by William King
Ah, but what if the priests were wrong, and what if the despairers were right? And what if these books pointed some other way to eternal life in this world? The priests of the Spider God were said to have had that secret. It was certain that some ancient wizards had known it. Even the Terrarchs confirmed that.
In his life he had done enough to get himself damned already according to the priests’ view of the world. There were few crimes he had not committed in his time in Sorrow and after. He had stolen, lied, killed, borne false witness, fornicated, committed adultery, and all before he was fifteen. The chances were that he was damned already. What did he have to lose? The scales had been stacked against him from the moment of his birth. Perhaps these books were the only chance to balance them he would ever get.
And he was curious. He wanted to know what was in them, to be privy to forbidden knowledge, to be in some ways like his unknown father, to steal the fire of the Exalted’s strange heaven.
All of which brought him to another thing. It was obvious that he did not have the training for this. The little bits of hedge lore he had picked up from the Old Witch had not prepared him for such work in any way. Whoever had written this book had possessed a great deal of education in a great many arts. He had a working knowledge of mathematics, astrology, alchemy, ancient pre-human lore, and a grasp of many languages. You could only pick that up at a University, or from being apprenticed to a wizard, or as a priest, perhaps all three.
Rik’s hopes of easy power and wealth had already been dashed. It was obvious the road to mastery would be a long one. Perhaps the best plan after all was to try and sell the books to some scholar who might have a use for them. The one who had written it had managed to summon and communicate with an Elder World demon. His knowledge would be useful to the right person.
Rik shook his head and rose to a sitting position. He was not going to give up so easily. He was going to continue with what he had started for as long as he could, and see what he could decipher. These books were his first real contact with true lore, with the great world of high sorcery. They were not like the cheap herb-books and star charts and books of purported love charms you could pick up in the book markets of Sorrow. This was the real thing. They had been the possession of an actual wizard, and he must be able to learn from them. There had to be something useful there. He refused to believe there could not be.
Just as the thought crossed his mind Leon stuck his head inside the door. “Time to eat,” he said. “Looks like the cooks have excelled themselves today.”
“What is it? Boiled boot sole with a bowl of sewage soup?”
“Even better! It’s the Stew!”
“The cook is a sadist. He waits until we are ravenous and then serves boiled vomit.”
“I think I would prefer boiled vomit.”
Rik rose from the bed, and strode out the door. The air was cold. A breeze blew down from the mountains, and he thought he caught a hint of moisture in it. A glance at the distant peaks showed them shrouded in cloud.
“Looks like rain,” Rik said.
“You think we’ll be heading off soon? They say the new General and his retinue are already here. They are hiring carts in the city for supplies. All the girls at the stream are talking about it. They don’t fancy hiking through the pass this early in the year.”
“I am sure the Terrarchs will take their feelings into consideration.”
“You really think we’re going then? Really?” Leon was as excited as a puppy playing with a rag.
“I don’t think they sent one of the high lord muck-a-mucks down here just for his health.”
“It’ll be the first time I have ever been out of the Realm.”
“For me too. We signed up together, remember?”
“What do you think of Sarah?” Rik was used to his old friend’s sudden changes of topic but he still found them annoying sometimes when he wanted to think.
“She’s pretty, but isn’t she going with Bear?”
“She was but they had a falling out. She says she’ll go out walking with me if I ask. Ana told me she likes me.”
“I thought you were sweet on that town girl, whatshername?”
“Bethia. I was but she took up with a hussar. Says he has a destrier and will take her riding.”
“I am sure he will, just not in the way she thinks.”
“I don’t like the hussars, neither does Handsome Jan. He says they are stealing all the girls. The girls think they have nicer uniforms than ours.”
“They have destriers,” said Rik. “Destriers cost money. Girls like men with money.”
“You are a cynical bastard, Rik,” said Leon. “Sabena certainly changed you.”
Rik had no desire to talk about that particular betrayal. It sometimes amazed him how raw it still made him feel. He did not know what annoyed him more, the fact that she had suckered him so easily, or the fact that he had so desperately wanted to believe her love for him was real even when he had proof that it was not.
“It amazes me that you are not cynical. Are you sure you are from Sorrow?”
“You know I am,” said Leon.
“It was a joke.”
“Yes, of course, I knew that.”
“Come on, let’s get something to eat. They say the cooking is not nearly so good in times of war.”
“Maybe we can get the cook shot as an enemy spy. We can say he is trying to poison us poor soldiers.”
“He could probably cause more casualties than an enemy brigade.”
Laughing they went to their meal.
Chapter Thirteen
Sardec sat in his chamber in the Inn, wrestling with his dissatisfaction. He was tired from a long day of supervising his troops. The Foragers were an unruly bunch at the best of times and keeping them hard at their practise manoeuvres had been difficult. Plus his wounds still ached despite all the spells of the regimental wizards and all the alchemy of the regimental healers. He knew he was not at his full strength. At least he was in better condition than poor Master Severin.
He was not entirely happy with the Colonel's practise of continuing the training exercises through the period of Mourning. It seemed to him almost blasphemous although he could understand the reasoning behind it. With war coming they needed to be ready.
Servants had already cleaned his room. All his gear was in place. He had checked, because you could never be sure with humans. The only thing missing was his sword, which was still being purified by the priests. He found that he missed it badly. It was a link with his House and family and their glorious heritage, a reminder of all the things he had to live up to, and which he feared he could not. A prayer crystal on a black ribbon dangled above the window, part of someone’s attempt at Mourning Time decoration.
Sardec had brought a small platter of bread and cheese and a jug of water with him. He took the Mourning seriously, and felt disgusted that some of his brother officer’s did not. It was a link with the Old World of Al’Terra and the high history of the Terrarchs. Briefly he took time to consider what it represented, the death of a world and of an angel and the casting out of the last remains of a mighty people, into exile on a strange world of demon -worshipping barbarians.
Mourning Time taught an important lesson to his people. It showed that though the Terrarchs had been beaten they had risen again triumphant. The royal island of Talassa might have disappeared below the sea, carrying all its shining towers with it, and the Princes of Shadow and the corrupt hordes that followed them might have driven the Terrarchs from their lands and destroyed their whole civilisation, but his folk had passed through the ancient portals that linked the worlds, and found a new home here on Gaeia. A mere ten thousand of them had conquered the short-lived humans and taught them the ways of true civilisation. They had built a new nation under strange skies, the mightiest empire this world had seen since the time of the Elder Races.
He thought about Lord Azaar. There was someone who truly understood what it meant. The Lord of Battles
had walked the glades of Al’ Terra and fought beside the Three Hundred before the Fall. He had fought his long private war against the assassin cult of the Shadowblood who killed his family. He had seen the blessed light of the Eternal Realm and spoken to the Dragon Angel Adaana herself. He had planned the conquest of the ancient barbaric human empires, and he had led the armies of the Scarlet Queen during the Great Schism that had brought down the First Empire. When the Dark Empire had risen in the East following that hell-bitch Arachne, he had fought its armies to a standstill. His was a name that still struck fear into the hearts of Talorea’s enemies.
The General’s dispatch to this small army was not too surprising. Even if it was war, this force was not going to be the main spearhead. This was not a glorious post at all, as Sardec was in a position to know. Sending the General who had planned and executed the Conquest here could be construed as something of an insult but everyone knew Azaar was out of favour at the court. The young Queen was no longer so young, and she no longer needed her old guardian, tutor and protector. Perhaps it was as his mother claimed and Arielle was asserting her independence by casting Azaar and Asea and others among the First from the light of her favour. That was natural Sardec thought. He could understand why she would want to sweep away the Old Guard and replace them with more modern advisors.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” he said. One of the serving wenches came in. She was a pretty girl as human’s went, plump and cheerful. Tonight she wore only a thin shift and he was uncomfortably aware that the curves of her body were very visible below it. Suddenly the room felt strangely warm and his mouth felt strangely dry. He strove to remember her name and found that he could not.
“What is it?” he asked. She made a small curtsey and looked up into his eyes. Her lips parted invitingly. Was she coming on to him? Her eyes went down and a faint flush came to her cheeks. He found his own eyes drawn downwards to her décolletage. He wrenched them away, feeling a little embarrassed and oddly, guiltily aroused himself.
“What is it, girl?” She held out a silver plate to him and he noticed there were letters on it.
“Came in with the courier, sir. They are for you.” Her voice was low and husky and he thought he heard a note of invitation in it. He knew that Jazeray and the others often had their way with these wenches, but such pleasures were beneath him. Still…
“Leave it on the table then,” he said, his voice gruffer than he intended. She walked slowly and sensuously across to the table, put the plate down, and then turned to look at him. Again there was that frank, measuring, inviting look.
“Will that be all, sir?” she asked. He found his eyes flickering momentarily towards the bed. She noticed his look and made a small involuntary movement in that direction. Not wanting to be misinterpreted, he said, too hastily.
“That will be all, girl. You may go.” She looked at him oddly.
“Are you sure, sir?” A small flash of anger passed through him, as well as an odd reluctance. Who was she to question her betters?
“Of course, I am sure, girl.” Slowly and almost reluctantly she went. And almost as reluctantly he let her go. Once she was gone, he loosened his tunic and slumped down in his chair. He felt ashamed and embarrassed. For a brief moment there, he had felt the urge to throw her on the bed and bury himself in her, to rut like a beast with one of the lower orders.
That was not seemly, he thought, though it had been happening to him more and more of late. Such feelings were common to Terrarch males of his age, the thirties were famously a dangerous time, but he found the whole concept disgusting. He pushed the thought from his mind. He got up stalked about the room and then eventually picked up the letters.
He allowed himself to sit down on the bed, and begin to work through the mail. He crossed his legs neatly as he lounged back in his armchair. His thoughts drifted back to their new commander. Perhaps Azaar really had lost his gifts as some claimed. Certainly his long slide from the Queen’s favour showed that he had lost his grasp of the basics of Terrarch politics. He had fallen a long way from the pinnacle of prestige he had once occupied.
Sardec shook his head. As his father always said, gossip was the curse of the Terrarchs. We are a race with too much time on our hands and too much malice in our hearts. It was an old joke. Put three Terrarchs together and you will get five conspiracies. His experience in the army had allowed him to see the truth in that.
There were several letters. He put the one from his sister aside for later reading, and opened the one from his father at once. It began with the customary formalities, his father was a stickler for them, and then got to the meat of the matter;
My son, good news indeed. My old friend, the Lord Azaar, has been appointed commander of your Regiment and its associates in the new army of the South Eastern Provinces. I had word from Count Urazel at court this morning, and it appears our beloved Queen, may she reign ten thousand years, placed her signature on the document this morning. I have written to my old comrade and requested a place for you on his staff. I feel sure that this will be granted.
I cannot stress enough how you must do your utmost to serve your new commanding officer, and not alone because that is every officer’s duty. He is worthy of every respect, and of your emulation. I will be most happy if you take him as your model in all things. Pay particular attention to his thoughts on matters military, my son, for Azaar is the finest General the Exalted ever fielded, and there is much to be learned from a commander who has never lost a battle. You may find some of his thinking perhaps a little unfashionable, but Azaar has always been a committed Scarlet, and I feel it is speaks well of him that he remains so even when it is no longer the orthodoxy of the hour.
I feel we are approaching a time when being Scarlet will find its way back into favour. War with the Blues is coming, and that always rallies our people to the Scarlet cause. It is my sincerest wish that you excel in service to my old friend. My one regret is that my damnable illness prevents me from taking up arms once more and fighting at your sides.
Sardec put the letter down and cursed his luck. It had been dated more than three weeks before and doubtless held up by some delay or other. If it had arrived sooner he might have gained some greater advantage from it. He would have known of the General’s appointment before his brother officers and thus been able to steal a march on them. As it were, most of them had probably visited the Lady Asea and began lobbying for staff positions with her. Doubtless Azaar would listen to the opinions of another of the First.
He had no great faith that Azaar would grant his father’s request merely for the sake of their old friendship. There were too many families at court who had much greater influence than his own, and the General could gain a great deal of political capital by allocating choice posts to them. If he could have met Azaar in person perhaps he might have persuaded him. So far no word had come of any new appointments. It looked like the General would be doling them out once he arrived.
Even Sardec's trip to the hills and the wound he had taken had conspired against him. It had delayed his sending his card to Asea. It could not be helped, he thought, even as he cursed it. He had been performing his duties, and those had to come first. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. No use crying over spilled wine, he thought, and considered his father’s words.
The first part was obviously a politely worded instruction to flatter the General, for imitation was always the sincerest form of that. He considered the second part of the message with regard to Azaar’s well-known political stance. What was his father trying to tell him? He still had sources at the court of the Amber Throne. He obviously expected war and a long one. He was basically instructing Sardec to hitch his star to that of the General. It might work. In a time of war, a successful field commander would find himself in favour at court no matter what colour his politics were, and those on his staff with him. There was no doubt his father expected Azaar to be successful and why not? He always had been before. There neve
r had been any doubt of his genius on the field of battle.
Sardec considered this from all angles. Perhaps Azaar had seen better days. All of his real fighting had been done in the age of dragons, and before the coming of these damnable black powder weapons. He was a hero from the great days of truesteel and sorcery. Perhaps he would fair less well in this new era of cannons and rifled muskets. In any case, Sardec decided his father’s advice was worth taking. Certainly with the Lord of Battles in command there would be no shortage of fighting, and no shortage of opportunities to seek to add to his father’s glorious legacy.
Satisfied he had divined his father’s meaning, he gave his attention to the rest of the letter which contained a great deal of family news, most of it of little interest to Sardec. Two of his cousins were betrothed. His brother Magnus was doing brilliantly at court at least according to his own letters to their father. This did not surprise Sardec. Magnus has always had a very high opinion of himself. His sister Elena’s studies at the College of Magisters were going well.