His second in command, U-Pre, edged close to the open side of the rocking litter, bowed for permission to speak. ‘Yes?’ Golan said, and waved a switch to brush away the plaguing flies.
‘The leader of the foreign mercenaries wishes to speak, Master.’
‘Very well, U-Pre.’
The man bowed again and jogged off.
Golan rocked with the motion of the raised platform. A light rain, no more than a mist, masked the distant green line that was the highlands where they appeared now and again through gaps in the surrounding forest canopy. The swaying helped Golan maintain a meditative calm despite the horrors that, as earlier campaigns reported, awaited beyond that ragged mountain range.
Heavy armoured boots thumping into the dirt of the track next to his litter announced the presence of this Skinner, commander of the Isturé. ‘You wish to speak?’ Golan asked without turning to look.
‘Yes.’
‘The slow progress of our advance still troubles you, yes?’
The long silence following that observation told Golan that he was correct in his prediction. After marching for a time the foreign mercenary, once an aristocrat within Ardata’s demesnes, and, it was rumoured, so much more than that, cleared his throat to speak again.
Golan slid his gaze sideways to the man: tall helm under an arm, long coat of armour glittering darkly like a curtain of night, wide brutal face so unlike the properly symmetrical rounded features of those of Jacuruku. And, unusually, a long mass of pale hair the colour of sun-dried grass. Was this the feature that had caught the eye of Ardata herself?
‘Yes,’ the man admitted, ‘the slow pace remains an irritation. Allow my command to travel ahead to scout the way and to evaluate the character of the resistance.’
Golan edged his gaze away. ‘No, Isturé. We shall all stay together. Present a strong united front, yes? Like any good artisan I wish to keep all my tools with me so that I may respond appropriately to whatever situation may arise. As a skilled craftsman yourself, you understand this, yes?’
The foreigner’s answering smile was thin. ‘Of course, Master Thaumaturg. How could I possibly argue with such sound reasoning?’ And he bowed to take his leave. ‘If I may?’
Golan waved his switch to indicate his permission. The man tramped heavily off. From the edge of his vision Golan watched him go. As if I would allow you to travel alone in the land you once ruled! Perhaps to meet clandestinely with representatives of Ardata. Who knows what trickery may be hatched against us! No. I shall keep you close, traitor or failed usurper that you are.
He noted the emaciated reed-thin figure of Principal Scribe Thorn hurrying up to the litter. The shoulder bag at his side bulged with paper sheets, his inkpot swung on its leather strap round his neck, and Golan sat back with a suppressed groan. He waved the switch across his face, eyes shut. As he heard the man’s sandals slapping the churned dirt next to his litter he said, loudly, ‘Yes? What is it, Principal Scribe Thorn?’
‘Amazing, Master!’ the man squawked in his hoarse buzzard voice. ‘Your powers astound us mere mortals. How could you have ever known it was I?’
The carrion stench, perhaps? No, that is not fair. The man is merely doing his job. With the meticulousness of an ant building a mountain out of sand – one grain at a time.
Eyes still closed, Golan sighed, ‘You have something to report?’
‘Ah! Yes, Master. The manifest of our honoured yakshaka, sir. A routine recount has recently been completed and it would seem, contrary to all expectations, that we are short one.’
Golan’s eyes snapped open. He turned in his seat to peer down at the scrawny man. Long curved neck just like a buzzard as well. ‘You are saying that we are missing a yakshaka?’
The man jerked his sweaty shaven head, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.
‘You have rechecked the count?’
Now the man flinched, offended. ‘Of course, Master! It is my duty to be absolutely certain before bringing such an incongruence before you.’
‘Perhaps one has been mislaid … like a broom or an umbrella?’
Thorn’s gaze fell and he fiddled with the leaf-green carved jade inkpot hanging from his neck, his badge of office. ‘My master is demonstrating his sense of humour?’ he murmured.
Golan arched a brow. Was that sly mockery? Well, the man would hardly have achieved his vaunted office without some measure of guile. Golan made a show of sniffing a great wad of catarrh then spat over the side of the litter. All the minor officers nearby mouthed sounds of admiration for such prodigious capacity.
‘Good health, Master,’ Thorn added, admiringly.
‘My thanks. And no, Principal Scribe. Merely exploring all options. I applaud your thoroughness. Send Cohort Leader Pon-lor to me.’
The man jerked a bow. ‘I will order a messenger at once.’ He hiked up his robes and ran off bandy-legged through the churned-up mud and trampled grasses.
Golan fell back into his padded seat. Through slit eyes he watched the dense forest pass on either side. Screens of infantrymen walked in a broad arc among the tree trunks while the main column, consisting almost entirely of file upon file of impressed labourers burdened beneath the materiel and supplies of war, kept to the trampled path. A few carts followed far behind, drawn by oxen or water buffalo. These carried the field hospital and various smiths and armourers. All rumbling and tramping east. And what awaits us there? What will we find? Will we be able to scavenge enough food to support our numbers should we run short of supplies? Will we even be able to find Ardata’s centre of power, this fabled city in the depths of the jungle, Jakal Viharn? The Isturé, of course, were sure that they could find the way – after every prior Thaumaturg expedition had found only failure and madness, none even to return from that green abyss.
Cohort Leader Pon-lor arrived next at the litter and bowed, smoothing his robes. From beneath heavy lids Golan’s thin gaze appraised him. Apprentice Thaumaturg of the Seventh Rank. A promising junior officer. ‘Cohort Leader,’ Golan began, brushing his switch before his face, ‘One of our yakshaka has had the poor grace to go missing. No doubt it has sunk into a bog. However, I am charging you with ascertaining its fate. We cannot have them blundering about knocking down peasants’ huts, can we?’
The lad raised a hand to push back his long straight black hair, but stopped himself, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘No, Master.’
Golan had hoped for at least a flicker of a smile at such an image, but the young man was too conscious of rank. He waved the switch to send the officer on his way. ‘Very good, Cohort Leader. Take twenty men.’
Pon-lor bowed again and hurried off.
Now, if only I could dispatch these foreign Isturé in such a manner!
*
That night in the encampment of the Thaumaturg army, Skinner’s High Mage, Mara, prepared for her evening meditations. She arranged the parchment, inkpot and stylus on a low enamelled table then sat cross-legged before it. She tied a black silk scarf across her eyes, set her hands on her knees and worked to calm her mind. The noises of the surrounding camp distracted her at first but she was no stranger to such sounds and so slowly, in stages, she managed to relegate all to the background. After achieving the necessary inner calm, she began to sketch.
A knock sounded at the front pole of her tent.
She let out a thin hissed breath, stylus poised, then set down the copper instrument. After one calming breath she pulled down the scarf to study the incomplete sketch before her. Simple flat lines hinting at a bare landscape, and amid this desolation a tall robust spar or boulder.
Obelisk. All that is past. Yet here it stands before me.
Disquieting. She did not like her past.
The knock sounded again. She carefully replaced the cap on her iron inkpot and rose to cross the tent. She thrust aside the hanging to surprise a Thaumaturg army officer who jerked, startled, then bowed – but not before his gaze slid down the wide curves of her silk shirt and sashed trousers.
Mara was of pure Quon Dal Honese descent, and as black as all from that land could be: she knew the men here found this exoticism … fascinating. And she also knew all men everywhere were dogs. ‘What is it?’ she demanded, deliberately pitching her voice as seductively low as possible.
The officer worked to clear his throat. ‘We have captured a man who claims to be a monk—’
‘What of it?’
The officer paused, offered a thin smile. ‘He also claims to have a message for you.’
‘Couldn’t it wait until the morning? I ought not to be disturbed while communing with demon spirits.’
The man’s alarmed gaze flicked past her to the darkness of the tent and he hastily bowed again.
That’s better.
Head still lowered, the officer said, ‘He claims the message comes from his, ah … god.’
So. I see. ‘Very well. You may bring him to me.’
‘Yes, Isturé.’
Mara turned away and let the tent flap fall closed. She dressed in her robes then waited, gathering her powers to her until she could feel the very edges of her D’riss Warren sizzling about her.
Another knock and an old man was thrust into the tent. He stood blinking in the relative dark. Even from this distance she could smell the filth of his tattered robes. ‘You have a message for me?’ she demanded.
An unnerving grin climbed the man’s cracked lips. ‘Indeed, Isturé. My master grows impatient. Pacts were made. Agreements were reached between your master and mine. You have your mission. When can we expect fulfilment?’
‘Soon.’
‘Soon?’ the man echoed scornfully. ‘We tire of this “soon”. We demand action. Events unfold. The need grows ever more dire.’
‘I will press for action.’
The man tilted his head in slight concord, his eyes glittering bright and black across the tent. ‘Let us hope so … for your sake. My master does not take betrayal lightly. When you find your courage I will be nearby, with instructions.’
Mara answered the slight bow in kind. The man thrust aside the heavy cloth and exited. Tentatively, Mara reached out with her senses and flinched from the lingering moil of Warren-poisoning that was the unmistakable sign of the Shattered God.
That stupid Kingship of Chains. What need have we for it? Yet perhaps Skinner sees some hidden way it could aid our final goal …
Mara pushed back her robes and sat once more before the table. She raised the scarf to her eyes and attempted to ease her breathing. But the requisite centring would not come. Her thoughts were too disturbed.
And through that disequilibrium the ghosts returned. She saw them suddenly standing before her light-starved eyes. The wavering presences of her dead brothers and sisters, all the Brethren of the Crimson Guard. Their relentless demanding voices whispered once more in her ears.
You swore … Always remember … Remember your Vow …
An arm of dried skin stretched across bone gestured, inviting. Lacy.
‘Walk with me, sister,’ the corpse murmured. ‘Our path ever remains. It is unavoidable. Why this obstinate lingering? It shall ever lie before you …’
‘No!’ She yanked the scarf away and drew in a ragged breath. Her flesh prickled cold and damp with sweat. Her gaze found the sheet with its sketch of the Obelisk before her. Snarling, she crumpled it and threw it on to the brazier of coals at the centre of the tent where it burst aflame.
* * *
Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj, rode with his escort into the encampment of this foreign Warleader to find it much larger than he had anticipated. In truth it was not one encampment at all, but a conglomeration of lesser compounds each the province of one of the tribes, Greater and Lesser. Offhand, Jatal recognized the standards of the Awamir, the Salil and the Manahir, plus many of the Lesser families. This self-styled Warleader appeared to have succeeded in his bid to interest the tribes of the Adwami, the People, in a major punitive campaign against the cursed Thaumaturgs.
Hardly a month ago an emissary of the Warleader had arrived at their camp offering word of a negotiated collective truce among all the tribes. A concord during which all families were invited to discuss the assemblage of a great force to strike deep into Thaumaturg lands. Such raiding was of course nearly an annual ritual: small bands sneaking across the bordering canyon lands, looting villages, stealing crops and taking captives. Now this foreign Warleader promised a raid such as had not been seen in a generation. Entire caravans of riches and an army of slaves to be won.
At the head of his column, Jatal eased his mount into a gentle walk as he parted the assembled fighters and camp followers. Talk died away and heads turned and Jatal felt reassured for this was as it should be – the Hafinaj being the largest and most powerful of all the Adwami. Foreign warriors pointed him on towards the main tent at the centre of the assembled compounds.
His father, patriarch of all Hafinaj, had been dismissive at first. Who was this outlander to speak to them of war? Such effrontery! Had the man no respect or manners? He would have nothing to do with such foolishness. Then word came of the crushing of the Fal’esh and the Birkeen and the subsequent rounding to the man’s standard of the majority of the Lesser families.
This and the promised riches brought in a few of the Greater houses. And once this was accomplished, Jatal knew, none other of the Adwami could risk the loss of prestige and gold that standing aside would bring. So it was that shortly after the news broke he was summoned before his father: the lesser son of a lesser concubine.
‘Jatal,’ his father had brusquely welcomed him from where he reclined on the cushions of his raised platform. And Jatal knelt before him on the ground, head bowed. ‘Remember that you are a prince of the Hafinaj! As such, you must not arrive like some tattered beggar. Therefore I send with you fifty of our knights, plus seven hundred men at arms. The largest of all the contingents, I’ll wager!’ and he laughed at that, anticipating the envy and gritted teeth of his rivals among the other families. ‘Yes, very good. Do not shame us,’ and he waved him off.
‘Father,’ Jatal had murmured respectfully, and backed away, head lowered.
Now, as he approached the great tent surrounded by its foreign guards, a man emerged. Tall and thin as one of the tent-poles themselves. He wore a long coat of mail, bore a grey beard and had a face as lined as a desert draw. But the eyes! Such lofty arrogance in their washed-out paleness. It was as if the man were looking down upon him, though he now had reined in at his side. ‘You are this Warleader?’
Something like a smile tightened the man’s thin lips. ‘I am. You must be a son of the Hafinaj.’
‘Prince Jatal.’
‘Welcome, Prince Jatal, to my humble encampment. You honour us with your presence. My men will show you a place for your lancers. No doubt you wish to refresh yourself. May I expect you this night for an assemblage of families?’
‘You may.’
‘Very good.’ The man bowed though his eyes held no deference in the least.
Vaguely irritated, Jatal answered with the curtest of nods.
That night, with the help of his retainers, Prince Jatal dressed in his best silk shirt and trousers and thrust through his waist sash the most jewelled of his ornamental daggers – all because his father had warned him not to shame his family. He ate first before going to the dinner so as not to be distracted by his hunger, or the carnality of eating itself.
Foreign guards opened the tent flap at his approach. Entering, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the greater brightness of all the torches and braziers. Low tables encircled the walls at which all the guests were seated on carpets and cushions. Opposite the entrance sat the Warleader, cross-legged, incongruously still encumbered by his mail coat. From one side a huge bear of a fellow lumbered to his feet and swept up to Jatal, arms out. He recognized the man as Ganell of the Awamir, longtime allies of the Hafinaj.
‘Prince Jatal!’ the fat man boomed. ‘How you have grown!’ He made a show of looking Jatal up and dow
n. ‘How the ladies must have swooned at your departure! You are every inch the prince now.’
‘Ganell.’ Jatal greeted the man with a hug that could only embrace a portion of his bulk.
‘Come sit with me. I insist! We of the Awamir welcome the Hafinaj!’
‘You honour me.’
Sitting, Jatal noted across the way the glowering bearded face of Sher’ Tal, Horsemaster of the Saar, their traditional blood-enemy. Jatal chose to merely glance away to their host, the Warleader. The man nodded his welcome.
Servants came and went carrying platters of steamed cracked wheat, entire roasted lamb and goat, fruits and decanters of wine. Jatal allowed a plate to be set before him but partook of none. He lifted a bronze wine goblet to his lips but did not drink.
Meanwhile, Ganell, next to him, consumed enough for two or three, laughing and entertaining everyone with a story about one of his sons, whom he considered a gaggle of empty-headed smoke-addicts good only for spending his gold.
‘Not like you, Jatal!’ he boomed, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Poet and philosopher, I hear! Just like the princes of old!’
‘Yet they honour you, I’m sure,’ Jatal murmured.
‘What? By their fornicating? Their dissipation and squandering? In that I suppose they honour me.’
‘For myself,’ began Sher’ Tal from across the tent, ‘I did not come to hear stories of the consequences of inbreeding.’
‘Breeding?’ Ganell responded, peering about and making a show of being puzzled. ‘Speaking of breeds, I hear the braying of an ass!’
Sher’ Tal lunged to his feet.
‘Gentlemen!’ the foreigner shouted, also rising. ‘Gentlemen – and ladies,’ he added, nodding towards the women who had come as representatives. ‘Let us not forget we are here to discuss cooperation.’
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