The Grave Thief

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘I think you’re right there, yes. But King Emin is a mortal and running against the years,’ Lord Styrax pointed out. ‘Given the chance to tackle the same tactic from a different angle, the man would surely find a way - especially since Azaer is taking a rather prominent position in Byoran politics. Every report we’ve had from Narkang has stressed we do not underestimate King Emin’s intellect, no matter how unlucky we were sending the White Circle after him.’

  Styrax looked thoughtful for a moment, the hint of a smile on his face. ‘I suspect this shadow has a little more imagination than to use the same trick twice, and it lacks the strength to risk being so predictable. The powerful man can batter down the doors of his enemies; the weak man must find a new ploy for each.

  ‘I think we should go and meet this little scamp who looks like you.’ He clapped a massive hand onto Amber’s armoured shoulder. ‘Time for lunch, Major.’

  CHAPTER 30

  The Scholars’ Palace, more than fifty yards wide and eight storeys high, got even more impressive the closer Amber got. It was built of white limestone set against the black rock of Blackfang’s cliffs. The upper six levels had open walkways at each end, connected by a communal balcony from which Amber could see more than a dozen men and women from different nations watching them approach. Dark-haired Farlan in traditional wide-sleeved shirts stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Chetse scholars wrapped in furs, but he couldn’t identify more than half of those watching him. The few that were blond didn’t look like Litse bloodstock; western states most likely. It appeared the tribe charged with protecting the library didn’t much value its knowledge.

  He walked in silence with Lord Styrax, their winged escorts trailing along behind. Other than the cries of birds high in the air above there were no sounds of life here. Looking around, Amber saw white specks, sheep or goats, maybe, in the furthest corner of the valley, and a double bank of what he guessed were chicken coops tucked into an overhang of the rock. With a few acres of land penned with lines of stone where crops would be grown, the Library of Seasons was more self-sufficient than he had expected.

  Or perhaps they can’t rely on Ismess to keep them fed.

  The living quarters for guests of the library were in the upper six levels of the Scholars’ Palace. Doors placed at short intervals opened onto each storey’s balcony, indicating small, austere rooms for each visitor. The ground floor looked to be given over to kitchens; it was more than double the depth of the other floors and supported an enormous terrace which had been decked out in all the colours of those who would be attending the strange luncheon Lord Styrax had announced.

  Surrounding the terrace was a balustrade made entirely of white stone, the pillars of which were all human or animal figures in a variety of actions. Death and Ilit were at the corners, their outstretched hands holding up a fat rail beneath which the mortals lived and died. Unlike most statues of the God, which were either painted or carved from black rock, the cowled figure of Death was as white as the rest, something that looked oddly disconcerting to Amber.

  The Fanged Skull of Lord Styrax presided over the centre of the balcony, facing into the valley, flanked on the left by Lord Celao’s Bundled Arrows and on the right by the Ruby Tower that was Natai Escral’s family crest. Opposite the Fanged Skull was the Runesword of the Knights of the Temples, unadorned by any personal symbols. Amber frowned when he saw that: did the Knights of the Temples not use personal crests, or had Cardinal Sourl’s position changed recently?

  Below each crest was a long table, forming a square that did not meet at the corners. Litse servants busied themselves setting the tables for a formal meal, and Amber’s heart sank when he counted the number of places laid at Lord Styrax’s. Unless Lord Larim joined them, something he doubted a mage would willingly do, Amber thought he knew who would be filling that seat.

  As though reading the soldier’s mind, Lord Styrax pointed towards the nearest of the open stairs, where a servant was watching them, long golden hair tied neatly back and a set expression of welcome on his face.

  ‘Your clothes have been taken to a room; go and make yourself presentable for lunch. I don’t believe Cardinal Sourl has arrived yet, so you have a little time.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Amber said. He looked up at the sky, trying to discern the position of the sun.

  ‘It is time, yes,’ Lord Styrax confirmed. ‘The army will have arrived by now.’

  Amber nodded. ‘Doesn’t do a man’s appetite much good,’ he muttered with a sour expression before bowing and trudging off.

  ‘These are the sacrifices we make,’ Lord Styrax called after him. Amber didn’t dare turn and show his expression to the lord he worshipped.

  Put it out of your mind, he thought to himself, there’s a job to be done.

  A deep bellowing voice echoed through Fist, causing Major Teral to jump with alarm. He looked up from his soup, for a moment not hearing the words, as more voices took up the cry, confusing the message even further, but the urgency was unmistakable. Teral was on his feet and reaching for his swordbelt before he translated the words in his head. ‘To arms, to arms!’

  Major Teral was Farlan by birth, and had only just arrived in Akell two weeks ago with his legion - this was his first day as duty-commander. Once in the corridor he had to pause and wait for the calls to come again, panic clouding his memory as he tried to remember which way led to the upper station. Already he’d got lost three times in the rabbit-warren of corridors filling the Fist, the enormous fortress that was Akell’s forward defence.

  ‘Major!’ yelled a voice behind him. Teral whirled around to see Sergeant Jackler barrelling towards him. The bearded old sergeant had adopted him years ago as an officer in need of a guiding hand, to the profit of them both, and it had since grown into an unshakable loyalty. ‘Bloody Menin Army at the gates, sir !’

  Jackler turned back the way he had come, Teral close on his heels as they headed for the upper station where they would be able to get a good view of them.

  ‘Are they attacking?’ he yelled as Jackler battered soldiers out of the way, clearing a path for Teral.

  ‘No, bastards just sauntered into view!’ Jackler called back. ‘Tells us why those scouts were late reporting back.’ He added with a pitiless laugh, ‘Won’t bother putting them on report now!’

  Teral didn’t reply as he followed up the stair and out onto the upper station. The highest part of the Fist was half-full of soldiers already and he had to fight his way forward to get a decent view.

  ‘Jackler, get the enlisted to their stations,’ he shouted, roughly elbowing past men there to get a look. Leaving Jackler bellowing behind him, Teral reached the far edge and pushed his head cautiously through the crenellations.

  ‘Piss and daemons,’ he whispered, eyes widening at the sight before him.

  ‘Cocky bastards, ain’t they, sir?’ Jackler laughed behind him. ‘No urgency, no assault squads formed. Looks like they’re expecting us to just open the gates right up!’

  The force with the Menin standard at the front wasn’t the biggest Teral had ever seen, but as he looked at the three groups forming up outside bowshot range he realised it didn’t need to be. There were at least two legions of heavy infantry standing in neat ranks, their long pikes waving in the air, with another two legions of lighter troops behind. The mass of cavalry on the left were led by the legendary Bloodsworn, all sporting the Fanged Skull of the lord they worshipped. But it was the right flank that frightened him most of all: a dark crowd of figures too large to be human lowed and roared, their noise louder than the hooves of the rest of the army combined, and beside them a regiment of heavy infantry screamed with manic delight, all the while waving enormous polished steel shields above their heads. Teral didn’t have to be close enough to see the blades fixed on the edge of the shields, and he barely noticed the cadre of mages behind them.

  ‘Oh Gods,’ he breathed, ‘the Reavers, and minotaurs too.’

  ‘Good thing they ain’t attacked yet,
then!’ Jackler said cheerfully. He pointed at the infantry with the massive Menin standard. ‘Look, flags of parley. Probably come to surrender to us, sir !’

  Three horsemen broke away and headed towards the Fist: two Bloodsworn, with the blood-red Fanged Skull painted onto their black breastplates and shields, and a nobleman between them, brandishing the white banner. He was taller than the knights escorting him.

  Thank the Gods; someone I might actually be able to negotiate with, rather than that blasphemy of a creature that’s Styrax’s favourite general, he thought, thankful for small mercies.

  ‘A white-eye?’ Jackler asked, noticing the man in the middle was towering over his companions.

  ‘That’s ornate for a white-eye,’ Teral remarked. The red, white and blue livery made a very obvious target, no matter who escorted him. He looked blurred, but Teral was Farlan and knew it wasn’t his vision that was at fault. ‘The man’s wearing ribbons,’ he exclaimed. ‘If he is a white-eye he’s enough of a peacock to rival Suzerain Saroc.’

  ‘That’d be Duke Vrill then,’ Jackler advised. ‘They say he’s Chief Steward to Lord Styrax.’ He paused and with a laugh added, ‘Imagine that: Chief Steward Lesarl with a white-eye’s temper.’

  ‘Lesarl’s viciousness surpasses that of any white-eye,’ Teral said sourly, ‘but you’re right, that must be Vrill. What does he expect us to say? He must realise there’s no man here ranked above colonel; all the commanders are meeting his lord!’ He pushed away from the wall and headed for the stair, Jackler on his heels. ‘There’s no one here authorised to negotiate surrender, and why else bring an army here?’

  ‘Talking would be better than attacking the Fist,’ Jackler pointed out.

  He was right, Teral realised. Even with the terrifying troops the Menin had, the Fist was a hard place to take at the best of times - and reinforcements had just arrived for the Akellan defenders: four legions of Knights of the Temples from Canar Fell and Aroth, most of the Order living under Narkang’s rule. The Order had considerable resources and much land at its disposal, and it ensured its troops were all well supplied and trained. Its armies were spread over a dozen or more city-states, in the charge of select generals, and they all maintained a reputation for martial excellence.

  They had planned to re-supply at the Fist and continue on to Raland, a key city-state controlled by the Order, but Sourl could not have been more delighted to receive them. The politics of the Order were complicated, but it never boded well whenever a general welcomed troops under his superior’s colours.

  ‘What’s he going to say to persuade us to give in?’ Teral yelled over his shoulder as they reached the bottom of the stairs and made for the fortified gate-house, the only entrance on that side of the Fist.

  An attack alarm was clanging above his head, and there was movement all around as men made for their battle stations. The Fist was a massive square building, the straight line of the walls broken only by a jutting gatehouse on the northern face. The outer wall was ten feet thick with defensive walkways built within that, and served as a massive outer shell to the inner building, itself five storeys high and a maze of kitchens, storerooms, barracks, foundries, halls, offices and stables.

  The Fist would be hard to take. The outskirts of the city had crept ever closer, until now only five hundred paces separated the nearest dwellings from the massive walls - but the ground had been carefully planned to hinder any attacker, with piled earthworks and deep ditches close to the fort and enough open ground to leave anyone trying to slip past the Fist exposed and vulnerable for far too long for comfort.

  Teral looked up; the sky above him was grey, making even the scarlet of their uniforms look faded and dull.

  ‘Is Colonal Dake not here?’ he snapped, watching the ordered chaos around him.

  ‘Back in the city,’ Jackler replied. ‘I’ll send a rider.’

  ‘Where in the name of the Dark Place is Major Sants, then?’

  ‘I’m here, Teral,’ called a laconic voice from the shadows of the gatehouse, ‘just waiting for you to show your face.’

  Teral bit down the curse that was on the tip of his tongue. Now was not the time to let Sants wind him up. ‘It looks as if their general, the white-eye Vrill, wants to parley. I don’t think we can afford to wait for Colonel Dake to arrive, so we should go and hear what he has to say immediately.’

  As he took a step forward, Captain Shael and the rabid Chaplain Fell joined him. The chaplain was still wearing the bronze braiding on his half-black, half-red robe.

  Gods, the Knight-Cardinal must have reversed his decision, all so a few chaplains can pretend they’re Mystics of Karkarn, Teral thought, noting the chaplain’s clothing.

  Clerics had always been a driving force within the Knights of the Temples, but the recent fanaticism sweeping through the cults had taken that to an extreme. It might have been comical to watch formerly mild-mannered clerics assuming all the swagger and aggression of a Farlan regimental chaplain, if it hadn’t been accompanied by savage fervour and increasingly brutal punishments for any man betraying the slightest disrespect towards a man of the cloth.

  No doubt that priest of Belarannar whispered in the Knight-Cardinal’s ear again; man’s been closer than a flea and just as friendly. How long can I last without being assigned a ‘spiritual advisor’ of my own? he wondered.

  Major Sants pointed past Teral at four horses being brought around from the stables. ‘We were just waiting for you to catch up,’ he said with an infuriating smile.

  Teral whipped the reins of his own horse from the groom, not caring how ungracious he appeared. The man didn’t bother to look aggrieved, nor did he react when Sants accepted the reins of his own warhorse with exaggerated courtesy. As soon as they were mounted, Sants gave a cough. ‘Ahem, Major ?’

  The gates were shut; Teral was duty-commander, and only on his order would they be opened. The gates were twelve feet square, made of bog-oak from the marshes to the west, and reinforced with steel rods. Four men stared down at him from the gantry above the gate, waiting for his order.

  He opened his mouth, about to speak, when a man stepped out in front of his horse and the creature shied. It took Teral a moment to regain control of the beast before he could look at the person blocking his path: a priest in black robes. The red stripe running down each voluminous sleeve and around his waist was unfamiliar to Teral, as was the small, curved dagger attached to his robe - clearly a ritual implement, though he couldn’t place the cult that required such a thing.

  ‘Major,’ the man called out in a strange accent, ‘Major, I must beg favour of you.’ He spoke the Farlan dialect, although with a strong accent.

  ‘Your Reverence, now is not the time,’ Teral said, trying to keep his temper. ‘Please, whatever it is, make your request later.’

  ‘No, Major, it is time,’ the man replied loudly, his high foreign voice making it sound like a rebuke. As though to support his point, a small group shuffled closer: four more dressed in black and five in novice grey, though the colour of the stripes was different. It was hard to make out in the weak light.

  What sort of priests are these? Is that stripe yellow or white? Some instinct made him wheel his horse away from the men. Jackler, seeing the movement, stepped directly between Teral and the priest, his hand on his hilt.

  ‘What God do you serve?’ Teral asked as the gatehouse troops stepped out of their guardrooms and surrounded the priests. ‘What could possibly be so important you need to speak to me now? You do realise there’s a Menin army out there?’

  ‘I hear alarm. Now is time,’ the priest insisted. He pushed back the hood of his robe to reveal a face of indeterminate age, entirely hairless and frighteningly white.

  Teral wondered if the man came from the Waste; he’d heard many of the tribes there had strange-coloured skin, ranging from as grey as a corpse to red like a birthmark.

  ‘We are priests of Death. When there is battle, we must pray.’

  ‘Pray then, dammit,�
� roared Chaplain Fell, a priest of Karkarn, ‘but just get out of the damn way!’

  Teral couldn’t help but wince, fearing to find himself caught between feuding priests, but the strange man appeared to take no umbrage at Fell’s belligerent tone.

  ‘Well, Father?’ he said. ‘You don’t need my permission to pray.’

  ‘Apologies, we are . . .’ The priest floundered for a moment, then turned to his colleagues for help.

  ‘Aligned,’ one of the novices said quietly. He wasn’t as young as most novices; though he was also hairless, he had the weatherbeaten face of a penitent.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The priest gave a small bow to the novice and turned back to Teral. ‘We are aligned priests; we serve the Reapers.’

  Teral blinked in surprise. Aligned to the Reapers? He’d never heard of such a thing before - though it did explain the colours on each man’s robe.

  But Gods, what sort of madman would be a priest to any of the Reapers?

  ‘You serve the Reapers?’ he said, stunned. ‘What do you want with me?’ Fear made his question harsh, but the priest didn’t appear to notice.

  Sweet Nartis, one of these men worships the Headsman?

  The priest gave a bow. ‘All priests of Death must pray before battle; we must pray on site of battle.’

  ‘Out there?’ Sants retorted, pointing towards the still-closed gate. ‘You want to walk out there to pray?’

  The priest nodded.

  Teral hesitated, trying to work out what to do. The Order bowed to religious authority; that was inbred, and of late that had been even more evident, yet something here felt wrong. He looked at each of the priests: all in black, each with a similar ageless face.

  Gods, are they mages? he wondered. ‘Sergeant,’ he shouted in the general direction of the guardroom, ‘where’s your witchfinder ?’

  ‘I’m here,’ came a shout from above before the sergeant of the gate could answer, and a pale-haired man with long limbs waved from his seat on one of the wall’s walkways. He dangled a leg over the edge. Teral couldn’t tell whether it was just a trick of the light, or if it was a combination of age and grubbiness that made the man’s white hair and tunic both look grey. The witchfinders were the only people within the Order to wear white and black.