The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3)

by H. Anthe Davis

  The gathered men hushed as the portal wove itself into being. Sarovy squinted into the phantasmal surface, wondering how it worked, what was inside it before it connected—why it took so much effort to create, and how it could pinch together such disparate places.

  The image cleared into a view of the base-camp's arcane sanctum, white-robed mages scurrying in the background. At the frame were a mere handful of men in Crimson armor and uniforms, headed by a familiar figure.

  “Colonel Wreth,” said Sarovy, mouth suddenly dry, and raised his fist in salute.

  Tri-crested helm clamped under his arm, the grizzled old soldier stepped through the portal, its rippling light playing off the red lacquer of his armor like movement in fresh blood. If the disjunction of travel affected him, it did not show on his seamed face. Only the knife-slit of a smile and the hard iron of his eyes revealed his gloating mood.

  “Captain Sarovy,” he said as he strode free of the portal's embrace, his subordinates following more cautiously. His gaze roamed over the Blaze Company soldiers in attendance, then locked on him again. “You've made a splash among the cultists, I hear.”

  “We have held the city thus far, colonel.”

  “Like a ship holding the sea. Ah, an Enlightened Messenger.”

  Cortine raised his hands in the phoenix sign, palms forward, thumbs locked. “Blessings of the Light upon you, colonel.”

  “My thanks. I'll need them to fix this piking mess. Walk with me, captain. Show me what we have.”

  “Sir,” said Sarovy, and handed the executioner's sword to the nearest officer, feeling foolish. This was no deposing force, no military police squad come to relieve him of duty. Colonel Wreth had never liked him and was clearly pleased by his misbehavior, but that did not mean dismissal. He was almost disappointed.

  There was a golden teardrop at the colonel's throat, half-hidden by his gorget. Sarovy no longer felt surprised.

  “If you would follow me, sir,” he said. Wreth waved for him to precede. As he started toward the main door, he glanced sidelong at the soldiers still emerging from the portal and caught marks of rank but also more gold. All specialists.

  “I do not know if the Field Marshal shared my report with you, colonel,” he said as two soldiers held the doors open for them. A cold wind rushed in from outside, sweeping the assembly room momentarily clear of the stink of caged men. Sarovy marked Colonel Wreth's wince; the weather in the Crimson camp two hundred miles south must have been better.

  Out front, bracketing the steps, were the heads on pikes. Too fresh, the blood still wet. Sarovy watched Wreth sidelong as he surveyed the six, wondering if he would mention it—would bring up the suddenness of the executions.

  “And these are?” said Wreth.

  “Assassins and enemy officers, sir. That pair came after me in the council house itself, and the officers—that one is Garrison Commander Tonner—tried to take us during the Shadow Cult ambush. Unfortunately we could not add the Lord Governor's head to our warning.”

  Wreth's lips pursed as he looked among the displays. “You did not think that we would prefer them questioned, then purged in the Light of the Palace?”

  “I did mention it, colonel,” said Messenger Cortine behind them. “The captain disagreed.”

  Sarovy affected a cold smile. “I did not think that they deserved a chance in the Light, sir. Not after using their Dark powers to kill so many of my men. I prefer to present them as a lesson to the city. As for questions, I unfortunately do not have an Inquisitor on staff.”

  “But we do, captain. You should have sent them back to base-camp.”

  “I told him that too,” said Cortine. “And the same for the other prisoners.”

  “Other prisoners?”

  Sarovy nodded. “We rounded up fifty-seven militiamen, sir, in addition to these executed officers. Some of them are in the basement cells, some in the stables. With only three mages, there is a limit to how much we can keep warded. Conditions are less than ideal—“

  “Well then, we shall take them off your hands.”

  And here was the other sticking-point. He took a deep breath, readying his pitch. “While I understand the procedure, I must say—as I wrote in my report—that I think we are best served by hostaging these men against the city's ire. The commander was too dangerous to hold, but these others can be—“

  “No.”

  “—bartered to gain some cooperation, perhaps, and regain our lost men, or at least reduce the blood-price we will be paying to widows—“

  “There will be no bargains, captain. No blood-price. Now show me your stable of prisoners.”

  Resigned, Sarovy led the way down the steps, past the staring faces of the dead, around the garrison front to the great attached building at its flank. It was half the size of the garrison itself, connected internally by a hallway between two of the bunkrooms and open to the street by way of a tall double door. When Sarovy banged on it, a voice responded, “Who goes?”

  “Your captain and Colonel Wreth of the Free First Brigade.”

  A rattling of chains and clunking of locks. A few grunts of exertion. Then the doors swung outward, exposing a set of soldiers with knuckles pressed tight to their foreheads in salute. Colonel Wreth returned the gesture absently as his iron gaze roamed the interior.

  The horses were stabled closest to the door: two-score Tasgards and twelve scouts' Ten-Skys, the latter crowded two to a stall. Beyond them, in the six remaining stalls, were the prisoners: forty-five men, divided up then crammed shoulder-to-shoulder and shackled to each other, shivering under horse-blankets and a haphazard spread of hay. Several infantrymen stood in the aisles, relaxing from salute; two more guarded the door to the garrison. Tiny mage-lights hung everywhere.

  “About half the force that went for us, plus a few we took from their homes,” said Sarovy. “Another twelve in the basement. The rest fought or escaped.”

  “And is that it for the city's fighters?”

  “No. According to the rosters, this is about two-thirds of the militia, with the others at outlying posts. We haven't been able to round them up. Then there are the private mercenaries, no idea how many. Lieutenant Benson has been looking over the Lord Governor's ledgers, but they are mostly household expenses, council business. The information might not be there.”

  “I have heard that we no longer have a manor to search. Or occupy.”

  “My apologies, colonel. Perhaps you could board your men at the council house.”

  “Provided that we do not evict you, hm?”

  Sarovy did not answer. He half-expected Blaze Company to be recalled to camp once control of the city was handed off, though what Wreth planned to do with just a handful of men...

  Perhaps only Sarovy and his command staff would be going home.

  Or perhaps the rest was marching.

  A moment of silence, then Wreth said, “You remember, of course, how I tried to dissuade our Crown Prince from this venture. This Blaze Company.”

  “Yes, colonel.”

  “Perhaps I was hasty. Your techniques suit us, even if your judgment is lacking. In time, you could be refined into a proper weapon of the Light, not the...” His gaze slid to Sarovy's collar, though Sarovy did not know what he saw there. “The haphazard agent you are now.”

  “I follow my orders, colonel, when my commanders see fit to give me any.”

  “True. You do, at that.”

  “The prisoners, sir?”

  Wreth glanced over the stalls, the cold-blanched faces, the carefully impassive Blaze soldiers. “Let it not be said that we are cruel, captain. Send them on to the warm Light of the Palace, away from this frigid place. The ones in the cells too.”

  “Yes, colonel.”

  “And now I would see the ruins you've made.”

  “Of course. Sergeant Linciard, lead two sections of lancers as escort.”

  “Sir,” said Linciard, and broke from them to head inside.

  “I should don my armor as well,” s
aid Sarovy. “The Shadow Cult will be watching for us, along with any other insurgents we have inspired.”

  “Soldiers are known by the quality of their enemies,” intoned the colonel. “Did you cause such destruction in your previous life with the Sapphire, captain?”

  “You would know better than I. Mindwashing has removed those times.”

  “A pity.”

  “If I may be excused...”

  “Yes, yes. I shall have a look around your little domain while I wait. Oh, and have a horse saddled for me, and three for my mages.”

  Sarovy gave the order, then quick-stepped to the interior door and through the corridor, to the assembly-hall where white-robed mages now passed luggage through the portal: rune-covered chests and cases with heavy locks, reinforced with bands of steel and silver. Curious.

  He took the stairs three at a time, feeling his soldiers' stares on his back. Scryer Mako's presence tapped at the base of his skull but he did not acknowledge it; there was too much to be done, and no time for discussion.

  Office. Padding. Armor. Practiced fingers worked the buckles automatically. Helm, sword, shield. The earhook crackled to life and he frowned at Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek's suggestion of a secondary escort. A few ruengriin on the side-streets, a few scouts on the roofs.

  “No,” he said as he cinched his sword-belt. “No one out of range of the mage-lights. Scryer Yrsian, you are staying here?”

  'I'm maintaining too much magic to move.'

  “Understood. Voorkei and Tanvolthene likewise?”

  'You wanted this place lit from top to bottom, sir. Keeping those up and the portal active are tapping us to the limit, especially since we had to shoulder Presh's work. Oh, try not to go beyond Old Crown District. I can't maintain the hook any further.”

  “As you say.”

  He turned for the door. This would be his first time beyond the garrison's warded bounds in the two days since the manor fire. The city would have changed in his absence—and that of their city watch, their cowardly governor. The rest of the council had likewise gone into hiding.

  It unnerved him to step out without the full measure of his company. Perhaps he had foxed this situation more than any of them knew. Been too harsh, or too cocksure. He remembered welcoming the cult's retaliation, thinking it would be a good challenge.

  How quickly the tide turned.

  *****

  'Lieutenant Rallant.'

  The senvraka flinched. It was not Scryer Mako's mind-voice, but a man's—one of the white-robes the colonel had brought. He forced himself to look at a wall rather than scan the gathering of mages and officers that trailed the colonel as he wandered the garrison halls.

  Yes? he thought.

  'Colonel Wreth wishes a word.'

  He blinked and glanced to the colonel in the lead. In person?

  'No. Abide a moment.'

  The itching sensation of mental contact changed, and for a moment Rallant felt a presence around him, like sharing too-close quarters with a stranger. Then it faded, and Colonel Wreth's rough mind-voice said, 'Savaad.'

  He had done this enough that his mental response was not shaded by his revulsion. Colonel. How can I help you?

  'I would have your experience of this company. I am told that this connection is armored against intrusion, so speak plainly.'

  Rallant fixed his gaze on the floor. Like all of the specialists in the Crimson Army, he reported to Colonel Wreth, and had been assigned to this post at the man's command. Unlike many, though—and unlike the previous General, Crown Prince Kelturin—he knew that Wreth's true loyalty was to the White Flame and the Temple of the Risen Phoenix Light.

  So was his.

  Though sometimes he wished otherwise.

  They do not seem to be guided by any external hand, he thought. Neither the Gejaran mage nor the Padrastan—now missing—have given anything resembling an order, though I am not privy to their dealings with the scryer. She may serve as a proxy between them and the captain. Still, I have seen no indication that he is receiving orders from elsewhere. He appears frustrated to not have orders from the Field Marshal.

  'Yet he has taken several independent actions.'

  I believe he came by those himself.

  'Cortine tells me he has been refusing blessings.'

  I do not know why, sir. He seems a staunch follower of the Imperial Light. Though he may be having psychic difficulties... Vrallek told me he nearly collapsed after a blessing.

  'The grandeur of the Imperial Light brings many to their knees, lieutenant.'

  Yes, but not usually with convulsions.

  A spike of annoyance went through his head: feedback from the colonel. 'There must be some undercurrent. Something he has hidden from us. High Templar Rackmar requires this knowledge for the security of the faith and the Empire.'

  Yes, colonel. I have been doing all I can, and I have my hooks in his former second-in-command. But there has been nothing to indicate that Blaze Company plots against us, or that the captain holds any lingering loyalty toward the Crown Prince.

  'No outreach toward the Shadow Cult?'

  No, sir.

  'Then explain the militiamen your captain held for weeks without punishment.'

  Rallant opened his mouth automatically, then glanced up. No one seemed to have noticed his slip, and his feet had moved him along with the officers as they followed Wreth like a pack. I can't speak for the captain's intentions, he hedged, but I believe he was trying to get them to speak without torture. He is not a soft man, but squeamish perhaps, and the mentalist would not touch them.

  'And then he executes them right before I arrive? It is suspicious, Savaad. Find me the reason.'

  Hearing his name again made him grimace. He ran a hand through his hair as if to make sure no other was there. Yes, colonel.

  'And the mages. You are certain they are not communicating with Enkhaelen?'

  I have no way to know. The three of them went off together regularly before Presh vanished, and while I believe the others' distress is genuine, I can not say that they did not contrive his disappearance. If you insist, I can work on Scryer Makoura, but she is dangerous.

  'I thought you senvraka were made for that. Fucking people over to our side. Or does your influence not work on women?'

  Mind-contact did not come with a tone of voice, per se, but the shades of emotion it carried were more than sufficient for the message. Rallant had felt this particular cocktail of smugness and contempt from Wreth more than once, and it always turned his stomach. Though it was better than some of the others.

  She is a mentalist, sir, he thought blandly, and she knows I have been involved with the lancer-sergeant. My attempt to override his inoculation did not go well. It would be troublesome if she pried into my memories.

  'I heard about the altercation. Heavy-handed, Savaad. If you are found out...'

  He would be decommissioned like any other failed specialist. Another trip to the Palace, another journey into the depths.

  A new 'life' as spare parts for the ahergriin.

  I understand, sir, he thought, because the mentalist would know any other answer for the lie it was. He had already been compromised; he just had not yet been caught.

  'Very well,' said the colonel, 'keep at your task. I will have my little tour and consider what comes next.'

  With that, the thread of thought detached, and Rallant exhaled through his teeth. The sound of booted feet surrounded him, but he dared not look up, for he could smell Linciard passing by with his troop of lancers.

  Curse the man. This would have been easy if only he was cruel. Instead, those worried eyes and that hopeful smile had cut knowledge out of him, made him speak secrets. Made him give himself away. If his masters learned, he was done for. And why? Because some scruffy backwater log-hauler had been kind?

  Had liked him?

  It was ridiculous. Just chemical. He had dosed Linciard with enough for three or four thralls—not that it was an exact measure. Natur
al resistance varied, and inoculation aided the speed at which the victim sweated it out. But Rallant was strong for his kind. In his early years, he'd made thralls by accident—and later, fresh from his disgrace at court, he had commanded a score of worshipers in the name of the White Flame.

  It hadn't lasted. Thralling bred obsession, which eventually grew uncontrollable. He had created his share of stalkers over the years, and though he hadn't seen that manic light in Erolan's eyes, he knew it was just a matter of time before he broke the man and was left with a pet or a monster.

  Escape me, he thought.

  If only he could take his own advice.

  *****

  Shadows watched the ride-out. Shadows whispered their route. Shadows upon shadows upon shadows passed the news until it stirred Enforcer Ardent from her rest.

  Bleary-eyed, she extricated her lantern from the wall of hissing shadows and pulled her coat and crossbow from the chest. They and the hammock were all that existed in this black sphere; Shadow agents traveled light, their pay and possessions accumulating on the Spindle while they pursued their tasks elsewhere.

  Everything was matte black. No accessories, otherwise the eiyets would steal them. She tied her hair back, tested the crossbow and sent some of the shadows to wake her cohorts. This would take a team.

  But she had prepared. Miscreants always returned to the scene of their crime.

  *****

  It was less than a quarter-mark's ride to the governor's manor. The road from the Civic Plaza to Old Crown went sharply up the hill behind the garrison, giving Sarovy a brief glimpse into the training yard and the blocked-off alley that ran behind it. Vrallek's hounds milled there among the crates that served as their housing, grey forms indistinguishable from afar.

  Atop the hill, the wind kicked up, whipping cloaks and yanking at horses' manes. The cobbles gave way to decorative glazed brick, with two strips of rougher brick running down the road as if to make paths for horses and wagons, but following those restricted the column to two narrow lines, which Sarovy could not allow. On his horse Havoc, he rode up the glazed part alongside the colonel on the rough, the rest of the men behind them.