by S L Farrell
The garda nodded. There might have been the flicker of a smile on his lips as he took the ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the cell, pushing the door open. He stepped inside and gestured toward Nico. “You want me to drag him back inside?”
Sergei shook his head as he stepped into the cell, sliding past the garda. “Nico?” he called.
Nico didn’t respond.
He was kneeling on the ledge of the tower, the sun throwing a long shadow from his huddled form across the cell. Sergei could see that he’d soiled his bashta sometime in the night. “Nico?” he called again, and again there was no response. Moving carefully over the filthy straw on the stone floor, placing the roll of leather on his bed, Sergei stepped around Nico’s body until he could see his face. His eyes were closed, but his chest heaved with his breaths. His hands were clasped together, and his mouth was moving around the silencer as if he were praying. “Nico!” he said, more loudly this time, stepping into the sunlight so that his shadow covered Nico.
The eyes opened sluggishly, and Nico squinted up at Sergei through slitted, pouched eyes. “You look terrible,” Sergei told him.
Nico gave a strangled laugh around the gag.
“Let me take the silencer off. You’ll promise not to try to use the Ilmodo?”
Nico gave a slow nod, and Sergei unbuckled the straps of the device and lifted it from Nico’s head. Nico coughed and swallowed hard, wiping awkwardly at his face with chained hands and the sleeve of his bashta. “Thank you,” he said. His gaze fixed on the leather roll, on the garda standing silently near the door with an eager grin on his face. “Why is it that I think there’s no food this time? Do you want to hear me scream? Is that it?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Sergei told him. “It’s not . . . not what I want. Not from you. But we need the war-téni and they listen to you.”
“And you think that you can torture me into cooperation.” Slowly, he stood, rubbing at his legs and grimacing.
Sergei shrugged. “I don’t think it. I know it. I’ve done it many times.”
“Ah, dear Silvernose. You enjoy that, don’t you, forcing someone to do what they don’t want to do?” Strangely, he was still smiling. “You enjoy their pain.”
Sergei didn’t answer. He went to the bed, untied the strings. He pushed at the end of the roll, letting it open. The garda chuckled as he did so. His instruments were all there, the ones he’d collected and cared for over the long years, the ones he’d used so many times, with so many prisoners. He knew Nico was looking at them also; he knew the thrill of fear that would be surging through Nico’s body as he imagined those devices twisting and tearing and gouging his flesh. Nico would already be feeling the pain, before Sergei even plucked the first tool from its loop.
Can this be the time that it changes?
But it couldn’t be, not if he wanted to save Nessantico.
Not this time.
But Nico wasn’t staring at the array of instruments with fear just as the myriad others had. He regarded them with a steady gaze, and only then looked slowly back to Sergei. His cracked and battered lips still twitched with a smile, and through the purpling bruises on his face, his eyes were unafraid. Has the boy gone mad entirely? “Which first?” Nico asked him. “That one?” He pointed to a clawed pincer. “Or that one?” His finger moved, to the brass hammer. “You like that one especially, don’t you?”
“Will you sign the document?” Sergei asked. “Will you stand before the Old Temple and recant? Will you tell the war-téni that they must serve?”
“Cénzi gave me a vision tonight,” Nico said conversationally, making Sergei’s eyes narrow at the evasion. “I prayed for turn after turn, and He wouldn’t answer me. When He finally did, it was strange, and I’m still not sure that I understood. Varina was there. And my sister.”
“Nico,” Sergei said softly, gently, as if speaking to a child. “Listen to me. There’s no other way for you. I must have your recantation. I must have it for Nessantico. I must have it to save lives and for the good of all here. Tell me that you’ll recant and none of this has to happen. Tell me.”
“Varina told me that I still had the Gift, that it hadn’t been taken from me.”
“Nico . . .”
He raised his manacled hands. “You said Varina saved my life.”
“She did.”
“Tell me, my friend Silvernose, do you think she saved me for this?” He gestured at the bed and the instruments there. The chains clinked dully with the motion.
“It’s for Varina’s sake that I haven’t already forced you,” Sergei told him. “It’s for her that I still won’t—as long as you swear to me and Cénzi that you’ll recant. But you make one mistake, Nico—it’s not Varina who has spared your life, but the Kraljica at Varina’s request. The Kraljica will let you live if you confess your mistake; she has given me the charge to force that from you if you refuse, and if you still will not . . .” Sergei lifted his hands. He plucked the brass hammer from its loop and fitted the handle to it. “If you will not—then after I am finished with you, you’ll be handed over to the Archigos. I guarantee you that you’ll find no compassion there.”
“You and I both believe in Cénzi, Ambassador. We both believe that His will should be followed.”
“I don’t believe Cénzi talks to me,” Sergei answered. He tapped the battered end of the brass hammer in one palm. “I do the best I can, but I’m only a weak human being. I do what I think is best for Cénzi, but most especially what I think is best for Nessantico.”
Nico nodded. He turned his back to Sergei and shuffled gingerly to the ledge of the cell. He stood there looking out. “I could let myself fall,” he said to the air. “It would all be over in a few breaths.”
“Others have done that,” Sergei said. “If you do, I’ll produce a signed confession from you and have it read aloud in the plaza. It won’t be as effective, but it might suffice.”
Nico smiled over his shoulder. Sergei thought then that he would do it. There was nothing he could do to stop Nico; by the time he reached the young man, his body would already be broken on the stones of the courtyard below; even if he did, Sergei no longer had the strength to hold him back—they might both end up falling.
But Nico didn’t fall. He took a long breath, looking out over the city. “I thought I saw my sister out there,” he told Sergei. “Varina and my sister, and poor dead Liana, whose only sin was that she loved me and followed me—that’s what Cénzi gives me when I pray to Him.”
He looked back at Sergei, and his face was bleak. “All I wanted—all I ever wanted—was to serve Him, in gratitude for the Gift He has given me.”
“Then serve Him, and admit that you were wrong.”
“How do you do that?” Nico asked. “How do you suddenly change what you’ve done for years? How?”
Sergei came forward to stand next to him. He remembered this ledge; all the stones he’d come to know so well in the time he’d been held here himself. Nico was crying, twin tears leaving a clean path on his grimy cheeks. “I don’t know how,” he told Nico. “I only know that you have to start with one step.”
He was still holding the brass hammer. He lifted it, showing it to Nico. “Put your hands on the railing there,” he told Nico sternly. “Do it!” The garda started forward to force Nico’s cooperation, but Sergei gestured to him to stay back.
Nico, his hands trembling in their chains, placed them flat on the weathered, chipped stone, his fingers splayed out. Sergei lifted the hammer. He could imagine the brass head coming down, crushing flesh and bone, and the sweet, sweet cry of agony that Nico would make and the pleasure that would surge through him with it.
. . . and he let the hammer fall from his hands, tumbling over the edge of the balcony to clatter loudly on the flagstones below. Chips of stone flew, the wooden handle splintered into two pieces; the hammer leaving a deep gouge in the stone The gardai stationed at the gates jumped, startled, looking back at the courtyard.
/> “Come with me,” Sergei told Nico. “We’re going to the Old Temple. I think you have something to say.”
Nico lifted his hands. He stared at them wonderingly and clenched them into fists.
He nodded.
Jan ca’Ostheim
JAN VIEWED THE LANDSCAPE FROM THE TOP of the hill along the Avi a’Sele, some fifteen miles out of Nessantico, and his mind reeled. “Cénzi’s balls . . .” Starkkapitän ca’Damont breathed alongside him, and Commandant Eleric ca’Talin gave a sympathetic laugh at the curse.
“It’s rather impressive, isn’t it?” the Commandant said. “They’re swarming along the road and a good mile or two on either side. I have reports that companies of their warriors crossed the A’Sele and are now on the south side as well. We haven’t been able to do more than annoy them, much less stop them.”
Jan had seen armies on the march before, but rarely so large a force. The Westlanders spread out before them, dark specks crawling like ants along the road and through the tilled fields to either side, the scales sewn onto their bamboo-and-leather armor glistening in sunlight. They made the army at Commandant ca’Talin’s back look like but a single squad. The Firenzcian force that would be arriving was little more than half the size of the Tehuantins. “I feel better now that we have at least a few hands of war-téni with us,” ca’Talin continued, “and we have adequate supplies of black sand, but these Westerner sorcerers are terribly strong, and we already know what their own black sand weapons can do against city walls. They cut through Villembouchure’s defense like rats through soft cheese; it was all I could do to hold the town for a single day and make it as costly for them as I could. Still, they forced me to retreat just to preserve the troops I had so I could continue to harry them on the way here.” The Commandant shook his head. “If I thought we had any realistic chance of cutting them down significantly, I would say we should bring your troops here and engage the Tehuantin here and now, before they reach Nessantico. We have the advantage of height, and beyond these last hills the land flattens in front of Nessantico, and we’ll have less room to maneuver. But if we do that and fail, then we’ve abandoned the city’s defenses to those who manage to live and retreat, and to the Garde Kralji. If you have some better strategy, Hïrzg, Starkkapitän, I’d be happy to hear it.”
Ca’Damont only shook his gray head. Jan stared downward. “Watch,” ca’Talin said. “I’ve sent out a group of chevarittai to attack their left flank there, by the river where the Westerners are exposed. The chevarittai are in that copse of trees . . .”
Before the Commandant had finished speaking, a group of two hands of mailed riders rushed outward from the cover of the trees, hurtling toward a group of Tehuantin warriors who had become slightly separated from the main group. They saw the Westlander warriors bring down their pikes, grounding them against the charge. But the lead chevaritt hurled something that glistened in the sun toward their front ranks. It exploded, shattering as it reached them. They saw the brilliance of the explosion and the smoke rising from the Tehuantin ranks before the sound of the explosion came, a thunder that rolled from the hillside. There was a hole in the pike line, with several of the Westlanders on the ground. The chevarittai slammed into that hole, swords and spears slashing, but now they could see other warriors hurrying toward the gap, and plume-helmeted sorcerers raising their spell-staffs. Lightnings flashed, and—with the shrill call of a cornet—the chevarittai were retreating back through the hole they’d torn in the line. There were only six of them now, with two riderless horses accompanying them, and two more horses down. They hurried back into the cover of the trees as arrows plummeted down around them—Jan saw another rider fall under the assault just before they reached the tree line.
Then it was over.
“Five dead,” ca’Damont said. “But I count at least twice that number of the Westlanders down. Still . . .” He licked at his lips. “That’s not a margin of loss we can sustain. There’s bravery—and our chevarittai have that in abundance—and there’s stupidity. We can pick off the Tehuantin a hand at a time, but even if we do, they’ll be at the gates of Nessantico in five days at their current pace. With the black sand they have, we won’t be able to keep them out—and if they can do at Nessantico something like they did at Karnmor . . .” Ca’Damont shuddered. “I thank Cénzi for your reconciliation with the Kraljica, Hïrzg Jan. Without Firenzcia, we would be doomed. Even with your support, nothing is certain. I cede control of the Garde Civile to you, and I’ll cooperate with you and the Starkkapitän in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Commandant,” Jan told him. “My matarh chose well when she named you Commandant, and she’s fortunate to have someone of your skill at her side. You’ve done as well as could be expected. No one could have done better.” Starkkapitän ca’Damont nodded at that appraisal.
He looked again at the deadly array before them, then over his shoulder at the land behind: the Avi a’Sele winding through woods until it vanished. He could, faintly, see the roofs of Pre a’Fleuve above the distant treetops. Only a few miles beyond that lay Nessantico. And somewhere just to the west of Nessantico, his own army should be nearly within sight of the city, weary from a long, fast march from Firenzcia.
To the immediate south, the great ribbon of the River A’Sele curled through the rolling landscape, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding so near to it. Whether the Holdings prevailed or the Tehuantin, it would continue to flow to the sea, unperturbed and uncaring.
“I agree with your assessment, Commandant,” he said. “We can’t stand here, not with the troops we have, though it’s a shame since we have the high ground. Still, I think we might yet slow them down. We need more time to prepare, for my own troops to arrive and rest, and for Sergei to get more of the war-téni here also. We’ll meet their main force outside Nessantico because it’s our only choice, but I think we’ll also give them a taste of what they’re up against—if only so we can see how they’ll react. Starkkapitän, Commandant, let’s retire to the tents and make our plans . . .”
Niente
FOR THE LAST FEW DAYS, the Easterners had harassed their forces, nipping at the outlying flanks like angry dogs, then pulling back without ever fully engaging. Niente wondered at the tactics—the Easterners still held the high ground while most of their own warriors were concentrated along the road and the fields alongside it, in the valleys of this land. Niente knew that if Citlali had been the Easterner general, he would have rained down storms of arrows on them, would have hurled spells from the heavens toward them, would have sent wave upon wave of soldiers down from the hills. He would have forced decisive battle on them while he held the advantage of the land.
But the Easterners would only sometimes use their archers as the warriors moved through the passes. They sent out only small groups of riders who would try to pick off squads who had strayed from the main body of the army. They only rarely used their spellcasters.
Perhaps Atl had been right. Perhaps the best path was that leading to a victory here. Perhaps they could achieve such a devastating blow to their empire that they could never force the horrible retaliation that Niente had glimpsed in the scrying bowl.
Perhaps.
Niente trudged with the rest of the nahualli in the train of Nahual Atl. His feet ached, his legs trembled with exhaustion whenever they stopped, and he wondered if he could keep up even this slow pace until they reached the city. As Nahual, he had ridden and rarely walked, but now . . . The other nahualli mostly ignored him, as if he were invisible. When he’d been Nahual, they’d been eager to seek him out, to ask his advice, to listen to what he had to say. No longer. Now he watched them fawn over his son as they once had him. He watched Atl bask in their adoration. He saw the jealousy in their hearts, and the appraisal in their eyes as they searched him for any weakness that they might exploit.
They measured themselves against Atl as they had once done against Niente, to see if they might become Nahual themselves.
“Taat!” He h
eard Atl call him, and he quickened his pace as they walked, moving through the nahualli to where his son rode—on the horse Niente had once ridden himself—a careful six paces behind Tecuhtli Citlali in the middle of the train.
“Nahual,” Niente said, and found that he found himself secretly pleased to see the pain in his son’s eyes at the use of the title. “What is it you need?”
“Did you use the scrying bowl last night?”
Niente shook his head. He’d not used the bowl since he’d abdicated his title. He could still feel its weight in the leather bag sung over his shoulder. Atl’s lips pursed at the answer. Niente thought that Atl already looked visibly older than before they’d left their own country: the cost of using the far-sight. In time—too little time—he would look as haggard and ancient and scarred as Niente did now. His face would be a horror, a constant reminder of the power of Axat’s grip. One day he would realize that all Niente’s warnings had been true.
Niente hoped that he wasn’t alive to see that day.
“I can see little in my own bowl,” Atl said, his voice a whisper that only the two of them could hear. “Everything is confused. There are so many images, so many contradictions. And Tecuhtli Citlali keeps asking what I think of his strategies.”
Again, Niente felt a guilty stab of satisfaction. “Do you still see victory for us?”
A nod. “I do. Yet . . .”
“Yet?”
An uncomfortable shrug. He looked forward, not at Niente. “I was so sure, Taat. Right after Karnmor, I could nearly touch it, everything was so clear. Yet since then, a mist has begun to overlay everything, there are shadows moving in the future and forces I can’t quite see. It’s become worse since, well, since you stepped down.”
“I know,” Niente told him. “I felt the forces and the changes, too.”
Atl looked back at Niente, and lifted his right arm slightly, so that the golden bracelet of the Nahual shone briefly. “This isn’t what I wanted, Taat. I would rather you were still wearing this, and that is the truth. It was only . . . I know what I had seen in the bowl, and it wasn’t what you said was there.”