The Grave Thief

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘Two services I have performed for you, grave thief; the third permits me to name a terrible price. Silence I have given you, the unseen glide of a ghost-owl. Protection I have given you, the leaves of rowan and hazel on your skin.’

  ‘Grave thief,’ whispered Xeliath from beside the witch, her face alight with savage delight, her eyes gleaming.

  ‘More you have asked from me,’ the witch continued, her voice growing in strength. Mihn felt the sound all around him, shaking through his bones. ‘And a claim on your soul is mine, to do with as I wish. That claim I offer to another; to the grave, to the wild wind, to the called storm.’

  The words struck Mihn like hammer blows, the force of each one echoing through his mind with the finality of nails in a coffin.

  ‘It is given,’ he whispered, feeling an empty pit open up in his stomach. ‘Whatever is asked shall be done. Whatever cannot be asked of another will be done. Whatever should not be asked of another, it will be done.’

  The witch took one more step to come within arm’s reach of the sitting man. She bent down to look him in the eye. Her pale, proud face had never before looked so terrible.

  ‘To be led through darkness one needs more than light.’ She reached behind herself and took Xeliath’s hand as she grabbed Mihn’s throat. He made no move to resist the witch as her nails dug in deep and drew blood.

  With his blood on her hand the witch lowered it and placed her palm on Mihn’s chest. He felt it warm to the touch as the wind suddenly whipped up and began to swirl all around them, tearing through the trees as Xeliath drew hard on the torrent of energy at her disposal.

  ‘In darkness you will find my price,’ the witch cried. ‘In darkness you will weep for master and mistress as cruel as the ice of their eyes. In darkness you will find both a path, and a leash on your soul.’

  The warmth of her hand intensified and Mihn gasped as leaves tore past his face and the ground shuddered. Distantly he heard a sound, a moan from the son of Nartis, but he had no mind for anything but the pain as a lance of flame seemed to run through his chest and a white-hot light filled his eyes. He screamed, and his cry mingled on the wind with the witch’s animal shriek.

  The Land fell away, only to abruptly return as Xeliath broke the flow of magic. Mihn was thrown backwards to sprawl on the ground, curling into a foetal ball as his howls became whimpers.

  ‘It is done,’ Xeliath said, uncaring of the writhing man on the floor, ‘and it has attracted someone’s attention; I sense them closing on the wind.’

  Mihn gave a cough which shook his whole body and sent a final burning tingle racing down his limbs. Fernal raced from the shadows and helped Mihn to sit upright. Mihn groaned, the echo of pain still strong. Once he was upright he once more noticed the smell of burnt flesh rising from his chest. He squinted down, his eyes blurred with rain and tears.

  ‘It is done,’ Fernal repeated.

  Mihn frowned, unable to see properly. With an unsteady finger he poked at his chest until he found the right spot and was rewarded with a hot stinging from the red patch of skin on his sternum. Bright against his painfully white skin was a circle containing a rune, one he knew well.

  ‘Is it finished?’ he asked drunkenly, looking up at the witch.

  There was sorrow in her eyes, so profound it frightened Mihn as much as the pitiless expression she had worn only moments before. ‘No, grave thief, it is far from over.’

  ‘Shit.’ He sank back into Fernal’s arms and unconsciousness embraced him.

  The grey sky surged and roiled with distant fury. On top of a small hill stood the broken stub of a tower, just one storey high, rising from a sea of gorse. Xeliath occupied a grand throne on what was now the roof, the shattered walls affording her an unhindered view. The gale that lashed around the edges of the tower failed to ruffle her silk shirt or riding breeches as it whistled ferociously over the scarred stone.

  The Yeetatchen girl was lost in thought as she scowled at the gorse. She wasn’t afraid, just puzzled. This was her Land, the dreamscape shaped by her mind, and she feared no one here - but she had never before been approached so tentatively here.

  She flexed the fingers of her left hand, feeling the dual sensation of a palm both unencumbered and still fused to the Crystal Skull. With a thought she clothed her body in glittering armour of crystal and a short-handled glaive appeared in her hand, like those carried by the Ghosts, but carved from ivory.

  ‘You will have no need of that,’ called a woman from behind her.

  Xeliath blinked, and the entire Land seemed to spin around her while she remained still. The woman, a copper-haired Farlan, staggered and almost fell before she found her balance once more. She was putting her weight on a silver-headed walking stick, moving as if she was injured; even in this dream-state she looked not entirely whole.

  Is this a ruse, or does she lack the strength to appear as she wishes? The Yeetatchen could not help but glance at her own left arm, now perfect and straight. Vanity perhaps, but the Land owes me that at the very least.

  ‘Who are you?’ Xeliath said, her voice cutting the wind like a sword through smoke. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘You are Xeliath?’ the woman asked. She pushed her hair away from her face and Xeliath saw a black hand-print on her throat. ‘My name is Legana.’ The wind tore at her long emerald cloak.

  The white-eye reached out with her senses and her puzzlement increased. ‘What are you?’ she wondered. ‘Your face says Farlan and your hair says a devotee of the Lady - so why do you smell of Godhood?’

  Legana took a step forward. The wind assailing her abruptly stopped. ‘I am the Mortal-Aspect of the Lady, but once I was an agent of the Farlan. I wish to speak to Lord Isak, to give my final report before I leave his service.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ Xeliath asked.

  ‘I am in your power,’ Legana said simply. ‘Here, I am at your mercy. Lord Isak knows me, he will recognise me, but I am not strong enough to reach him directly.’

  ‘Do you wear your true face?’ Xeliath mused. An unexpected gust of wind slapped past Legana, making her flinch. When she looked up again her face was unchanged, but Xeliath could now see a curved line of bumps running around her neck.

  ‘This is my true face. I lack the strength to hide it from you,’ Legana said, before adding in a bitter voice, ‘if I could, I would certainly remove from my neck the mark of the man who broke me and killed my Goddess.’

  Xeliath let go of her glaive. The weapon fell slowly and disappeared just before it hit the ground. In its place a small table appeared, bearing a crystal decanter and two glasses. ‘I have summoned him,’ Xeliath announced. ‘A drink while we wait? It’s not real, of course, but who cares?’

  The two women spent the next few minutes in silence, carefully scrutinising each other. In this dreamscape Xeliath was unaffected by the paralysis of the real world, and while Legana’s beauty was undiminished, her sinuous athleticism had been replaced by that ethereal quality possessed by all Gods.

  When Isak arrived, his peevish expression at the rags he found himself wearing vanished quickly, and he looked both women up and down, not trying to hide his appreciative grin. Only when Xeliath gave him a distinctly unfriendly look, accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder, did the Lord of the Farlan step forward, his palms upturned in greeting.

  ‘Legana,’ he acknowledged as she returned the gesture, ‘you’re changed since last I saw you.’

  ‘There have been many changes, Lord Isak.’ She inclined her head, to concede the point rather than show deference. ‘I come to give you my final report.’

  ‘Final?’ He shot a look at Xeliath, who was now lying on her side on a green upholstered sofa, watching the pair of them like a cat. ‘You wish to leave my service?’

  ‘I have left your service,’ she corrected. ‘My allegiance is no longer to the Farlan.’

  ‘Are we enemies instead?’ His voice was cautious rather than hostile, but, apparently unbidden, Eolis
appeared in his hand.

  ‘Not unless you wish it, my Lord,’ she said carefully. ‘I am not so changed that I have forgotten my past.’

  ‘Sod it, then,’ Isak replied, trying to look casual. ‘I’ve got enough enemies. Let’s hear your report.’

  ‘In brief, to begin with. You know the Lady is dead?’ Her voice was impassive.

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘It was Aracnan who killed her, and almost killed me too - I discovered him staging a situation to make it look like a high priest had been sacrificing to a daemon.’

  She paused as Isak’s expression soured all of a sudden, his ever-ready glower appearing even as he motioned for her to continue. ‘I encountered two King’s Men from Narkang in Byora, and we have good reason to believe Aracnan is acting under the orders of Azaer, and that other disciples of the shadow have infiltrated the Duchess of Byora’s inner circle.’

  ‘High priests playing with daemons? The bastard will be pleased to hear whose tactics he’s borrowed,’ Isak muttered. ‘Do you have any clues as to what the shadow intends?’

  ‘No, and I am in no condition to find out more.’

  ‘How easily did you find all this out?’ Xeliath interrupted. ‘Isak, you said yourself that Scree was a set-up from the start - so why would this situation in Byora be any different?’

  Legana hesitated before answering. ‘I was lucky to survive the attack - I barely did,’ she admitted in a quiet voice. ‘I had only been the Lady’s Mortal-Aspect for a few days before she sent me to the temple where I found Aracnan. She stepped in to save me, realising too late that he was too strong even for her.’

  ‘Too strong for a Goddess in a straight fight?’ Isak marvelled, disbelieving. ‘I hadn’t realised.’

  Xeliath made an angry sound. ‘Is any mortal? Is any immortal - except for the Gods of the Upper Circle and the princes of the Dark Place?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That you’re a slow-witted wagon-brat!’ she exclaimed fiercely. ‘Aracnan could not be so powerful by himself; he is only a Demi-God. If he was powerful enough to kill the Lady in a straight fight, then why has he not ascended to the Pantheon?’

  ‘Karkarn’s horn,’ breathed Legana as realisation struck her.

  ‘What?’ Isak looked at each of them, bewildered. ‘What the fuck are you both—? Ah. Oh.’

  ‘Exactly. We know one of Azaer’s disciples has a Crystal Skull in his possession,’ Xeliath said, flexing the fingers of her left hand.

  ‘Legana, you should leave the Circle City as swiftly as possible, ’ Isak said. ‘Your existence is a loose end he’ll be keen to tie up. But first tell me why you don’t think it’s a trap.’

  ‘In Scree they did not try to control events, but let them play out as they spiralled out of control. If the duchess is under Azaer’s control, then they are being more direct, building on Scree’s destruction. There’s no madness tearing the city apart this time, but a careful drawing of battle-lines between powers.’

  ‘But if that’s true, what’s to stop me marching the entire Farlan Army south and pounding Byora to dust? The road is clear, and Tor Milist would not dare hinder me - even united, the Circle City could not hope to win if I attacked. It could be a ruse,’ he insisted, ‘tempting me to act pre-emptively.’

  Legana thought through what Isak was saying, then her eyes widened. ‘Because Azaer will not be alone! Byora is awash with rumours from Tor Salan; the Menin have taken the city and are preparing to move north. The Circle City is weaker than it has been in decades. Lord Styrax can pick the cities off at his leisure. They will be crucial if he is going to take Raland and Embere.’

  Isak swore. ‘They’ll reach the Circle City long before we could ever hope to. Did the shadow engineer that, or just anticipate it?’

  ‘Whichever is true, you cannot attack Azaer without coming into conflict with the Menin.’

  The white-eye lord gave an unexpected laugh, sounding world-weary and full of bitterness despite his youth.

  ‘And so my deeds come back to haunt me. Avoiding conflict may not be possible, I’m afraid - tomorrow morning I give an official farewell to an army under Suzerain Torl’s command!’ Isak looked away for a moment, his face grave. ‘At my urging, the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings and the newly militant cults of the Farlan have declared a crusade against Lord Styrax. No prizes for guessing where those armies will meet.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Suzerain Torl and his troops left Tirah on the first fine morning of the year in Tirah. After weeks of winter misery, the citizens needed no more encouragement than a little sun to fill the streets, however uneasy they were at the sight of unfamiliar uniforms. Mihn stood at his lord’s side on a raised stone platform in Bloodletters Square, on the southern edge of the city, watching the troops assemble in the crisp early-morning air.

  Only now did Mihn appreciate how sapping to the spirit the weeks of constant rain and gales had been. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he felt the morning sun on his skin. People filled the massive square, pressing against each other and against the buildings, to watch the army marching out of the city, and Mihn could see his own smile reflected on everyone’s face. The appearance of Tsatach’s eye appeared to have done more to diffuse tensions in the city than all of Chief Steward Lesarl’s efforts. Even the buildings themselves looked more cheerful as the sun lightened the grey stone and glittered on window-panes.

  ‘How much longer?’ growled Lord Isak. He shifted his feet impatiently and his eyes roved over the bustle before him.

  ‘Not long, my Lord,’ Mihn replied with excessive cheerfulness. ‘Just try to enjoy the sun while it’s here.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m enjoying the fucking sun?’

  ‘Not really, but it never hurts to try.’

  Mihn’s broad smile only made Isak’s frown deepen. He’d been unable to sleep further after the meeting in Xeliath’s dreamscape and he’d been in a foul mood from the moment he left the Tower. It was only because Mihn knew how volatile Isak’s temper was that he was sure the three palace servants would not really be dismissed for this morning’s transgressions, and nor would Count Vesna’s title be stripped from him because of an argument over a spoon.

  ‘Never hurts to try?’ growled Isak. ‘It feels like a badger’s nesting in my head and this sun really isn’t helping.’ Isak looked past Mihn to the edge of the large square pedestal they were standing on to watch the troops assembling. ‘I could backhand you right off this thing, you know?’ he added.

  Mihn shrugged and turned back to the sun. ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure you’re that much quicker than I am, though, not at the moment.’

  Isak leaned down so his head was nearly level with Mihn’s. ‘Think you’re so clever? After what you did last night, I don’t have to catch you, do I?’ The massive white-eye slipped his right hand inside his tunic and smirked coldly. Before Mihn worked out what his lord was talking about, Isak jabbed his thumbnail into the scar on his chest hard enough to break the skin and the smaller man yelped as he felt the same pain.

  ‘Ah, Gods on high!’ Mihn gasped as Isak, teeth bared, twisted his thumb in the cut.

  ‘Like that, do you?’

  ‘Shit, ow! No!’ Mihn clamped his hand over his own chest, feeling the echo of Isak’s scratch magnified by the fact his burn was still blackened and raw.

  ‘Take back what you just said about enjoying the sun?’

  ‘Gods, you’re spiteful!’ Mihn hissed, moaning as Isak gave another twist of the thumb. ‘Ow! Yes, yes, I take it back!’

  Isak bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin and lowered his hand. ‘Good, now shut up and enjoy the view.’

  Mihn winced as the pressure was lifted from his burn and the pain subsided to a hot throbbing. He straightened up, ignoring the puzzled faces of Isak’s personal guard who were surrounding the stone block.

  ‘At least I managed to put a smile on your face before you have to speak to the priests,’ he muttered, turning awa
y from the irritable thug and to the troop formations ahead.

  On the north side of Bloodletters Square was the shrine to Nartis, the only part of the square still serving the purpose for which it had been built. All the grand buildings surrounding it had been extensively converted over the years, and most now housed workers’ families. Four thirty-foot-square platforms the height of a white-eye dominated the square itself. They occupied most of the north-eastern corner, leaving space for several thousand men to be formed up on the remaining ground.

  During the reign of Lord Atro, Lord Bahl’s predecessor, a wealthy nobleman had planned a grand temple complex to overlook the southern gate to the city. The nobleman had died before his plan had come to fruition, and his son had immediately put a stop to the project which would have ruined his family, but the land had already been cleared around the gate and work on the largest of the temples had started. Because space within the city walls was at a premium, Lord Atro’s Chief Steward had bought the square soon after, laughingly dubbed it Bloodletters Square and installed the city’s principal cattle market there.

  As Mihn watched, officers began to give orders and the masses coalesced into discrete blocks of troops. He could see Isak’s personal guard were nervous - and with good reason; a significant portion of the religious troops in the city were assembling just ahead of them. Whilst there had been no signs of hostility from the mercenaries, Mihn was well aware how quickly such situations could turn. Soldiers were trained to fight, and one of the first lessons was this: the slowest man to respond was usually the one who died. It was a small step from that to anticipating the enemy and drawing first blood yourself.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m Farlan at all,’ Isak said abruptly. ‘Their capacity for hypocrisy knows no limits.’

  Mihn turned to him, his eyebrows raised.

  Isak pressed fingers into the bridge of his nose to ease his headache and began to explain. ‘After weeks of what was virtually civil war, during which the laws of civil, military and cult domains were infringed so comprehensively it’s impossible to pick out each individual violation, the clerics still have the gall to pretend their penitents are new to all this.’ He pointed at the orderly ranks. ‘That they can pretend to have reorganised thousands of men into coherent military units overnight - well, it amazes me, and not least because there’s been not a word of objection. Suddenly everything’s back to normal, all traditions are scrupulously adhered to, and the cults formally request my blessing on their crusade, acting as meek as lambs now they think they’ve got what they want.’