‘I see. And drinking until dawn with him, that’s because he orders you to, is it?’
Damn. ‘Well, no, sir, but when I’m off-duty—’
‘An officer is never off-duty, Captain Tailorson. Especially not an officer serving within the Palace Rank. One who is under my direct command.’
Shit. ‘If my actions have been improper, sir, then I apologise. I will decline the prince’s request.’
Durdil huffed. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Captain. As I noted on your first day, you have the potential to be an outstanding officer. You are not embracing that potential. Captain of the princes’ honour guard will necessitate you performing at the highest level for an extended period of time. The safety of the princes is paramount, so I expect regular reports and thorough examinations of everything the king wishes examined. And I have asked the heir to keep an eye on you – I have mentioned I am considering you for promotion and would value his opinion on his return.’
He grinned, though Crys felt no desire to smile in return. ‘I may also have mentioned that in your desire to achieve that promotion, you will be taking your duties extremely seriously and will have little time for carousing.’
Godsdamn shitting shit. ‘I am indeed honoured, sir. I will serve to the best of my ability.’ Crys wondered if it rang as hollow in Durdil’s ears as it did in his own.
‘It will be a testing of your mettle, captain.’ Durdil leant forward and put his palms flat on his desk. ‘Do not let me down.’
‘Of course not, sir,’ Crys said in his blandest voice. He snapped out a salute, spun on his heel, and exited the office.
Careful what you wish for, imbecile. Sometimes you actually get it.
TARA
Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
West Rank headquarters, Cattle Lands, Rilporian border
‘Correspondence from the king, General,’ Tara said and handed it over.
Mace looked up from his letters and frowned. ‘What now? We can’t have a reply to the report about the raid and Liris’s death already. The throne doesn’t move that fast.’ He arched his back until his spine clicked.
This was one of the best things about being Mace’s adjutant, being here when he read his correspondence. Tara knew what the common soldiers thought they did up here, but at least they didn’t say it in front of her any more. Not since I broke that big git’s arm in two places. She grinned as Mace checked the name and seal on the envelope and then broke the wax.
His mouth opened as he read and then the colour drained from his face. Tara stepped forward, alarmed, and Mace swallowed and straightened in his chair.
‘It seems we are to be graced with royalty,’ he said. ‘The princes Janis and Rivil are coming to inspect the Rank, the forts, the supplies, the trade routes and anything else they can think of.’
Tara raised her eyebrows. ‘The princes? Why?’
Mace sighed. ‘The king’s health is not as robust as it once was,’ he said.
Tara kept her face neutral. That’s an understatement.
‘This may be the start of the princes assuming more control to ease the king’s burdens. Janis is capable, more than capable, but distant. It’s hard for men to be inspired to die in his name if he’s an enigma to them. Rastoth in his day could inspire anyone to do anything. Janis needs to learn to do the same.’
‘The West’s definitely the right place to start then,’ Tara said, ignoring the churning in her stomach. ‘We’re more loyal than the other Ranks as it is. West is best, after all,’ she added with a grin. Everyone said it.
‘I think that will be up to the princes to decide,’ Mace said and Tara’s smile faded. ‘They’re the future of this kingdom, Captain. Janis will be king and Rivil the Commander of the Ranks, so they need to see us at our absolute best.’
‘Future commander?’ Tara asked. ‘Surely that will be you, General.’
Mace folded his hands on the desk. ‘Me, Captain? While I admire your loyalty, I have no desire to be Commander of the Ranks. I am content with my position as general of the West. Which of course is entirely dependent on the princes’ assessment of my command. They’ll be here in a week. They’ll have my quarters, so I want you in charge of making sure they’re fitted out as best we can and my stuff is moved into the barracks.’
‘Colonel Abbas’s room—’ Tara began.
‘You know what would happen if I turfed Abbas out of his quarters?’ Mace asked.
‘Good point, sir. Well, my quarters then.’ Despite her words, Tara didn’t much want a repeat of the fourteen months she’d spent in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers, even if they had made her one of the dirtiest fighters in the Rank. There wasn’t anything Tara wouldn’t use as a weapon, and there wasn’t a body part Tara wouldn’t target if it’d get a fat fucker with rape on his mind off her. Still, Mace was the general and she was a captain.
‘The barracks, please, Captain. If it’s good enough for the men, it’s good enough for me.’
‘As you say, General.’ Best get it said, then. ‘Sir, about the princes, would you prefer it if I took out a long recon?’
Mace stared at her for a second. ‘Captain Carter, you are a bloody good officer first, if a little … hasty, and a woman second. You didn’t get this far by hiding from your superiors, or hiding your’ – he gestured vaguely and Tara’s face warmed – ‘female attributes. You’re up for rotation in two years: better get used to strangers having an opinion on you soldiering. Until then, I’ll vouch for you personally.’
Tara’s face warmed again, with gratitude this time. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘How many Hundreds are patrolling?’ he said and Tara pictured the barracks, the kitchens, the drill grounds inside and outside the forts.
She grimaced. ‘Seven, sir, with the Wolves out of action. It’ll put a stretch on us to get all four forts inspection-ready with that many men out.’
‘Best get busy then, eh, Captain?’ He jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Get your arse on to the wallwalk and flag the news to the other forts. I want this place hopping in an hour. Spick and span, Carter, spick and span. We’ve royalty coming.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tara said and saluted. Princes Janis and Rivil. Do I even have a dress I can fit into these days? Do I even know how to wear one?
GALTAS
Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
South Harbour dock, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
Galtas watched the loading of the royal barge with little interest, his mind on other things. He’d argued against Crys’s inclusion in the trip, especially against him leading the honour guard, offering to do it himself in the end. Rivil had helpfully pointed out Galtas held no formal rank. Galtas had equally helpfully pointed out they could hire a private guard as so many other nobles did, and he could lead that. Last thing he needed was that inquisitive little shit poking his nose in.
Then Janis broke in and said Palace Rank was the only appropriate guard for princes. Galtas hawked and spat into the calm waters of the harbour at the memory, at Janis’s utter dismissal of him. Appropriate. Oh, Janis was all about that, wasn’t he? Appearance was everything. He wondered what went on underneath that dour, faithful, self-righteous exterior. What perversions Janis must keep hidden to protect his reputation. Galtas didn’t doubt he had them, but years of prying had never revealed so much as a whore or a bastard or an unexplained death. It was impossible.
‘Careful with that,’ a voice snapped and Galtas jerked back into the real world and scowled down the dock. Tailorson was directing the loading. The captain waved his arm, then leapt from the dock into the barge to catch the swinging cargo and help lower it to the deck.
Galtas fingered the pouch of poison hanging from his belt and spat again. Quite the little hero. Gods, he was almost as insufferable as Janis, and significantly closer to Rivil than the heir would ever be, despite outward appearances.
There were plans to be safeguarded and an inquisitive soldier wa
s an unnecessary risk. Galtas touched the poison pouch again, checked the position of the sun, and then made his way to the Ship Tavern on the edge of the water outside the city.
Many plans, and many ways they could go wrong already, without Rivil being distracted by his new pet soldier. He took a table in a quiet corner and put his back to the wall, sipping at the ale the girl brought. If those plans came to fruition, he’d never have to bow and scrape to the likes of Janis again, or put up with shits like Tailorson.
He drank and waited, eyeing each new customer and wondering if his contact would be on time. Waiting was the hard part.
THE BLESSED ONE
Eleventh moon, year 994 since the Exile of the Red Gods
Longhouse, Eagle Height, Gilgoras Mountains
Lanta seethed. She’d felt Rillirin’s presence, she’d seen into their stinking excuse for a village, and then Corvus had slaughtered all he could find and the rest had fled. Her humiliation cut deep and she knew the Red Gods were displeased. She was displeased.
‘We are no closer to finding Liris’s killer,’ Lanta hissed. Corvus twitched, but had no answer. She could hear the enamel squeaking on her teeth, they were so tightly clenched. He’d left a band of five led by Edwin and Valan scouring the forests for Rillirin and ordered the rest back to Eagle Height, and when she’d argued against it, he’d suggested she stay and search herself. The mockery in his face when she’d declined had been plain. ‘Rillirin could be anywhere by now.’
‘We’ll find my sister when the gods will it,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll learn everything she has to say.’ He’d a fondness for quoting the gods’ will at her, as if he even knew what that was. A fondness for ignoring her, for ignoring the gods too when it suited him.
Lanta feared nothing, not even death – death would simply bring her into the gods’ very presence, to sit with the Dark Lady as Her Blessed One for all eternity. But the thought of that little cunt slipping through her fingers filled her with something akin to fear. Fear and bright, pure rage.
‘She was right there, Corvus, and you didn’t take her. You let her escape. Is your sense of family—’
‘You will address me correctly, Blessed One,’ he said smoothly, ‘as “Sire” or “your Majesty”. I give you that courtesy and you will do the same for me. As for my sense of family, Rillirin is a heathen and so she is dead to me. You think I would have allowed her to be a mere bed-slave to be used by any man who could claim her if I felt anything for her?’
‘Sire,’ she managed, swallowing bile, ‘be that as it may, Rillirin knows who killed Liris, but she also knows many of our secrets. Secrets we have just handed to the Wolves. The invasion, maybe even the ongoing negotiations with the Rilporian, may all be spilt. She is a weakness we cannot afford.’
‘And yet the gods will it otherwise,’ Corvus said and Lanta’s teeth squeaked again. ‘As for the Wolves, we sowed bloody confusion in their very fucking homes, killed them while they slept. The survivors won’t be able to stand against us for long.’ He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Commune with the gods, ask them for direction. Leave Rillirin and the war to me.’
Lanta sought for calm. ‘I shall pray and seek guidance. For our cause and for you, that you may have your eyes opened.’
‘Oh, I see clearly, Blessed One. Very clearly.’
His arrogance made her want to spit in his face, to draw her sacred hammer and put it through his temple. Instead she curtseyed and went to the door leading down into the cave-temple, controlling her temper until she was out of sight.
‘I will have that little bitch under my knife for this,’ she whispered, the sibilants echoing back to her. ‘Corvus’s arrogance, his ignorance, may destroy us all. I will not let that happen. The gods will triumph. They will have Rilpor. I have sworn it and I need no king to bring it about.’
In the temple, Lanta took a deep breath and stilled her mind and heart. To step into the circle unprepared was to have your soul torn to pieces. She lit the candles and threw bunches of dried sage on to the brazier and smoke rose, thick with visions. She knelt, palms on thighs, eyes closed and breathing steadily, until she felt the pathway to the gods break open and she rushed along it into the presence of her mistress.
In the stillness of the temple Lanta’s body twitched and bent, shuddering with pain that was indistinguishable from pleasure.
‘I am here, my child,’ the Dark Lady said and Lanta’s mind thrilled with awe and terror. Sweat darkened her dress. ‘You are distressed?’
The Dark Lady was a voice in Lanta’s head, a voice of fear and blood and orgasm, and Lanta opened herself like a flower to its owner. ‘My goddess, I fear Your will may not be done. I fear Corvus is not strong in his faith, that he will fail to accomplish Your desires. Will you guide me, tell me what must be done? Should I remove him?’
The Dark Lady was silent and Lanta waited, muscles tensing in waves through her body as the Goddess rifled through her mind and memories, her desires and plans. Lanta didn’t fight it, didn’t try and hide anything from Her. Not that she could have. All her ambitions and secret wants she put on view, and the Dark Lady pondered them, turned them over like trinkets, and discarded them.
‘Corvus does my will,’ the Dark Lady said abruptly, and Lanta sucked in a breath. ‘He is one of many instruments I command. You are another. The Rilporian is a third. The calestar the fourth. When all those pieces come together in one place, then will my victory be complete.’
‘The calestar? I did not know.’
‘You did not need to,’ the Dark Lady said and Her voice hurt. Lanta submitted. She could feel Her amusement. ‘You do not like Corvus, do you? Or is it that you do not like that he has stripped you of power?’ Lanta’s mind was crushed suddenly in a vice and she screamed, clutching her head. She fell to the stone as the Dark Lady tore open her skull.
‘You do my will, child, as does Corvus. Your petty ambitions mean nothing to me. If you hinder my plans with this feud with him, you will regret it. Never forget you could be replaced as easily as he could, as Liris was.’
‘Your will, Lady,’ Lanta gasped. ‘I will not fail you.’
The pain was gone and instead she felt the touch of fingertips, stroking along her skin, caressing, soothing, exciting. Lanta forced herself back on to her knees, shaking with the echoes of pain and the Dark Lady’s sudden arousal.
‘See that you do not fail me, child. Rilpor will belong to Blood again and, after it has fallen, all the world will know my wrath.’
DURDIL
Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Physician’s quarters, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘I will no doubt regret asking this, but how do you keep the cadavers so fresh?’ Durdil asked.
Hallos tapped the side of his nose and sat forward in his chair, putting his glass to the side. ‘You have your secrets, my old friend, and I have mine. I’ve had a few of your recruits assisting me with my research.’
Durdil eyed him dubiously. ‘You haven’t made any of them into cadavers, have you?’ Hallos laughed and waved a hand. ‘How many recruits?’
‘Three, and they’re all fine, before you ask. They had a few days’ leave and wanted to make some extra coin. They’ll be well enough to return to the barracks tomorrow.’
‘Hallos!’ Durdil snapped. ‘My soldiers are not your personal playthings. You know I had four drop out last year after you got your hands on them. One of them still has a limp.’
‘It’s vital research, Commander. The king himself gave me permission.’
‘I’m not sure he was aware of what you’d be doing to them. You’re a physician, not a soldier. What did you learn this time?’
‘Not much, unfortunately. I’m trying to find a way to swiftly elicit unconsciousness so that wounded men can be treated. A blood choke, you call it. Only they keep waking up when the pressure on the neck is released.’
‘You are not to keep pressure on indefinitely,’ Durdil almost shrieked.<
br />
Hallos patted the air. ‘I know, I know. I am a physician, after all. The brain would be compromised if the choke were applied for a sustained period. I tried it on some dogs before I moved to humans.’
‘You tried it on …’ Durdil trailed off and then drained his glass. ‘Remind me never to bring my hounds to the palace.’ He paused and replayed Hallos’s words. ‘Wait, you said they’ll be well enough to return to the barracks tomorrow. Where are they now?’
Hallos shifted in his seat. ‘Hospital,’ he muttered, and then patted the air again. ‘Precautionary only, I promise. I am making progress on ascertaining how long a healthy man can hold his breath in a variety of situations, though. Under water, in toxic smoke, while under stress, while running. All fascinating.’
‘And how is this of use?’ Durdil asked.
‘Well, say the palace caught fire, gods forbid. The king is trapped in his quarters with a fire raging its way towards him. You’re at the other end of the corridor. Now I’m confident that a fit man, as you undoubtedly are, could sprint that hundred yards while holding your breath in around twenty seconds. Meaning you know how long it will take you to reach the king and escort him to safety.’
Durdil choked slightly on his drink. ‘Twenty seconds? You have a lot of faith in an old man, Hallos. But let’s go along with the scenario. I heroically hold my breath and sprint the length of the corridor, full of toxic smoke, and burst into the king’s quarters. Now, once I’ve got my wind back, which I imagine would take several minutes and perhaps a small lie-down, how do I get his majesty out? With all due respect, I do not think him capable of sprinting a hundred yards while breathing, let alone while not.’
‘Ah, but this is where the research really comes into its own,’ Hallos said excitedly. ‘One of my volunteers breathed in toxic smoke for eleven minutes by the sand clock before finally passing out. Now, it wouldn’t take eleven minutes to walk a hundred yards, would it? And even if Rastoth were somehow incapacitated and you had to carry or drag him, it wouldn’t take you more than a minute, two at the outside. And we can tell from my research that your body would be able to withstand that much smoke without long-term adverse effects.’
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