by John Marco
When he was safely clear of the city, Vorto called over Colonel Kye. His second trotted closer, then closer still when he heard Vorto whispering.
‘Kye, it’s time. Get the men away from the city. But leave the ram. Keep it near the gates to block it.’
‘The ram?’ Colonel Kye looked over his shoulder to where the giant weapon waited, still blocking a good portion of the ruined portal. On either side of it men and horses squeezed through. ‘We’re leaving it behind?’
‘We’re leaving it exactly where it is. Gather the lieutenants. Have them ride for the launchers and tell the gunners to make ready.’
Colonel Kye seemed stricken. ‘General . . .’
‘It is the will of God, Kye. This place reeks of evil. It must be cleansed.’
‘General, you promised Lokken you’d spare them. His family . . .’
‘His family bears the same taint he did,’ said Vorto firmly. ‘And so does all of Goth. We came here to stop the Renaissance, to stomp it out like a fire. I won’t leave the job half done.’
Kye’s expression hardened. ‘Sir, may I speak freely?’
‘You always do,’ snapped Vorto.
‘Sir, this is genocide. It’s murder.’
‘Murder?’ Vorto flared. ‘Who said anything about murder? This is salvation, Colonel, make no mistake. The Black Renaissance is a tumor. If you had a disease in your flesh, would you not carve it out? This is what we’re doing here. We’re saving Nar. Stop being a dullard, Kye. See the truth for once!’
Silenced by his general’s implicit threat, Kye merely looked away, toward the hills around the city where the deadly launchers awaited their orders.
‘Wait until we’re clear,’ said Vorto. ‘Then send up the signal rocket.’
Kye nodded sullenly and trotted off, but Vorto called after him.
‘Kye . . .’
The colonel turned to face Vorto. ‘General?’
‘It’s not easy to do the work of Heaven, Kye. Not for me, not for anyone. Pray for strength. He will provide.’
‘Yes, General,’ replied Kye dully.
The colonel rode away.
Duchess Kareena of Goth, newly widowed, stood on the rooftop of the fortress tower, watching her dead husband pendulate in the breeze. The tightness of rope about his throat had turned his face a curious purple, making it scarcely recognizable, even to the woman who had borne him three children. The tower roof was cold. Except for a few stray flurries, the snow had stopped falling. Larius drew his dagger and began cutting his dead master down. Good Larius, the only person in the world Kareena could bear to be with for this gruesome task. Downstairs her daughters were weeping, inconsolable. Her only boy was probably dead, a casualty lying blood-soaked on the wall. Kareena trembled. Somehow, she had tamed her tears, but a terrible fog had descended, drawing out the time of things. She was in her twenty-ninth year and had never thought she could love this much-older man, but now that he was gone she wondered what life there could possibly be without him.
Around the city, Vorto’s army had retreated as promised, a fact that astounded Kareena. She hadn’t expected the butcher to be good to his word. As morning flooded the valley, she could see them riding away, satisfied to have murdered her husband. The duchess stifled a sob and went to the flag pole, helping Larius draw Lokken down. His body had gone cold. Kareena cradled him and lowered him to the ground, cursing as she fought to free the noose.
‘Oh, God,’ she moaned. ‘My husband . . .’
Lokken’s eyes were wide. Unseeing, they stared at her. Larius put a hand over them and closed the lids. The old soldier knelt, kissed his master’s forehead, then backed away, leaving his mistress to grieve. Kareena held Lokken’s head to her bosom and rocked him. Was she leader of Goth now? she wondered. Would Vorto return for more vengeance? Kareena stroked her husband’s head, brushing strands of hair from his lifeless, distorted face. Larius walked over to the edge of the rooftop and looked out over the city. Wet snow blanketed the horizon, punctuated with fire and smoke. Far below, Kareena heard the wails of her people, the aimless, bewildered cries of children and their mothers. Soldiers moved through the avenues, fighting back the fires with blankets and bucket brigades. Kareena closed her eyes and mouthed a prayer – not to the new God of Nar but to the old, when God was mild. Before the death of Arkus, she had loved the church. She had even made a pilgrimage to Nar City to see the great Cathedral of the Martyrs and to hear the words of Herrith. But in the ruins of the old Empire, something had gone horribly awry.
A sound in the distance halted Kareena’s prayers. A popping in the hillside, followed by another and another still. Kareena craned her neck to see. The sound was all around her suddenly. Panicked, she laid Lokken down and hastened to Larius’ side. The counselor was scanning the horizon.
‘Larius? What is it? What’s that sound?’
‘My lady, I don’t know. Cannons?’
‘Cannons? Oh, no, that can’t be.’
‘I don’t see flashes,’ agreed Larius. ‘But the sound—’
Overhead an object whistled past. Larius grabbed his mistress and pulled her to the ground. Kareena screamed as another missile hissed, slamming into the tower wall. There was a sound like exploding steam. The far-off popping in the hills intensified. Kareena pulled free of Larius and ran to the stone railing.
‘What is it?’ she screamed. She put her hands to her ears to banish the sound. ‘Larius, what . . .?’
All around Goth, green smoke exploded, its emerald fingers crawling through the streets. The strange bombardment had the city looking skyward. Men screamed, tearing at their eyes as the relentless vapor engulfed them. On the wind came the sweet smell of something evil. Kareena sniffed at the air, too late to know the poison she was breathing. Fire climbed into her nostrils, burning out the membranes. Her throat constricted and a flood of tears rushed from her eyes. She staggered from the wall, reeling backward into Larius. Desperately she grabbed for him. The old man’s eyes were filled with blood. Horrified, unable to breathe or scream, Duchess Kareena looked down at her stained dress and realized that her tears were crimson.
Two
The Golden Count
He was called the Mind Bender.
The name had been given to him by his former master, Arkus of Nar, and Savros bore it proudly, and referred to himself as such even in the presence of good imperial ladies. He handled his tools as a painter would a brush, delicately and with the flair of genius. Some said he was mad, but all agreed that he was peerless in his work, one of Nar’s rare artisans. Soldiers envied his deftness with a knife, and women fainted when he told his dark tales. He had known his true vocation since his boyhood.
Simon watched the Mind Bender work, aghast at the love he had for his craft. His spidery fingers crawled over his victim’s flesh, his arsenal of narrow scalpels twirling between his digits like sharp batons. Simon knew he was watching a master, and despite the howls of the thing hanging in chains from the ceiling, it was wholly fascinating to witness.
‘It’s so easy,’ whispered the torturer. His tongue darted out to lick the man’s ear. ‘So easy to die . . .’
The voice was honey, sickly sweet and cloying. It rose from the Mind Bender’s throat like a song, teasing the man and compelling him to talk. But the man was almost past coherence. Only Triin gibberish trickled from his lips now, but Savros the Mind Bender wasn’t finished. He produced another blade from his white vest and made his victim behold it, turning it slowly in the dungeon’s feeble light so the flicker of the torch glowed orange on its edge. Simon stood motionless in the corner of the cell, awaiting the prisoner’s end.
Like all Triin, this one was perfectly white. Savros had been delighted when he’d seen him. For him the white skin was a canvas to be stretched out with chains. Promptly he had set to work, using his knives to carve out screaming figures on the man’s naked back. There were almost twenty of them now, forming a twisting, living mural. Blood dripped relentlessly onto the floor, and litt
le bits of Triin flesh clung to the Mind Bender’s boots. But Savros seemed not to notice them at all, and Simon wondered as he watched the spectacle if this was what Hell was like.
‘Beautiful,’ remarked the torturer as he regarded his prized scalpel. He put it up to the Triin’s gray eyeball, now hazed with fatigue and pain. ‘There is a smith in the Black City who works for days to make just one of these for me. He is the finest blade-maker in Nar.’ Savros tested the edge with his fingertip and grinned. ‘Oooh; sharp.’
Savros no longer bothered speaking Triin. His victim was past comprehension, and he knew it. But this was the best part. Disgusted, Simon fought to keep focused. He was Roshann, and if he looked away Biagio would surely hear about it. So he steeled himself and watched while Savros caressed a tear-stained cheek with the thin blade and crooned his song, and the Triin man in chains trembled against the coming death.
‘Just do it,’ Simon growled, his patience snapping. Savros turned his laughing eyes to the dark corner where Simon was lurking. A ripe web sack filled with newborn arachnids clung defiantly to the ceiling overhead, but Simon didn’t stir from his spot.
‘Shhh,’ urged Savros, putting a slender finger to his lips. The air was thick and smelled of treacle; too close for Simon’s liking. The Mind Bender’s voice rang in his brain. He had been hearing it for hours and his feet ached from standing. Outside in the real world, the sun was probably up. If he could have, Simon would have run from the place and vomited, but there was dirty business still to do.
‘If you have your information, kill him,’ ordered Simon. ‘He’s still a man. Treat him like one.’
Savros seemed shocked. ‘You brought him here for me,’ he reminded Simon. ‘Now let me do my work.’
‘Your work is done, Mind Bender. Get yourself a goat from the farm if you need something to butcher. He was a Triin warrior. Leave him some honor.’
‘Why so squeamish?’ taunted Savros. The thin blade rolled between his fingertips. ‘Don’t they teach interrogation in the Roshann?’
Simon stepped out of the shadows. In the center of the cell was a small table set with the Mind Bender’s implements, a curious collection of metal objects with points and pincers, all arranged neatly on a silver tray. Beside the gruesome platter stood a pitcher of rose water. It was a strange habit of Savros’ to dapple his victim’s lips with the cool liquid to make them agonize for more. Simon pushed the torturer aside and lifted the pitcher to the Triin’s mouth, pouring the water over his lips and tongue. The man let out a thankful whimper.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Savros.
Simon ignored him, lifting another blade from the table even as he continued to pour. This one was less beautiful than the others. It was wide and heavy, with a toothy edge like a butcher’s saw. Simon grasped it tightly, leaning forward so that his lips almost brushed the captive’s ear.
‘Good death, warrior,’ he said simply, then plunged the jagged blade into the Triin’s heart. There was a quick rattle from the prisoner’s throat. The hands spasmed into fists, shaking the manacles and the long, stout chains. The eyes widened, focused on Simon for a moment, then swiftly dimmed. Simon put down the pitcher, then the knife, and calmly stared at Savros. The Mind Bender’s jaw dropped.
‘You’ve killed him,’ Savros sputtered.
‘You’re like a cat playing with a bird,’ said Simon sharply. ‘I won’t watch such nonsense.’
‘I wasn’t done with him!’ Savros wailed. He rushed over to the limp body and searched for a pulse. ‘I’m going to tell Biagio about this!’
‘I’ll tell him myself. Now what did he say? I heard you mention Vantran. Is he in Falindar?’
Savros wasn’t listening. He ran his long fingers over his victim’s back, admiring his artwork and feeling the waning heat of the corpse on his face. Simon shifted impatiently. In the days when Savros served the emperor he had been one of Arkus’ favorites, a member of his privileged Iron Circle. Now he was in exile like the rest of Biagio’s loyalists, stuck here on Crote. None of them liked being here, but Savros seemed to be faring the worst. The Mind Bender had spent his entire life in the Black City plying his dark trade. He was accustomed to the belching smokestacks of war labs and the dankness of dungeons; the clean ocean air of the island seemed to depress him. But Biagio still cared for him, and that meant he had sway with the count. Simon knew not to push him too far.
‘Savros,’ urged Simon. ‘What did he say? Is Vantran in Falindar?’
‘He was so beautiful,’ replied Savros absently. ‘I want another.’
‘Vantran—’
‘Yes, yes!’ flared the torturer. Savros released the dead man and turned toward the table, pulling bloodied implements out of his vest and placing them on the silver tray with a petulant frown. ‘It’s as you suspected, spy.’ He spat out the word like a curse. ‘Vantran is in Falindar with his wife.’
‘What else?’ pressed Simon.
‘Oh, learn the damned language! Or weren’t you listening?’
Simon bristled but said nothing. Of all the people who had fled with Biagio to Crote, only Savros understood the clicking language of the Triin. It was, he had explained once, ‘necessary to know the tongue of his subjects’. And Savros had a genius for language Simon could only marvel at. This had been Simon’s first mission to Lucel-Lor, and he hoped his last. He had tried to learn at least a few Triin phrases, but Savros was a poor teacher and Simon an unwilling student. The animosity between them had only grown from there.
Simon regarded Savros carefully, watching him turn a white towel red with the gore from his hands. He caught a glimmer in the Mind Bender’s preternatural eyes, a spark of something hiding in the blazing blue irises. There was something more.
‘What else?’ said Simon. ‘There is something, I can tell’
‘Can you?’ taunted Savros. ‘You are Roshann, Simon Darquis. You are supposed to be observant. What have I learned? Can you guess?’
‘Stop fooling,’ ordered Simon.
Savros surrendered with an evil smile. ‘There is a child,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Vantran has a daughter.’
Simon’s heart sank. ‘A daughter? How old?’
‘Very young; a baby really. Maybe a year. Maybe older, I don’t know. But she lives with them in the citadel.’ Savros put down the soiled cloth. ‘Looks like you’ll be going back, eh?’
Simon grimaced. That was the last thing he wanted.
‘Vantran still expects something,’ Savros added. ‘You should tell the Master that. Tell him to stop bothering with this vendetta and get us off this bloody island.’
I will, thought Simon darkly. He took a final look at the dead man dangling from the ceiling. The lifeless eyes were open and staring at him blankly. An invisible breeze made the corpse sway and the chains rattle. Simon felt unclean. It had been a long and miserable journey back from Lucel-Lor, and this warrior had borne his indignity proudly. Trussed up like a pig in the ship’s stinking cargo hold, he had hardly said a word or eaten a crumb. Simon looked at the man’s emaciated body, ruined by the Mind Bender’s insane art-work. Only Savros had been able to break the Triin’s iron will, and he had done it in mere hours.
‘What was his name?’ asked Simon quietly.
Savros looked at him incredulously. ‘What?’
‘His name. What was it?’
‘I taught you that phrase,’ Savros reminded him. ‘Didn’t you ask him yourself?’
Simon shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to know the man’s name before.
‘Hakan,’ said Savros. The torturer sighed. ‘What a waste. He could have lived so much longer.’
‘Hakan,’ Simon repeated. Then he glanced at Savros and said with venom, ‘I’m glad I killed him.’
Without another word Simon hurried out of the cell. He slipped through the iron gate separating the dungeon from the rest of the catacombs and passed by the count’s wine cellars, where a thousand barrels of priceless vintages slumbered and sweetened the air. Most we
re from Biagio’s own vineyards, a nectar sought after throughout the Empire. The count had an army of servants tending his grapes, and here in the cellars collared slaves toiled with the heavy barrels and tasted the wines for their perfection. The slaves did not acknowledge Simon as he passed them. They knew he was a favorite of the count’s, but he was not a Naren lord. He was Roshann, and that meant he was Biagio’s servant, hardly different from themselves.
Past the wine cellars was a monolithic staircase of carved granite, its steps worn smooth by centuries of traffic. Simon ascended quickly, anxious for some fresh air. He pushed open the door at the top of the steps and was soon in the servants’ section at the back of the count’s sprawling home. It was indeed morning. Fine strands of sunlight splashed through the crystal windows and onto the red-tile floor. Simon could hear the rattle of iron pots in the nearby kitchen as the slaves set to work on breakfast. He went to a window and glanced outside. The count’s mansion was set on a hill, and from here Simon could see the rolling vineyards to the west and the sparkling ocean far in the distance. He drew a breath of the sweet air and closed his eyes. The Triin’s dead face still haunted him. Worse, he was exhausted. He longed for sleep – or even to pull off his boots and rest his blistered feet – but he knew his master was waiting for him. The thought made Simon shudder. He had only spoken to the count briefly when they had arrived the night before, then had followed Savros into the dungeon.
Biagio had been correct about the Mind Bender’s thoroughness.
‘God,’ hissed Simon, closing his eyes. He still smelled of blood. Eris would smell it too. A little moan passed his lips. She would be worried about him. But she would have to wait, just a little while longer.
A kitchen girl passed by him. Simon grabbed hold of her elbow, startling her. ‘The count,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
‘The Master?’ the girl stammered. There was a basket of eggs in her hands that she barely managed to hold still. ‘In the baths, I think, sir.’
He let her go with an apologetic smile, realizing what a sight he must be with the spray of blood staining his tunic. They were still not used to their guests from the Black City, these servants of the count, and though Simon had lived in the mansion on and off for years, he was still treated like an outsider.