by Tom Lloyd
‘Keep Garash in irons and keep the door locked,’ he ordered.
The guard bobbed his acknowledgement and pointed to the nearest door. ‘The officers you came for.’ At Certinse’s nod he opened the door and a weak thread of daylight came through the arrow-slit window and showed him seven terrified faces. The men were all dressed in stained uniforms and shackles.
Only one was of an age with Certinse; it was the younger faces he scrutinised until he found the one he was looking for. ‘Captain Tillen,’ he said, ‘come forward.’
The soldier shuffled to the door. Certinse had last seen this promising young soldier from Narkang on the march to the Circle City. The Knights of the Temples were a military order, but their success was down to a combination of rich benefactors and sound financial management. They ran many noble estates – for a price – leaving the owners free to pursue more noble callings, and providing a vital income for the Order. Tillen was a simple, idealistic young man, but he was also the scion of a wealthy family whose father Certinse knew well.
‘My Lord,’ Tillen gasped. He leaned heavily on the wall as he dropped to his knees, moaning with pain. There was a large bruise on his cheek and his lips had been split open, by a fist, Certinse guessed. From the way he carried himself the Knight-Cardinal guessed he had at least one broken rib too.
‘You seven are the only members of this mutiny who have shown any repentance,’ Certinse said, ‘but you remain complicit.’
‘I understand, my Lord,’ Tillen replied, looking at the ground. ‘We know we must accept punishment for our actions. But sir, I wish to say in our defence that we were coerced. We were given no choice but to obey. You know the fervour of the cults – they were savage to any opposition.’
‘That I do know,’ Certinse said wearily, ‘but I must know the truth of your parts in these events.’ He pointed to Kayel, looming threateningly with a dagger dangling from his fingers. ‘This man here is bodyguard to the child Ruhen; he is adept at discovering the truth. You will each be interrogated by him; it is he who will decide your fates.’
Kayel leaned forward to scrutinise the faces of each. ‘You,’ he said with a grin, pointing at one on the right. ‘You’ll be first.’
‘My Lord?’ Tillen said with dismay, ‘we’re to be tortured?’
‘Oh yes,’ Kayel announced cheerily, ‘I’m going to cut bits off that one ’till he tells me about all the rest o’ you.’
‘Heretic!’ shrieked the man Kayel had picked, ‘daemon-lover! You’ll burn in Ghenna for your treachery against the Gods!’
Kayel laughed. ‘Bloody fanatics! Even the sneaky ones can’t help themselves.’ He turned to Certinse. ‘Reckon he’s the only one among them though. The rest are just scared at the thought of me cuttin’ on ’em.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Trust me, I know fear in all its lovely flavours. You starve and shackle a man, then tell him his enemy’s got free rein on his body, he’s got to be trained well to pretend his hatred is fear enough to fool me. None of this lot are better’n me at lying.’
Certinse almost sagged with relief. He’d been imagining Tillen’s father reaction to the news that his only son had been hanged for mutiny. ‘Free the rest,’ he ordered, and the guard hurried to obey, helping Captain Tillen to stand up and then unlocking his leg-irons. Before long the six were all free, and standing unsteadily in the corridor, rubbing at the skin of their ankles.
The remaining man lingered apprehensively at the back, shifting his feet as best he could and unsure what to do next. Kayel lounged against the doorpost and watched him as the man’s gaze darted between them all.
‘Try it,’ he suggested helpfully. ‘You never know, you might make it.’
The knife stayed in Kayel’s hand and the fanatic suddenly went very still. He was a jowly sandy-haired man in his early thirties, too young to be the shape he was, in Certinse’s opinion, and looking more like an indolent youngest son than a zealot. After a long pause the man sagged.
‘Too late!’ Kayel announced as he closed the door again and let the guard lock it.
‘Gentlemen, please go downstairs and collect your possessions,’ Certinse said, and they dutifully shuffled off, the gaoler leading the way, leaving Certinse and Kayel standing alone at the cell. Without warning there came a crash against the cell door, making Certinse jump in surprise. The remaining officer had thrown himself against the door and was pounding on it with his fists and screaming obscenities. Before long the clamour died down to sobs and wordless cries, but it had been enough to set off the more desperate or enraged in the other cells and the shouting echoed down the corridor.
‘I still don’t know what to do with them,’ Certinse admitted, looking up at the larger man with a near-pleading expression. ‘There are many well-connected men here besides Captain Tillen – how I can execute the lot of them without fracturing the Order? I’m half-surprised an army from Raland hasn’t already appeared to secure their release.’
Kayel shrugged. ‘Worry about ’em after you get a grip on the Order. Might be you don’t need to do anything about this lot.’
‘What are you saying?’ Certinse demanded. ‘How could that happen?’
Kayel paused and stared at something down the corridor, then moved, perhaps nodded? – Certinse only caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and he missed most of whatever it was. ‘Who knows?’ Kayel said, suddenly the picture of innocence. ‘That’s something I’d leave in the hands o’ the Gods, but gaol’s an unhealthy place, what with all these foul vapours and such.’
He put a hand on Certinse’s shoulder and the Knight-Cardinal felt the strength drain from his body.
His knees weak, his legs unsteady, he allowed himself to be ushered downstairs to the strong room where the weapons and valuables of prisoners were kept. His head throbbed with every step, the stench of the gaol filling his mind with sickening clouds.
In the corridor upstairs, unseen by all, grey-blue eyes shone in the darkness and broken fingernails scraped lightly along the walls, unheard even by the prisoners.
CHAPTER 10
They set out at dawn, after each had first ascended the high tower of Moorview Castle and surveyed the battlefield one last time. The sky was dark and inauspicious, a steady drizzle falling from sullen clouds. The remaining troops camped on the near edge of the moor were barely stirring, except for a few listless sentries manning the guard-posts. Most of the camp was occupied by the injured who couldn’t yet be moved and the garrison that would occupy the castle once Isak had left. Almost half the Ghosts had gone ahead a few days earlier, pushing on towards the Vanach border to establish their camp.
Isak stared for longest at the unhappy ground, rain running down his cheeks like tears as he listened for the cries of the lost. He couldn’t hear them, but he did not doubt they were there; too many had died – sixty thousand dead, so the king’s clerks now said: sixty thousand souls now arrived in the Herald’s Hall. And many of the survivors were so shocked by the savagery of the battle they barely knew what to do with themselves.
‘I just watched,’ he whispered to the wind, trying to summon a sense of shame but feeling nothing; ‘I watched and I waited while you all died.’
His arm began to ache again, a sharp, insistent pain rising up from the bone. He looked down and ran a finger over the unnaturally pale skin of his left hand. The scars from his time in Ghenna were almost familiar to him now; he was having trouble remembering how he’d looked before then. Sometimes in the night the memory of a reflection returned to him, but just as often it was not his face. Sometimes Aryn Bwr appeared in the mirror and sometimes it was a white-haired man with a blank face. The dreams only added to his sense of loneliness, showing up the empty part of his soul where the last king had once resided, and the holes in his mind where much of his childhood had once been.
‘Am I still me?’ he whispered, though he feared the answer. ‘Without the memories that made me, am I anything now?’
The dead souls didn’t answer. Only the wind noticed him at all, briefly gusting cold over him before ebbing again. Isak tasted blood in the rain, but these days he couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or something real.
‘Isak, it is time to go,’ Mihn called from behind him.
He turned. Mihn had barely changed since he’d first met the man. He was neat and efficient in every movement, softly spoken, and so quiet a presence in any room that at time he could have been a ghost. Now, though, Mihn seemed to stand a little taller, as if he was a little more aware of his own worth. He had always acknowledged his own skills, but as if they were nothing of note – something other than humility, though, more bordering on shame. These days, however, there was something a bit more substantial to his company. Now his friend was a man comfortable in any company, not just the quiet and unobserved shadow Isak cast.
And why not? He stole a soul out of the Dark Place itself; in his place even I might manage to be boastful.
‘My Lord?’
Isak realised a grin had stolen onto his face. He made a dismissive gesture. ‘I was just thinking how much of a swaggering braggart you are these days.’
‘And after all those demonstrations of humility you gave me,’ Mihn said with a bow. ‘Now come on, the others are waiting for you to show them how a sack of potatoes really rides.’
They went down together to the courtyard at the rear of the castle where horses stood waiting. Twelve of them would cross into Vanach, that specific number one of the many ostensibly pious instructions Vorizh Vukotic had described in his journal. Doranei had gone ahead to arrange fresh horses and supplies, accompanied by the night-dwelling Zhia. Only Isak was taking two horses, Megenn and Toramin, with him; the others would change on the road regularly. The ever-practical General Lahk had looked after Isak’s incredible beasts; he had taken the smaller, Megenn, himself and given the other to Swordmaster Pettir, who was a fine horseman and well-capable of handling the fiery, nineteen hand stallion Toramin. They had been more than happy to return the horses to Isak, and while he hadn’t been able to remember the pair, his hands had seemed to know what to do and he found himself grooming them as each preferred.
As Isak exited the tower his companions all mounted up, but for a moment he stood and surveyed the small party willing to follow him into Vanach, a city-state notorious throughout the Land for its savagery towards both outsiders and its own citizens. Daken sat uneasily on Isak’s far right; the white-eye was barely recovered enough from his injuries to ride, but he would not be left behind. Legana looked just as uncomfortable, despite her regal detachment.
General Lahk’s twin, Tiniq, from Isak’s personal guard, stood alongside Leshi, his kindred spirit, and the savage Ascetite agent Shinir, while Mihn, Vesna and Veil, waiting with the Narkang battle-mage Fei Ebarn, formed a more friendly coterie.
‘Goin’ ta give us a speech?’ Daken asked with his usual antagonism.
Isak shook his head slowly. He realised the white-eye would be constantly pushing him over the course of the journey. King Emin had been confident that Daken would follow orders when there was danger nearby, but less sure how he might act during the quieter moments.
‘Daken,’ Vesna called, and when the white-eye ignored him, Vesna nudged his horse forward until he was directly in Daken’s line of sight, then moved close enough that the white-eye couldn’t help but see it as threatening. ‘We’ll have no white-eye bullshit here, you hear me?’ With the spirit of Karkarn inside him, Vesna’s voice carried authority and power with every word.
Daken’s fingers twitched, aching to go for his axe, but he held out and did not respond to Vesna’s challenge – but it was a real effort to tear his eyes off the Mortal-Aspect and turn his horse away.
‘No speeches, not from me,’ Isak said. With an effort he hauled himself up into the saddle and looked around at his companions. ‘I’ll be glad if I manage not to fall off my horse today.’
‘You better not,’ said Shinir; ‘we really don’t want to be in Vanach too long after harvest. They’re going to want our horses any time of year, but once winter hits they’ll eat anything, so strangers get really welcome all of a sudden.’
A roughly stitched scar ran back down the side of her head, and that tight, swollen skin added to her usual expression of contempt. The supernaturally-skilled Shinir was, along with the ranger Leshi, one of the few who managed to penetrate the state of Vanach – and return. Neither were keen to try to repeat the performance, let alone travel to the city of Vanach itself.
‘Nothing like a bit of incentive,’ Isak muttered to Mihn.
He paused a moment, then remembered to touch his heels to Toramin’s flanks and the huge warhorse started off eagerly, barging a path past Shinir’s mount as he had been trained to do. With a click of his fingers Isak summoned Hulf. The dog raced ahead, still nervous of so many horses. Mihn sighed and fell in behind Isak, as Isak’d no doubt intended Hulf to do so. He ignored the muttered comment and sniggering behind him; the journey was going to be long enough already without bickering to start them off. This wasn’t the first time he’d travelled in similar company. Isak might not be quite the white-eye he had once been, but there were still more strong personalities here than you’d want in an entire army.
Sorting that out can be Vesna’s problem, Mihn decided, watching Isak, who had lost much of the natural balance he’d once possessed and was clearly struggling to match Toramin’s natural rhythm.
Most likely Isak will manage to provide me with enough problems to deal with. He usually does.
Knight-Cardinal Certinse held back in the shadows and watched the soldiers eying each other suspiciously. They might all be dressed in the uniform of the Knights of the Temples, but each man displayed subtle differences, declare their allegiances. Their lords sat in Akell’s magnificent council chamber, the Hall of Flags, through the pair of grand doors. Certinse had no doubt that the same posturing and sizing-up was taking place within as well as without.
He recognised only one of the faces, the one man who sat with his eyes half-closed and ignored the rest. He was a hatchet-faced knight from Canar Fell, a renowned fighter even among that city of warriors, but wearing the white braiding that indicated he was General Afasin’s man, the other half of the Mustet delegation. The rest of the young bucks came from Embere and Raland; they were here as escorts for their lords, and desperate to win names for themselves if the opportunity presented itself.
Certinse sighed, his fingers automatically moving to the old coin hanging around his neck. He briefly ran his fingers over its grooved surface, then tucked it inside his tunic.
The point of no return, he thought, but in his heart he knew it was not; that was long-past. Now he had to come good on the promises he had made. His thoughts returned to the coin. Even when he took it off he could feel it resting against his chest, a reminder of the bargain he had made.
The Knights of the Temples had no mages and Certinse had not met many, but even so he fully understood the acceptance of a bargain with a creature of magic. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but the more he considered it, the more he realised the significance of taking Ruhen’s coin.
‘Planning your strategy?’ whispered a voice in his ear.
Certinse managed to hide his jolt of surprise. Ilumene moved like a cat, but the big mercenary had crept up on Certinse half a dozen times in the past weeks and the Knight-Cardinal was growing accustomed to soft voices from the shadows.
‘Just reflecting,’ he muttered in reply. ‘Now I know your true allegiance, it occurs to me my family has not profited from its association with Azaer.’ Cetinse’s broken nights of sleep had culminated in a waking dream where he’d conversed with a figure of shadow and learned much about his family and the future of the Land.
The comment didn’t appear to surprise the man he’d known until recently as Sergeant Hener Kayel.
‘You don’t think so?’ Ilumene asked. ‘High Cardinal of the cult of Nartis in Tirah, the Dukedom
of Lomin, Knight-Cardinal and Supreme Commander of the Knights of the Temples – what were you hoping for exactly?’
Certinse faced Ilumene, who wore a white brigandine and trousers; his weapons were barely hidden beneath the long white cloak that was as much of a uniform as Ruhen’s Children had. That he was openly dressed that way in Akell spoke volumes, given the violent response Ruhen’s followers had received in recent weeks from the fanatics of Akell.
‘My father is dead. My brothers are dead. My sister and nephew are dead. It’s enough to give the last remaining Certinse pause for thought, don’t you think?’
‘Mebbe, true, though we all die in the end – it’s what happens before most folk care about. Could just mean you’re not so rash as some members of your family.’
‘Or they were sacrificed when their time came?’
‘Wasteful of us, then.’ Ilumene’s face went suddenly serious.
‘More the style of the Gods than Azaer, if you think about it. They like to play with their toys, then throw ’em away, careless of the mess they leave behind.’
Certinse frowned in thought. ‘What does that remind me of? I’m sure I’ve heard of something similar said before.’
‘Aryn Bwr’s first charge against the Gods,’ Ilumene said. ‘I wouldn’t mention that to your colleagues, though; he’s not so popular in these parts.’
‘Yet you want me to follow the path the great heretic once trod?’
‘The last king wanted to tear down the pantheon,’ Ilumene corrected, ‘to break the power of the Gods. Our goal’s to redraw the lines, not tear up the map.’
Certinse didn’t look convinced. ‘And Azaer had no hand in his rebellion, in the Great War?’
‘Azaer is a shadow born of the light of creation, ever weak, ever on the periphery. To get involved in a war of that magnitude – well, Azaer looks that reckless to you?’ Ilumene pointed towards the closed doors of the Hall of Flags, where the remaining members of the Council of the Knights of the Temples awaited their leader.