by Angus Wells
Talle stepped a pace closer. “Jerymius Thorne, you have attempted my murder. You have betrayed Evander, your family, and your friends. How say you?”
Tomas Var was unaware that he balled his fists as he watched Thorne struggle against the occult strength of the Inquisitor’s gaze. He was, no less than any other present, unable to intervene, stilled by Talle’s voice, by the aura of power the little man radiated: all the dread authority of the Autarchy at his back. Var could do no more than watch and hear out this sad drama, already guessing its end—not liking it, but bound by duty and magic to witness it.
Thorne’s eyes bulged as he fought Talle’s will. His head craned back—though his gaze was not able to sever the awful connection with Talle’s—and tendons stood rigid on his neck. His lips stretched back from his parted teeth and saliva trickled down his jaw. Slowly, as if each syllable was dragged out unwilling, he said, “I am guilty.”
Talle nodded, smiling as if a point in some minor argument were conceded. On his face, Var saw the same expression he had worn when interrogating Danyael Corm. It was a look of unalloyed pleasure, a delighted savoring of his victim’s suffering.
“And your just sentence?”
Thorne’s mouth closed, opened, his lips writhing. Talle raised an inquiring eyebrow, his head cocking to the side, expectant, hideously patient.
Thorne said “Duh …” and began to choke.
Talle waited.
“Duh …”
The Inquisitor nodded, a minimal ducking of his head that did not remove his gaze from Thorne’s bulging, fear-filled eyes.
Then Thorne said, “Death.”
“Which you deserve,” Talle said.
Thorne’s head wobbled on the stalk of his corded neck: “Yes.”
“Then die.”
Talle stretched out a hand to trace some arcane sigil over Thorne’s face, and the refugee staggered back as if he were shot. His spine drew rigid, his arms flapping from the shoulder sockets like the empty sleeves of a scarecrow caught in a wind. His head lolled, rolling from one side to the other, loose. His feet executed an obscene jig as his features suffused with blood, purpling, his tongue extending black from between his wide-stretched lips, bloodying as his chattering teeth bit down. Then he made a mewling sound, much like the calling of the gulls, and fell over.
There was a ponderous silence, heavy as the weight of summer’s heat, and just as still. Talle studied the body a moment, then turned to Corwyn.
“Well, Sieur Corwyn, justice has been done, no?”
Corwyn nodded. “It has.”
“And shall we go on about our business?”
“Yes.”
“Then do we decide what our next move shall be?”
“We must go home,” Corwyn said. “We must go back to our holdings. We shall be safe now.”
Talle smiled, motioned for the big, bearded man to follow him, and walked back down the avenue of dumbfounded refugees to the dais. Corwyn helped him mount the platform, then sprang up alongside.
Like a trained dog, Var thought, studying the mark scribed on Corwyn’s forehead. It was fading now, as if the potion of the hex sign sank into Corwyn’s flesh. He looked out at the crowd. It, too, was closing around the body, which only a few looked at, as if the refugees were afraid of similar retribution and would ignore the one who’d argued. Like sheep, he thought, ignoring their own dead.
“Now,” Talle said, his voice ringing out far louder than his small frame had right to produce, “we shall prepare to leave. You outland folk shall go with all your goods and chattels to the north gate. You will wait there until tomorrow’s dawn, when we shall escort you home.
“We shall take you back to your farms and mills and vineyards and reclaim this land for Evander! The savages shall be slain, and forts built to protect you—my word on it. No harm shall come you.
“Now go!”
No cheers answered his oratory, but the refugees began to move away. Most likely, Var thought, because they feared to die at the Inquisitor’s hand, and would sooner take their chances on his promise in the outlands. Fear set against fear.
He started as Talle’s hand clapped his shoulder.
“Smoothly done, eh?”
Var wondered if the Inquisitor sought his approval. Surely not; Jared Talle was a power entire unto himself, nor could Var forget the relish he had seen on Talle’s face, heard in the man’s voice, as the Inquisitor faced Thorne.
So he ducked his head and said only, “Yes.”
Talle chuckled and gestured at the red-coated Militiamen escorting the refugees from the square. “And had they opened fire? Had these arguments gone on—persuasion and counter? stay or go?—what then?”
Var said, “I don’t know.”
Talle chuckled and said, “A moment, Major,” and went to Niklaus Corwyn, who stood still as an ox resting in its traces, and clapped the huge man on his shoulder and said, “Niklaus, my friend, why do you not go with your fellows and see them settled. You are their leader, and I should appreciate your help in this endeavor.”
Corwyn nodded and jumped from the platform.
“You see?” Talle said, not asking a question. “Their leader obeys me, and they are afraid of me.”
“Is that a good thing?” Var asked, unable to resist the question for all the sour taste he felt at its answering. “Fear?”
“One man died,” Talle said, “when there were hundreds ready to argue. Men and women and children—would you have seen Spelt’s redcoats open fire?”
Var shook his head.
“Nor I,” Talle said, and chuckled. “They’re too valuable. Are we to take Salvation back from these savages, we need the settlers. Evander needs them in their farms and mills and vineyards. We need them to do our will, Major Var. To hold Salvation for the Autarchy.”
Var ducked his head. He had no clear answer, only nebulous doubt that Talle’s way was wrong.
And a last question that he could not resist: “How could you survive that bullet?”
Talle chuckled and loosed the buttons of his waistcoat, the grubby shirt beneath. He drew the cloth aside, exposing the hex signs daubed over his chest. A bruise flowered there, mingling with the sigils but already fading, becoming one with the pale skin. The hex signs were far brighter, as though they absorbed the wound.
“As I have said, Major Var, I am an Inquisitor. And we are very hard to kill.”
10
March, or Die
Officially it was the Inquisitor Jared Talle who led the column out, but in fact it was Tomas Var, mounted on a fine black gelding that Andru Wyme had been mightily loath to part with, who rode at the head. Matieu Fallyn sided him to the right, on another of the governor’s horses, and Abram Jaymes slumped to his left on a lop-eared mule. Immediately behind them—the spearhead-came half of Var’s marines, on foot, the second half spread as flankers to either side. Talle rode a wagon, back down the column, where the light cannon trundled before the marching infantry. The supply wagons, the settlers, and the remaining infantry moved dust-clouded in the rear guard.
Var had sooner owned more horses, seen all his men mounted. All he had learned of the hostiles—were they demons, as the inhabitants of Salvation believed; or only savages, as Talle claimed?—persuaded him that his duties were best dispensed swiftly, and the war brought fast to the enemy. The settlers were sullen in their acceptance of Talle’s instructions, and whilst none dared argue, Var feared that should the hostiles attack, the farmers would again flee back to Grostheim, and all their work for naught. Still, they were promised protective forts, guardians of the wilderness frontier, and he must see those built—and manned—before he could contemplate carrying the action to the hostiles. It was yet early summer, but from his perusal of Wyme’s maps and his investigations, he could not foresee completion of all the forts before the snows came, and he was loath to fight a winter campaign in unknown territory. He had cannon and the lighter swivel guns, and sufficient force of infantry to withstand siege of the
forts. But cavalry or mounted infantry—had he the horses!—might cut down fast on attackers; might come out from the forts to deliver swift vengeance and ride the perimeter, speedy, patrolling the defensive line.
But Salvation was short of horses and he must make do with what he had: and be grateful his threats had won him enough to haul the cannon and the wagons. He consoled himself with the thought that as each fort was built more horses would become available. And perhaps … He looked to Abram Jaymes.
“You’ve seen the hostiles, no?”
Jaymes spat over his mount’s ears and ducked his head. “At a distance.” He flourished the Baker rifle he carried, as if that explained the meeting. “I seen ’em, sure; but I got this long gun, and she fires farther’n your muskets—so I never needed to be close. Only leave ’em behind.”
“Did they have horses?” Var asked.
“Yes.” Jaymes nodded, expelling a cloud of flies from his buckskins. “Why?”
Var said, “I’d wondered if we might not capture animals from them.”
Jaymes laughed and said, “I doubt you could capture anythin’ from them, Major. Save maybe the heads o’ the dead, or scalps—they take both, an’ they fight fierce.”
Var’s faint optimism waned. “You doubt we might raid their herds?”
“Don’t reckon so. Not afoot.” Jaymes shook his head and spat a liquid stream of chewed tobacco, stabbing a thumb back toward the marching column. “Your soldiers aren’t exactly woodsmen, an’ the demons are quick as bobcats, an’ as wary.”
“What do they look like?” Var asked.
“Horrible.” Jaymes rolled his eyes. “All painted up and dressed in skins, like savages—like what the Inquisitor says.”
“Not demons?” Var asked.
“I don’t rightly know what demons are supposed to look like.” Jaymes reached inside his buckskin shirt to find a fresh plug of tobacco, sliced off a wad with a wickedly bladed knife, and sucked it into his mouth. “They don’t wear horns—leastways, only animal horns—an’ they don’t breathe fire, or suchlike; an’ they die when a bullet hits ’em. Much like any man.”
“Then why,” Var asked, “are the people of Grostheim so afraid of them? Why are the settlers so afraid?”
Jaymes dug awhile inside his shirt, chewing ruminatively. Then: “I suppose they’re scared because they never expected to be. They all thought this was an empty land—there for the takin’. Then they found it wasn’t so, and that put the fear in them.”
Var nodded. It was an echo of what Lieutenant Minns had told him: complacency. “And what now?” he asked. “Are they gone? Shall they allow us to build the forts?”
“I’d reckon not,” said Abram Jaymes. “I’d reckon they’ll fight.”
“And the settlers?” Var asked. “What of them?”
Jaymes chuckled and spat out more filthy tobacco. “I’d reckon,” he said, “that the painted people’ll fight you first. I’d reckon they’ll look to wipe you out an’ then go after the farmers, because they’re not stupid—they know you soldierboys are the real threat; the farms are easy to pick off.”
Var said, “They frighten you,” somewhat surprised.
“Sure they do.” Jaymes nodded cheerfully.
“Then why,” Var wondered, “are you riding with us?”
“Lord God, Major,” Jaymes laughed, “you’re payin’ me, no? An’ all I need do is lead you on to where you want to go. I don’t reckon they’ll attack so many men; no, they’ll wait until you split up—an’ by then, God willin’, I’ll be long gone.”
Var frowned. “I’d thought …” He shook his head.
Jaymes studied him soberly. “I agreed to guide you, an’ I’ll do that. I’ll show you them places you want to build your forts, just like I agreed. But then I’m gone.”
“And if I asked you to stay?”
“I’d tell you no.”
“I could,” Var murmured, “ask Inquisitor Talle to hex you. Then you’d have no choice but to stay.”
“Yes, you could.” Jaymes grinned. “But I reckon you won’t.”
“Why not?” Var asked; he was genuinely curious.
“Because you’re not like that.” The guide’s grin faded, his seamed features becoming thoughtful. “I saw your face when the Inquisitor hexed Niklaus Corwyn, an’ when he did what he did to Jerymius Thorne. An’ I saw you didn’t like it.”
Var said, “Even so, I …”
“No.” Jaymes shook his head. “You an’ the Inquisitor are cut from different cloths. You’d ask a man to follow you, but I don’t reckon you’d force him to it.”
Var opened his mouth to speak again, but the guide heeled his mule forward, calling back, “Reckon I’ll go earn my pay, Major. Scout ahead some, eh?” and was gone.
Smiling, Fallyn brought his horse closer to Var’s. “He’s your measure, Tomas, has he not?”
Var scowled. “I could have him hexed,” he said.
“No.” Fallyn chuckled. “It’s as our somewhat malodorous comrade says—you’d ask, not force him to it. Tell me, am I wrong?”
Var’s scowl deepened as he shook his head. Then he sighed and allowed himself to smile. “No, Matieu, you’re not wrong. But tell me, does that make me a poor leader of this enterprise?”
“It does not.” Fallyn reached out to clap his friend on the shoulder. “It makes you a man worth following.”
They went on, through the mounting summer heat, day after day at a pace that threatened to punish the weak and that left the strong weary at day’s end. Var was anxious to reach his sundry destinations as soon as he might—not least the first farms, where he hoped to replenish his supplies—and Talle seemed indifferent to the pace or the heat, so when settlers complained and asked that they halt longer, and sooner, they were denied. And none dared complain overmuch, remembering what the Inquisitor had done to Jerymius Thorne, and knowing that Niklaus Corwyn would report their words to Talle.
It was an odd duty, Var thought as he stretched beneath a sky sprinkled with more stars than he had ever seen. He had perceived himself a rescuer when first told of the commission, and anticipated (he snorted laughter) a hero’s welcome—the savior of Salvation, come with his legions to drive out the savages and deliver the land back to Evander. But events had taught him better. The resentment of Wyme and Spelt was reflected in the faces of the settlers, in the hushed and sullen mutterings he heard as he walked amongst their campfires. All of them, it seemed, had expected some miracle, some magical sweeping away of all problems. As if Talle could raise his hand and strike down the demons, and Var’s battalions be there only to reassure the settlers with their presence. It seemed that none had anticipated a protracted campaign, and now that it was come, resented the deliverers. As if—Var laughed aloud, cynically—they saw little difference betwixt savior and destroyer.
“You’re cheerful,” Fallyn said.
“No.” Var shook his head, still smiling. “Only amused. God, Matieu! I thought there’d be glory in this. Not …”
“Hatred?” Fallyn smiled back.
“Is it truly that bad? They hate us?” Var lifted up, looking to where the settlers’ fires burned within the ringing flames of the infantry, those lights outlining the defensive cannon spread along the perimeter. Beyond, the glow reflected off the bayonets of the pickets between, watching wary.
Fallyn shrugged, reaching for a bayonet on which was spitted a chunk of venison delivered by Abram Jaymes.
“It’s not that,” the guide said. “Leastways, not exactly.”
Var turned toward him. The man was of indeterminate age, in need of a bath and a haircut, his clothes in need of washing—likely in lye, Var thought—and his habit of chewing tobacco was undoubtedly disgusting. But Var liked him. He said, “Then what? In God’s name, we’ve delivered half of them safely home to their holdings. We’ve even rounded up their indentured folk; and we’ve not taken more cattle than we need to feed ourselves. There’s been no sign of hostiles, so what have they got to hate
?”
He thought that Jaymes would repeat himself: reiterate that the settlers were afraid, would sooner remain behind Grostheim’s walls until Var and Talle had swept Salvation clear of the demons, or the savages—whichever they at last proved to be—and hated those who’d forced them out from the city, back into the land they feared.
But Jaymes surprised him. He said, “This used to be our land. You understand that?”
Var shook his head; Fallyn set his venison back over the flames. It dripped fat that spat and sizzled, ignored.
“Evander conquered the Old World, no?” Jaymes said. “The War of Restitution saw us—I was Evander born an’ bred—take the Levan an’ Tarrabon, an’ just about every other country worth the conquerin’. I fought in that war, likely as you two did, an’ I saw the Autarchy take control of all those lands. I was—what?—thirty-somethin’, when I heard about Salvation. A new land! Off westward, past the Sea of Sorrows. God, but when I heard what was there, I wanted to go! You know the story?”
Var nodded, followed closely by Fallyn: it was a common tale, scribed down in Evander’s history, the history of the Autarchy.…
In the ninth year of the War of Restitution the brigantine, Lord’s Delight, captained by Eban Patcham, was blown off course whilst seeking to elude two Levan warships—far enough that he encountered the Sea of Sorrows, and lost his pursuers. He survived—amongst few of his starving and thirsty crew—and found a bay that he named Deliverance, and beyond it a clean, clear land that he called Salvation. He was able to repair his ship, and take on sufficient water and meat that most of those who’d survived the initial journey came back alive to tell the tale—which inspired the Autarchy to colonize that westward land, and in honor of its discoverer, name it Salvation.…
“I was on the first ship,” Jaymes said. “I’d seen the War, done my share of fighting—God knows, I killed enough men—an’ I was weary of it.” He laughed, wiping his hands. “You know when the War ended, how old soldiers were paid off or offered free passage out? Well, I chose to take the passage. I wanted a new land that was clear of war. I wanted to go someplace there wasn’t war. So …” He reached into the flames to fetch out Fallyn’s venison. “Mind that, it’ll be hot.”