by Angus Wells
Flysse came up, questions in her blue eyes, and Rannach said, “He lives; and Davyd. They go to that city you came from, to warn the people there.”
“No.” Morrhyn joined them. “Davyd and Arcole go to meet the Breakers and another enemy, and we must hurry.”
Rannach stared at the Prophet, doubt in his eyes. “They were …”
“I know,” Morrhyn said, “but since you left them, Davyd’s dreamed of other things. There’s a valley …”
“They come.” Jared Talle smiled into the night. “I can smell them. You’re ready?”
Jorge Kerik nodded. “As you ordered, Inquisitor. But are you sure?”
Talle frowned, irritated. “Do you doubt me, Captain?”
“No!” Swiftly, Kerik shook his head. “But alone?”
“Not alone,” Talle said with a certain degree of satisfaction. “After all, you shall be with me, and your ten best men.”
Kerik said, “Yes, Inquisitor,” and wished he were safe behind Grostheim’s walls. Wished, no less, that he owned the courage to deny this madman, who thought to commune with demons and win them to his side. He doubted that was possible; and knew that he did not dare deny Talle: he had no choice save to obey.
“I shall speak with them,” Talle said, “and convince them to join us—to join with the Autarchy. And then we shall both be hailed heroes, eh?”
Kerik said, “Yes,” wondering if his affirmation sounded as hollow to Talle as it did to him.
“And do they disagree,” Talle said, “then you and your men shall cover my retreat and your horse guns shall destroy them, and again we shall be heroes. Do you not understand, Captain? We cannot fail. After all, what chance can they hold over our modern weaponry? They fight with swords and lances, no? And we have cannon and muskets—and God on our side. We cannot lose!”
Kerik said, “No, Inquisitor, surely not,” and felt sweat run cold down his spine.
Along the ridge dim fires burned, hidden amongst the pines, and he could hear the faint sounds his men made as they waited for the enemy—or the allies. He heard the nickering of restless horses and the mutter of low-voiced conversation. Kerik felt afraid. He thought the Inquisitor insane and could not bring himself to argue with the man. God knew, but they’d surely better waited in Grostheim, behind high walls, where reinforcements might soon come, rather than here. But Jared Talle was the Inquisitor and commander, the highest authority in all Salvation, and Jorge Kerik was not prepared to disagree with a man who might bespell him, or even slay him with a gesture. So he saluted and went to check the positioning of his force.
After the captain had departed, Jared Talle sat warming his hands beside the fire, staring at the western ingress to the valley. He wore the hex signs on his chest and on his hands, and he was confident that he must survive, no matter the final outcome. That, he anticipated with such enthusiasm as he’d not known since the War of Restitution. He knew the Breakers were powerful—but so was he. God was on his side, and the strength of Kerik’s guns, the discipline of the marines. The Breakers possessed great magic, but still they fought like savages, their weapons simple, and did they look to use their magicks against him, why he’d his own for protection.
He studied the arcane sigils decorating his palms and smiled. They’d surely not harm him—and must some of the marines die, that should be a small price to pay in demonstration of the Autarchy’s strength. He thought perhaps there should be some fighting, but after a volley or two of cannon, the Breakers must see the impossibility of defeating so mighty a power as the Autarchy—and then they would surely parley. And he could learn so much from them.
He nodded in approval of his own mad reasoning, telling himself that was how it must go. There would be an alliance formed: the Breakers and the Autarchy thought too much alike to disagree.
It did not, of course, occur to Talle that he was insane.
“Do you understand any of this?” Tomas Var glanced sidelong at his rowing companion. “For God knows, I don’t.”
Abram Jaymes shrugged as best he could while manning an oar and said, “I understand we better get to Grostheim fast as we can an’ raise us an army. Then get it back to the valley. I believe in Davyd, eh?”
Var thought awhile, then nodded. “I suppose I do. But how do we bring him aid? Even if Talle’s quit the city, he’ll have left troops on guard, and they’ll not let branded folk march out.”
“Perhaps they’ll be persuaded,” Jaymes said.
“Perhaps,” Var allowed, doubt in his voice, “but even so, how do we get back to this valley in time for—what was it Davyd said?—the last battle?”
“We’ll find a way,” Jaymes said. “We have to.”
Var sighed and bent to his oar.
Speed was of the essence. Morrhyn felt it in his blood and the marrow of his bones. It was as if the Maker spoke to him in the patterns of the night, and the play of the sun over the grass of this different land. He could smell the Breakers in his nostrils like an evil taint, like the foul spoor of a wolverine, and when he dreamed it was of war and fire, of destruction and conclusion. But the Maker did not vouchsafe him the knowledge of which side the scales should fall on, or of who should prove victorious; he could only hope. And because he was the Prophet, the warriors followed him.
He pushed the war band hard, riding through the dark hours when warriors made camp, refusing them respite until Rannach or Yazte or Colun urged him to halt, pointing out that exhausted horses should be useless in battle. Only then did he allow them or himself to rest, and only a few hours, so that they were mounted and moving before the sun rose, pushing steadily onward, eastward, toward the place he could now see so clearly in his mind.
It was a broad and shallow valley bordered with wooded ridges, and he knew that it was more than just a valley where a battle might take place. It was the melting pot of worlds, of the future. He could, even without dreaming, sense Davyd coming ever closer to that place, as if destiny throbbed in the air, and he knew he must make haste—that the Breakers not go by the valley.
“Even do we find it, what can we do?” Arcole sat across the fire, frowning less in confusion than concern for Davyd. “Just the two of us, what can we do?”
Davyd looked up from his contemplation of the flames. His hair shone white under the moon and his face was hollow. He looked mightily weary, and at the same time exhilarated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Only that we must be there—get there as fast we can.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, Arcole, I truly cannot explain it better. I only know.”
“Well, you’re the Dreamer.” Arcole shrugged back. “Do you say it, then we’ll attempt it.”
Davyd nodded. “The People shall find us there, I think; and we shall fight.”
“The Breakers?” Arcole wondered.
“Them, yes,” Davyd said. “Perhaps also the Inquisitor and his soldiers.”
“Then best pray Tomas and Abram find that army they spoke of,” Arcole returned, “for we shall need all the strength we can muster.”
“Yes,” Davyd replied, “best pray.”
The dinghy beached in the shadow of a landing stage and they sprang ashore. Var dragged the little boat deeper into the shadows as Jaymes cradled his rifle and scanned the walls of Grostheim. Var followed him inland—only a little way, so that they remained sheltered by the wharf—and studied the walls.
Cannon showed on the ramparts, and swivel guns, but not many men. Indeed, far fewer than he’d anticipated, as if the garrison were depleted.
“I reckon the madness took them,” Jaymes murmured. “I reckon Talle’s stripped the city for his war.”
“Even so,” Var said, “how do we get in? And if we do, what then?”
Jaymes grinned and said, “Follow me.”
Frowning, Var did as he was bade.
They crept forward, shadow to shadow, until they reached the north gate, then Jaymes halted and stabbed a dirty finger at a patch of darker darkness where water swirled beneath the wooden wall.
Var said, “Oh, God!”
“Don’t worry, it’s not used for that now,” Jaymes said. “You’ll only get wet.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” Var murmured, and followed Jaymes into the water.
“Indeed, and remember the title’s low now,” Jaymes lifted his rifle that the powder not get wet, “and keep your head down.”
They waded up the trench. The walls hung low overhead, but the water level was low enough they need not submerge themselves. Jaymes slithered along until they were clear of the walls, then rose dripping to slide up the bank. Var came after him, thinking that he could even now smell the stench of the ditch’s original purpose. He felt afraid and invigorated, the sensations familiar from experience of war. He looked toward the walls and saw the red tunics of the God’s Militia dark under the moon, the glitter of light on bayonets. The walls were scarcely manned and he wondered how many men had fallen to the ghost madness, and why Jared Talle would leave Grostheim so poorly defended.
“Come on.”
Jaymes beckoned him and they ran across open ground to the shelter of an alley. Walked down that to a side street where Jaymes turned left, deeper into the city, then halted before a lantern-hung doorway.
Var frowned. Surely this was the same alley where he had once seen branded folk give food to refugees. He watched nervously as Jaymes tapped on the wood and the door opened.
Soft words were spoken, and then Jaymes motioned him forward and he stepped up onto the sidewalk, into a room where lanterns burned and indentured folk attended ovens.
“This is Rychard.” Jaymes indicated a small, balding man whose brand seemed to occupy most of his cheek. “Rychard, this is Tomas Var, once a major of marines in the God’s Militia.”
Rychard eyed Var awhile, suspiciously. “I know you,” he said. “You were the Inquisitor’s dog.”
Almost, Var blushed, but Jaymes grinned and said, “He’s surely not any longer. Dammit, he broke me out of prison an’ saved me from hanging. Don’t doubt him, Rychard—he’s with us.”
“All the way?” The man remained suspicious.
“All the way,” Jaymes said, and turned to Var. “That’s right, no?”
Var said, “Yes; all the way.”
Rychard said, “Well, if Abram vouches for you …” He studied Var a moment then smiled. “Best I find you both dry clothes, eh?”
“Food would be welcome, too,” Jaymes said. “And talk.”
Rychard nodded. “Follow me.”
Davyd said, “We must go careful now, for we’re close.”
“To the valley?” Arcole asked.
“Yes; to that and the Inquisitor. And we must not …” Davyd hesitated. He was unsure what he wanted to say, or what he meant to say; he knew only that some inner voice spoke: one not his own but gifted him. “We must not … hurry. We must go wary, else …” He shrugged. “I don’t know, Arcole; only that we must watch and wait.”
Ahead, the land rose up a gentle scarp that ended on a ridge where trees stood windswept. The night was warm and a soft breeze blew, rustling the oaks and hornbeams that decked the ridge. The faint glow of fires showed amongst the trees to the north, and as they crept closer Arcole saw horse artillery set along the ridgetop.
“God, but they’re marines.” He indicated the blue-uniformed figures beside the guns. “Var’s men.”
“And the Inquisitor is down there.” Davyd thrust a finger at the valley. “He’s waiting for the Breakers.”
“He’s mad,” Arcole said.
Davyd said, “Yes.”
“What do we do?”
“Wait.” Davyd settled onto the grass. “We wait for the Breakers to come, and—the Maker willing!—the People and Abram’s army.”
“And if they come late?” Arcole asked. “Or not at all?”
“Then,” Davyd said, “we shall likely die.”
37
Encounter
Jared Talle had somehow known they would come in the night, for that seemed their time, best suited to their purposes. He sensed them long before they arrived, like the prickling of a storm wind on the skin, the stillness in the air before the hurricane begins. He felt their imminent presence in the protective hex signs painted on his body, and smiled confidently as he rose from beside the fire and looked at Jorge Kerik and the captain’s ten nervous soldiers.
“Stand ready!”
Kerik nodded, swallowed hard, and turned to his men. “At the ready! Fire only on my command.”
“Or mine,” Talle said.
“Of course.” Kerik nodded dutifully. “My command or the Inquisitor’s, eh? And remember”—this for the frightened eyes that stared at him—“we’ve the cannon to support us, and they are only savages.”
“Indeed,” Talle echoed. “Only savages, eh? Remember that!”
He rose to his feet, stretching his arms so that his coat flapped about him like the wings of a crow. He smiled, anticipating his triumph, and gestured that Kerik stand back.
Kerik drew his saber and perched the blade on his shoulder, playing the part of the confident officer for all he felt terribly afraid, which was strange. He had fought his share of battles and although he had known fear then, this was different. It was as if the night held presentiments, portents of doom. He had seen the ghosts stalking the streets of Grostheim, and seen red-coated Militiamen turn on one another, even slay themselves, and knew that the enemy he faced now was different from any other. He wondered if the Inquisitor did not outreach himself. Talle was sheathed in powerful hexes, and Kerik recognized his magical strength, but even so—the captain wondered if the Inquisitor was any longer entirely rational, or had fallen into such madness as must destroy them all. But still he was the Inquisitor, and Jorge Kerik was an officer of the God’s Militia, sworn to service of the Autarchy Talle represented, and not yet ready to question that command.
He sheathed his sword and licked his lips and checked the loading of his pistols, nervously eased his sword a little way from the scabbard, adjusted his tricorne, and scratched his cheek.
“Are you afraid?” asked Jared Talle.
And Kerik answered honestly, “Yes, Inquisitor, I am.”
Talle frowned, then chuckled, which sounded to Kerik like a crow’s cackling. “God, man! I’ve hexed this valley and all your guns. Nothing can harm us! Do you think their magic is stronger than mine?”
Kerik was tempted to answer yes, but he said instead, “No, Inquisitor.”
Talle said, “Good; have faith, eh? God is on our side.”
Then why, Kerik thought, do you look to deal with demons? But he said nothing, only watched the western approach to the valley and mouthed a silent prayer that he and his men survive Talle’s madness.
Then, where the moon shone down on the ingress to the valley, there was light, as if moon and stars reflected off prisms, crystals of bright colors, and the sound of many hooves, or clawed and padded feet, that tramped the earth of Salvation as if thunder walked the ground.
Jorge Kerik felt his mouth go dry even as his hands clutched instinctively on his pistols as he saw the Horde enter the valley.
They were at first indistinct, as if light played games on their armor to trick the eye and make them phantom, rainbow figures. The only solidity seemed to be the things they rode, which were amalgamations of lions and lizards and other creatures Kerik could not define. Clawed and fanged they were, with lashing tails and ugly eyes. But somehow worse was the horse their leader rode, for that was recognizable, akin to the mounts tethered up the slope, save that this was skinned in midnight’s darkness, and its shifting head carried great curled horns like some monstrous ram’s. From its forehead sprouted a unicorn horn, and its teeth were fangs and its hooves clawed, and it was both a horse and unlike any horse Kerik had ever seen.
Nor less impressive or dreadful was its rider, for he wore magnificent gol
den armor that sprouted spikes and great clawed gauntlets, and shone in the moon’s pale glow as if bathed in sunlight. A massive sword was sheathed at his waist, and skulls clattered about his saddle: some old and clean, but others fresh and still haired, and from beneath his winged helmet red eyes shone like beacons calling Kerik’s soul to hell.
Jorge Kerik wished badly to piss, but he steeled himself and cried in as firm a voice as he could manage: “Stand firm, men.”
Jared Talle smiled confidently and raised his arms in greeting as the rainbow Horde came closer, stepping out to meet the leader, who reined in his dreadful horse to stare down at the Inquisitor.
“I am Jared Talle, and you are Akratil. Welcome.”
“You know my name.” Akratil’s voice was deep and mellow, curiously friendly, as if acknowledging a kindred spirit. “How is that?”
“I, too,” Talle said, “own magic. Perhaps as great as yours.”
Akratil chuckled. “Perhaps.” He loosed the strappings of his helm and raised the winged casque to reveal a loose-flowing mass of fiery hair. “But how do you know my name?”
“I took it from the dead,” Talle said.
“Ah, necromancy.” Akratil nodded as if approving. “Did you eat them, after?”
Even Talle hesitated at that, and shook his head. “No. They were savages, like those.” He gestured at the Tachyn riding behind the Breakers.
“And I am not a savage?” Akratil asked.
Talle said, “I think not.”
“Why not?” There was amusement in the mellifluous voice.
“Because,” Talle said, “you are something greater. You own power …”