Still, the screaming left him feeling rattled — and Menleco did not rattle easily.
Lord Taler laid a skinny arm around the aging general’s shoulders. Taler was a sharp-faced wraith of a man who moved like a ghost, with nary a flutter of his floor-length robes. A simple thin gold band around his forehead caused his stringy, graying hair to pucker over his ears and his wispy still-black beard hairs danced and bobbed on the end of his pointed chin whenever he spoke. In his free hand, he held a little bag. He clapped it into Menleco’s palm and the general could feel the satisfying mass of coins inside. They chinked melodically.
“Despite the fact that you have only brought us two conspirators,” Lord Taler said, “the Lady remains appreciative and pays in full.”
The Lady? Menleco had to think for a moment before realizing that Taler spoke of Pylia. Menleco had never heard her referred to as Lady. But he supposed she was.
He moved out from under the Lord’s skeletal embrace.
“These two cost me plenty,” he admonished his lordship. The screaming stopped for an instant, and then resumed, causing Menleco to stammer. “They are … were … I mean, these are the leaders of their little band.”
A man and a woman. The Shadow Riders had found them in a subterranean chamber beneath their home with two dozen rebels. Their captors had thought them unarmed, but one of the men carried a concealed dirk. He had been fast, and suicidal. A zealot. He had suffered a zealot’s death, as had they all. Only the man and the woman had been brought to Pylia. Menleco had waited until nightfall to bring the two dead Shadow Riders out of the cellar. The local peasants believed them immortal. It would not pay to have them see the Riders’ blood.
“I have brought you exactly what you pay for, Taler,” he said, making a conscious effort to steel his spine. He had allowed the shouting of the Epirian traitors to unsettle him. He knew that Lord Taler had noticed it. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t blubber with gratitude. In fact” —he bounced the bag of coins in the palm of his hand, judging its weight— “if the purse proves light…” He drew his dagger and described an arc with its point at the level of Lord Taler’s throat. The palace guards took a step from the walls before Taler motioned them back.
“You wave your blade in my face, but do you also have a blade for Pylia?” Lord Taler asked.
Menleco let his dagger fall to his side. It was the screaming that did it. He was off his game. Damn it, anyway! Tell her what she wants to know already! It was maddening…
“You should save your threats for the Epirian rebels, General,” Lord Taler continued. “This next we ask for is no skulking couple pulled from some cellar. The Epirians have a leader now, it would seem. We mean for your…” He closed his eyes in thought.
“Shadow Riders,” Menleco reminded him.
“Yes, of course. We mean for your Shadow Riders to find him.”
“Oh, we will find him. There is no force in all of Epiria that would dare stand against my Riders.”
“We shall see,” Lord Taler said with a shallow smile. “The Epirians have always under-appreciated Demetrius’ rule. The king has been tolerant of their outrages in the past, but now they grow bold, and their efforts are coordinated and purposeful. They use our war with Sethaly to their advantage. We need to put an end to their pretensions once and for all.”
“Don’t include my Prathians in your ‘we’,” Menleco said. “The only ‘we’ I care about are the shiny little fellows in this bag here. I care nothing for your Epirian rebels and their hopeless aspirations. It is coin that interests me, Spymaster. Nothing more.”
“Just as it was with the Epirian prince, eh, Menleco?”
“Epirian prince?”
“The Tygetian boy.”
“Oh, the Tygetian prince. I have men dealing with that now,” Menleco said irritably. It was Taler himself who gave Menleco that job, and now he spoke as if —
“He is the one the people speak of.”
The man spoke in riddles. The screaming would not stop. Menleco’s head began to throb. “What people?”
“The Epirians. We know someone coordinates their efforts now, but it is Hurrus they speak of. Pylia has foreseen it. The Tygetian eagle soared in her vision, plucking the snake from Gyriecian waters. Demetrius himself interpreted the lady’s Seeing. It was Hurrus, blood kin of Xarhux—”
“So this leader you seek is Hurrus?” Menleco asked. “But my men are already—”
“No, no,” Lord Taler said. “Your Shadow Riders will find the rebel leader — as soon as the Lady uncovers his identity, just as she uncovered the child Hurrus’ hiding place and the identity of the man who spirited him away. Nothing escapes Pylia, as you can hear—”
“As I can hear? I hear simple torture, Taler, and nothing more. I never would have thought you susceptible to such superstitious prattle, a man like you. Confessions made under the blade are far from seers’ visions, my friend.” The spymaster was starting to sound like a zealot himself. First, King Demetrius, now Lord Taler, the last sane man in Irrylia, had fallen under the witch’s spell.
Taler flashed his knowing smile. “Oh, there is nothing superstitious about it, General.”
If there was anything supernatural about the sound that assailed Menleco’s ears, it was the maddening constancy of it. The screams were relentless, ceasing not even for confessions — confessions that should have been made long ago. And where was the witch’s voice in all this?
“For the love of the gods, why doesn’t she just question the traitors? Surely they will talk by now.”
“Pylia prefers to See with her own eyes,” Lord Taler said. “It is not instantaneous. She found Hurrus’ hiding place buried in the minds of his mother and father. That had taken some time. A dirty business, to be sure…” Taler shook his head, remembering — not unhappily it seemed to Menleco. “Soon, we will have Hurrus’ head to show the rebels. That is, if your men do not fail.”
“My men do not fail,” Menleco said, stiffening. He realized that he was too tightly clutching his helmet in the crook of his arm. He loosened his grip and could feel the stiffness in his increasingly arthritic fingers.
“Let me show you the price of failure.” Lord Taler glided toward the door through which the screams were emanating. Guards stood on either side. They wore high domed bronze helmets sprouting fountains of sky blue horse hair, spilling down their backs. Their faces were covered by plates sculpted to resemble bearded faces and their bodies were wrapped in their entirety by bright yellow cloaks. Menleco was still Prathian enough to consider them shamefully ostentatious. Or would have, if the door they guarded did not fill him with such dread.
The guards stood like statuary as Taler reached for the door handle. He opened the door a crack, but turned back before entering. “It occurred to me when you unsheathed your dagger that you might like to see our Pylia at work.”
Hearing was enough, Menleco thought. But Taler opened the door anyway.
Copyright © 2011 by David Ross Erickson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from David Ross Erickson
Edition: March 2011
Cover design by Glendon Haddix. Contact him at streetlightgraphics.com
If you would like to read more of David Ross Erickson’s books or contact the author, please visit his blog. DavidRossErickson.blogspot.com
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Romans Wash Their Hands In The Sea
Part I: The Siege of Acragas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part II: A Gathering of Crows
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part III: Captains of Repute
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Historical Note
Preview: The Blood Gate
The War God's Men Page 41