by A. J. Smith
‘The harbour, the walls and the streets are ours. The people have no desire to die.’ He smiled viciously. ‘And this is Tor Funweir, this is my land. Fuck off back to Karesia. I hold sway here.’
The Karesian drew a wavy-bladed knife and passed it to Archibald. The regent of Ro Tiris glared at Xander.
‘I will not die at your hand, Prince Alexander,’ cackled Archibald. ‘I will show you how little death means to the faithful.’ He thrust the knife into his own stomach, wrenching it sideways and disembowelling himself. ‘I will always love her,’ he muttered.
Xander strode up the stairs, closely followed by men-at-arms. He flung a gauntleted fist at the Karesian, smashing into his jaw. He grabbed the man by the throat and drove Peacekeeper into his chest.
‘This is my land,’ he repeated, emphasizing each word.
The Karesian fell off the blade, blood oozing from his mouth. Xander then levelled his bastard sword at the man in silver armour. He held it in one hand and the blade was still, not wavering an inch. ‘And you are?’ he asked.
The man, a lump of steel and muscle, bowed his head. ‘Lord Markos of Rayne, knight of the White church. I greet you, Prince Alexander.’
* * *
Reports flooded in from all over the city. Although pockets of resistance did spring up, the word on the street was of liberation, not of conquest. From the balcony high in the House of Tiris, Gwen saw celebrations in the square. Cheering citizens praised the duke of Haran and decried the despotic rule of Archibald. Captain Brennan and a squad of men hauled down the new banner and raised the white eagle, signalling the end of the Seven Sisters’ brief dominion.
She was extremely tired, but adrenaline kept her awake to enjoy the spectacle. They had rounded up hundreds of Karesians and dozens of clerics who were still deeply in thrall to the Mistress of Pain. The Purple cathedral was under close guard but had, so far, remained compliant. As had the defeated ranks of watchmen and the city guard. The soldiers now helped to settle a liberated population, taking their orders from senior Hawks. Gwen was glad they carried out their new duties happily. She had not heard a single word of support for the deposed regent, and Archibald’s death was being celebrated rather than mourned.
She swayed against the railing, letting the gentle wind take her. She could feel a skin of blood and grime on her face. It was dried and cracked as her mouth contorted into a yawn. Tendrils of hair irritated her eyes, falling from her tangled topknot and sticking to her flesh.
Maybe a bath, the first one for weeks. The thought was like a warm blanket, cutting through the chill of the wind and the stench of blood and death. But that would have to wait. Her counsel was still needed. Xander needed a calm voice, Daganay needed someone with common sense and Brom needed reassurance. She played her roles well, and with sincerity. Her own needs, a bath, a change of clothes and a little peace, were not a priority.
She flexed her hands, stained red and tender. Broken and dead skin peeled from her fingertips and her palms were calloused and bruised. She didn’t wear gloves to fight and the criss-cross pattern of her blade handles was imbedded in her skin.
Her blades. That was another need that would have to wait. They needed sharpening and the nicks needed repairing. Leaf-blades were more precise than longswords and required constant care. She couldn’t remember where her whetstone was. Or her belongings. Lennifer would have entered the city by now, escorted in with the rest of the servants. Gwen’s belongings were packed in travelling sacks, squeezed between barrels of grain and spare weapons. Lennifer would be standing guard over them, ensuring her lady’s clothes were cared for. The young servant could be ferocious where clothes were concerned.
The thought made Gwen smile. That normality could exist in the midst of so much death and chaos. That someone, somewhere, still cared about the state of their clothes.
She heard an irritated voice behind her. Xander, Brom and Daganay had been interrogating Cardinal Cerro of the Brown and Lord Markos of the White for nearly an hour, ascertaining precisely where their loyalties lay. Their interrogations had not, so far, led to summary executions. She hoped that both the clerics would remain polite.
Through the open doors and billowing red curtains, the balcony was connected to an upper state room. From it strode a large, robed man, scratching his balding head and pursing his lips. He ignored Gwen and took a deep breath of fresh air.
‘Cardinal Cerro,’ said Gwen. ‘Meeting not going as planned?’
The Brown cleric composed himself.
‘It is the way of soldiers to see things as simply as possible. It is the way of nobility to be confident and stubborn. Your husband has the worst traits of both.’
‘I won’t disagree,’ replied Gwen. ‘He’s simple and stubborn.’
‘You know what he plans to do? And that Markos of bloody Rayne agrees with him?’
‘Aye. The broad strokes at least,’ she replied.
‘And you don’t think he’s mad?’
She shrugged. ‘Mad or not, I agree with him. He’s backed into a corner. A dangerous place to put him.’
‘But he’s barely secured Tiris. He’s taking that impulsive young idiot from Canarn, the Black Guard, whatever his name is. They’re going to ride for Cozz, in the morning. They’re going to ride for Cozz in the morning!’
‘I know,’ she replied.
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
She stepped closer to him. ‘It does. It bothers him, too. Which is why he’s leaving you in charge.’
He banged his chubby fist on the railing. Deep breaths and closed eyes, the Brown cleric was frustrated and angry.
‘Do any of you people from Haran actually listen?’
‘I’m from Hunter’s Cross,’ she replied. ‘And no, we don’t listen either.’
‘I would have expected a bit more sense from you, my lady,’ said the cardinal, puffing out his cheeks. ‘You’re not burdened with nobility.’
‘But I am a soldier. By your rationale I should be simple, but not arrogant.’
He flushed a little with embarrassment. ‘Er, yes, sorry about that. Anger sometimes loosens a man’s tongue.’
‘I’ve been called worse, brother.’
From within, raised voices carried out on to the balcony. Lord Markos, Xander and Brom were arguing about who was to stay behind and who was to ride hard for Cozz.
‘I just want... maybe some considered wisdom,’ said Cerro. ‘All of this is happening too fast.’
‘Not fast enough, according to some.’
‘How many men is he taking?’ asked the cardinal. ‘You don’t have that many to begin with.’
She laughed. ‘Skill and loyalty are as important as numbers. The Hounds in Cozz are poorly trained and disorganized. They’re a mob, not an army.’
He placed both palms on his forehead and dragged them down his face. It was a gesture of internal anger and external frustration. The cardinal was a good man, but a pacifist.
‘When will this end?’ he asked.
‘Interesting question. I’d say it’s up for debate,’ she replied.
‘Being glib does not help, my lady.’
She breathed in some cool air. She should be exhausted, but her mind was racing and wouldn’t let her be tired. In fact, she felt more awake than she had in years. The rush of combat, the thrill of survival. Even the ride for Cozz was filling her with adrenaline.
She chuckled. ‘I think I’ve been married to Xander for too long.’
He looked confused. Poor Cerro, she thought. He was not cut out for the sort of excitement they had thrust upon him. She didn’t know what his average day entailed, but doubted it involved anything particularly interesting.
Gwen smiled and put her hand across Cerro’s shoulders, leading him from the balcony back into the state room. Within, Xander, Brom and Daganay were sprawled on wide couches surrounding a circular meeting table. Markos of the Knights of the Dawn was still standing, his white cloak still tied around his neck. He was tall and
his face, unadorned with any hair, was smooth and angular. He wore burnished white armour, decorated with gold and silver, with a greatsword across his back.
‘I will leave for Ro Arnon tonight,’ said Lord Markos. ‘I will meet you in Cozz at the head of five thousand knights.’
Xander frowned. His eyes drooped and he was fighting tiredness. ‘Why? Why do you so readily pledge your support?’
‘We answer only to the king and to the realm,’ replied the White cleric. ‘The king is not here. His son is dead. The realm is in need of purification. So we act to purify it. We will follow you, Prince Alexander... until you prove yourself unworthy.’
* * *
‘Do we have to use them?’ sneered Daganay.
‘Got something against knights that wear white rather than red?’ she demanded.
‘Men of peace clad in death? Yes, I have something against them. Markos of Rayne is a puritanical autocrat of the worse kind. A battle chaplain who let men die because they weren’t worthy of the One God’s love. I have no respect for White clerics who don armour.’
‘Even when he has five thousand clerics in armour?’ asked Xander, finishing his wine.
Daganay took offence. ‘They’re not clerics. Not really. They’re paladins. They don’t heal men or lead worship. They heal the land and enforce worship.’
‘We won. It’s not important right now,’ said Gwen. ‘We’re sitting in the House of Tiris... we have wine, I’m not wearing armour... and for now, we’re at peace.’
‘For now,’ replied Xander. ‘In the morning, our armour will be back on and we’ll be riding south.’
‘Then I’ll worry about that when the time comes,’ she said, smiling at her husband.
CHAPTER 5
RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE CITY OF THRAKKA
RANDALL HAD IDENTIFIED twelve different kinds of dust and sand since he had left Kessia. The Long Mark, spoken of as if it were a road, was nothing more than a dusty track heading south. He’d seen mountains, skeletal trees, muddy rivers, but few people. Those he had seen were riding in caravans, mostly moving north, transporting what appeared to be their entire worldly goods along the barren trail.
Whatever trade existed in Karesia was clearly located within the walls of its cities and did not involve much import or export. They’d travelled past numerous small encampments of semi-permanent tents and picketed camels, comprised of stoical men and women with no conception of hospitality.
Voon of Rikara, the exemplar of Jaa and the newest member of their strange travelling group, had tried his best to explain the nature of his land to the men of Ro, but his accounts had not been overly helpful. The Karesians were not interested in friendly contact with their northern neighbours and the few who travelled to Tor Funweir were there to plough an illegal trade.
Jaa taught fear above all other virtues and did not care for the children of other gods, preferring to keep his people under his control. The recent rise of the Dead God had not reversed this state of affairs and his people remained as xenophobic as ever.
More opulent covered wagons plunged past them every few hours, with billowing black canvas over wooden platforms, pulled by muscular white horses and flanked by armed Karesian riders. Those within were obscured and Voon had told them that travelling mobsters and merchant princes would never let their faces be seen by lesser men for fear of assassination.
Randall worried that the preponderance of anonymous travellers, moving much faster than they were, could mean their pursuers would pass them and reach Thrakka first. Voon, stating that it would draw too much attention to them, had vetoed his suggestion that they use horses to speed up their travel.
‘Foreigners don’t ride horses. They don’t travel the Long Mark and they don’t visit Thrakka,’ said the exemplar of Jaa. ‘Any one of those factors could get your master killed, so why add to the risks?’
‘So we get there ahead of the enchantress,’ replied Randall.
Voon was expressionless. ‘You are a good squire, young man. You care for your master. From what I have seen, you represent Utha’s rational side, but you must defer to me on all matters related to Karesia. This land will bite you if you let it.’
‘Is Thrakka any different from Kessia?’ asked Utha, as they sat beneath a rocky overhang out of the midday sun.
‘Yes,’ replied Voon, taking a deep drink of water from a large flask. ‘The viziers live in high towers. The architecture may seem... wondrous to your eyes.’
‘I thought you were a vizier,’ interjected Randall. ‘The high vizier in fact.’
Voon looked at him for a moment before passing the water flask. ‘I was. I am now a traitor in the new Karesia. My tower has fallen and my friends curse my name.’
‘Do we need to stop there?’ asked Ruth, sitting demurely on a rock, unconcerned by the dust and heat. ‘We could simply bypass the city.’
‘We could,’ said Voon with a nod, ‘but we need food, water, supplies.’
They had been eating salted meat and porridge for the past week, supplemented by foraging trips and the occasion Gorlan. Strangely, Ruth cared nothing for her human companions eating spiders and had even eaten a little of the stew they’d made from her distant brethren.
‘You said you have a friend there,’ said Utha. ‘I assume he can provide such supplies.’
‘If he is still alive,’ replied Voon. ‘The Dead God has had influence in Thrakka for many years. Shadaran is a sharp old goat, but the Sisters will certainly have tried to silence him.’
‘He’s loyal to Jaa?’ asked Utha.
‘If he is still alive,’ repeated Voon.
Utha shook his head in evident frustration. The exemplar and the old-blood had not bonded on their journey. Voon was calm, Utha was passionate. Randall often felt the need to interject or change the subject, delaying the inevitable punch in the face from the caustic albino.
‘How close are we?’ asked Randall.
‘Close,’ replied Voon. ‘You will see the spires over the next rise.’
* * *
Beyond the line of craggy rocks, poking out from the shimmer of the baking hot sands, Randall could see spires, hundreds of them. Each one was different, with no consistent design or architecture. Some were topped with garish minarets, others held jewel-encrusted statues or carried bizarre symbols, but all were wondrous to his eyes.
‘How tall are those towers?’ he asked.
‘As tall as the egos of their masters,’ replied Voon. ‘Mine was relatively modest in comparison.’
‘Jekkan magic,’ offered Ruth, peering at the glittering spires in the distance. ‘The stones of Thrakka were not planted by Karesians. They merely stole what was already there and twisted it for their own ends.’
Utha and Randall shared a look. Both master and squire were practical men of Ro, unused to overt displays of magic. They preferred buildings and cities to be built of stone and wood, with proper engineering. To see Karesian craft based on sorcery was startling to them.
‘The men of Ro have never really understood their southern neighbours,’ said Voon, noting their reaction.
‘Could you define Jekkan magic for me?’ asked Randall, knowing nothing about the semi-mythical Jekkans.
‘These lands have only belonged to the Karesians for a few millennia,’ answered Ruth. ‘Before that they were part of the Jekkan caliphate.’
Voon looked at her. ‘This is Jaa’s land.’
‘It is... now,’ replied the Gorlan mother. ‘But the magic your viziers twist into their own forms was not originally theirs to command.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘It is just strange to hear someone put it in those terms.’
‘Your kind have difficulty understanding time. It is a gift of your people,’ replied Ruth.
‘Yes, yes, very profound,’ grumbled Utha. ‘Just tell me what we have to worry about here.’
Voon turned away from Ruth only slowly. His eyes were narrow and suspicious. ‘You trouble me,
sister,’ said the exemplar.
‘Is anyone listening to me?’ asked Utha.
Voon walked away without replying.
‘Let’s just keep walking,’ said Randall. ‘And cover our faces.’
Thrakka had no encircling wall or defensive perimeter. The dusty track simply plunged out of the desert and into the forest of towers. At ground level the city was covered in a thick smog, reminiscent of winter mist, but with more unpleasant smells and an acrid sting that hit the back of the throat.
The Thrakkans wore facial coverings of dark colours. Slaves wafted away the smog with elaborate fans or carried their masters in discreet litters. It was eerily quiet, with no chatter or vibrancy in the streets. When he looked upwards, Randall felt that the city itself was made up of the towers.
Now he was closer, the true wonder of the place was evident. The viziers’ towers had no logical construction, no regularity to their design and, in several cases, no obvious means of staying upright. Each was a reflection of the mind of its custodian, magically reinforced by whatever Jekkan magic existed in the city, kept aloft by unknown means. Walkways and huge domed structures acted as a web between the towers. On the lowest platforms, above the mist, men and women wore brightly coloured clothes and walked in clear air.
Utha kept stopping to stare incredulously at the mile-high towers. Few men of Ro had ever been this far south. To see magic displayed in such a fashion was jarring to both of them.
‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing,’ said Utha. ‘Is this shit even possible? The Spire of the King in Tiris is the tallest thing I’d seen before today.’
‘I’ve seen taller mountains,’ replied Randall, ‘but not many.’
Utha tore his eyes from the towers and looked at his squire. ‘It’s important we stick together, my dear boy. We’re surrounded by Karesians, spiders and god knows what else.’
Randall chuckled. ‘Is that concern I hear, master?’
‘No, it’s fear. But close enough.’ He frowned. ‘I do understand, you know.’
Randall slowed down and screwed up his eyes. ‘Understand what?’