by Tom Lloyd
‘Your true face please,’ Gaur growled.
The man’s mouth curled into a slight smile. He peeled his gloves off to reveal long, delicate fingers and unfastened his cloak. Underneath he wore a black tunic patterned with sinuous green dragons, overlaid by crossed baldrics. A bronze gorget at his neck was engraved with what looked like writing and studded with small gems.
He unhooked it, and Amber gave a start that sent a fresh twinge of pain around his ribcage.
The man’s face seemed to fall away from his head and vanish for a fraction of a second. As Amber’s eyes refocused he saw no man’s face at all: a sharper, curved jaw line, a thinner skull and more prominent cheekbones. Though Amber had been expecting it, he could not quite stop a moment of shock.
As beautiful as a woman, with an unknowable air and a cruel glitter in his eyes, the true Elf slipped back his hood and gave a mocking half-bow. By some freak of birth he had been untouched by the curse and was one of only a handful of true Elves born to each generation. In that instant their eyes met, Amber realised Arlal Poisonblade knew exactly how rare he was.
‘Drink?’ Gaur asked, indicating a tall silver jug to Arlal’s left.
‘No,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. With fastidious care the Elf tucked his gloves into his belt and slipped the weapons-bag from his shoulder. The only adornment he wore other than the gorget was a silver belt-buckle in the shape of a dragon’s head. Everything else was as plain and practical as one might expect of an assassin in the land of his ancient enemies.
‘Will you sit?’
‘No.’
‘To business then.’ If Gaur took offence at the Elf’s demeanour he gave no sign of it. He patted the sheathed sword meaningfully. ‘We have another job for you. More difficult this time.’
‘Who?’
‘A Farlan general. By now we assume he will have returned to Tirah.’
‘A general more difficult than the Krann of the Chetse?’ Arlal said contemptuously. His Menin was imperfect, as though he was reluctant to sully his mouth with a human dialect, but it was understandable.
Amber was careful not to react. He’d known a Raylin mercenary had wounded Krann Charr with a magical arrow, but he hadn’t been part of Lord Styrax’s inner circle before the invasion and the name of the assassin had remained a secret. Even with the heretical direction their plans were now going in it was a shock to hear a true Elf had struck the first blow of their conquest — the arrow had allowed Charr to be possessed by a daemon, which had then usurped Lord Chalat’s position.
Without Arlal’s first blow the Menin advance force would never have been able to defeat the Chetse in one sudden strike, and Amber himself would never have had the opportunity to meet the Chosen of Tsatach in battle barely a month past, let alone kill him; more likely he’d have died assaulting Thotel.
‘He is no longer just a general; he is also the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn,’ the general said.
The Elf laughed. ‘Your Gods are so weak now they need mortals?’
Gaur didn’t respond. No good could come from discussing the Gods with an Elf, one cursed or not.
‘The spirits are stirred up. I hear their whispers in the dark,’ Arlal continued, a sudden intensity crossing his face. ‘They tell me the Farlan thief is dead.’ The Elf’s eyes glittered with avarice and Amber realised the thievery he meant was Lord Isak’s possession of Siulents and Eolis — the greatest of Elven weapons.
‘That is true,’ Gaur confirmed. ‘He was foolish enough to face Lord Styrax in battle.’
‘Then my price is what is rightfully mine,’ the Elf spat.
Gaur cocked his head and Amber realised he had been expecting that. ‘His gifts? We do not have them to offer; all but his helm were sent to the Dark Place with him.’
As Arlal hesitated, Amber understood: they knew almost nothing of the Elven race, or its prophecies, with the exception of the prophet, Shalstik, who foretold Aryn Bwr’s rebirth, but Eolis and Siulents would be more than just weapons to them. They were symbols of their greatest king — it might be that possession of them alone would be enough to confer the authority to rule, even without using them to claim he was Aryn Bwr reborn.
‘What do you offer?’ Arlal said at last.
‘This sword,’ Gaur said, holding out the weapon Amber had won. ‘Taken from Lord Chalat’s dead fingers, it is Elven-made — I believe in your tongue it is named Golaeth.’
Amber could see Arlal’s shoulders stiffen, but the Elf made no effort to reach for the weapon.
‘It is perhaps a relic of my people, but it is a poor thing compared to Eolis. It is not enough to kill a God.’
‘He is no God, only one touched by the divine,’ Gaur pointed out. ‘It will be no different to killing one of the Chosen.’
‘I need more.’
Gaur looked over at Amber briefly, who had nothing to contribute beyond meeting Gaur’s look and looking stern, and hoping his slight nod would add to the impression of compromise. ‘What do you need?’ the beastman asked.
‘Arrows to kill him, Golaeth if they fail to. The helm and its weight in rubies as final payment.’
‘Rubies?’
The Elf gave a curt nod, but no explanation, and Amber realised suddenly he did have a contribution to the conversation.
‘For making bloodrose amulets,’ the major said, his eyes on Arlal. ‘It’s said they’re composed of rubies.’ One of the mages healing him had mentioned it — Lord Chalat had been thought to wear such an amulet, though nothing had been found on his body. They were created by the Elven warrior orders and used instead of physical armour. Clearly some such orders remained.
‘Our friend here has plans of his own back home,’ Amber went on, watching as Arlal’s eyes narrowed enough to prove him right. ‘With Golaeth, enough rubies to make several bloodrose amulets and Aryn Bwr’s helm, he may find power and supporters enough for a coup.’
‘That, human,’ Arlal spat, ‘is not your concern.’
‘It is not,’ Gaur agreed, ‘but the price is acceptable. Inform Lord Larim of your requirements and he shall ensure the arrows are made.’
He held the sword out and this time Arlal took it and slipped the ancient copper-bladed weapon from the sheath to inspect it. Like many magical weapons it was oversized, too big to be of any real use without its imbued power. It would have looked comical in the hands of the slender Arlal but for the ease with which he moved it through the air. It was a straight, double-edged blade coming to a short point, and as Arlal ran reverential fingers down the flat Amber saw four complex swirling runes briefly glow orange.
‘Agreed,’ Arlal said finally, sheathing it again. He flicked the clasp of his cloak so that it fell from his right shoulder and he could attach the scabbard to his baldric; in a few moments the sword had disappeared, the cloak returned to position, and gorget and scarf restored. ‘You require method or time?’ he asked.
‘As long as it happens before the end of summer, dead will do.’
Arlal murmured agreement and left with Chade hard on his heels.
When the sound of footsteps had receded, Amber turned to the general. ‘How heavy is the helm then?’
‘Not heavy.’
‘Light as a bloody feather, I’d guess,’ the major said, his amber eyes flashing with laughter.
‘Close,’ Gaur admitted with a twitch of a furred cheek that could have been a smile, although with tusks protruding up to his nose it was hard to tell. ‘He may get one small amulet from them.’
‘Pretty and stupid,’ Amber commented as he eased himself upright again, ‘just how I like ’em.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ the beastman replied gravely. ‘Time for you to get back to your duties, I think.’
Daken reached out and grabbed the nearest King’s Man by the scruff of the neck. ‘What d’ya mean, they lifted the restrictions on entry? I’ve just spent a fucking hour in that there damned barrel! And with Telasin bloody-Daemon-Touch with me!’ he added, pointing at th
e man now clambering out of the same smuggler’s barrel. ‘When he farts, it smells like the bastard Dark Place — and I had to put up with that for nuthin?’
‘Could’ve been worse,’ Coran called, clambering out of his own and gesturing to the woman behind him, ‘Sparks kept comin’ off Ebarn the whole bloody journey.’
Daken released the man and turned to watch Ebarn, the Brotherhood’s dark-haired battle-mage, who was clambering her way out with a scowl on her face. She was a few winters older than Doranei, and a veteran of King Emin’s war against Azaer.
‘You learn to keep your fucking hands to yourself,’ she growled, ‘and that’ll stop happening.’ Once she was standing upright again Ebarn groaned and flexed her muscles before running her finger through her cropped hair.
Coran didn’t smile with the rest of the Brotherhood, the more unusual of whom were still being helped out of the barrels used to smuggle them into Byora.
They were being unpacked in the storeroom of Lell Derager, the Farlan’s agent and pet wine merchant. The cheerful middle-aged merchant and his two most trusted men were releasing them one by one from the half-dozen fake barrels they had escorted into the city.
Once she’d stretched, Ebarn noticed that Coran was still staring at her, and she turned away with a slight sneer on her face. The white-eye had never been popular with women, not even the whores on whom he spent most of his money. He’d never acquired the skill of treating one as a colleague.
Coran rubbed his hands together as though warming them up. ‘My fingers have gone numb with all those sparks — didn’t know what I was touching.’
‘We’ve heard you say that before,’ called Ebarn, ‘and not even the goat-herder believed you then!’
While the rest of the Brotherhood smirked, Doranei’s face remained set and stony. Coran ignored the taunting and made his way over to Doranei. He gripped his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, his expression grave. They all knew Sebe and Doranei had been as close as birth-brothers, and his loss wasn’t just that of a comrade. Doranei gave a glum nod of thanks and thumped Coran on the back in reply before pushing past him.
‘You must be Daken,’ he said to the other white-eye, who was eying him appraisingly.
The mercenary nodded as he tugged his enormous axe from the barrel and swung it up onto his shoulder.
‘The answer to your question is this: you didn’t put up with Telasin for nothing. While the restrictions have been lifted, there’ll have been half-a-dozen folk watching the gate and taking note of anyone unusual coming in.’
‘Well, we’re in now,’ said the mercenary battle-mage, Wentersorn, as he emerged from his own barrel and immediately sidestepped away from Daken. The white-eye hadn’t had the opportunity yet to live up to his reputation, but the Mad Axe still clouted Wentersorn around the head every time he came within reach. ‘I take that as a good sign, so how’s about we find us some whores to celebrate my homecoming?’
‘Fucking mercenaries,’ Doranei sighed. ‘Does keeping a low profile mean nothing to you?’
Wentersorn scowled and pointed at Daken. ‘He’s my commander, not you.’ He gave Daken a hopeful look, not a kindred spirit, but at least a common interest. The white-eye’s appetite for women was said to surpass even Coran’s.
‘Much as I’d love to agree with the ugly little shit and go get me some,’ Daken said, ‘we don’t need the trouble.’
He lifted his shirt to reveal a mass of blue tattoos and pointed to the largest, a woman’s head and upper torso in profile. Her mouth was twisted into a cruel smile and her fingers ended in sharp claws. As Doranei watched the smile widened a shade and her fingers briefly stroked the line of Daken’s pectoral muscle.
‘Litania does love to join in,’ Daken said. He pointed to a series of scars just below his navel, adding, ‘And she’s a biter.’
Doranei coughed to cover his surprise and forced himself to tear his gaze from the Aspect of Larat inhabiting a man’s skin. ‘Well, if that’s settled, have your men find bunks in there.’ He pointed to a wide door on his left. ‘That storeroom’s been cleared; it’s cramped, but it’ll serve for tonight. Food and beer will be provided. Daken, do you have a second-in-command?’
The white-eye jabbed a thumb towards a bald man with bronze earrings and a pair of scimitars. ‘Brother Penitence there.’
‘Brother Penitence?’ Doranei and Derager gasped in unison, both sounding dismayed.
‘Aye, he’s a cleric — Mystic o’ Karkarn to be exact!’ Daken gave a laugh at their expressions. ‘Hah, look at the pair of ya; we ain’t completely dumb, I just wanted to see your faces at his name.’
‘I realise the name would be unwise in these troubled times,’ the Mystic of Karkarn said in a surprisingly cultured voice. Many of their number were former soldiers, and most barely educated. ‘Considering the way so many cults have abused the office of the Penitency in recent months I am willing to give it up for the time being. My birth name was Hambalay Osh; that is what you may use instead.’
‘What’s a mystic’s involvement here?’ Doranei demanded. ‘I can’t believe you’re being paid like a mercenary.’
Osh dipped his head to acknowledge the point. ‘I am an old acquaintance of the king’s; one who owes him a considerable favour and whose skills are the only way of addressing the balance.’
Doranei grunted. This was neither the time nor place to pursue the matter. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and led them up to a staircase. Coran, Daken and Osh followed him two floors up to an attic room that had two small beds and a table at the window. One of the beds was neatly made up, a man’s possessions arranged with military precision on top. As Coran passed it he kissed the knuckles of his right hand and touched them to the maker’s mark on the guard of the dagger that lay there. The little-known but much admired weaponsmith provided most of what the Brotherhood carried.
Doranei headed for a seat at the window and took a moment to gaze out at the view across Breakale district to Eight Towers.
‘What’s the latest then?’ Coran asked after a minute or two, interrupting Doranei’s reverie.
‘Apart from the lifting of restrictions?’ he said. ‘Only Lord Styrax killing a dragon.’
The white-eye whistled. ‘Must’ve taken some doing.’
‘Smacks of showin’ off if you ask me,’ Daken commented, perching carefully on one of the beds until he was sure it could take the weight of a white-eye.
‘Maybe,’ Doranei said. ‘Whatever the truth, it sounds like he’s won over more than a few by it. Folk here have never had such a powerful ruler and they’re beginning to think it’s better to be inside his empire reaping the benefits than outside trying to fight it.’
‘Might have a point there,’ Daken said with a grin. ‘So we’re goin’ to be the ones fightin’ it - folk call me mad; what’s your excuse?’
‘It’s not our concern at the moment; we’ve only got one target in Byora.’
‘Why? If not this season, then one comin’ soon, Lord Styrax is goin’ to want to add Narkang to his empire. Why not throw a few sails in the pond?’
Seeing both Doranei and Coran looking puzzled by the expression Daken explained, ‘Sail-raptors? No? Ah well, type o’ lizard; swims, eats ducks, scares the shit out of ’em. Anyways, why not try slow him up a bit?’
‘You don’t get to question the king’s decisions,’ Doranei replied, ‘and we don’t have the time or resources to set up something that’ll catch a big-enough duck to make our lives worthwhile. The Menin can’t move much further, they must be badly stretched as it is. If they don’t stop to consolidate they’ll lose the city-states they’ve taken and while they’re doing that, we’ll be invoking our agreements with the Farlan. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s return to the reason why we’re here.’
‘Killing Ilumene,’ Coran said, savouring the words.
‘Not only,’ Doranei corrected sharply. ‘As you’ll see tomorrow — well, not you two, I guess, just Osh and me — there’s more than ju
st Ilumene in Byora.’
‘Such as?’
‘A child, Ruhen, and the rest of Duchess Escral’s inner circle, a man called Luerce, even Aracnan, if he’s still alive after Sebe winged him with a poisoned bolt.’
‘Who’s this Luerce?’
Doranei scratched the stubble on his cheek. ‘I don’t know if I’ve quite worked out his place in things yet. This is what I’ve got so far: there’s a crowd of beggars camped right outside the gates to the Ruby Tower, writing prayers and fixing them to the wall and gates, asking Ruhen to intercede with the Gods on their behalf. Ruhen is — well, we’ll come to him. The beggars are being organised by Luerce and his followers — they’re calling themselves something like Ruhen’s Children, though I’ve heard a few other names mentioned.’