by Martin Scott
She doesn’t respond. There’s a bowl of soup lying next to her on a small table but it doesn’t look like it’s been touched. I look towards Saabril Clearwater.
“She doesn’t speak much,” says the sorcerer, softly.
Distressing as this is, I’m still not clear as to why Saabril has asked me here. I have no medical skills, apart from the rough-and-ready sort a man learns on the battlefield, for patching up comrades till they can find proper attention. If Tirini crashed through some harmful energy field in the magic space, thereby frying her brain, there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe there’s nothing anybody can do about it.
Tirini mumbles something inaudible.
“What was that?”
“They took my shoes,” she says, a little louder.
“Who took your shoes? What shoes?”
“They took my shoes.” Tirini sounds unbearably sad. Her voice tails off. She closes her eyes.
“What does she mean? Who took her shoes?”
“I don’t know, but that’s all she ever says. Commander Lisutaris thought you might be able to help. She told me you were an investigator.”
“It helps if I know what I’m investigating. Are we talking about an actual pair of shoes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are these shoes important for her health?”
“I don’t know that either. But none of my treatments are working and she’s getting worse.”
It crosses my mind to say something harsh to the medical sorcerer, pointing out that we’re in the middle of a war and I’ve already got more than enough vital work to be getting on with. But I’m discomfited by the sight of Tirini Snake Smiter in such a poor state, so I remain silent. We leave the wagon.
“Is she suffering the effects of some hostile spell?” I ask.
“None that I can find. Nor Lisutaris. Neither of us can diagnose the problem, or do anything that seems to help.” Saabril looks at me quite apologetically. “I know you’re busy, but Lisutaris asked me to consult you, just in case you could discover anything.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I turn and leave, heading back towards my own wagon. I’m unsettled by what I’ve just seen. More unsettled than I’d have imagined I would be. In Turai, Tirini was a vain woman who, as far as I could see, was a frivolous waste of time. She seemed to spend her entire life indulging in scandalous affairs while wasting her money on endless streams of fancy clothes and expensive trinkets. She probably spent more on her hair every week than the poor of Turai had to feed their families for a year. On the few occasions we met, she made it clear she regarded me as her inferior, in every way.
I bump into Makri just outside my wagon, and tell her about my encounter with the ailing Tirini.
“Is that why you’re looking gloomy?”
“I suppose so.”
“But you never liked her.”
“I know. She’s a frivolous idiot. But she’s our frivolous idiot. Having a glamorous sorcerer spending a ridiculous amount of money on golden fur cloaks and pink shoes, and outraging the Bishops by her disreputable behaviour, was part of what made Turai what it was.” I shake my head. “I didn’t like to see her the way she is now. Especially after she rescued Gurd and Tanrose.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Find out what she meant by 'they took my shoes,' I suppose. It might mean something.”
Makri is dressed in her lightweight Orcish armour; dark leather, covered in places by chainmail and small metal plates. The Orcish workmanship is very distinctive. I ask her what she’s doing here. “Are you hiding from See-ath the Elf again?”
“Of course not. I’m over that now.” Makri lowers her voice, although with the sound of trundling wagon wheels and marching feet all around, there’s not much chance of being overheard. “I’ve worried about this visit to the Vitin oracle. I don’t like it. It’s dangerous.”
“I don’t like it either. Lisutaris shouldn’t be going out on a secret mission with only a few followers.”
“I tried to dissuade her,” says Makri. “She got angry and told me to drop the subject.”
“It seems like the Vitin Oracle is too important to the Sorcerers Guild for her to ignore.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they all still secretly worship the Goddess Vitina. Or maybe they really need some advice from the oracle.”
“I don’t believe anyone can foretell the future.”
I agree with Makri. “I’ve always regarded these oracles as frauds. Either they give you some prediction so general it could mean anything, or so obscure there’s no telling what it means.”
Makri looks up, scanning the skies above, as if for dragons. We ride on in silence for a while.
“Where did you find another set of Orcish armour?”
“The King’s armoury.”
“You didn’t consider wearing normal, human armour?”
“I like this better.”
“It’s guaranteed to annoy some people.”
“You mean Elves?”
“I was thinking more of the Niojans.”
“Bishop-General Ritari and Legate Apiroi don’t like me anyway. I don’t think they like Lisutaris much either. They’re tolerating her as War Leader because of the Elves, but I don’t trust them. What if they make trouble when we meet up with the Simnians?”
“I can’t see that happening. By that time we’ll be ready to face the Orcs. You can’t change War Leader at the last moment.”
“It’s another reason Lisutaris shouldn’t be visiting this Oracle. If Legate Apiroi hears about it, he’ll be down on her like a bad spell.”
“We’ll just have to - ” I stop talking as Makri suddenly vanishes through the canvas flap, disappearing into the wagon. I ride on for a while. All around the army is moving forwards, slowly but relentlessly. After a few minutes I poke my head through the flap.
“I thought you said you were over See-Ath?”
“I lied.”
“He’s out of sight now.”
Makri re-emerges.
“I wish he’d stop taking messages to Lisutaris. Why do the Elves have to send her so many messages?”
Chapter Nine
Next day I waken long before dawn. Wakening myself at any hour is a talent I learned a long time again. As long as I haven’t drunk too much beer the night before, it usually works. I dress quietly, place my new Elvish sword in its scabbard, and slip out of the wagon. The night is dark, the moons hidden by clouds. The only light to guide me through the mass of tents and wagons comes from the distant torches at the southern sentry outpost. When the army camps, several pathways are always left clear for access. I pick my way through the tents till I reach the path that runs south, then hurry along towards the sentry post. My cloak is wrapped around me and I have a hood over my head, something I very rarely wear. Out of the corner of my eye I notice another figure moving, parallel to me, but I pay no attention. I haven’t told my unit I’m leaving. I left a note saying I was called away suddenly and will be back in a day or so. Anumaris will know where I’ve gone but she’ll keep it quiet. Four heavily armed guards and an officer are huddled round a brazier at the checkpoint. The night is chilly, as they often are in these open farmlands.
“Identify yourself,” says the officer, softly.
“The password is future days,” I respond, deliberately not giving my name or rank. The officer nods, and waves me through. I keep my head down as I leave, not wanting to be recognised by any casual observer. Before I’m out of earshot I hear a familiar voice behind me being challenged by the Guards, and giving the appropriate response. I walk on into the darkness. I have a fine illuminated staff strapped to my back. I could use it to make light, but I don’t. We’re trying to leave as unobtrusively as possible. I walk south, following the track made by the army’s horses and wagons. After travelling a few hundred yards I come upon a group of four people and seven horses. Each of the group is swathed
in a cloak, their faces hidden by their hoods.
“Captain,” mutters Lisutaris.
“Commander,” I reply, keeping my voice low.
Another hooded figure hands me the reins of a horse. I recognise Makri from the way she moves, though she remains silent.
“Captain,” whispers Lisutaris, to Hanama, who I knew was following along silently behind me. Hanama also take the reins of a horse, a smaller animal than the one that will be carrying me.
“That’s everyone,” says Coranius the Grinder, recognisable by his gruff voice. “Let’s be off.” He puts one foot in his stirrup to mount his horse.
“There’s one more,” I say.
“What?” Lisutaris is surprised, though she keeps her voice low.
“Last minute change of plan. I invited Gurd.”
“You weren’t meant to tell anyone!”
“As your Chief Security Officer I decided we needed another sword. You can trust Gurd.”
“This is an unnecessary risk,” comes a female voice I don’t recognise. It must be Ibella Hailstorm, the Abelasian sorcerer.
Gurd arrives, emerging silently from the gloom. He can move very quietly for a large man. Lisutaris stares at him for a few seconds.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go.”
We mount up and ride off as quietly as we can. Our secret journey to the Oracle has begun. Very few people know we’ve left, and none of them know our destination. Lisutaris and Ibella ride in front. We give the camp a wide berth, then turn north-east. The dark countryside is mostly featureless but Lisutaris has assured us she knows the way. We’re looking for a small stream which runs down from a hilly area to the east. If we follow that into the uplands, it will take us to the Vitin Oracle. Apparently it’s not difficult to reach. The path that leads to it runs through a forest, but it’s been well-travelled by pilgrims through the years. We should be there by mid afternoon. Although the oracles have been condemned by the True Church, they haven’t actually been made illegal, apart from those in Nioj. What we’ll find there, and whether anyone will be expecting us, I’m not certain.
The first faint traces of dawn are appearing as we reach the small river. Lisutaris and Ibella halt for a few moments. My horse, a fine sturdy beast, whinnies loudly then sticks its face in the water, drinking deeply. It’s a while since I’ve ridden any distance, but I’m an experienced enough rider. Unlike Makri, who never rode in her days as an Orcish gladiator, and still doesn’t look that comfortable on a horse. The terrain is a little wilder as we head into the hills, leaving the farmland behind. There’s a well-defined path but it’s become overgrown through lack of use. Bushes crowd in on either side. I spur my horse on till I catch up with Lisutaris.
“If this path becomes any more overgrown there’s only going to be room to ride in single file. I’ll lead the way from here. Makri, you ride behind me. Gurd, take up the rear. Hanama, go with him. Commander Lisutaris, stay between Coranius and Ibella.”
“Since when did we take orders from you?” demands Hanama.
“Since I became Chief Security Officer of the Commander’s Personal Security Unit.”
Hanama scowls at me but no one else objects. I’m faintly surprised to find that Lisutaris actually takes my advice. We set off again. Though it’s now late morning, not much light filters down through the overhanging trees. The path ahead is dark. The undergrowth pushes in at us, brushing the horses' flanks. I don’t like this. It seems like an excellent place for an ambush. The War Leader of the West shouldn’t be in such a vulnerable position. We’ve taken care to keep our journey secret, but I’m wary. I haven’t forgotten how easily Deeziz the Unseen got the better of us in Turai. I curse silently to myself. We shouldn’t be making this expedition. Oracles are never any good. They’re not worth risking your life over.
We ride along in silence. Each of us is alert. I don’t know what spells the sorcerers might have in place at the moment, but I hope they’ve got something to warn us of approaching enemies. If they haven’t, we’re certainly not going to see them coming, not with the thick forest crowding in on us. None of us is wearing heavy armour. The steel breastplate I’d wear going into battle isn’t really suitable for riding long distances. It’s too heavy. I find myself wondering if the leather shirt I have on would keep out an arrow. Possibly. It wouldn’t keep out a crossbow bolt.
The thickly wooded area is oddly quiet as we pass through. I’d have expected more in the way of bird calls and animal noises. We travel along in complete silence apart from the soft regular footfalls of our horses. We’re still ascending, though the hills aren’t steep. The river, now little more than a stream, is on our right, hidden by the undergrowth. On our left is a thick bank of bushes, thorns and overhanging tree branches. I’m wondering if Lisutaris recognises where we are. It all looks the same to me. Eventually we come to a statue beside the path. It’s old, and partially overgrown. A female figure. A Goddess, perhaps, though I don’t recognise her. Thinking it might be a landmark that Lisutaris recognises, I hold up my hand, bringing us to a halt. I turn towards Lisutaris.
“How far?”
“Less than a mile.”
“Who’s the statue?”
“Vitina. Goddess of knowledge and wisdom.”
Vitina. Her entire cult was disparaged and deprecated by the True Church before I was born. I think she might once have been worshipped in Turai, but if she was, her statues and temples have long been removed, or taken over by the church. Nothing remains of her there, apart from some references in a few old books and scrolls in the Imperial library.
“Was the path always this overgrown?”
“No,” says Lisutaris. “It used to be clearer. These days the priestesses don’t mind if the way is difficult.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t want to be bothered by hostile religious fanatics. In Nioj, Vitina’s temple was burned to the ground.”
Heartened by the knowledge that we’re almost there, I pick up the pace. I’m keen to get out of this undergrowth. I wonder how long Lisutaris, Coranius and Ibella will need to spend at the Oracle. I suppose there will be some sort of ceremony to go through before they consult the High Priestess, or whoever it is they’re meant to consult. I’ll be pleased when it’s all over and we’re safely back at camp.
We pass several more statues. Some resemble the figure of the Goddess Vitina we passed earlier, some are of different female figures. Ancient stone, well carved, though now showing signs of erosion from age and weather. When we suddenly emerge from the narrow path into a clearing I breath a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t say we were safe but at least we can’t be taken by surprise. Ahead of us is a temple, larger than I was expecting, made of white marble. It’s a fine construction, with six large pillars in front of the portico. The marble is clean, undamaged, and well-preserved. Unlike the statues we passed, it shows no sign of age. Someone has obviously been maintaining it through the years. As we approach, a solitary figure walks towards us, a young woman in an ornate blue robe. Her head is uncovered and her dark hair is unusually long, longer even than Makri’s. I bring our column to a halt.
The young woman glances at me for only a second or two, without displaying any great interest. She looks past me towards Lisutaris. Though the sorcerer’s features are still covered, she recognises her.
“Welcome, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. The High Priestess of Vitina is expecting you.”
Lisutaris slips smoothly from her mount. I’ve noticed she’s an excellent horsewoman. She probably grew up surrounded by horses, and learned to ride as part of her education. Coranius follows her. He’s a pale man, with sandy hair, neither tall nor imposing in stature. There’s little about his looks to suggest the great power he wields. Like Lisutaris, he comes from the upper classes of Turanian society. Though unlike her, not from the very highest ranks. The cream of our aristocracy rather frowns on their sons and daughters engaging in the profession of sorcery. Lisutaris is something of an exception in that regard
, coming, as she does, from an extremely aristocratic background.
Ibella dismounts next, less elegantly. I don’t know where she stands in the social classes of Abelasi. Probably, like Coranius, from a comfortable and respectable background, somewhere below the highest ranks. Personally, I’m firmly rooted in the lower classes. Even my name is lower class. Only gentlemen of rank have ius at the end of their name. A name ending in ax or ox marks you from birth as one of the common herd. These distinctions were very important in Turai. Even now that the city has fallen, they’re still important. Sons of the aristocracy get all the best positions: there will be very few officers in the Turanian regiments who are not well-born.
I’m expecting to wait outside the temple but Lisutaris motions for me to follow.
“I’d rather stay here and keep watch.”
“Everyone in the visiting party enters the temple,” says Lisutaris.
“We should leave someone on guard.”
“There’s no need,” says the long-haired young woman in the fancy robe. “The Goddess Vitina protects this area.”
“What’s she like against heavily-armed Orcs?”
“The Goddess Vitina protects this area,” she repeats.
Lisutaris motions to me again. I shrug, and follow her inside. Everyone lowers their hoods as we enter, as a mark of respect. I follow along, but I’m not pleased at this development. We should have left someone outside, on guard.
“I don’t like this,” I whisper to Makri.
“Neither do I,” she whispers back, but whether that’s because she fears an ambush, or because she’s never that comfortable inside religious buildings, I’m not sure. Makri is a heathen when it comes right down to it, with no respect for our Gods, or any Gods. She’ll probably get it in the neck from some divinity some day.
We find ourselves in a high, vaulted chamber. For a temple in the middle of nowhere, it’s an impressive piece of architecture. Everything is made of white marble. Good quality material, I’d say, probably as good as the stone that was used for the King’s imperial palace in Turai, and he spent a lot on that. There are several marble statues, a few made of bronze, and, beneath a huge shrine at the back of the room, a life-size gold representation of the Goddess Vitina. Arrayed around the walls are bronze shields, silver plates, gold drinking cups and plenty of other expensive items. I’m not certain what they represent. Offerings from past visitors, perhaps? It’s an impressive sight. This is obviously not one of those religions that doesn’t like to display its wealth. I wonder who keeps them safe these days? So much precious metal must be an attractive target for bandits, out here in this isolated area. Maybe the Goddess Vitina really does protect the place. Or perhaps the Sorcerers Guild offers them some discreet assistance.