by Tom Lloyd
‘Lesarl will be pleased with you,’ Pettir said with mocking cheer.
Vesna scowled. ‘This cannot continue.’
CHAPTER 19
Ruhen smiled, his face turned to the afternoon sun. Its diffused light cast a pale yellow tint over the valley, while long shadows enveloped the waiting soldiers. He felt its warmth on his face as he breathed in the fresh clear air. Winter’s grip was lessening day by day and he could smell the change in the air, even if the arguing delegates nearby couldn’t.
In the wake of the dragon, the valley housing the Library of Seasons had taken on a dismal air. All of the white stone buildings had been damaged and the beast’s gigantic corpse still rotted below the southern cliff, but today Ruhen could taste something other than decay on the breeze. A hundred yards away there were tables set out on the grass, as close to the centre of the valley as they could judge. Without Ruhen close at hand Duchess Escral’s wits had returned enough for her to lead the debate, but as yet there had been no progress.
Lord Styrax sat beneath a huge army standard emblazoned with his Fanged Skull, looking bored, while the white-eye Duke Vrill, his pet politician, stood at his side shouting something at the men in scarlet sashes opposite.
The Knights of the Temples were divided into three distinct camps, each desperate to assert authority over the others while the negotiations stagnated. The Knight-Cardinal led one, a pair of generals, envoys for Raland and Embere, comprised the second, while the scarlet-faced priests of several cults made up the third faction.
Two squads of Devoted heavy infantry were assembled behind them, watching the proceedings with as much bemusement as the Ruby Tower Guards behind Duchess Escral; Ruhen could see only contempt on the faces of the élite Menin soldiers around the valley.
‘I’ve beginning to wonder,’ said Ilumene from behind Ruhen, ‘whether our presence has somehow only made things worse.’ The big mercenary smirked as he spoke. He pretended to straighten the white patchwork robe he’d worn specifically to annoy the priests. The missionaries preaching Ruhen’s message of peace had been first admitted to Akell, the Devoted quarter of the Circle City. Knight-Cardinal Certinse had given their presence his tacit blessing, but as soon as the cults heard their preaching, every priest in the quarter started screaming for blood. That Ilumene was attending the official negotiations dressed as one of Ruhen’s ensured the priests were filled with bile and fury when they started proceedings.
‘Let them dig their own graves,’ Ruhen replied and closed his eyes to savour the warmth of the sun.
‘Aye, every soldier there was disgusted by the reaction, I marked that well. It’s even taught me to be civil. The more polite I am to the bastards, the more crazed they look!’
‘Progress through discord.’
The boy contrived to look eight or nine summers now, though small and slender for that age he was in truth far younger. Ilumene realised he had shaken off the gangly awkwardness of early childhood, instead moving with the precision and elegance that normally only follows puberty.
‘So when do you step in?’
‘Not quite yet; let them tire a little more.’ Ruhen opened his eyes again and focused on the Knight-Cardinal. The man looked beleaguered, as well he might, but he had not yet looked in Ruhen’s direction. Certinse had accepted Luerce’s offer of assistance readily enough, and he knew the part he had to play. The more Ruhen could be seen as the answer to the Devoted’s problems - and in time the fulfilment of their prophecies - the more Certinse could wrest control of his Order from the clerics paralysing it . . . yet he had not yet committed himself.
Ilumene fell silent, sensing Ruhen didn’t want to speak any more. He could see soldiers watching the boy, trying to be surreptitious, but unable to stop staring at the child they were hearing so many stories about. The priesthood was at the very heart of the Knights of the Temples, with every officer an ordained priest, albeit usually in one of the less-demanding cults. Every cuirass was inscribed with a prayer, and every day was heralded with the devotionals spoken en masse.
Originally the religious aspect had been a veneer for the majority, a small matter, accepted in return for the Order’s weekly stipend, but it was no longer such; the common soldiers were beginning to feel their holy charge more as a yoke around their necks. They were informed on by their own, even flogged for impious behaviour, and resentment had been building for months. Some had been mooting retaliation of some sort, but it was hard to fight back against the appointed of the Gods ... unless the priests themselves were at fault, and then it would not be impious at all.
This was fertile ground for Ruhen’s message of peace, his dismissal of the priests’ role. They were far from ready, but even so, most of the Circle City had heard of the remarkable child Duchess Escral had adopted, the miracles he had performed.
And what better way to persuade a man, thought Ilumene, looking down at the slight figure beside him whose eyes were swirling with shadows, than to give him what he hopes for in his heart.
His gaze moved to Knight-Cardinal Certinse, presently exchanging angry words with his own spiritual advisor.
You’re not a man to care why you have been given everything you asked for, are you, Certinse? You assume you’ll be able to kill us when Ruhen has served his purpose. Ilumene smiled and ran his fingertips over the hilt of his own dagger. Good luck with that. When you do, that’s when you’ll start to notice the shadows moving out of the corner of your eye.
A few minutes later, Ruhen started off towards the bickering men and women. Ilumene kept back a while before following. He was there as a devoted servant of the child, nothing more. Ruhen had to look vulnerable, without guidance; his hypnotic eyes would do the rest.
‘Tribute?’ roared the general from Raland, ‘what new insult is this? There was no mention of such a thing an hour ago!’
‘An hour ago you were declaring yourselves ready to fight to the last man,’ Duke Vrill retorted with a pinched expression, ‘with the great dragon of your Order threatening to reach out with its claws and strike us all down.’
More than a few couldn’t help but glance at the rotting corpse of the dragon Lord Styrax had killed. The body had been butchered, its claws and teeth taken by Menin soldiers as trophies, but a large enough chunk remained rotting in the sun.
‘So much anger,’ Ruhen said in a quiet voice. ‘Where does it end?’
The general paused in his response as he noticed his presence for the first time.
‘What is this child doing here?’ demanded High Priest Garash, a tall man in the brown robes of Belarannar. ‘Damned heretic - false idol of heretics!’
‘High Priest,’ Lord Styrax said in a cold tone, ‘there is no call for incivility.’
Garash bristled visibly. ‘That child’s followers preach heresy in Akell and beyond, and I will not listen to the filth it has to say.’
Styrax looked from the priest to the small figure of Ruhen. ‘Then get out of my sight,’ he said. ‘If you think a child of eight winters capable of preaching grave heresy, then you’re a fool, and I do not treat with fools.’
The high priest opened his mouth to respond, but before he could Knight-Cardinal Certinse touched him on the arm. The pair conferred quietly, Garash’s eyes widening with anger, but Certinse’s expression was hard.
‘Go,’ he said softly, ‘the piety of a small boy is not the concern here.’ He looked past the priest to where his adjutant stood. ‘Captain Perforren, please escort the high priest back to Akell.’
Garash scowled, realising he would have to physically resist if he wanted to remain at the discussion. He gave Ruhen one last hate-filled look before he rose and turned his back on them.
‘Thank you, Knight-Cardinal,’ Styrax acknowledged. ‘Duchess Escral, perhaps your man would take the child away, and leave negotiations to the adults.’
Before the duchess could reply Ruhen turned towards her and fixed his shadow-filled gaze upon her. She froze, lost at once in the hypnotic swirl.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Certinse muttered. ‘What does a child know of diplomacy? Duchess, would you — ’ He stopped dead as Ruhen stared straight at him, the words dying in his throat.
Ilumene had to suppress a smile. So Certinse intended to use Ruhen for his own ends? Ruhen could have that effect on many when he wished . . .
It was a strange sight; the small boy standing like a presiding magistrate between the opposing parties. Ruhen was dressed in a simple fawn tunic and calfskin trousers. There was a small pearl at his throat, but apart from that the boy could have been a shopkeeper’s son.
‘Very well, what do you suggest, little prince?’ Certinse asked.
Ruhen gave Certinse a small smile before turning to the envoys from Raland and Embere. ‘Do you want to make war?’
The generals exchanged a look. ‘Ah, of course not, if it can be helped,’ one said hesitantly.
‘Then do not fight.’ Ruhen’s high childish voice had them all transfixed now. His words were spoken without guile or inflexion, so plain that they sounded completely out of place around these men of politics - and that gave him his power.
‘It is not quite so simple,’ began the general, tailing off when he realised he was about to justify himself to a little boy.
‘He does not want to fight,’ Ruhen insisted, pointing at Lord Styrax. ‘Murderers came to Byora to kill my mother, and he must fight them. But he only wants peace with you.’
All eyes went to Styrax. ‘My offer remains, now that tempers are less heated. Sovereignty over your own lands, if you acknowledge my empire and rule. No occupying forces and only modest tribute, in return for protection against any and all enemies who may threaten your borders.’
‘What of those of our Order in Akell?’
‘They must remain,’ Styrax said apologetically, ‘for no less than a year. Their safety relies on your adherence to this non-aggression treaty.’
‘We cannot treat with a heretic,’ growled another priest, a bearded man who’d barely spoken throughout the negotiations.
‘Why not?’ asked Ruhen.
The priest looked startled at the question. ‘He has turned away from the Gods, and such behaviour cannot be condoned!’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Our reports were quite specific.’
Ruhen blinked, and summoned an expression of innocent puzzlement. ‘You want to fight because of a rumour?’
‘One I deny,’ Styrax broke in, ‘if that’s any help?’ His face was inscrutable. The white-eye was careful not to let his lively enjoyment of the situation show in any way that might give offence.
‘Can you not forgive?’ Ruhen said. ‘Does your God not allow forgiveness?’
The priest purpled. He wore the black robes of Death. ‘Forgiveness is my God’s prerogative, not mine.’
‘What about judgment?’
There was a pause. ‘Judgment is His alone,’ the priest muttered, aware that the dogma of his cult was too plain on the subject to argue, ‘but that does not mean we should comply with the threats of tyrants.’
‘Is it a threat to ask for peace?’
Knight-Cardinal Certinse laughed. ‘No, little prince, I don’t believe so.’
‘Then do not judge, unless you want men to kill each other.’
The little boy turned and headed back towards Ilumene, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. When he reached Ilumene and raised his hands, asking to be carried, the big soldier lifted him with the greatest of care and started back towards the ruined Fearen House, the library where Ruhen had been playing earlier.
Before he was out of earshot he heard someone break the silence.
‘So, Lord Styrax; now that we are suitably chastised, what assurances can you offer us?’ Certinse asked.
Ruhen smiled.
Venn stopped and looked up at the thin shafts of light pushing through the leaves. All around him the Harlequins stopped, their attention solely on the black-clad figure leading them. He ignored them. Breathless anticipation ran through his people whenever he paused or began to speak. Flies danced and swirled and winked in and out of sight as they passed through the dappled light.
‘Oracle?’ came a low voice on his left: Paen, the priestess with eyes of deepest amber, his first follower. ‘Do you sense something?’ Like many of the priests among them she had bleached her robe to a dull white - black remained a colour they would not wear, though now it was out of deference to Venn rather than Lord Death.
Venn turned to her. ‘Only that evening is near,’ he replied at last. ‘We should camp for the night.’
‘I will have Kobel post sentries.’
Venn looked over at the ageing Harlequin, who stood waiting for his command. The old man had been one of the last to come around. His resolve was stronger than most, but in the end Jackdaw’s magic had found some spark of ambition within him and now he was Venn’s general, commander of his followers, the eighty Harlequin warriors and trained youths.
‘Do so,’ Venn ordered, ‘then see if we have any of that ice-wine left. We’ve covered a good distance today.’
Aside from the blades there were only two dozen others in the party, the priests and clan members who had begged to accompany their oracle on his search to find the child. They were making good time through the Great Forest east of Farlan territory, particularly since they had not yet had to take any diversions to avoid Elven encampments. They had few luxuries with them, but ice-wine was drunk in thimble-sized cups, so it was no great burden to carry.
‘Oracle,’ called a returning scout, and Venn went forward to meet the young man, resisting the urge to break into a run for the sheer pleasure of having his strength restored to him.
The youth was no more than sixteen summers of age, too young to have passed the tests yet, but he carried the blades like the others and even now he would be the match of any Elf or soldier he might encounter.
‘You have found a camp?’ Venn asked.
The young man skidded to a stop ‘A camp, of sorts,’ he said, and took a deep breath.
‘Only sorts?’
‘I — Capan thought you would want to see for yourself, Oracle.’
Venn ignored the youth’s discomfort in suggesting what he should do and gestured for him to lead the way. The camp proved only to be a few hundred yards away, but even before he reached it Venn knew what was waiting for him.
‘A perfume on the wind,’ Rojak sighed at the back of Venn’s mind, ‘the scent of change.’
Venn knew what scents delighted the dead minstrel, he’d smelled enough of them in Scree. What he could detect on the wind here certainly fitted, and the sour smell of decay grew stronger as he approached. By the time he reached Capan he was guessing at dozens of bodies, rotting fast in the warmth of a spring day.
He looked up, taking a moment to pick out the high platforms that were usually built in the huge trees of the forest as both refuge and sentinel-post, then turned to the scouts.
The stoic Capan was the only one of the four not to have covered his mouth; he seemed barely to have noticed the stink. He moved only when Venn was close enough to bow to. The Harlequins used their bodies expressively, since they spent most of their time wearing white masks, but Capan gave nothing away through gesture, or through intonation.
‘Oracle, it is like nothing I have seen before.’ He turned and led Venn to the entrance to the camp, where a half-fallen tree was resting on a hump in the ground. Venn almost gagged on the smell as soon as he ducked his head under the thick tree-trunk, but he recovered himself to follow Capan in. A natural hollow in the ground had been dug out to extend it, though it was still small and cramped. It centred on a crudely built circle of stones that resembled a cairn. There was a hump-backed chimney arrangement that diverted the smoke away and over the earthen walls to disperse less obtrusively, which made Venn guess it was a communal fire.
>
The ground was littered with bodies, not long dead and as yet unmolested by scavengers, but that did not surprise him. The Elves hadn’t been attacked and slaughtered, though some had weapons in their hands, and there were no signs of violence - other than the brutal effects of disease, including protruding black nodules on their necks, wide white blisters on any exposed flesh and strange orange-tinted scabs on the flesh of their fingernails.
Venn had no idea what diseases caused such outbreaks, but whatever they were, they had obviously come on too fast for the Elves to bury - or even move - the first afflicted. There were fifty or more bodies on the floor of the camp, adults and children alike, and whatever had killed them, it had been swift and terrible.
‘This cannot be natural,’ moaned Jackdaw. Venn could feel the man’s revulsion, increased by the fact he had no body of his own with which to retch and shudder.
‘I doubt it is,’ Rojak said, his voice betraying his fascination. ‘I smell magic on the air.’
Venn looked around. Bodies, roughly made tables, discarded and rotten food - nothing he wouldn’t expect to see here. All the Elves were dressed the same. If any of them had been mages, they lacked the human inclination to marry power with grandeur, which he found unlikely.
‘Jackdaw,’ Venn said in the privacy of his mind, ‘what can you sense?’
There was a long pause before the Crystal Skull he’d retrieved from the cavern’s entrance-shrine one night gave out a pulse of warmth.
‘There is something here,’ Jackdaw said with a horrified whisper, ‘like nothing I have ever seen - and it is not alone, it’s like there are fireflies dancing all around the camp, all watching us.’
‘Capan, leave me.’
The scout had advanced further into the camp than Venn, picking his way through the piled bodies with balletic grace, but at Venn’s words he at last showed some emotion, tilting his head in surprise to look at Venn, but when he said no more Capan ducked his head in acknowledgement and left, careful not to touch any of the bodies as he went.
Venn looked around at the scene of horror, frozen in time and undisturbed by wind, predator, scavenger or insect. As he wondered who or what had the power to do this, and who would bother with just a tiny camp, Rojak’s mocking little laugh echoed through his head.