His Lordship began to speak.
“While you were making your attack upon the gates, Saloxe, very wisely, saw the time was right to change allegiances. It would seem the commander of the tower guard was also persuaded. The other members of the Synod were butchered, quite savagely, before Saloxe brought his men here to deal with the Brotherhood.”
“Saloxe. Saloxe,” Torrin spat the name out distastefully, “ he of all men. Have they forgotten who he is? He was the Synod, and now they stand and cheer his words.”
“How would they know him, Vasagi? The Synod had neither names nor faces. As my protector you glimpsed what others could not. You know the name of Saloxe, and where his duties lay. But who else now knows this? And do not say the Brothers of these Cloisters because…”
His voice became quieter, like a bitter wind that whispers and chills in the night.
“Because they are all dead, Vasagi, like the Synod. There are very few of us who know the truth of Cardinal Saloxe.”
His Lordship took a breath and paused. He seemed to be uncertain for a moment, hesitant, like a messenger whose words could spark much anger.
“You know,” he continued, “that it was Saloxe who ordered Valhad to be taken. He judged it would be easier, with the great heretic gone, to crush those that remained. He would have been right, but you were there; a man not tangled in their petty feuds. Perhaps you were more than that, Vasagi, for you seem to have some power in the leading of men. But with all your bravery you could not save him in time. I knew this, which is why I did what had to be done.”
He paused expectantly, looking Torrin in the eye, awaiting his reaction, which flared angrily a moment later.
“You went to Saloxe! When we were fighting at the gates! Brave men were dying and you were plotting with our enemy!”
“Vasagi, we both sought to save Valhad; each in our own way.” His Lordship spoke quietly but the words trembled slightly as if some troubled emotion lurked beneath them.
“And what bargain did you make, my Lordship?” Torrin spat the words at him, eyes burning with accusation. Then His Lordship raised his voice almost to a shout, the first time Torrin had ever witnessed such a loss of control.
“I went to the outer gate of the spoke wall and surrendered myself! You may have risked your life with a sword to save him, but I chanced mine too. And not just from a stab or an arrow. They would have brought me here and made a very slow vengeance for my treachery. That is the risk I took, so don’t judge me. Yes, I made a bargain, one that saved your life and many others too. Why do you think the gates were not defended? Cardinal Saloxe is no fool. I gave him a last chance to make the choice and join us. Only he could enter here before the Brother’s work on Valhad was complete, only he had the power to save him.”
His Lordship’s voice faltered and he lowered his eyes as if he knew what Torrin’s reply would be.
“But, Lordship, he did not save him.”
A slow shaking of the head came before the answer.
“Vasagi, we cannot know what happened here; Saloxe may have come too late.”
“Or perhaps he finished the task for them.” Torrin’s quiet words smouldered with a dark fire. “Now, tell me what else was bargained.”
His Lordship raised his eyes again to meet Torrin’s stare before he made his reply.
“Etoradom! Etoradom; that is what was bargained. No man can rule from the high tower if it burns and falls. That is why I made my pact with him. I despise Saloxe but I will share Etoradom with him before I see it broken.”
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“And what suits Etoradom best?” came Torrin’s bitter question, “Valhad alive or Valhad dead? How much of his blood stains your hand?”
His Lordship’s temper flared again. “I swear to you in God’s name there was nothing more I could do to save him.”
“God, now is it? And what would you know of Him, ‘priest’?”
There could have been no more venom in Torrin’s scathing words but His Lordship did not respond angrily. Instead, he leaned forward and a calmness seemed to settle over him. There was a quiet conviction in his voice that Torrin had never heard before and a light glinting in his eye that was brighter than the reflected lantern flame.
“You know,” he said, “when we first met upon the ship my faith, my belief, had grown so thin. And then God revealed himself, and gave to me a gift. Two men floating on the sea, each to serve me in their own way. Each to play their part in the building of empire; an empire blessed by God and trusted by Him to my stewardship. God has judged that Valhad’s work is done, but mine only now truly begins and will not be complete until this world is governed from His appointed crown of Etoradom.”
“Your empire, Lordship? Did Cardinal Saloxe agree to that too? And does Etoradom not already have an Emperor?”
“There is an old man brooding in darkness who will find no more provisions delivered to him. The few that remain with him will slip away to join us; his court will grow smaller, and colder. And as for Saloxe; he and I have reached an accommodation that will suffice for a while. He will concern himself with the governance of Etoradom and I shall have dominion over our… foreign policy. But do not be too concerned with the Cardinal, he may be secure for now, but I suspect that the new church will enjoy its first excommunication before too long.”
“The new church?”
“A new church for a new empire. For what other purpose would God bring Valhad to me? He was a great prophet and must have his rightful place amongst the most Holy saints of the Text.”