by Tom Lloyd
‘The sun’s going down,’ he explained. ‘I can’t remember exactly how far the Beristole is, but I know the Byoran Guard don’t go there after dark.’
She checked her dagger in the long sleeve of her robe before dragging him forward once more.
‘Yet here we go, perhaps to our deaths,’ Antil said under his breath before moving ahead of Legana to guide her to the safer part of the road, away from the carts and horses. As he did so he felt a body thump into his back and he crashed first to his knees, his hand slipping from Legana’s, then fell face-first onto the cobbled ground, too quickly to even cry out before his head struck the stones.
‘Whoa, sorry about that, Father,’ said a man behind him. Antil moaned as a jolt of pain ran up his arm from his already cold hand.
Before he knew what was happening a pair of hands had gripped him under the arms and lifted him upright. Antil winced, letting the man take most of his weight, his feet wobbling underneath him.
‘You hurt, Father?’ asked the man, a dark blur wavering in front of his face until Antil blinked and the details resolved into a youngish face, rounded features and tufts of black hair poking out from under the hood of his cape. He didn’t sound like a local, and from the scars on his face, Antil guessed he was a mercenary of some sort, but the man was grinning like a monkey and sounded genuinely apologetic.
‘I . . . No, I am fine, I think,’ he said, touching a finger to his temple and not finding anything hurting too badly there. ‘Thank you,’ he added, rather belatedly.
‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ the man said, making a show of dusting Antil down, though it was apparent from the smell that dust was the least of his problems. ‘Should’ve been watching where I was going.’
‘Death’s bony cock,’ growled a voice behind the man. The grin fell from the man’s face and he looked over his shoulder at the speaker.
‘Steady on, boyo, man’s a high priest,’ he remonstrated, but his companion paid no attention. He was staring at Legana. Her hood had slipped a little and she stood in the emerging moonlight like a ghost, her skin pale and her eyes unfocused.
The first man squinted at her for a moment. ‘Shitting fuck,’ he breathed, frozen with surprise. His companion shoved him out of the way and grabbed Antil by the collar, hard enough to make the priest cry out.
‘You better pray to Shotir that you weren’t the one to do that to her,’ he hissed, pushing his face into Antil’s. He was not as scarred, but he was more heavily-built and looked just as well-used to violence. Antil picked out a small tattoo, on his earlobe of all places. ‘If you were, you’re in more trouble than you could possibly imagine.’
‘Got some strange luck on you, Father,’ muttered the first man, ‘running into us like that. Pissed off the Lady recently?’
Fat Lonei did not like the Land outside Hale. Whenever he was asked to travel elsewhere in the city, he was obedient and mindful of his vows. He performed his task as best he could, then scampered back to Hale, his heart pounding nervously until he was once again in familiar streets. He was a foundling, and had been nicknamed Fat Lonei in his fourth year in the temple, less out of malice - he was an amiable child and hard to dislike - more a statement of fact. He had never given anyone the impression he was unhappy with the name; it was simply who he was. His was a life of humble wants. Had the Gods themselves offered to make his every dream come true, Fat Lonei would have wondered what they wanted to hear from him.
He had been watching High Priest Antil head off down the street with the strange blind woman on his arm when he was suddenly struck by the notion that events of importance were afoot. A braver man would have followed the high priest and his charge to ensure they reached their destination safely, but one moment of imagining himself doing that was enough to make him realise that would leave him, Fat Lonei, out in the open, all alone. The chaos and bustle of Breakale frightened him and even the image of people lurching and shouting and barging brought the prickle of sweat to his brow. He saw himself surrounded by darkness, looking big and bright and obvious in his yellow priestly robe, while the filthy masses edged closer, baying for the blood of priests. No, that he could not do, but there was another option and this he embraced with the relief of a man who’d found a way around his conscience.
Scuttling from shadow to shadow, hanging well back, Fat Lonei followed the column of soldiers through the streets of Hale. The locals, clerics and laymen alike, scattered like frightened rabbits in the face of their advance. He heard the authoritative voices of the sergeants breaking the evening quiet, calling pointless orders, keeping their lines in order - anything to impose their presence on the cowed district.
Only when a halt was called did Fat Lonei realise their destination was the black needle-tipped dome of the Temple of Death, but not even seeing the carts brought clattering to the head of the column made him guess their purpose. He crept closer, careful to ensure that there were others nearer than him to provide ready targets, should the soldiers turn.
He saw the troops fan out, their weapons at the ready. A band of men, Byoran Guard, jumped to work when a big sergeant with a cruel face shouted. Lonei saw he was dressed as a Ruby Tower Guard, though he was, unusually, a foreigner, set apart not just by his tanned face, but also by the strange elbow-length gauntlets he wore that seemed to wink slivers of bluish reflected light.
He heard cries of dismay emanate from inside the temple, swiftly echoed by many of those watching from a safe distance. Entreaties, angry shouts and the wail of young novices accompanied the bustle around the open entrances of Death’s temple, the traditional three arches leading into the main temple. When the big sergeant climbed to the top step and bellowed at his men to work harder, Lonei realised the Byoran Guards had been dragging their feet once they’d collected the wood from the carts. Perhaps they’d not properly understood the order correctly.
The sergeant struck someone about the ear and knocked him down: there was no mistake. Tools were produced, wood lifted up and the first of Death’s open gates was quickly blocked. Lonei felt his breath catch; he’d never seen or heard of such a thing before. Barring Death’s gates? That was such a blasphemy he could not even conceive of it . . . the priest of Shotir sank to his knees like a puppet with the strings cut. Those around him stared in disbelief and horror, as shocked as Fat Lonei.
‘By the order of the duchess,’ the sergeant bellowed at the top of his voice, waving a piece of parchment to the crowd assembled just out of reach of his cordon of Ruby Tower Guards, ‘the Temple of Death is closed until the traitors within the cults are brought to justice. Any violation of this decree will bring summary punishment.’
It was a ridiculous decree, most likely impossible to enforce without leaving a garrison, yet even Lonei realised its effectiveness as the strength drained from his limbs. The Temple of Death was the heart of Hale, the house of the Chief of the Gods - this was a punch to the gut for all of them and it drove the wind from all those witnessing it. An insult and injury: Death’s house defiled, Death’s honour spat upon by a handful of soldiers.
An old woman, a priestess of Death, mounted the steps howling with grief. The sergeant turned at her high shrieks but motioned his troops to stay back. Each step was leaden as the priestess wove a path towards the sergeant, screaming curses at him between her heaving sobs. The sergeant laughed and reached out one hand to hold her off as she tried in vain to claw out his eyes, her fury impotent against his size and strength.
Lonei bowed his head, praying for Death to answer the insult. He didn’t see the crossbow bolts flash towards the soldiers, but he looked up when the screams became more urgent and people started to flee in all directions. Through the scattering crowd he could see two of the Byoran Guard on the ground, one lying still, the other writhing and crying out. He looked around and caught sight of a handful of men with crossbows fleeing down the street, the brown robes of Ushull’s priests flapping wildly as they ran.
Angry yells came from the ring of soldiers and so
me men started off down the street before being called back. As they turned Lonei saw a man suddenly burst forward through the cordon, long scimitars in each hand. The man was wearing a bronze-edged robe of bright, bloody red. He was short but extremely wide, and his head was shaved. The angry shouts turned into cries of alarm as he cut across the nearest man’s face and spun gracefully away, slashing at the next as he moved in behind the troops.
Lonei gave a gasp: he was watching a Mystic of Karkarn. The God of War had always attracted penitents, and some of those found a deeper truth in the combat skills they had learned, honing their prowess with prayer and fanatical dedication.
The line of soldiers crumpled inward as the mystic’s long shining swords, flashing like bolts of lightning, tore through the unprepared men. The big sergeant gave a furious shout, drew his own weapon and jumped down the steps to the street. The mystic turned neatly away from a falling man to meet the new threat with a flurry of blows, but somehow the foreign soldier parried them all and managed to plant a heavy kick in the cleric’s side.
The shaven-headed priest reeled, riding a blow that would have knocked a weaker man flying, but he was given no time to recover. He twisted to deflect an outthrust pike behind him, then raised a leg clear of a blade sweeping towards his shin before driving the point of his curved weapon into his attacker’s throat.
The distraction of the troops proved enough for the big sergeant to make up the ground and he chopped through the priest’s right hand with one savage blow. Momentum carried him close enough to hammer the pommel of his sword into the mystic’s cheek and he was already falling back from the force of the blow as the sergeant rammed his sword deep into the mystic’s stomach.
A hush descended. Lonei saw a spasm of agony cross the mystic’s face as he fell to his knees, spitted on the long sword. The sergeant lifted the hilt up, forcing the mystic to open his mouth in a silent scream as he yanked the sword out. The mystic fell as the sergeant turned away, leaving the dying man to twitch his last.
He turned his malevolent gaze to those watching. ‘Arrest them all, every one you can take,’ he roared.
In the torchlight he looked like a raging daemon, a cruel grin on his scarred face. Lonei whimpered as he looked at the prone figure of the old priestess lying on the steps. The soldiers ran to obey their commander, but Lonei was frozen to the spot. He didn’t see the troops run past him, nor the gap-toothed man who barely checked his stride to smack his pike handle into Lonei’s head. A flash of light, a screech of pain . . . Lonei felt himself fall into blackness where there was only the face of a daemon in a scarlet uniform.
CHAPTER 21
In the city of Tor Milist, in a grand house redolent of neglect, a woman stood with her hands clasped, staring at her unexpected visitor. Gian Intiss presided over her late husband’s household like a duchess, but not even pride and determination were enough to keep everything together. Civil war left its mark on every building, just as it scarred the families within. Everywhere Gian looked she saw reminders of their failing fortunes: the cracked paintwork, the warped boards, the broken trap in the yard. Even when she closed her eyes it was all around her: the distant bang of a shutter in the wind, its latch broken; a gust of wind through the broken window pane . . .
The day’s cost felt like a punch to the gut, but though the ledgers had nothing but bad news, she had had no choice: Harol’s birthday marked his entry into adulthood, and as such it required a celebration worthy of a merchant’s first-born. Without it, both competitors and creditors would start to ask questions, questions Gian couldn’t answer.
She stood at the kitchen door, barely listening to the clatter of preparation going on behind her as she looked down the hall that was the heart of the house. White mourning drapes still hung from the beams and around the other three doorways, and what decorations they had added were barely noticeable in comparison. The hall presently held more than fifty people, adults standing in knots of four or five while children raced around them squealing in delight. A nursemaid squatted on the ground next to the small playpen containing half-a-dozen toddlers who were crashing Harol’s old wooden toys against each other and delighting in the noise.
At the other end of the hall a slim figure faced away from her, standing perfectly still and looking at nothing as far as she could tell. The noise from the room washed over it as though it was just a ghost, belonging to another place and time. The Harlequin had removed only its bearskin and pack when it arrived. It was still wearing a long sword on each hip, as it had when it arrived and announced it would entertain her guests. Tunic and breeches were a patchwork of multi-coloured diamond shapes, each one no longer than her middle finger. Brown boots covered its legs, a white porcelain mask its face. The hair visible from behind was so dark it was almost black, and long enough to be tucked inside the Harlequin’s collar.
Gian shivered. She knew she should be grateful and give thanks to the Gods for its presence, for it added to the veneer of continued wealth, but there was something about its manner that made her nervous.
‘You’ve got that look on your face again,’ said a voice beside her. Harol slipped an arm around her waist and gave his mother a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re worrying.’
‘It feels like I’m always worrying about something,’ she sighed, giving her waifish eldest son a tight squeeze. ‘But if I don’t, who will?’
They had always been close, and Gian had never understood why father and son had found so little common ground between them. She and her bear-like husband had been as close as could be, and she adored her son, but something had always set the pair at odds with each other.
‘You should eat something then,’ Harol said, gesturing at the platters of food that had been laid out on the long oak table. He was wearing his new velvet tunic, and Gian realised the thick sleeves she’d given it did nothing at all to hide his skinny, boyish arms. ‘Try the honeyed pork, it’s delicious.’
‘You’re the one who needs building up,’ she replied, giving him a weak smile and patting her stomach. ‘The last thing I need to do is eat more. A fatter belly and more worry lines: that’s all I’ll get from this party!’
‘What is there for you to worry about?’
‘That Harlequin,’ she started, but stopped. ‘I don’t know, it’s just—’
‘Harlequins are always a bit odd, aren’t they? You offered it meat and wine when it arrived, didn’t you?’ Since his father’s death, earnest young Harol had taken a sudden interest in protocol and etiquette, as if he thought he had to become master of the household immediately. He had begun to affect a strangely formal manner in front of guests.
Gian nodded. ‘But it refused the Harlequin’s covenant and said it would only take bread, only drink water.’
‘Why?’
She sighed heavily again. ‘I don’t really know. It said it would make no further covenants until it found ‘innocence’. What did it mean by that?’
Harol made a dismissive sound and stuck his tongue out at the Harlequin’s turned back. While his figure was every bit as slim and androgynous as a Harlequin’s, Harol’s face was always animated - when he wasn’t telling himself to act grave and adult.
His cheeks were flushed, no doubt with wine as much as excitement at the day. Celebration had become a rare thing in Tor Milist over the last decade; even the end to the slow, drawn-out civil war had been met with uncertainty and apprehension. They knew Duke Vrerr’s moods and methods too well to shout for joy.
‘Listen to me well, for I am a guardian of the past,’ the Harlequin said in a sudden loud voice, still facing away from the room.
The voices died to nothing almost immediately. Even the smaller children sensed the change in atmosphere and ceased their raucous play. Several crept forward to where their parents stood and sat at their feet, all heads turned towards the speaker.
Without warning the Harlequin turned to face the room. Gian felt her hand tighten as its masked face swept the room, the bloody teardrop on its
cheek alarmingly bright. One of the smaller children whimpered at the sight, but she could see the others were enraptured.
‘In the city of Aineer in the years when the Gods were unquestioned throughout the Land, there was born a Yeetatchen girl by the name of Jerrath. Aineer was a city of faithful piety in those years, content in its fortunes, and far removed from the city it was to become - the city that Lliot, God of the Seas, destroyed for the behaviour of its citizens.’
A mutter ran around the room. Gian saw the face of a friend of hers tighten and become stern. Far from stopping, the rumours had been exacerbated by the sudden change in the priesthood. Folk said Scree had been destroyed by the Gods, obliterated in a firestorm while the cowled head of Death looked down from the clouds, His laughter like thunder.
She frowned as a grim quiet fell over her guests. Why remind people of that? Why stir up more anger and resentment? she wondered. Tor Milist had been spared major violence, but there were reports of skirmishes, religious executions and arbitrary punishments coming into the city from every direction.
‘Jerrath was the perfect daughter,’ the Harlequin continued, ‘cheerful about her chores and humble in her manner. From an early age she took to walking the streets each morning to visit each of the city’s main temples.’
The Harlequin’s voice was strong and clear, somehow unmuffled by the thin porcelain mask it wore. It stood perfectly still, hands clasped in front. ‘Ever-courteous, Jerrath became a popular sight on the morning streets. As the years passed all of Aineer came to know her face and love her. When she neared womanhood, however, no suits of marriage were offered by the rich men of the city despite her beauty. It was clear to all that Jerrath was too good for a mortal life and was destined to join the priesthood.’