Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “No, My Lord,” Mordo said. “It was Chaini who provided the list. He did not seem at all sympathetic to his nephew’s friends and their actions.”

  “Seem?”

  “He was afraid, My Lord.” Mordo had already noticed that Gayne no longer protested when addressed with an honorific. “Afraid of you.”

  “That doesn’t make him honest, Mordo.”

  “It makes it more likely, My Lord.”

  Gayne looked at the list again. Mordo was sure his master didn’t know any of the names on the list, but Mordo himself had already checked out most of them. They were the disaffected rich, or as least the sons of the disaffected rich. Some of them were officers in the city regiments – mostly part-timers – and others were from merchant houses, the sons of wealthy landlords. By and large they were those set to suffer financially from the Johannian taxes. It was predictable.

  Gayne waved the list at Mordo. “Take care of it,” he said.

  “My Lord, I will need money. I have to have a place to question them, men to take them.”

  “I will arrange it,” Gayne said.

  “And there is one more thing, My Lord.”

  “Yes?”

  “If it becomes necessary to kill these men, I would be grateful if you would do it.”

  Gayne looked at him, unsmiling. He was no fool. He knew exactly what Mordo wanted.

  “We will see,” he said.

  “You will need a strong arm, My Lord, if you are to rule Afael.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Gayne’s mouth. “And when did you decide I was the ruler of the city?” he asked.

  “When I put Pelion’s crown on your head. My Lord,” Mordo said.

  “It will never happen,” Gayne said. “I don’t want to rule, but the city needs guidance. Corruption must be cut out. I’m happy to serve the city in this way because nobody else can.”

  But Mordo thought the protest was more for Gayne’s own benefit than Mordo’s. He saw Gayne’s ascendency as inevitable. The man was plainly ambitious and had the power to rule unchallenged. All he lacked was a thread of ruthlessness and one of subtlety, and Mordo could provide both. Already the council waited on his word before they voted, and some of its members would not vote against him. Some of them still followed their more venal instincts, but that would change.

  *

  Mordo was nothing if not methodical. The men on the list could wait. They could not escape. First, he needed to find a place. It had to be a place away from prying eyes with no close neighbours. Ideally it should have a way into it that could not be easily observed, and it had to be quite large.

  It was the assassin, Eridani, who found it.

  The big man was bizarrely pleased with himself. So much so that he made a mystery of it, insisting that he would show Mordo, but not tell him. He led the way into the old Falini estate and across the battered lawns, through a copse of trees and down a gravel drive that led them into a small wood. Here he stopped and pointed.

  There was a building here, and quite a large one. It had once been Falini’s stables.

  “This place?” Mordo asked. He was sceptical, though the location, so close to the seat of power, appealed to him, he could not see how it answered his other needs.

  “You’ll see,” Eridani said, grinning. He led Mordo in through a small postern in a set of wide double doors. It was pretty much what Mordo had expected. There were stalls, each gated, with a manger and water trough in each. Mordo counted about forty.

  “We’re not keeping horses,” he said.

  Eridani’s grin didn’t falter. He led the way to one end of the stable and took a lamp from the wall, lighting it carefully. He set it to one side and swept the straw away from the space at his feet revealing a large trap door. He seized the iron ring embedded in it and heaved the door upwards.

  Stairs led down into darkness.

  Eridani picked up the lamp and went down. Mordo followed. He found himself in a broad corridor that stretched back the way they had come, under the stables. The stone walls bore brackets for lamps. Eridani walked a few steps and stopped at a door. He pushed it open with a foot and went inside. Mordo followed.

  He stopped a pace inside, not quite believing what he was seeing. This was a cell, a place for holding prisoners. There were manacles fixed to one wall, a bench that could pass for a bed, a hole in the stone floor that would serve as a garderobe. He took the lamp from Eridani and walked around the small room. Beneath the hole he could hear running water. It was perfect.

  “And the rest of it?”

  Eridani continued the tour. There were twelve cells of a similar size and beyond that a pair of larger rooms. One of these was evidently a guard room. It was dominated by a large table. There was a fireplace with a pot still hanging over the cold ashes, a scattering of hard backed chairs and a couple of cots along one wall. The other room was far more sinister. It also contained a table, but the racks on the walls held an array of knives and hammers. The table had straps and there was a brazier in the corner.

  “Did you know Falini was doing this?” Mordo asked.

  Eridani shrugged. “People he didn’t like disappeared. There were rumours.”

  “So you looked.”

  Mordo prodded at the unsavoury equipment. It stank of sweat and blood and human waste. The whole room stank. He’d never had to resort to this sort of crude barbarity. It rarely yielded a fast, honest answer that couldn’t be had some other way. It was the last resort of the unimaginative. Mordo didn’t see anything wrong with killing people if they were in the way, or if their death bought some advantage, but this was messy and unreliable.

  “Have all this rubbish removed,” he said. “I want this room cleaned and sweet smelling. I have another purpose for it.”

  Eridani was silent. By the light of the lamp Mordo could see that he looked both surprised and disappointed. “You’re not going to use it?”

  He could hardly be surprised at the assassin’s attitude. He was a man who killed for pleasure. It might become necessary to be rid of him at some point. But not yet.

  “No. There are better ways of making people talk,” Mordo said. “For now, we need to concentrate on this place, and we need men.”

  “Why not just go and kill them?”

  He meant the people on the list, of course. Mordo wanted to say that it would be stupid. That it would achieve none of the things that Mordo desired, but he couldn’t be bothered explaining anything to a man like Eridani.

  “Is there something wrong with the gold I gave you?” he asked.

  “No, but…”

  “Do you want more?”

  Eridani’s tone changed. “Yes, who wouldn’t?”

  “Then do as I say.”

  It was a dangerous moment, Mordo supposed. Eridani wasn’t used to being told what to do and they were alone in a basement designed for violent death. Nobody knew they were here. But Mordo had made what he had of his life by reading people, by knowing what moved them, and more than anything Eridani was enjoying the ride, the easy money, and he was curious. That alone would keep him at bay until he grew bored.

  The assassin nodded slowly. “As you say,” he said.

  Mordo had seen his chance with Gayne, and he was now on the brink of reaping his reward. There were new laws, a new way of living in Afael, but there was no enforcing arm, no council soldiers to make sure it all worked. Mordo would create that. He would be that. He would have this building and enough men to reach into every part of the city. He would have real power. For a moment the dream got the better of him.

  “Eridani,” he said. “One day you will look back on this moment and you will wonder that you ever doubted me.”

  Eridani grunted.

  57 The Wounded

  Major Tamarak sat on the roof of the warehouse and looked out towards the town. He could see lights marking the curve of the streets and the sounds of a good tavern trade drifted to him on a cool breeze.

  He was in trouble.

 
They had been here three weeks. After the first few days he had moved what remained of his force to this old warehouse because it was on the edge of town and had its own well. It had a wall, too. It was not exactly a fortress, but its modest height hid his sick men from the eyes of the town, and that had been a good thing. Resentment had been growing in the town. Bricks had been thrown. Merchants had even stopped accepting Tamarak’s coin. He expected it would get worse.

  Tamarak had been left with twenty able-bodied men. A good number of the injured had recovered enough to add to their number, and he could now boast a hundred and ten fighting men. More than a hundred had died of their wounds. It should have been fewer, but they had no healer to treat them. Those that fell into neither category were the maimed, the men who had lost an arm, a leg, an eye. Many of those were well enough to travel, but there were still two dozen men too sick to move.

  Tamarak thought that most of them would probably die. Food was now in short supply and they were too weak to recover.

  The roof had become his private place. None of the others came up here any more. They left him to think, to plan, even when there was nothing to plan for.

  He took a sip from his water bottle. There was angry shouting on the breeze now, and a smell of roasting meat that made his mouth water. He had sympathy for the townsfolk. They had been badly treated by soldiers loyal to Alwain and he understood their hatred, but his loyalty was to his own men. If it came to it, he would shed blood to defend them.

  “Major?”

  He turned. Lieutenant Ingris had climbed the ladder. “What is it?”

  “Someone to see you, sir. It’s that innkeeper.”

  Ingris was a good man. He’d taken a blow in their battle with The Wolf, a broken arm, a knock to the head, but the arm had set well and the dizziness had passed.

  “I’ll be right down,” Tamarak said. It would be Perrick. The man had continued to help them because he believed Tamarak to be a decent man, but his help had become more furtive and less frequent of late. Even so, the man had been an invaluable source of both supplies and information. Tamarak paid for both.

  He climbed down the ladder and found the innkeeper crouched down by the wall, hidden from prying eyes. He looked more agitated than the Major had ever seen.

  “What is it, Perrick?”

  The man pushed a bag into his arms and Tamarak opened it. He saw salt meat, hard biscuit, cheese. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. Look, you have to leave.”

  “Why? What have you heard?”

  Perrick looked around and lowered his voice.

  “We had news today. Fetherhill’s been taken.”

  “Taken? What do you mean?”

  “By an army. They’re calling it the people’s army – ordinary folk from the south-west. They’re saying it’s an answer for the attack of Wester Beck.”

  “A mob? A mob took Fetherhill?”

  “No. An army. They have a general and everything. Some say he’s Farheim.” Perrick shrugged. “They’re saying all kinds of crazy things.”

  That changed things. If Fetherhill was in the hands of an enemy he had nowhere to go but back to Alwain. He didn’t want to go back to Alwain.

  “You have to go,” Perrick repeated. “The townsfolk, they mean to attack – to kill you or drive you out. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  “Tonight? When?”

  Perrick shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know. Not for a few hours yet. They’re still drinking. Look, I ought to get back. My wife…”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you, Perrick.” He dug for his purse, but Perrick shook his head.

  “Just go,” he said, and then was gone himself, ducking out past the wall and away into the night.

  Tonight. The military situation was not good. There were fifteen hundred people in this town and Tamarak doubted they would attack with less than five hundred, which meant more or less every able-bodied man in the town. He could probably win the engagement, probably, but he would lose most of his men in doing so, and winning here wouldn’t help anyone. It would play as a massacre – trained soldiers against ordinary townsfolk and his remnant force would be even more vulnerable.

  The right thing to do was to leave. But how? And where would he go? It would have to be done within the hour, and there would be sacrifices. He looked across at the group of men crouched around a fire. They were eating their evening ration – a thin soup that hardly sustained them.

  The truth was that his men were slowly starving to death in a town that didn’t want them there, but until now he hadn’t really seen it. The change from fear to something else had been slow, and now it was almost too late. They should have left long before this, even if it meant that some men died.

  Tamarak stood up and walked into the warehouse.

  They were resting. They were always resting now. His men didn’t have the energy to train. He looked across at the sick men. They had a warm corner by another fire. He watched them as he spoke.

  “Pack everything up,” he said. “We’re leaving tonight.”

  They were surprised, but his words sparked them into movement. They scurried about the warehouse, gathering things, stuffing them into packs. Tamarak walked over to the sick men. He crouched down next to Captain Omak, his nominal second. They were friends, both hailing from the western border lands of Avilian.

  “How are you, Emil?” he asked.

  “Dying,” the captain replied. Tamarak couldn’t argue with that. The man’s face was pale and waxy, his eyes were ringed with shadows and his hair looked like it had been painted onto his skull. “You’re leaving, then?” he asked.

  “Word is they’ll attack tonight.”

  “You could fight them,” Omak said.

  “I could,” Tamarak said. He turned and looked at his bustling men. “How many do you think we’d lose?”

  Omak nodded. “You always were good at making the tough choices,” he said. “Better than that idiot Fargas.”

  “We can take you with us,” Tamarak said. “All of you. There’s room on the wagons.”

  “Maybe Cam and Poril,” Omak said. “They might survive it. The rest of us are dying anyway.”

  Tamarak looked around the sick men. Omak was right of course. The wagons weren’t comfortable and the roads were poor. Most of them were dying from infected wounds that no art could heal. He pulled a pouch out from inside his shirt.

  “You have a choice,” he said. “It’s a poor one, but at least it’s a choice. This is blackroot. A piece the size of a fingernail will kill you in a minute. There’s no pain. Or you can take your chance on the wagon.”

  “Or we can fight,” Omak said. “Just the twelve of us.”

  “Emil, you can’t stand.”

  “I can pull a bow.”

  “Can you?”

  “Damn you, Tamarak, give me a fucking bow.”

  Tamarak motioned a soldier over. “Give Captain Omak a bow and a quiver of arrows,” he said. The soldier went and fetched a weapon and gave it to the dying man. Omak fumbled with it, but eventually got his left hand round it and his right on the string.

  “See,” he said. He pulled the string back a foot and let it go. It was a feeble effort.

  “They won’t be kind to you if they catch you alive, Emil.”

  “They won’t,” Omak said. He pointed to the bag in Tamarak’s hand. “There enough in there for all of us?”

  “More than enough.”

  Omak held out his hand and Tamarak gave him the blackroot.

  “None of you want to ride the wagons?” he asked.

  “Bloody uncomfortable,” one of the men said. He coughed.

  Tamarak stayed a minute longer, but none of them seemed inclined to leave with the remains of the regiment. He didn’t know if it was bravery or despair, but whatever it was he eventually had to stand up and leave them. In the bustle of the camp he climbed again onto the roof of the warehouse and looked b
ack at the town.

  He struggled for a moment with a massive sense of loss. So many of his friends were dead and more would die tonight. As a soldier it was something you expected, but the cause made a difference. Fighting against an invader it would have been more bearable. He envied those soldiers who’d fought and died in the Great Wars alongside such legends as Wolf Narak and Cain Arbak, and now he was fighting against them. And what was he fighting for? Alwain wanted to remain Duke of Bas Erinor. Perhaps he wanted to become king. And what kind of man was he? How did Alwain and his cause stack up against King Degoran, Wolf Narak and Cain Arbak?

  These were not the questions a soldier is supposed to ask. He’d taken an oath to serve Fetherhill, but despite that the only loyalty he felt was to his men, to those who stood beside him.

  It was not merely that he had lost friends in a doubtful cause. Tamarak had lost far more than that. He had lost faith. He no longer trusted his masters. He was a boat cut adrift with no rudder, and he feared the wind. Even so, he had to decide what to do.

  “Major?” Ingris was back again, his head poking over the top of the wall. “We’re ready, sir.”

  Tamarak looked out over the town again. Nothing was moving.

  “Let’s be on our way then,” he said. “Once we leave the town, I want a scorpion formation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we’ll head west.”

  “West, sir?” West was away from Alwain, away from the siege of Bas Erinor.

  “Yes.”

  He followed Ingris back down the ladder. It was remarkable how quickly a body of soldiers could pack up a camp. They weren’t in a column yet, there wasn’t room, but he could see the marching formation wrapped neatly around the available space, ready to uncoil as they left. He glanced over at Captain Omak. Someone had given him a bottle of wine and the captain raised it in farewell.

  “March,” Tamarak said. “Slow time, no noise.”

  The column marched, shuffling out through the gate in the wall, turning north towards the road. It would take a few minutes until they were clear of the buildings and Tamarak waited by the gate, looking south towards the town, but saw nothing. They would probably come after him when they found him gone, but the sting in the scorpion’s tail should take care of that. He doubted that many of them would be willing to die when he was already marching away.