by Tom Lloyd
‘Did you expect anything different?’
Isak sighed. ‘You’re an actor, and I can understand you being able to adopt a role easily, but to see it on such a mass scale - these rabid zealots, all suddenly smiling and polite - it disturbs me. Folk shouldn’t be able to change so easily.’
He pointed to the fringes, where the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings divisions were already assembled and waiting to salute their lord before they left. There were two horsemen not in rank; the functional uniform of the Dark Monks disguised their identity, but Mihn knew the knights were Suzerain Torl and Brother-Captain Sheln.
‘Those two are talking to Legion Chaplain Darc, and have been for the last twenty minutes. That bastard’s personally hanged six of their comrades in the last few weeks, and yet there they are, making small-talk. I’d have cut him in half by now, but I’m a white-eye - we don’t civilise easily.’
Mihn looked at him. ‘You don’t react in the same way to crisis the way normal folk do either. For everyone else, custom and protocol cushion the blow. It gives them time to accept and rationalise what has happened, and the greater the upheaval, the more easily they accept the established structure. It may not last for long, but it doesn’t have to. What sets men apart from beasts is the ability to learn, to adapt.’
‘And so they suddenly accept my blessing on their crusade?’ Isak said, nonplussed.
‘Tradition papers over the cracks in society. When an army leaves Tirah, it should do so under the flag or blessing of the Chosen. The zealots are too delighted with the growing size of their army to care about challenging tradition right now.’
Isak glared in disgust. ‘Why should they care? They get to tyrannise those they think aren’t sufficiently godly.’ He pointed again, this time to the opposite corner of the square. ‘Look: men in the uniform of the bloody Knights of the Temples, at least a division of them, and under a runesword standard big enough for a legion. The law hasn’t changed overnight, Lord Bahl’s edicts on the Devoted haven’t disappeared, but today they’re allowed to gather under arms because we’re all dressed in our finest for a parade. It would be considered . . .’ Isak hesitated, groping for the right word for a moment, ‘it would be impolite to arrest them right now.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll never understand rich people.’
Before Mihn could reply, loud voices rang out over the hubbub and they looked up to see a procession of carriages clattering into the square. Six heralds dressed in a livery of white, blue and red rode ahead, standing in their stirrups and bellowing at the soldiers to clear a path. Each held a fluttering banner, like a suzerain’s hurscal.
‘Those banners have the snake of Nartis on,’ Isak said, narrowing his eyes, ‘but those knights don’t look like penitents to me.’
‘The Cardinal Paladins,’ Mihn supplied, almost without thinking. ‘I remember Chief Steward Lesarl talking about them; he was amused that the Synod had resurrected the regiment that once protected them. It’s made up of devout knights, and the cream of the mercenaries they employ.’
He hesitated and lowered his voice. ‘My Lord? Speaking of Lesarl - My Lord, where are your advisors? This is a ceremonial occasion, however false the sentiments, and—’
‘They’re busy,’ Isak said abruptly, shutting his jaw with a snap. He stared off into the distance for a few heartbeats, then turned back. There was a rare look of concern on his face. ‘I ordered them to stay away. The reason we came early was because I needed to think.’
‘Do you wish me to—?’ Mihn began before Isak waved the suggestion away.
‘No, not at all. You don’t disrupt my train of thought. If anything, you’ve helped. Did Xeliath not tell you about last night?’
Mihn looked down. ‘I wasn’t in much mood to listen, I’m afraid. I hadn’t realised how draining the ritual was going to be. By the time Xeliath, ah, returned to herself, I was asleep.’
Isak put a hand on the small man’s shoulder. ‘Of course. I’ll give you the brief version.’ He rubbed a hand over his stubble and Mihn suddenly realised his mood was not just because of a poor night’s sleep - and whatever was bothering him was serious enough to make his eyes look haunted. ‘I pretty much grew up on a soldier’s potted wisdom; you know that, right?’
Mihn nodded. ‘Of course - but Carel’s no fool, and it’s not led you far wrong, has it?’
‘Last time I asked him, the old bugger said he had nothing more to tell me.’ Isak gave a sour laugh at the notion that there was nothing more for him to learn. ‘He just repeated something he’s said before to me, “If it’s fear guiding your horse you’re riding straight to the ivory gates” - but I guess I ignored it the first time he said it. I didn’t think it applied to a white-eye. But now . . . now I realise it’s the answer I’ve been looking for, the one I think you’ve been nudging me towards for weeks.’
‘What was the news?’ Mihn asked quietly, keeping an eye on the cardinals’ carriages. They had stopped in the centre of the square. The cardinals would, of course, want to inspect their troops - and show they were in no great hurry for Isak’s approval.
‘Lord Styrax has moved north faster than we could have possibly imagined; he’s taken Tor Salan and will be at the gates of the Circle City soon, in days perhaps. For years - years - I dreamed of Lord Bahl’s death; and for the last few I always woke in the certainty that the same man would one day kill me. The man who’s marching this way.’
‘That means nothing,’ Mihn protested. ‘Whether the dreams are true or not, the Circle City is a long way from Tirah. It would take one order to have Tor Milist under your direct control, and that gives us miles of open ground to exploit our advantage: the cavalry. However good a warrior Lord Styrax is, he cannot win a battle all by himself - and the Farlan cavalry is the finest in the Land.’
‘I agree, so isn’t it ironic that I’m sending a chunk of my army chasing after him? This isn’t something I can stop without inciting civil war, and if I don’t give them support I’m throwing away valuable troops.’
Mihn looked puzzled. ‘What are you saying?’
Isak pulled a rolled parchment from inside his tunic. ‘This is Special Order Seven, one of Lesarl’s pre-prepared contingency plans. You want to know where my advisors are? They’re off enacting my orders. This order puts the Farlan nation into a state of war.’
‘You’re marching south?’ Mihn gaped at him. ‘But why?’
‘Because I will have to, and that you know better than you’re making out, my friend.’ There was no accusation in Isak’s expression, just a knowingness more suited to Carel’s careworn face. ‘You said a few weeks ago that I was haunted by prophecies and other forces that have shaped my life. You told me to accept and work around them, to turn them to purpose, just as I have tried to turn the zealotry of the cults to my gain. You know I can’t continue to submit to fear, and if I let my dreams dictate my actions, I will die like Lord Bahl, alone and haunted - and faithful bondsman that you are, you’re trying to prepare your own contingency plan.’
Mihn opened his mouth to argue but shut it again when he saw the look in Isak’s eye. The Chosen of Nartis was in no mood to be contradicted, especially when he knew he was right.
‘I will go south because I believe I must. My goal is not to meet Lord Styrax on the field but to buy enough time to get into Byora. Lesarl’s agent Legana - well, former agent - she told me that Azaer’s disciples are controlling the Duchess of Byora, that the next step of their plan will be enacted there.’
The white-eye paused and checked to see if the cardinals were close enough for his attention yet. He looked at Mihn once more and thumped his fist against his chest. Mihn felt the echo through the rune linking them.
‘At the very thought of going I feel fear; a cold, tight band around my heart. That isn’t something I’m used to and it terrifies me, but it also tells me Legana’s right: Azaer knows I am a danger - I am strong enough to kills Gods, so a shadow would be no great feat. It has survived so far by being unknown, but now
it is my enemy it must use the threat of Lord Styrax to ward me off.’
‘It has underestimated a white-eye’s aggression then,’ Mihn muttered.
Isak shook his head. ‘Not really. We are born to fight, but we’re also born to survive, no matter what. That means we’ll fight with every ounce of strength, but a glorious death holds no interest.’ His voice became more urgent. ‘You know that, don’t you? Nothing of this has been by accident; it is all by design. My dreams have imbued this fear of Styrax into every fibre of my body.
‘Meeting him face to face I’ll feel like the frightened little boy I have always been in my dreams. Even at my best, I’ve been one of the Chosen for only a year. Lord Styrax has ruled the Menin for several hundred. He’s beaten Koezh Vukotic in a fair fight, and he killed the last Lord of the Menin with a plain sword! In a straight fight against Lord Styrax, I will die, and that I know with a certainty I cannot even explain. And I don’t need someone as skilled as you to tell me what happens when you are certain of failure even before the first blow is struck.’
Mihn didn’t speak. He was stunned by Isak’s honesty - this raw openness wasn’t part of Isak’s personality, or the military world he lived in. Somewhere in the distance he heard a cough and realised the cardinals were nearing their position, but he couldn’t yet tear his eyes away from the young warrior before him.
Isak forced a smile on his face and clapped a hand on Mihn’s shoulder. He sagged under the weight as Isak pulled him closer to whisper, ‘I think I’ve guessed what your contingency plan is - let us hope it never comes to that. I’m not sure what frightens me more.’
Mihn nodded dumbly. For a moment he saw complete understanding in his lord’s eyes, and an acceptance that was chilling to behold.
Then the shroud of politics descended, and by the time Isak turned to greet High Cardinal Certinse, the welcoming smile on his face looked almost natural.
Certinse himself looked harried and drawn, not showing the same pleasure as his colleagues at the prospect of riding at the head of a crusade.
‘Your Eminence,’ Isak called, ‘I have excellent news.’ He raised the parchment. ‘This is Special Order Seven.’
The day passed swiftly, and Isak watched the chaos he had sparked throughout the city with a vague, sour smile. Mihn kept to his lord’s shadow and watched him carefully. By the end of the day he still wasn’t sure if that displayed amusement was a politician’s ruse or - more worryingly, Mihn thought - what Isak thought he should be feeling, and so displayed as a mask, hiding the fear and emptiness within.
Sunset found the pair of them back at Tirah Palace, perched on Isak’s high ledge in the chill evening air and watching the activity on the training ground below. Isak had sent two legions of City spearmen with Suzerain Torl, and promised more to follow. He’d also given Torl seven written orders, with instructions to hand them out to every suzerain he came into contact with. The results would be seven of the nearest suzerains joining him within days, accompanied by whatever troops they could muster at short notice; Lesarl estimated that would add some three thousand men to Torl’s division of Dark Monks. There were six thousand mercenaries already signed up under a variety of cult flags.
Another division of Dark Monks waited in Saroc’s suzerainty, which would take the initial total to ten thousand fighting men. Depending on how long he waited before following them, Isak would bring anything from five to twenty thousand men - and that could treble once word of his Special Order spread. With a few weeks’ notice the second-string troops would be mobilised, and that was another fifty thousand men, half of them cavalry and already trained, before they had even to begin recruiting civilians. There was a very good reason why the Farlan was the most powerful nation in the Land and, as Mihn realised during the day, the tribe’s military men were keen to remind the rest of the Land of that fact.
‘With a full mobilisation, you could beat the Menin,’ Mihn commented once he’d finished the prayer to the setting sun.
Isak made a noncommittal sound. ‘His victories have been swift and easy so far because his enemies underestimated him; I don’t intend to do that.’
‘You’re going to offer Styrax a chance for peace?’
‘A full mobilisation would mean he’s massively outnumbered, it’s true, but reports from Tor Salan say he’s turned the Ten Thousand to his service. If he has time to raise troops in Tor Salan and all the Chetse cities, our advantage is reduced. Narkang will stand with us, but they’re not ready for full-scale war. If we have to fight, best we are better prepared and fighting on ground of our choosing—’
‘Are we ready? If you send too many of the standing legions south, who will protect our other borders? You do remember the Elven invasion last winter? If you take the bulk of Lomin’s troops to the Circle City, the Elven scryers will discover it soon enough. Will Duke Lomin even permit his troops to leave?’
‘I’ve spoken to Lomin already, through those mages I met with earlier. He will provide troops; I’ve promised him support of another kind.’
Mihn hesitated. Isak’s shoulders had dropped slightly as he spoke, as though there was yet another burden weighting them down. ‘What sort of support?’ he asked in an apprehensive whisper.
‘Something only I can offer.’ Isak leaned backwards and rolled his massive frame off the ledge and onto the small walkway that encircled the palace’s main wing. ‘It’s something I must do now, even though it may backfire.’ He sounded a little unsure of what he was about to do, which was unlike him.
Mihn was worried. ‘Isak, shouldn’t you rest first?’
‘No, twilight’s the best time - if you want to stay, keep quiet and don’t interrupt.’
Mihn agreed and Isak opened his fleece-lined white cloak and held up one of his Crystal Skulls. Eolis was belted to his waist, and the other Skull was in its usual position, fused to the sword’s hilt. Isak was wearing a formal red tunic braided with gold thread underneath the cloak, looking like he’d just stepped out from a banquet.
‘Don’t be coy, bitch,’ Isak muttered, staring into the smooth, dead face of the Skull.
Mihn felt his hand tighten on his staff as the hairs prickled down his neck. Suddenly he couldn’t feel the cold night air; a greasy sensation crawled over his exposed flesh instead, as light as a butterfly’s touch. He twitched involuntarily and it receded a shade, as an unnatural wind began to whip up from the roof.
‘Don’t make me draw you out,’ Isak snarled. ‘You won’t enjoy that at all.’
Mihn froze. Oh Gods, please tell me you’re not—
The thought died unfinished as a greenish flicker raced around the rooftop like a lightning bolt. The wind tugged at the corners of Isak’s cloak and traced fleeting images of green in the air around the Farlan lord.
A stench of putrefaction and decay came from nowhere, causing Mihn to reel. He covered his mouth, trying not to retch, and flinched as he felt a flash of movement like a rap of knuckles on the inside of his ribs. When he looked up she was there, as beautiful as a shard of blue ice and just as cold, the terrible face of Death’s most savage Aspect: the Wither Queen.
Mihn’s stomach gave a lurch, out of terror as much as the rancid smell. She took a step towards him, all the tenderness of a conscienceless murderer in her eyes, reaching out to him with fingernails like jagged icicles—
‘I didn’t summon you here for that,’ Isak snarled behind her, making the Wither Queen snap her head around.
Mihn gasped as his heart began to beat once again.
‘Why do you call me?’ the Wither Queen intoned in a rasping voice. Her limbs were so thin that her bones were plainly visible. In a ragged dress of grey-blue she looked like a corpse come to life. Her matted black hair was seamed with grey, and on her head she wore a tarnished filigree crown set with unfinished gems. Long scabs marked her deathly-white skin; everything about her spoke of ruin and decay.
‘I have an offer.’
She made a sound like a choking man’s last breath. M
ihn guessed it was a laugh.
‘The Reapers do not bargain with mortals, we only hear their pleas.’ She took a step forward, her fingers flexing slowly, as though preparing to make a grab at him.
The raised Skull pulsed with bright white light, stopping her in her tracks. ‘I’m a busy man,’ Isak warned, his voice thick and husky with barely restrained aggression. ‘I don’t have time for your bluster. You know what this is and you know what I can do with it, so I suggest you listen.’
The Wither Queen continued to watch Isak like a hawk, her fingers constantly in movement, but she didn’t refute his words.
After a moment, he continued, ‘You are Aspects of Death, temporarily beyond His reach, but Aspects nonetheless. Furthermore, you are only one of five. I offer you the chance to become the greatest of the Reapers.’
‘You would worship me?’ she said mockingly.
‘Not only I, but members of my tribe too.’
‘Empty promises.’
‘Be careful who you call a liar. I can always kill you and make a similar offer to your brothers.’
Mihn saw the look on Isak’s face and realised he was half-hoping he’d have the excuse to do just that. He was making no effort to hide his revulsion at the Goddess of Disease.
‘What is the price of this worship?’ she asked.
‘The price is that you scour the forest east of Lomin for a hundred miles; that you take no man, woman or child, but you ensure no Elf walks those parts and survives. I must have the troops that protect the east.’