by Tom Lloyd
‘I must lead the army.’ Chalat looked over towards the other army, seeing the movement there as General Lahk was no doubt urging them to break camp first. ‘We will leave before Lord Isak; you may join me, Suzerain Torl.’ With that, he turned and left.
Torl watched the priests part to allow him through before neatly peeling around to follow him. Only one remained, a tall man of about thirty summers with a flattened nose, wearing the robes of Nartis. He appeared oblivious to the fact his comrades had already crossed the hurscal line, so intently was he observing Suzerain Torl. The older man didn’t recognise him at all, but he guessed he was one of those with magical ability. From what Torl could fathom of the shifting alliances and allegiances within the cults, the prospect of battle had propelled the mages to the fore.
‘The envoy of the Gods commands you. You will not need your hurscals. Leave them here.’ The priest gave Torl a crooked smile and pointed the way, intending Torl to follow Chalat. ‘It is felt you are in need of additional religious instruction.’
‘Fuck you and the rest of your zealot cronies!’
Torl blinked. For a moment he thought the words had come from his own mouth until he realised Tiniq had stepped forward, a look of undisguised loathing on his face.
The priest did not appear in the least intimidated. ‘Godless scum,’ he snarled. ‘For that insult to the cults you will face a tribunal, of that I assure you.’
‘Go ahead,’ Tiniq replied. ‘My name is Tiniq; I am brother to General Lahk and a sworn sword of Isak Stormcaller. If you think you can drag me before a tribunal, you are welcome to try.’
The priest’s head flicked around back to Torl. ‘You keep the company of heretics,’ he hissed. ‘Your education is in greater need than we had realised. Leave your weapons and follow me.’
First he checked that the Lord Chalat had kept moving and was not there to witness, then he responded with a small hand gesture. At his signal every soldier watching - a full regiment of hurscals and sworn soldiers - drew his weapon.
‘As a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings for my entire adult life,’ he said softly, ‘I would love to come and be lectured by a man half my age on piety, but unfortunately I am bound by Special Order Seven and to contravene that would be treason.’
‘The Special Order does not overrule the word of the Gods!’
‘Certainly not,’ Torl said, adding contemptuously, ‘but you are no God, you are a stupid little man drunk on power. Tell every other idiot sitting on your so-called “Morality Tribunals” that I have been instructed to carry out the details of Special Order Seven to the letter, and that means no military officer may be tried by any court but a military one, and no court-ranked man or commanding officer may travel unarmed or without the company of his hurscals. If you wish to educate me, you must first present your petition to the relevant Farlan military authority.’ He pointed in the direction of the other army, then at the head of his hurscals. ‘That would be Lord Isak, or, at a pinch, myself. Sir Dahten here is in charge of preliminary requests.’
He turned away, signalling the end to the conversation. Behind him the priest spluttered with fury before Sir Dahten clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. The knight had a special knack; nine times out of ten he could get a finger in the soft hollow on top of a shoulder, hitting the sweet spot without trying. As he heard the soft thud of a man sinking to his knees, Torl knew Dahten had got it right again.
‘Preliminary requests,’ Dahten began, a menacing tone to his voice. ‘They’re not really of a discourse form, not at this stage of the proceedings. Now, hold your arms out wide - I’m sure your God will give you strength in this hour of need.’
How long can we continue like this? Torl wondered, closing his eyes and listening to the squawk as a sword was placed in each of the priest’s outstretched hands. Five days until we reach the Circle City. Will we have torn each other apart by then?
The following morning saw a storm break over the Circle City. The warning horn had sounded at the break of dawn, and its call had still been rolling over the city when the deluge came. In Burn, the scar surrounding the fissure they called Cambrey’s Tongue was hidden by a thick cloud of stinking grey smoke.
Ruhen stood in his high room in the Ruby Tower and looked out over a city washed clean by floodwater. He was staring into the murky distance, a faint trace of worry in his ever-serious expression. In his hands was the slim book that had been his mother’s only possession, one she no longer remembered; the journal of Vorizh Vukotic she had pulled from the ashes of Scree. It amused him to have something so valuable, the contents of which would determine the course of the next year of war, as a child’s plaything.
‘Come away from the window, my dear,’ called the duchess, reaching a hand out towards him. ‘Come, Ruhen, sit with me.’ She massaged her temple, as she did almost constantly now, trying to rub away the dull ache from her head. The bags under her eyes indicated how badly she had been sleeping of late - Ruhen disliked sleeping in her room, preferring access to the tower’s dark corridors whenever he wished, and without him the duchess found no rest. Each morning she looked a little more ragged, a little more nervous; and wary of shadows.
‘They are coming, lord,’ came a voice on the wind that no one but Ruhen heard, though Haipar flinched. The skeletal woman hunched a little lower and chewed harder at her lip, sensing Aracnan’s presence in the room even if she couldn’t hear him. Ilumene, nursing a hangover, was oblivious. He stared disconsolately down at the floor, occasionally swigging at a lukewarm jug of coffee.
‘How long?’
‘Perhaps four days if they leave the slowest behind; the whole army is made up of cavalry aside from a ragged swarm of peasants trailing after them. Five days if they wish to be in any shape to fight.’ Aracnan’s voice was little more than a distant echo in Ruhen’s head. The mercenary was somewhere in Wheel, hunting for the Farlan woman who had eluded him. His frustration at being unable to sniff her out was palpable. The mercenary’s position in events had now changed. His allegiance was no longer secret, and so his usefulness was diminished.
‘Ruhen, please, come and hold my hand, whisper my headache away,’ the duchess pleaded.
The little boy turned and offered her a smile, which was enough to smooth the cares from her face, at least until he returned to the window.
‘The boy seeks to kill me. A strange choice to make - he knows the risk.’
‘One half is led by a Chetse white-eye.’
‘Lord Chalat? Excellent. Send dreams of daemons to him, fuel his fanaticism. He will bring this crusade racing on and give Lord Isak no time to treat with the Menin, nor to attack Byora. He cannot abandon the crusade.’
‘You will bargain with Lord Styrax?’
‘He must not know me, not yet. Ilumene will offer him the duchess’s army.’
‘You intend to wipe out the Farlan?’
‘No, only to have both sides bloodied. Tell the Jesters to ensure Lord Isak can escape - this war must see no decisive action, but after the battle you must find a way to kill Kohrad Styrax.’
‘It will be done.’
The contact broken, Ruhen stepped back from the window and turned to his adopted mother. She reached out again and he toddled over to her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. A few kisses, a brush of her fingers through his soft brown hair, and Natai Escral, the Duchess of Byora, was soothed again.
‘Ah, you’re playing with your book again,’ she cooed at him. ‘Almost as much of a puzzle as my beautiful little boy! And what did you see out the window, little Ruhen?’
‘Soldiers, Mother,’ Ruhen replied in a voice full of innocence.
His words caused a beaming smile to spread over her face, then she glanced over at Haipar - but the tribeswoman from the Waste appeared not to have noticed that her position had been usurped.
Haipar would not have cared, even if she had realised; she was barely aware of anyone, for she was lost in her own sickness and misery, forever
twitching and peering into corners. When she did notice Ruhen’s presence, she always looked like a mouse startled by a cat.
‘Yes, my sweet, the city is full of soldiers, but they are all under control. We would never let any of them hurt you.’
‘Not here, out there.’ He pointed towards the horizon and at last he felt the duchess tense. ‘Horsemen,’ he added, just to make sure.
She carried him to the window, but could see nothing beyond the city. Ruhen pointed northwest, but all she could see was mist and smoke. ‘They frighten me,’ he added for sport.
She put a protective arm around his shoulders. ‘No one could possibly hurt you,’ she said before turning to Ilumene. ‘Sergeant, have a servant run to the Vier Tower - Tell Mage Peness I wish him to scry to the northwest.’
Ilumene grimaced and managed to heave himself to his feet.
The duchess smiled down at Ruhen. ‘Perhaps our prince is even more special than we had already thought?’
Ruhen returned to the window, his back to the duchess so she could not see the shadows dance in his eyes. Down below, a crowd was gathering - beggars and other vagrants mainly. They had been encamped outside the gates for a few hours now, fleeing briefly when Kiyer of the Deluge swept the streets clean, creeping back when the water cleared. As he watched, more joined the throng, loitering in the shadow of the Ruby Tower.
Word was spreading, helped by Luerce and his little troupe of disciples. Empty temples and fighting on the streets meant many were searching for something - anything - to believe in. Only the most desperate were waiting outside the compound gate, hoping for a glimpse of Ruhen, but it was a start. Ruhen’s patience was vast, and once word spread beyond the Circle City, it would meet those lost folk who had heard some new stories from the Harlequins.
‘Can we go back to the valley?’ Ruhen asked.
‘Do you want to see the men with wings again?’
His solemn nod provoked another smile. ‘Very well, we will. Lord Styrax will be glad to see us; he wants us all to be friends - would you like that?’
Ruhen paused to think. ‘Friends are good.’
‘That they are, my dear.’ The duchess hugged him close again and he could hear the quick beat of her heart, quite unlike his own.
He took her hand and looked her directly in the eye. For a moment she froze, lost in the shadows, before the moment passed. ‘Allying ourselves with the Menin may prove the best course, but let us wait for what Mage Peness has to say. Becoming friends can always wait a day or so, and it is always preferable to bring a gift.’
That evening Doranei and Sebe were eating in a small tavern on the outskirts of Breakale, just a short walk from the Beristole. Lell Derager, who continued to be their host, had suggested this as a good place to hear the gossip.
Wheel and Burn were increasingly unsafe these days, as the bartender had been quick to mention. She hadn’t specified where the danger came from and the two men from Narkang were too experienced to show too much interest. They took their time over bowls of greasy mutton stew, alert to the chatter around them.
‘—’eard she was going to sell the whole of Hale to the Menin—’
‘—Devoted got what was comin’ to ’em, just a bunch of priests with swords—’
‘—mad enough ta think they can use daemons in battle!’
‘—broke his curse just with a touch, I tell you - we all felt it!’
Doranei paused and cocked an ear. The room was full of quiet conversations overlaying each other, but that last had sounded different. It took him a moment to place it, but when he did, it was all he could do not to turn around and stare at the speaker. Something in the tone of voice reminded him of Parim, the demagogue King Emin had pressganged into the Brotherhood: it had that urgent honesty that Parim used so successfully to convince his listeners to shower him in gifts.
‘Going for a piss,’ he muttered to Sebe, putting his drink down and tapping the bar twice with a spice-yellowed finger. He caught Sebe’s arm as he was easing himself off his seat, so Sebe could turn a little and not draw attention to himself as he checked the room to see who noticed Doranei’s departure. By the time he returned to his food he was sure there was no unwelcome notice being paid, just the usual raising of eyes as a big man with weapons approached, then passed. No one followed, no one stopped talking, so Sebe cheerfully finished his drink and waved for another.
When Doranei returned, he slapped Sebe on the shoulder, thanking him for getting the drinks in, and whispered as he sat down, ‘Back corner, wearing white.’
Sebe wiped up the last of his mutton with some gritty bread. ‘Looks out of place, doesn’t he? Not a priest’s robes, but no tradesman wears white like that.’
Across the room came another snippet of conversation: ‘—no God ever did that for me, but you look into his eyes and it changes you. As noble as a prince and just a child—’
Doranei leaned over to Sebe. His friend smelled of damp wool and sweat, but Doranei didn’t imagine he was any better. ‘Doesn’t sound like he’s talking about any friend of ours,’ he muttered. ‘What do you reckon?’
Sebe shrugged. ‘Dressed like that I’d say he’s no innocent bystander. Don’t think we’ll get much out of him.’
‘Not the first one like that I’ve seen round these parts,’ Doranei agreed. ‘Looks like this is the next step, they’re recruiting to spread the word. There’s talk of beggars gathering at the gates of the Ruby Tower, of writing prayers to the Gods and fixing them to the wall. The desperate folk have given up on the cults, they’re looking for something else to believe in - and the shadow’s message is ready and waiting.’
Sebe’s expression mirrored Doranei’s own. ‘It’s your turn then.’
Doranei sighed. ‘True, and it won’t be the last either,’ he said grimly. ‘Let’s hope he gives us something useful.’
The pair finished their drinks and exited, quickly finding a dark corner of the street where they could wait unmolested for the hour until the man in white left the tavern and headed off alone through the night.
By the time General Lahk had asked him for permission to call a halt on the following day, Isak was already searching his memory for a secluded spot to carry out his unsavoury business. The route was one he knew well; past the Twins the road wound through rolling hills and across great stretches of grassland where once he would have stalked splay-toed geese and set traps for hares. Most of the game would have been frightened away by the approaching army, but the region itself was unchanged from the days when he’d crossed it in the wagon-train.
As the order was given, Isak stayed in the saddle, watching the soldiers around him jump to Lahk’s command. He pulled the blue silk hood from his face and let the blustering breeze run its chilly fingers over his cropped scalp as he stared into the advancing evening. The supply wagons had men swarming all over them, seeking tents, food and firewood. The sight reminded him of army ants killing a praying mantis.
Isak had widened his eyes in disbelief when he’d seen how much baggage was to accompany the armies. Combined, they numbered more than fifteen thousand men, and the Quartermaster-General, a comical little man with stumpy arms and legs called Pelay Kervar, had another thousand under his command - as many in his charge as the colonels he screamed invective at on a daily basis. When the Farlan were at war, Kervar outranked both colonels and suzerains, and his bodyguard was nearly on a par with Lord Isak’s own.
Isak dismounted and spent a few minutes seeing to Toramin, his warhorse, before allowing a hovering groom to take over. It was still habit for him to attend to his own horses before making camp, but he knew there was another reason he had busied himself there. Each evening he had a promise to keep, one that left him feeling sullied and, even worse, had not yet proved as necessary as he had hoped. Commander Jachen loitered nearby, carrying a canvas sack and a few lengths of black wood in a manner that made it clear he preferred not to touch any of them.
‘Still no sign of more troops from Lomin?’ h
e asked Count Vesna, knowing he would have been told as soon as they were sighted.
‘No more, no. Looks like Suzerain Suil’s optimism was ill-founded; the Eastmen nobles will have been glad for any excuse to stay at home and watch the fanatics leave.’
In their armour, they were a striking pair: Isak in Siulents, all in silver and Vesna in black with his roaring lion’s head crest in bright gold - they drew looks even from troops used to their presence. The magic imbued in Siulents demanded attention and that effect was magnified in the fading light, while Vesna’s reputation made the hero almost as noticeable to the weary soldiers.
Isak had to agree with his friend. Duke Lomin had refused Isak’s summons to provide troops, not believing in Isak’s promise that the east would still be defended. That gave the suzerains of the east all the excuse they needed not to join a crusade they had no interest in.
‘They would have given us the superiority we need. It cannot go unanswered.’ Isak said, though the words felt hollow as he spoke them.
‘From what the scryers tell me, I believe we still have enough,’ Vesna assured him. ‘Lord Styrax brought only a small force: four legions of infantry, three of cavalry. It seems he is adept at taking cities without any large-scale engagement. He will not have had the time he needs to prepare for us. I doubt he is even looking this way.’
Isak gave him a sceptical look.
‘No, perhaps it won’t be that simple,’ Vesna said, back-tracking swiftly, ‘but just remember, Raland and Embere are his problem. How could he possibly expect a pre-emptive strike from the north? ’
‘So we stick to the plan?’
‘Certainly. The scryers have his troops outside Akell at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll retreat to the south of the Circle City so he’s not watching his back.’
Vesna retrieved a rolled map from his saddle-bag and opened it up for Isak to look at as they walked. They headed for an outcrop, little more than a rise of rocky ground held together by the roots of an ancient oak, but it afforded a little shelter from the prying eyes of soldiers.