by William King
“Light,” he said curtly as the servant entered. The human moved round the chamber, lighting the lanterns. It was that time of year when it still got dark quite early in the evening.
Sardec was glad that Xeno waited for the man to withdraw before they continued their conversation. Doubtless, he would wait outside listening to see what he could hear that might turn out to his advantage. Humans were all the same.
Xeno gave Sardec a wintery smile and gestured for him to be seated. The stool was hard and low so that Sardec found himself having to look up at his commander. It was a simple trick to make him feel his inferior position but it worked. Older Terrarchs stopped at nothing when it came to keeping their juniors in place. Wishing to show he was not intimidated, Sardec stretched out his long legs in front of him, and waited for the Colonel to speak.
“Things went a little astray,” Xeno said in his deceptively soft voice, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. There was a calm, chilly efficiency about the Colonel that always reminded Sardec of his father.
“Yes, sir,” said Sardec. “They did.”
“You were sent out to make an example of this so-called Prophet, and you failed.”
“Regrettably, the Prophet refused to fall in with our plans, sir. He simply was not there.”
“You think he got wind of our trap?”
“It’s hard to see how he could have, sir. You gave the order to set out as soon as you had news of his whereabouts.” Sardec thought it best to remind the Colonel exactly who had planned and authorised this mission, just in case he happened to be looking for a scapegoat. Xeno gave him his cold smile again. He understood the point.
The Colonel gestured to his clerk. The mute reached over and fumbled through the pile of thick, leather bound logbooks sitting on his table. He opened one and began to make several notes.
“You say there was a wizard who was involved with an Ultari, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you certain? No one has sighted one of those demon spawn in nearly a millennium. They are supposed to be extinct. We destroyed them utterly when we smashed Achenar.”
“I have never seen a living one, sir, but this fits all the descriptions in the Bestiaries. It was spider-like yet not a spider with the distinctive squid-like...”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I am familiar with what Ultari are supposed to look like. I mean are you sure it was not the product of some hallucinogenic enchantment, or an alchemically created illusion.” Sardec was suddenly conscious of his youth. If he had been only a century older, Xeno would not talk to him that way.
“It was physical, sir, as I think my wounds prove. The men saw it too.”
“Illusions are always plausible. Wounds can easily be inflicted by men in their panic.”
“I bear a truesilver blade, sir. It was not an illusion.” Sardec almost winced as he said the words.
“An ancestral heirloom I am given to understand.” Sardec wondered if Xeno was jealous. Such blades as Moonshade were rare. Even some of the Great Houses did not possess artefacts dating back to before the Exile. The Colonel’s smile widened and Sardec knew what he was going to say next. The clerk’s pen continued to scratch away.
“I understand one of your men used your blade to drive the Ultari off while you were incapacitated.” Sardec wished he could deny that but he prided himself on his honesty. If a Terrarch officer did not behave with honour, who would?
“That is so. The blade is being ritually purified now.”
“That does not concern me, Lieutenant. That is your business. I am merely concerned that this soldier’s bravery is properly recognised.”
“It was the one they call the Halfbreed, sir.” Sardec allowed his distaste to show in his voice. “Rik is his given name.”
“The one who appears to be possessed of some Terrarch blood? Well, at least he is not disgracing us.” Sardec looked at the Colonel. Was there a veiled insult there? Was he implying that somehow Sardec had? As a junior officer in the field, Sardec could not call the Colonel out, but they would not always be in the field, and then Sardec could find some reason to demand satisfaction he was sure.
“Let us return to the matter of the Ultari, Lieutenant.” The Colonel was being persistent in his line of questioning, Sardec noticed and wondered why? When dealing with older Terrarchs it was always better to be circumspect. Their motives were rarely straightforward.
“By all means, sir.”
“You are absolutely certain it was one.”
“As certain as I can be, never having encountered one before. It most assuredly answered to the description of one.”
“That is most unfortunate.”
“Why, sir?”
“The last war we fought with that demonic race was a bitter one. If they should have returned, it is a matter that needs investigated. The timing could not have been worse with this trouble brewing across the border.”
“You think it might not be coincidental, sir?”
“I most certainly hope it is coincidental but if it is not…”
“Master Severin might have been able to tell you more, sir.”
“Would that he could! Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what happened. Leave out nothing.”
The Colonel smiled blandly and they went over the tale again and again. All through the interview the clerk’s pen scratched on and on and the whole debacle was recorded for posterity in the Regiment’s Chronicle.
“The renegade wizard was a Terrarch?” asked Xeno.
“His head proves that,” said Sardec, smarting from the fact that he had not been present to witness the death. That was something the Inquiry would bring out.
“I wonder who he was.”
“His name was Alzibar, sir. Or so the hill-man Vosh claimed.”
“I know that, Lieutenant. I meant what his background was.”
“I do not know, sir. Perhaps he was a Kharadrean or perhaps some renegade from the Dark Empire. Or if not, then some adventurer; one of those who have disgraced themselves in the Realm and seek refuge into Kharadrea.”
“You were not in Kharadrea, Lieutenant.”
“Let us say, sir, that the exact position of the border is unclear in that area.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. I like that. A precise piece of imprecision.”
“There were no clues to the Terrarch’s identity save the sorcerous tokens he bore. Perhaps our wizards can find a clue there. I understand my Sergeant delivered them to the Masters.”
“Let us hope so. If that fails there are always the prisoners.”
“We questioned them thoroughly, sir.”
“The Inquisition will most likely be more thorough. I have sent for an Inquisitor.” Of course, thought Sardec. This would be an Inquisition matter now.
“When will the inquiry be, sir?”
“Whenever it is politic. The date is as yet undecided.” Sardec wondered what exactly that meant. Did he mean an investigation might embarrass some notable? Or did he mean that now, with rumours of war abounding, was not a good time to have tales of Terrarchs involved in dark sorceries circulating. His father had told him that such things had been covered up in the past.
“It is possible that the sorcerer was not a Terrarch at all,” said Xeno blandly. “Perhaps he was some half-blooded renegade. Do you think that is possible, lieutenant?”
Sardec considered this. He could see what Xeno was driving at. Having the humans know that one of the Exalted was in league with the powers of Shadow would be a blow to their prestige and thus their power. That was not needed with the winds of a new war blowing across the Ascalean continent. It was one thing for them to hear rumours about the Dark Empire. It was another thing for them to have proof of things their small minds were not capable of dealing with. Even so Sardec could not bring himself to lie outright. “I was not present at the kill, sir.”
“A very diplomatic answer. But you have seen the head?”
“Yes, sir.”
&
nbsp; “And you agree with me that it could belong to a half-breed.”
“It could, sir.” That was true. In death, it was difficult to tell.
Xeno smiled. “All things considered you did well, Lieutenant Sardec, as I would expect from the scion of such an illustrious family.”
Sardec searched for irony in Xeno’s words and could find none. “Sir?”
“This Zarahel may have slipped through our grasp but his wizard is dead, the Ultari is imprisoned deep below the earth and we have taught the hill-men a bloody lesson. That was the whole point of the exercise, and I would say you and your men have achieved your goals admirably.”
Despite himself, Sardec felt the praise affecting him. This was his first real solo field command and he was relieved at simply not having disgraced his family’s name.
“I will make sure Lord Azaar knows of your performance once he arrives.”
“Lord Azaar, sir?” Sardec could not keep the astonishment out of his voice. “The Conqueror?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. The Lord of Battles himself is taking command in the field. He’s a friend of your family, I believe.”
It was now evident why the Colonel was being so pleasant, Sardec thought sourly. The small feeling of pride he had taken in Xeno’s commendation vanished. The Colonel was playing politics. If Azaar was their new supreme commander, and their new supreme commander was a friend of Sardec’s family then it was only sensible for the Colonel to stay on good terms with him. Sardec made a swift calculation. He would prefer to be judged on his own merits but he knew that was impossible in the modern army. He would need all the advantages he could get. War was coming, and there would be a great deal of manoeuvring among the junior officers for promotion. Sardec meant to see that some of that glory was reflected on his House and on himself.
“He’s a friend of my father, sir.”
“Very good. I thought you would like to know that he will be taking up residence at Lady Asea’s palace. She is his half-sister.”
“I would greatly appreciate permission to send my card, and would request permission to visit the Lady, should she be kind enough as to request my presence.”
“I am sure we could see our way clear to that,” said the Colonel. He looked down at his papers. As all the junior officers knew it was a clear indication that the interview was over.
“You may go, Lieutenant,” said Xeno just to emphasise the point.
Chapter Twelve
The camp buzzed with rumours of the new commander. It seemed like every second person had something to say on the subject. Rik did not care all that much. He was tired and wet. He had spent most of the afternoon playing dead in a ditch while Hef and the lads stormed a makeshift emplacement. Sardec had ruled that he had been hit by enemy fire and ordered him to lie there face down in the mud, surrounded by stinging nettles. He was hungry. They were allowed only water and the smallest rations of the plainest of foods during the Mourning.
Rik already had plenty to think about. He had seen with his own eyes that most of the town’s carters had been hired indefinitely on the Queen’s Commission. General proclamations had been posted on every tree and tavern wall announcing that Her Majesty was paying good silver to any man in possession of a wagon prepared to do his patriotic duty. That could only mean one thing. Weasel put it in words.
“It’s war for sure, Halfbreed. They would not be doing all this hiring if it was not. There will be supplies to carry. I think I’ll pay the Quartermaster a visit.”
Perhaps he was thinking that where there were government contracts there would be money to be made or perhaps he still had hopes of organising a good drinking session. So far, despite his best efforts, Weasel had not been able to get either the advance he had hoped for or permission to leave camp. It seemed like the Quartermaster was busy using his influence elsewhere. The Barbarian swaggered after him.
There was still some light left. Most of the older men wanted back to their beds or their wives. The younger ones wanted to head down to the stream to flirt with the free girls. Rik begged off and headed to his billet, stripped and changed into his old tattered, patched uniform. He knew he should find one of the camp girls and pay her to wash his dirty tunic and britches, but there was nobody there, so he took the sack of books out of its hiding place, opened one volume and inspected it.
It was hand-written, in classic Exalted runes in a small crabbed hand. As he flicked through it he noticed that some parts were comprehensible, written in the vernacular. Others were written in High Exalted, a language favoured by scholars and wizards, and still others in the runes and hieroglyphs of the Elder Races. This volume had an air of great antiquity. The leaves seemed very dry, as if they might turn to dust at any moment.
A feeling of despair settled on him. How was he ever going to decipher this? His grasp of the vernacular was reasonable. Koralyn had taught him how to cipher it out well enough, claiming it was invaluable knowledge for a thief. Rik wished the former master of his first gang were here now. He wished he were still alive. Koralyn had been a wicked old bastard but he was the closest thing to a father Rik had ever known.
Rik had never really known his whole story, but he knew that Koralyn was well-educated for a thief in the slums of Sorrow and had not always lived there. In his youth he had travelled far before ending up becalmed, as he called it, in the City of Thieves. He claimed most consistently to have come from Harven Greatport in Northern Kharadrea, but then he had claimed to have come from a hundred different places at different times.
Being a compulsive liar was an occupational hazard for a thief, as he had always said himself. It had not saved him in the end though, and he had gone to an inglorious death, weeping and begging for mercy on the Lowgate Gallows. Rik had gone to watch the hanging, his head full of tales of daring escapes such as highwaymen always made in the chapbooks. He had considered all manner of rescue plans himself, but of course, they had never happened.
Old Koralyn had come out surrounded by a squad of soldiers, accompanied by the hangman in his black mask. There was no way anyone could rescue him. No one had even wanted to, not even some of his friends who were present. The whole thing had the atmosphere of a public holiday. The street and square were crowded, as were all the nearby windows. There were even boys sitting on the roofs and chimney pots. They had all come to witness the death, to look on at that primal mystery, the transition of one man out of life.
The hangman had read the text from the Scriptures about the Queen’s Justice and the punishment of the guilty. Koralyn had raved and begged without dignity. Rik had been so angry about it that he had half-wished the old man dead himself, and had felt guilty about it ever afterwards. Then Koralyn has taken the Drop. His body had been cut down. His head was cut off and stuck on a pike over the Lowgate as a warning to other malefactors. The crowd, having chatted and eaten its way through this exemplary lesson in royal justice, had dispersed to the taverns. Always good for business, a hanging, an innkeeper in the square had told him.
Rik had learned no lesson that day. The hanging of someone he knew had scared him just enough so that he did not steal anything for several days, until his belly had started to growl and he felt dizzy. He had snatched a watch from an old lawyer’s pocket as the man had taken him into a back alley looking for a blowjob. He had almost not gotten away with it. After that he had fallen in with the Old Witch and her gang of youthful pickpockets and thieves, and his education had really begun.
Rik shook his head. All of this reminiscing was getting him nowhere. He knew he was merely putting off the task at hand. He needed to make a start on this book if he was ever to learn something from it. If you don’t start, you can’t finish as the Old Witch had always said. It was getting dark but that did not bother him. His eyes had always been good in the dark.
He tried another one of the books, flipped open the first page, and began laboriously to read.
To begin with the book was not as bad as Rik had feared. At least it was written in contem
porary Exalted. There were many words he could not follow, many sorcerous terms he did not recognise, but the gist of things was clear, and not a little disappointing. The book was indeed a sorcerer’s journal, a combination of diary and commonplace book. It contained his thoughts on his art, on what he had learned, and how he thought he should proceed. There was a great deal of mathematical notation and a few astronomical diagrams.
The mage wrote about the way sorcerous power ebbed and flowed at certain times, that these times could be deduced from the position of the stars and planets, and, more importantly, that certain entities could be contacted much more clearly under these specific conditions. It all made a certain sort of sense to Rik. If you had more power at certain times, working magic should be easier, he thought.
He was disappointed that there were no spells, incantations or inscriptions of easy magical use. The chapbooks were always full of those, and of young apprentices unwisely summoning demons. At the moment the only thing he could imagine unwisely summoning from reading this book was a headache.
He flicked through the other two books and they were worse. He could make out some of the words. There were lots of strange glyphs depicting spider-like beings which reminded him uncomfortably of the thing in the mine. There were references in the margin in the familiar crabbed hand to Uran Ultar, the Spider God, demon-wizard of the ancients, that made him more uncomfortable yet. It brought home to him that these books dealt in forbidden knowledge, and that knowledge had been forbidden for a good reason. Rik had never heard anything good of Uran Ultar, only shadowy tales of spidery demons, devoured souls and evil magic. The book referred to him sometimes as the Scuttler in the Shadows, at others as the Weaver between Worlds. They were not reassuring terms.
He put the books back in their leather sack and put the sack back in its place. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling and wondered about the wisdom of what he was doing. There was knowledge in these books but it was knowledge that endangered his soul if all that the temple brothers had told him was true. He was not entirely sure he believed any of that any more. His faith, so strong and simple as a child, had been chipped away by the life he had led. He had been around death enough to consider agreeing with those philosophers who thought that maybe the body was just a machine of sorts, one that ceased to function when important parts were broken. It was not a comforting thought, that this was the only life he would ever have and that when it ended, as it might at any moment, he was gone. He could understand why the priests objected to that idea so much, calling it a council of despair straight from shadow. If he did have a soul, he wondered, and these books held the power to change his life, was it worth risking that soul in pursuit of power? In theory the answer was simple. No. He was risking life eternal for nothing more than worldly gain.