by Tom Lloyd
‘Help you?’
The man’s accent sounded strange until Breytech placed it as from Narkang. He looked up and saw a face tanned enough for a Chetse - and no offer of help.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ the man said, shifting his shoulders under his armour, which shone in the sun. Thick trails of sweat ran from under the battered skullcap. Slung on his back was a steel-rimmed round shield and a bastard sword hung from his hip, gems glittering on the hilt.
‘But you’re a soldier. You’re protecting the temples.’
The soldier cocked his head.
Breytech heard shuffling footsteps behind the man and looked around him into the Temple Plaza. Past the ring of shrines that encircled the six huge temples were two figures dragging a third towards the Temple of Death. Three figures, no more, and none apart from this one looked like a soldier. Other than them, the plaza was completely deserted.
‘Where are the others? Where are your men?’
The man gave an evil chuckle and looked back towards the three near the temple. ‘My men are there, but I wouldn’t say we’re protecting the temples.’
Breytech whirled around to look at his pursuers. They had remained on the edge of the plaza, loitering uneasily, but when they realised he was staring at them they began to hiss and stamp their feet. One or two took a hesitant pace forward and Breytech quickly averted his gaze.
The men by the temple caught his eye once again as the dark-haired captive shook himself free and made a feeble bid to escape. He was hampered by a stiff leg and his hands were bound behind his back, and he was caught easily by a small man bizarrely dressed head to foot in black who scythed the other’s legs from under him with a sweeping kick.
Breytech felt himself sway and his knees threatened to buckle as the sun’s heat became a physical force pressing on his shoulders, but he steeled himself and stood firm. He checked his own pursuers again.
They were slowly creeping closer, like nervous children. He took a step back and turned to the soldier, but the man was already walking away, tossing a thin-bladed dagger up into the air and catching it, again and again.
‘Wait, they’re coming this way,’ Breytech croaked, catching the man up.
The soldier stopped. ‘Of course they are,’ he said. ‘They’re not frightened of the temples. The Gods have left this place; they have no need to fear it.’
‘Then why did they stop?’ Breytech asked, bewildered, his head spinning. He slipped and fell to one knee, his palms flat pressed against the grit and dirt on the ground. Breathing in, Breytech tasted the dust on the air, as dry and dead as a tomb, and realised he could go no further.
‘They stopped,’ said the soldier, ‘because while they do not fear the Gods, they know to fear me.’ With that, he started off towards the temple again, cheerfully calling over his shoulder, ‘But I’m leaving now, and all they have left is a man dressed like a priest.’
Breytech gaped at the steel-bound shield on the soldier’s back, flinching as it caught the sun and reflected into his eyes. Then he heard the slap of feet on stone behind him and turned to see the pack descend. He opened his mouth to scream but the words died in his throat as he stared into the fevered eyes of the one leading them, a young boy of no more than fifteen winters whose chest was stained with dried blood. Teeth bared, the boy howled like a creature of the Dark Place and raised his thin hands ready to strike, fingers bent like eagle claws. They tore towards him and at last he found his voice again.
Breytech screamed and his terror echoed over the plaza. Their voices added to his until their high shrieks of rage and triumph swamped his lone voice.
Soon all was silent again.
At the Temple of Death, Ilumene stopped and looked back to watch. The creatures that owned Scree’s streets battered the Chetse’s body long after he was dead. They were quiet now; intent on their task, barging each other aside in their struggle to obliterate the remaining vestiges of the man.
He smiled and entered the temple, spitting on the fresco of Death’s cowled image that faced the open doorway as he passed. ‘Run away and hide, you festering relic,’ he said out loud. ‘Your time is over. Scree is a pyre to your failed glory and from its ashes will be born something greater than you could ever comprehend.’
CHAPTER 25
Doranei stared at the speaking-hole set into the door, which shuddered with the force of being slammed shut. He resisted the urge to turn around. It was bad enough that he was standing flat up against a closed door, like an errant child made to stand in the corner and unable to see the mocking eyes on his back; it was worse that those eyes belonged to the Brotherhood. He’d been the butt of every joke since first going to the theatre, when Zhia Vukotic had treated him like a favourite plaything. Now, though his command of the local dialect was not perfect, he was pretty sure that the stream of invective that had come through the speaking-hole before it had been slammed hadn’t included her best wishes and a warm welcome.
‘Maybe she’s eating,’ said a helpful voice behind him. Doranei tried to resist the urge to turn and clout Sebe around his scarred ears; it would only start the others off again. Instead, he continued to stare at the door as though force of will alone could open it.
‘Don’t say that,’ rumbled Coran, ‘you might make him jealous.’
‘Ah, neck envy,’ Sebe snickered. ‘Don’t worry, my friend, I’m sure you’re the only one to her taste!’
He endured it in silence, eyes fixed on the polished grain in front of him. Dusk was drawing in and a lull had fallen over the city. The streets had been largely deserted on the brief journey here, with only a few pockets of private militia protecting the houses of those rich folk still in the city, but he couldn’t have risked coming alone. Zhia’s men guarded the end of the street and they’d only been let through because the officer in charge had recognised Doranei from the theatre.
‘Try knocking again,’ Sebe suggested. ‘You got such a warm welcome the first time.’
A spark of childish antagonism flared in him and he felt words rise in his throat. The king had warned them to keep their tempers in check; whatever magic was being done in the city, it was designed to turn folk against each other. Instead of replying, he reached out with his right hand and rapped smartly.
‘At least he takes direction well nowadays,’ Beyn said from a little further away. ‘She’s had a good effect there.’
Doranei’s three companions had found places of concealment to watch the street in both directions; they had to assume the streets would not stay deserted for long. The officer Doranei had spoken to had made it clear he was getting his men indoors before nightfall, to avoid attracting trouble. Outside the city, armies waited like restless storm clouds, gathering in an ever-tightening funnel. The fighting at the Greengate was only a minor squall, but it heralded something far worse.
‘He’s a polite boy,’ Sebe answered, ‘always had a lot of respect for his elders.’
‘True, but I hadn’t realised he went for women that much older than he is.’
‘You don’t meet many that are so old; let’s face it they’re somewhat scarce.’
‘My money’s on him getting a crossbow bolt in the face,’ Beyn contributed in a chirpy tone. Doranei almost smiled; the Brotherhood would bet on anything amongst themselves and once the subject had been brought up there was nothing that could distract them from their ridiculous wagers.
‘I’ll take him being ignored no matter how long he knocks,’ said Sebe quickly.
‘Nah; spat in the face and told to piss off,’ said Coran.
‘What’s the wager then?’ Doranei asked.
‘You’re joining in?’
‘Absolutely.’ Doranei did smile this time, confident he knew better than they how Zhia or her companions were likely to react. At any rate, he’d not have to pay the bet if it did turn out to be a crossbow bolt in the face. ‘What’s the wager? Anyone got one in mind?’
‘I hear,’ Sebe began, ‘there’s a Raylin calle
d Mistress leading one of the mercenary armies, and that she’s got two pet wyverns. A claw or a tooth of one of them from anyone who loses; that’s the wager.’
‘Agreed. Well then, I say I’ll be dragged inside by a beautiful woman,’ Doranei said.
Beyn spluttered. ‘The boy’s confident, I’ll give him that.’
‘Don’t think it’s confidence,’ Coran said, ‘I reckon he’s just got good ears.’
On cue, the speaking-hole popped open again. Instead of the unshaven face of the man who’d answered it last, Doranei found himself beaming at Legana, though from the Farlan woman’s expression, he could have been a cockroach crawling on the doorstep. Touching him didn’t appear to be on her current list of options, let alone dragging him inside.
‘Can’t keep away?’ she said, turning her head to see who else was standing out in the street. ‘Or did you think today was a good day to take in the evening air?’
‘Men from Narkang laugh in the face of danger,’ Doranei replied, his Brothers chuckling in the background.
Legana gave him an unfriendly grin. ‘Well then, you’ll enjoy your journey home. It’s after sunset that the lunatics come out, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
With that, she slammed the speaking-hole in his face. Doranei’s mouth hung open, frozen in the act of replying. After a few moments he shut it again. Nothing happened on the other side of the door. He turned to look at Sebe, who was crouched two yards away on his right, behind an iron railing that was choked by withered brown weeds.
The man gave a noncommittal shrug and scratched at his newly shorn scalp. Sebe, like many in Scree, had decided his long black hair was too great a nuisance in this oppressive heat. The King’s Man had seen a lot of violence in his years of service and the jagged scars on his face and scalp attested to that. Without his ragged curls he looked like a battered, grinning monkey - which hadn’t escaped mention.
Doranei was about to step back from the door when he heard the bolts slam back and it jerked open to reveal a scowling Legana, her sword drawn. Four burly guards waited a respectful distance down the dim corridor. Legana wore a thin white cape over her clothes; the trappings of the White Circle still had a powerful hold over many of Scree’s citizens.
‘What do you want? We don’t exactly have time for social calls right now.’
‘Intelligence, Legana. We’ve business to finish before we leave the city.’
Legana gaped. ‘Have you not been paying attention to what’s happening in Scree? There’s not going to be a city left in three days; it’s a miracle that the fires haven’t already levelled it. The Second Army has turned on us and is killing anyone they find, and your king is running around with less than a company of men as his only guards. I think you should forget about your business and start worrying about how you’re going to survive. Whether you men from Narkang fear danger or not, you’re fools if you have any goal now beyond saving your own skins.’
Doranei bristled at the comment. ‘We understand the situation perfectly well.’ He paused and lowered his voice so the guards wouldn’t hear. ‘Your lord has promised us help.’
‘The Farlan are going to march on the city?’ Legana whispered furiously. ‘Does he really want to get embroiled in this mess?’
‘That’s not our decision to make, but I do know he wants you to report for orders as soon as you can.’
‘Damn, how does he expect me to serve a master and a mistress at the same time?’ she muttered with a scowl. ‘I can’t keep running off for orders if he wants me to remain as Zhia’s aide.’
Doranei let her fume for a little longer before coughing obviously. ‘Could you let us in? As you pointed out, the lunatics will be on the streets again soon.’
‘I thought you laughed in the face of danger?’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Frankly, you stink like a month-dead dog; I don’t really want you to come any closer.’
‘You try smelling like roses when you’ve been wearing mail for days.’
She pulled open her cape to reveal a Fysthrall breastplate underneath. ‘Some of us have been doing more than skulking in the shadows over the last few days, and we still manage to avoid having our own personal flies circling us.’
‘So are we coming in?’
Legana sighed. ‘She’s just woken up.’ She grabbed Doranei by the tunic and pulled him inside, waving a hand graciously to indicate that his comrades should follow. They didn’t waste any time, trotting past Legana and watching the guards warily.
‘I’ll take you up to her study; your Brothers can wait down here.’ She pointed to the formal reception room, hardly the place for soldiers in stinking leather and armour, but it was clear they had been using it as a barracks over the last few days.
Doranei grinned at his companions and followed Legana upstairs towards Zhia’s study. The last time he’d been there, Koezh Vukotic had stepped out of a mirror and joined them for an evening at the theatre. That felt like a lifetime ago. He gave a slight shake of the head as he trudged behind the Farlan agent. Even considering the strange existence that had been Doranei’s life for many winters now, he felt frighteningly out of his depth. In the service of his king, Doranei had murdered, stolen, lied and kidnapped. His loyalty had always been unquestionable; he might not have been the shining light that Ilumene had been, but he knew King Emin trusted him as much as he did Coran. Rarely had he felt so adrift.
Now, in this city that shimmered uncertainly under a midday sun fierce enough to kill, the real world of loyalty and service felt a distant memory. With the day split in half by a savage and sapping afternoon, Doranei had found himself drifting through the streets as though it were all a dream - a dream in which he was terrified what would happen if his lord and the enigmatic enemy of the Gods living here ever ended up on opposing sides on the battlefield. They hunted a traitor, and he knew the king would be watching him closely.
Opening the door to the study, Legana stepped to one side to let him past into the empty room. Thick curtains covered the tall window and the room was lit only by a pair of candles on the table and the oil lamps flanking the door.
‘Zhia is speaking to Mikiss. These first few days of being turned are difficult, she tells me. She’ll be with you soon.’
‘Mikiss? The Menin soldier she bit last time I was here? Does she really have time to nursemaid a fledgling vampire? I’d have thought she would be off to the fighting at the Greengate as quickly as possible.’
‘A few more minutes won’t matter,’ Legana said. ‘Fledgling he might be, but Mikiss will still be a dangerous presence on the streets once his head has cleared. The Greengate is in good hands; Haipar commands there and now her companions have come through the Foxport with some of their troops, the Greengate won’t fall’ She cocked her head at him, looking curious. ‘If you’re so worried about wasting time, what are you doing here? What intelligence do you need from us before you make your escape?’
‘I told you, we have business to conclude,’ Doranei said firmly.
He strode into the centre of the room and faltered. The table on his right had been laid as though Zhia was about to sit down to dinner, half a dozen shallow wooden bowls piled with food in the centre of the table alongside a lead-chased decanter of what he hoped was just a rich, dark red wine. The table was laid for two. Had she been expecting him - or someone else?
‘Have I interrupted your dinner?’ he asked cautiously.
Legana gave him a sly smile. ‘Not mine, but Mistress Zhia hasn’t eaten yet.’
Without giving him time to reply she left, closing the door. Doranei stared after her, but once her footsteps had receded there was no sound from the other side. Sniffing gingerly at the decanter he satisfied his own curiosity: wine, and the rich scent of an old vintage at that. He’d have to be careful not to let this cloud his mind. Five chairs stood at the table, a strange long-handled sword hanging in its scabbard from the back of one. Words he couldn’t read were detailed on the surface of the scabbard, the letters interwoven
with trails of ivy and bluebells. The leather-wrapped hilt of the sword took up almost half of its entire length and lacked any decoration while the guard was nothing more than a ridge following the line of the hilt. It wasn’t the sort of weapon he’d expect a lady to use.
Stop being a fool, Doranei chided himself. She’s not a lady, she’s a bloody vampire; strong enough to rip your arms off. That’s probably as light as a twig to her.
He turned his attention to the mirror that Koezh Vukotic had walked through during his previous visit. Lifting it up to look behind, pressing his hand against the surface to be sure it was solid, he could find nothing unusual about it now. The only result was a greasy smear on the surface, and with a muttered curse Doranei tried to wipe them off with his sleeve. The resultant smudge was marginally worse than the finger marks. He looked around for a cloth, but other than the curtains he could see nothing.
He stopped and gave his reflection a grim smile. People are tearing each other apart outside and you’re worried about getting the furniture dirty? just what is happening to you?
Behind him, the latch clicked open. His eyes shifted from himself to the reflection of the door as it opened and Zhia came into the room. Like Legana she was dressed in ornate armour, a white patterned skirt reaching to her knee, with tall boots underneath and greaves strapped over those. It was the first time he’d seen her in anything but elegant silk. At her hip was a sheathed dagger that matched the curious sword hanging from the chair. What really caught his attention was her hair, dyed rusty brown again, presumably to reassert her links with the Circle now that there was an army at the Greengate claiming she was a vampire.
Doranei felt his gut tighten; he’d not thought about it the last time he was here, but weren’t vampires supposed to have no reflection? Hadn’t the Gods cursed their vanity as they cursed their betrayal? his mind raced as he tried to recall the scriptures he’d so studiously ignored as a child.
‘Are you going to just stand there instead of greeting me? Normally I’d be pleased I could make a man stop and stare, but your expression is not that of the enamoured,’ Zhia purred. Doranei didn’t miss the slight edge to her voice.