by Tom Lloyd
At the bridge Kayel paused and looked around. They were alone as far as Perforren could see, and Kayel seemed similarly satisfied.
‘So?’ Perforren whispered.
Kayel’s smirk returned as he pointed down the largest of the streets ahead of them. ‘Look.’
Perforren did so. ‘I don’t—’
Something whipped across his throat and Perforren felt a rush of cool night air on his skin, then something warm spilling over his skin. He tried to speak, but the Land tilted underneath him and a sharp flood of pain stuck him so hard his knees buckled. He staggered, and felt his thigh strike the bridge. The impact twisted him around and he saw Sergeant Kayel watching him, eyes glittering with infernal delight.
Perforren put a hand to his throat and felt something wet there as the chill of night enveloped him. His knees crumpled underneath him and he sank slowly down, his back against the bridge, transfixed by the sight of Kayel. In moments the pain started to fade and his mind grew heavy. The Land started to recede as his limbs grew cold and his vision darkened, drifting further and further until, with the softest of sighs, Captain Perforren of the Knights of the Temples went still.
Ilumene gestured behind him and wiped his dagger clean. Looking down he saw the late captain’s blood slipping closer to his boots. He deliberately lifted one boot then the other, slipping off the cloth coverings from the sole of each and stepping squarely into the widening pool of blood. Footsteps came from behind him and he turned to see a small man scamper over, barefoot and dressed like a tramp in ragged clothes.
The man was of a similar age to Ilumene, but there the similarity ended. He had a fleshy face that looked too big for his slim body, and a tangled thicket of hair dark enough to be Farlan or Menin.
‘Find yourself a nice spot down Balap Street,’ Ilumene ordered as he carefully trod bloody footprints across the bridge to the other side. ‘You saw men in witchfinder uniforms run that way, get it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good. Got me some arson to do now.’
The agent recognised that as a dismissal and raced off, careful to keep his feet away from the bloody trail Ilumene was leaving so carefully. The renegade Brotherhood man followed until the blood was nearly used up, then he slipped the coverings back onto his shoes again and checked around once more. There were no shocked faces in sight, nor vengeful troops, but that would change soon enough.
A distant voice broke the quiet: the long, low cry of a dying animal or a person whose mind was broken. Ilumene felt a frisson at the sound. It was followed by voices, so quiet he could barely hear them: it could have been monks chanting a prayer, it could have been the whisper of witnesses to his latest crime, but he knew it was neither. There was a sour taste in the air that made him tighten his grip on his knife and looked up into the sky. The clouds were thin and drifting slowly, but against them he saw movement as though dark coils of shadow were overlaying them.
‘Right again, Master,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘The boundaries are weakened; the sound and scents of the other lands touch us now.’
He disappeared silently into a side-street and took an indirect route west, skirting the streets used by the patrols. Before he was halfway to his destination the first human calls went up, and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. They were as attracted by the spilled blood as the Dark Place had been.
‘He’s taking his time, witchfinder,’ Chaplain Fynner muttered. ‘If you’re wasting mine, it will go hard on you.’
‘This is what the message said!’ Shanatin protested, a hot flush of fear in his cheeks as he spoke. When the chaplain rounded on him Shanatin didn’t need to feign his emotions.
‘I hope so, for your sake.’
The Devout Congress had appropriated the long arcade of shops in the northeast of the quarter that for centuries had sold temple offerings to the faithful. In these troubled times it now resembled a conveyor belt of tribunals. In the cold stores below they obtained their evidence, while magistrates heard the accusations and passed sentence above. The sentences weren’t carried out on site, but Shanatin guessed that was simply because it lacked the public arena High Priest Garash preferred.
Anything could lead to an arrest – and when you did the work of the Gods, those you arrested were never innocent, otherwise those guided by the spirits of the Gods had made an error, and how could that ever be? Shanatin recognised the looks in the eyes of the fanatics and their followers: some believed, some saw an opportunity. But the much-abused fat fool of the witchfinders was an expert on bullies. With no fear of retribution, the worst of humanity was brought to the surface. Shanatin wasn’t so certain of his standing with Azaer that he dared test the shadow’s loyalty to its followers, but he knew he was on the right side if he opposed such men.
‘Timonas’ll be here,’ he insisted, ‘and Perforren too.’
The chaplain returned to his vigil at the window and Shanatin relaxed a touch. The street was empty and quiet outside, and the strong stink of mud rose in the warm summer air. He squirmed as a trickle of sweat ran down his back, but stopped at a look from Fynner, flinched and edged closer to the window, realising Fynner would have struck him had they not been trying to keep quiet. Before a threat followed however, there came the sound of feet in the street below.
Glad of the distraction, Shanatin peered between the half-dozen remaining shutter slats. They had seen a few false alarms, but now the witchfinder felt a flicker of fear in his stomach as he recognised the brass plated cuirass and red sash that denoted a low-ranking officer of the Order. The man walked without haste, remaining as unobtrusive as possible, but his polished armour caught Alterr’s pale light and seemed to flash a warning to Shanatin.
‘A captain of the Order,’ Fynner whispered, voice laden with anticipation. ‘It must be Perforren – our prey is most obliging.’
‘Unless his dose has worn off,’ Shanatin muttered, to himself as much as anything, but Fynner was in an obliging mood and took the bait.
‘Worn off? I thought you said he’d have plenty from last time.’
‘Sure, if he’s only buying for hisself. If he’s got himself a friend in the same situation, they’ll both be needing their next dose soon. Message did say it was urgent, might be he needs more before he can pass any test.’
Fynner released Shanatin’s arm and thought hurriedly. They were waiting to catch Captain Perforren in the act of buying a potion that would suppress dormant magical abilities. Any officer hiding a capability for magery, as they believed their quarry was, would be in serious breach of the Order’s Codex of Ordinance, quite aside from the stricter regulations imposed by High Priest Garash’s Piety Congress. That Perforren was aide to Knight-Cardinal Certinse, supreme commander of the Knights of the Temples, made him a prize worth waiting for.
‘That’s why you brought the squad of witchfinders, ain’t it?’ Shanatin asked, not giving Fynner too long to think.
‘I brought them because this is under their jurisdiction,’ Fynner said angrily. ‘You implied Perforren would have no magic to command when we arrested him.’
‘Probably he doesn’t! He’s been hiding who he is all these years, not practising . . . I’m just sayin’, wouldn’t want to be the one to arrest a mage with nothing to lose.’
Chaplain Fynner stared at Shanatin’s fat, guileless face for a few seconds before realising the witchfinder was making sense; the troops could restrain Perforren and Timonas well enough themselves, so no need for himto be at the forefront if he resisted.
‘Well, then, where’s your man Timonas?’ he muttered, returning to the window.
Down below they saw the man they asssumed to be Perforren stop at a corner and check around it before he secreted himself into the shadow of a doorway. All fell silent again, and it was five minutes or more before any other sound broke the night. Rather than a second set of footsteps, Shanatin heard more distant noises, distorted into nothing recognisable by the city streets.
He didn’t know wha
t sort of disturbance had caused it, but Luerce, first disciple of Ruhen’s Children, had been very clear in his instructions. Shanatin glanced at Fynner and was relieved to see the chaplain wasn’t looking to be in any hurry to leave their vantage point. They needed a witness to report back, and with any luck Fynner’s testimony would heat up Garash’s hair-trigger temper and push this internal struggle over the edge.
It wasn’t long before Sergeant Timonas of the witchfinders appeared from the other direction, in time to play his small part in matters. Shanatin watched the man anxiously; he knew Timonas was innocent in this, but the bastard deserved everything he got. He found himself holding his breath as Timonas approached the corner with far more caution than Perforren had, looking in all directions as though bewildered he was there at all.
‘Well?’
Shanatin looked over and realised Fynner was staring expectantly at him. Timonas wasn’t wearing his black and white uniform, of course; the man had more sense than that, having received an anonymous note that his life was in danger.
He nodded and gestured at the newcomer. ‘It’s him, for certain.’
Fynner reached up and, checking neither of the men was looking his way, drew the curtain away from the shuttered window. The lieutenant in charge of the squads was watching for his signal and in the next moment a door burst open a short way down the street Timonas had just walked along. The two men panicked at the crash, but in the next instant a second clatter came from down the next street and then a third from somewhere below where Shanatin stood.
‘Drop your weapons!’ someone yelled as Shanatin hunkered down at the window and watched events. Timonas was standing like an idiot – Shanatin could see his stupid thick jaw hanging open in astonishment as he turned, first one way, then the other, to watch the onrushing troops. By contrast Perforren was already moving with purpose, drawing a pair of swords.
Shanatin jammed his knuckle in his mouth as he tried to suppress a gasp of surprise, but the sound was echoed by Fynner anyway as Perforren broke into a sprint from a standing start, covering the ground to the nearest squad before the last man had even made it out of the building. One slender sword slashed open the first soldier’s throat, even as the second was piercing the side of another. Perforren kept moving, slipping between the spears of the next two, hopping left and right, almost with the grace of a Harlequin.
Both soldiers reeled away, to be immediately replaced by a fifth and sixth, but those too were no match for Perforren’s speed. He deflected one thrust and darted right around the shield of the other, kicking high into the man’s shoulder and knocking him into his comrade even as he chopped up into the elbow of a third soldier.
Gods, a Harlequin – dressed up and made to look like Perforren?
The remaining men of the squad, thrown back by the force of his attack, now fanned out to surround him, but Perforren stood his ground. He stopped a moment and his voice cut through the confusion, but he was not speaking any words Shanatin could recognise. Abruptly he slashed through the air between himself and the last troops and a blinding white light tore in an arc after the tip of his sword. The light whipped across each of the men and ripped through their armour like paper. They fell without a sound, a gaping wound stretching across the chest of each from which Shanatin glimpsed the white stubs of ribs.
Shanatin felt a hand drop onto his shoulder and almost shrieked before he realised it was Fynner, stunned by what was happening.
‘Merciful Gods, it’s true and more,’ Fynner mumbled in shock. ‘He’s a trained battle-mage!’
Loud, angry voices came suddenly from a side-street, and in the next moment another squad of Devoted troops burst into view. Fynner gasped: these men weren’t under his command. In the moonlight their unit markings were clear on their shoulders. He could easily make out the designation: C11, Knight-Cardinal Certinse’s own élite troops, the Tildek mounted infantry. Most had been co-opted into service by the Menin, but Certinse had been allowed a regiment of personal guards to remain with him.
‘It’s an ambush,’ Fynner gasped, leaning heavily on Shanatin as though all the strength had gone out of him. ‘They’re here to kill us all.’
The Tildek infantry charged straight for the witchfinders, howling furiously and giving them no time to steady themselves. The squad of witchfinders were not front-line troops and they quickly collapsed under the assault, half of them dropping in the initial rush. The élite troops swamped their foes, battering through them with rare savagery so that in seconds they were all on the ground, dead or dying.
‘Sergeant!’ yelled Perforren, striding towards them with blood trailing from his swords, ‘those men too!’ He pointed to the remaining squad who’d surrounded the terrified Sergeant Timonas and then found themselves frozen to the spot as they watched the unexpected onslaught. ‘They’re murdering officers loyal to the Knight-Cardinal!’
Invoking their commander’s name seemed to be enough and with a roar they charged at the last remaining men who fled, only to be run down before they’d gone twenty yards. They were butchered to a man.
Shanatin grabbed Fynner and pulled the chaplain slowly to the ground, frantically gesturing for the man to be silent, but though Fynner didn’t seem to notice he was too aghast to make a sound. Shanatin tried to control the panic surging through his own heart. At least thirty men had been killed in less than a minute. He felt his hands start to shake at the idea that the loyalist troops might start to check the surrounding buildings, but he knew he couldn’t risk the slightest noise, not yet.
He took a slow breath and the musty smell of the floorboards calmed him: it contained a faint old strain of decay that put him in mind of Rojak, first of Azaer’s disciples. Luerce had said he was dead, but at that moment Shanatin knew the malevolent minstrel’s spirit was with him there, and if anyone could hide him in the shadows, it was Rojak. He tightened his grip on Chaplain Fynner, clutching the man as close as a lover as he listened to the soldiers in the street below and waited for his chance to escape.
Knight-Cardinal Certinse opened the door to his study and stopped dead. Despite the guards posted all round the house the study wasn’t empty. He sighed and closed the door behind him. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking how you got in here?’
Ilumene smiled. ‘Not a whole lot,’ he agreed, ‘but we’ve got rather more pressing concerns today.’
Certinse grunted in agreement. He was wearing battle armour, a rare occurrence when most of the last few decades had been spent in a formal uniform. He wore a broadsword and thick-hilted dagger on his belt, with gauntlets stuffed untidily in behind the dagger. ‘You heard the news then?’
‘About your aide? Aye, strange that.’ The big soldier, looking quite comfortable in Certinse’s favourite armchair, was also dressed for a fight, in a white brigandine and breeches, with his big bastard sword nestled in the crook of his arm. The man Certinse knew as Hener Kayel couldn’t have stood out more on the streets of Akell. White was now the colour of Ruhen’s Children, so if any cleric had seen him they would have arrested him on sight – or tried to, at least. That he was ready for a fight was good news to Certinse though; a small ray of light amidst the deluge.
‘Strange?’ Certinse sat at his desk and pulled out a sheaf of paper. ‘Not the word I’d use.’
He knew his guest didn’t stand on ceremony and he had orders to write after the crimes of the previous night. He gave Ilumene a hard look before picking up his pen and starting the first letter.
‘Strange, because I’d heard Perforren was going to be arrested – as an unregistered mage,’ Ilumene explained. ‘If you’ve got that planned, why go and murder him instead?’
Certinse abandoned his letter. ‘You heard what? A mage? That’s bloody ridiculous!’ He hesitated. ‘Even Garash must have realised how stupid and contrived that would look. Must be he changed his mind, but still wanted Perforren out of the way. I’d thought the murders of the last few days had been building up to an assassination attempt o
n me, not this. But Perforren’s the man I trusted most to carry my orders, so by killing him they limit the speed I can react to whatever they’re up to.’
‘Aye, today’s the day,’ Ilumene agreed. ‘I heard there was a fire at a barracks too?’
Certinse nodded briefly. ‘Fifteen dead, all good and loyal men. From the report it looks like it was a botched job – the bastard was trying to fire the officers’ quarters next door, but the thatch in the barracks caught first. It’s worked against them now; the men are ready to storm the armoury and march on the temple district.’
‘Well, you can’t trust a fanatic to think before he acts.’ Ilumene declared as he stood and straightened his weapons. ‘Which is why I’m here.’
‘Your vague promises to me shall finally bear fruit? And speaking of such – Harlequins? Gods, man, remarkable followers of Ruhen, I think you described them as!’
‘Weren’t lying now, was I?’ Ilumene said with a grin.
‘Far from it – indeed, I hadn’t expected the term to be so accurate. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me how you persuaded the Harlequin clans to join you?’
‘Nope.’
Certinse watched Ilumene as the man scratched the ragged edge of his left ear. A small part of the lobe was missing, no doubt bitten off in some squalid bar fight. They had yet to set the terms of their agreement, if agreement was in fact the term for the flirtation of suggestion and vague assertion each had made. Now the crucial time had come, and there was bargaining to be done.
‘I can’t help but wonder if I need your help now. My greatest problem was the piety and obedience of my men, and High Priest Garash seems to have solved that for me.’