by Tom Lloyd
Isak sensed rather than saw a tall knight with a swan emblazoned on his chest just as he launched a furious attack. Hacking at Isak with a gleaming broadsword, the knight forced Isak into defensive mode, warding off the blows, until Toramin, circling clockwise, managed to shove the knight’s own mount off-balance and Isak was able to get a blow in himself. Eolis cut the knight’s broadsword in two, then continued on down into the man’s peaked helm. The knight went rigid, then flopped to the floor as Isak withdrew.
Looking around, Isak saw the enemy break and run, but beyond them was a ring of archers with bows ready. The fleeing men came to a sudden halt when a single arrow hit the lead knight with an audible thud. For a moment, all they could hear were the cries of the dying, then the men, broken, threw down their weapons and pulled off their helms.
‘My Lord,’ called Vesna from somewhere behind. Isak pulled his own helm off and hung it back on his saddle as he turned to the count.
‘A present, my Lord,’ Vesna continued, prompting laughter from those around him. Beside him, alternately scowling and grimacing with pain, was Karlat Certinse. The young duke clutched at his sword arm as blood ran freely from the elbow joint. He had no helm and his face was streaked in blood and mud, his long black hair matted.
‘Get that wound bound, then his hands and mouth,’ Isak ordered. ‘I want him alive. Better to string him up in Tirah than on a field somewhere.’ Isak nudged his horse closer and saw a flash of fear in Certinse’s eyes before hatred masked everything. Beneath the blood and mud and the purpling bruise swelling the duke’s left cheek, he looked almost absurdly young. What are you, Isak thought, a boy in a man’s armour, playing a game you don’t really understand, or the calculating traitor I’m going to hang you as? In this life, does it matter?
Isak lifted the duke’s chin with his finger and looked into his eyes. ‘What’s more,’ he said quietly, ‘I shall hang your mother beside you, and any other member of your treacherous family that my Chief Steward takes a disliking to on the morning I sign the warrants.’
The only sound that escaped Certinse’s lips was a hiss of pain as a Ghost roughly removed the armour obscuring his wound and tied a tourniquet around the upper part of his arm.
Isak slipped from his horse and began to check the soldiers milling around. Those few knights who had been slow to surrender had been herded into a circle and battered to their knees. Everywhere he looked, men lay contorted in agony, screaming, or moaning softly. A pair of Ghosts appeared on either side of him as he knelt beside one of the injured on the ground, a Lomin hurscal. Isak gently pulled away the helm to reveal a man about Vesna’s age, his eyes wide with fear and pain as he huffed in short sharp breaths, his hands awkwardly clasped about the broken stub of a lance protruding from his side. The bubbling rasp indicated the head of the lance was embedded in the man’s lung. There was no hope for him. Taking the man’s head in his massive hands, Isak ended the pain as quickly and gently as he could.
He looked around at his cream-liveried guards, their emerald dragons easy to pick out. ‘Carel?’ he called, a flutter of anxiety in his heart. He spun around, seeking the veteran’s familiar build, but his old friend was nowhere in sight. Isak stood and took a few steps forward, looking around in increasing panic.
‘Here, my Lord,’ one of the Ghosts called, waving Isak over to where he knelt. Despite the lack of urgency in the man’s voice, Isak ran the twenty yards to his side, a heavy feeling in his gut. Before he got there, he heard a familiar voice swearing, ‘Careful, you ham-fisted bastard!’
Isak smiled with relief as he reached Carel’s side. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. The soldier was easing off Carel’s cuirass, having already cut away the arm section. There wasn’t much blood; Isak guessed it might be a bad break. Crouching down, he picked up the arm section and ran his finger over the split and dented plate just above the elbow. It had been badly mangled.
‘Fell off your horse, did you, old man?’
‘Piss on you. It was a mace and you know it,’ snapped Carel in reply. He winced again as the cuirass snagged on his tunic. ‘Not everyone’s made of iron, you shit-brained lump. Oh Gods, that hurts! Someone find me a flask of something strong.’
The soldier tending his commander pulled a knife from his belt to cut away the sleeve. Carel’s once-powerful arm looked white, except for the deep sickly bruise that had begun to reveal itself. Isak could see from the angle that it was a nasty break, and the colour made him think that Jeil would have his work cut out to save the arm at all.
‘Gods, it doesn’t look good,’ said the soldier, unthinkingly.
‘I know that, you bastard,’ Carel spat. ‘Nartis be blessed it’s my left.’
‘Lord Isak,’ called a booming voice and Isak turned to see the man Vesna had identified as Cardinal Disten advancing towards him. He was indeed dressed as the chaplain he had once been but, as he neared, Isak could see the cobalt-blue hems of his robe were faded and patched. The cardinal himself was an imposing man -several years older than Carel, Isak guessed, but standing over six feet tall, and still with a young man’s bulk. His long beard and the straggly remains of his hair were completely grey and his lean, lined face bore more than a few scars. Only his eyes belied the impression of age, burning fiercely from beneath thick dark eyebrows.
‘My Lord, it’s an honour to meet you,’ Cardinal Disten said as he dropped to one knee. Isak could see the moon-glaive hooked to his belt was still dripping blood onto the torn grass.
‘As it is you. But if you’ll excuse me, I’m a bit busy for pleasantries right now.’ A groan from Carel made him turn back to the injured man.
‘Isak, go and do your job. You are no surgeon, and if you think I’m going to let you touch me, then you must have been brained in the battle.’ Carel forced a smile that Isak returned. He touched Carel lightly on his good hand and rose.
‘Well, Cardinal, it appears I do have time after all. Please, rise.’ He gestured over at the figure of Karlat Certinse being stripped of his armour. ‘And now you can at last write the final chapter of your book.’
‘Hah,’ the cardinal replied humourlessly. ‘It’s been a long time coming, for certain, but I don’t intend to stop until I’m sure I’ve got them all. Life will be happier when I see his mother off to face the judgment of the Gods. I’ll be praying the creatures of the Dark Place find something sufficiently inventive for the lot of ’em.’
To Isak’s surprise there was little satisfaction in the cardinal’s voice, just a grim determination. He guessed the long years pursuing Malich’s followers had been his job rather than his calling. Perhaps the cardinal was just tired of dark secrets and death. Isak was already learning that too much of either could sour any man’s soul.
‘Would you do me the service of seeing to it? Acting with my authority to bring them all to trial?’
‘I will do as I am commanded, my Lord.’ Cardinal Disten bowed low, then gestured to a group of men who lingered on foot behind him. ‘May I present Brother-Captain Sheln, and Count Macove, a major of our order.’
Both men bowed low to Isak, who nodded as he inspected his newest allies. They were dressed in black studded leather and painted cuirasses and carrying their peaked Y-slit helms. Their heavy cavalry sabres were sheathed. The brother-captain was a grim, craggy-faced man of about fifty summers whose skin had an unhealthy grey pallor. There was a cold immovability about Brother-Captain Sheln that Isak was immediately wary of; there was no compassion in those eyes, and he had a sense of remorselessness, and ruthlessness -not what Isak wanted to see in the face of a religious fanatic, no matter whose side he said he was on. Isak had the impression the man was carved from stone.
Count Macove was younger, and looked like the dour expression worn by most of the dark monks didn’t come so easily to him. As if to confirm Isak’s first thought, Vesna approached and took the man’s arm in a familiar gesture.
‘I hadn’t expected piety from you, Macove,’ Vesna exclaimed, a broad smile
cracking across his face.
‘Good to see you too,’ the man replied in equal cheer. ‘As for my piety, we must all grow up and take responsibility for our lives at some point - even you’ll find yourself doing so one day.’
Isak opened his mouth to make a comment, then closed it again. He was the Duke of Tirah now, and barrack-room banter was hardly appropriate. Instead, he looked around at the other dark monks nearby.
‘Is Suzerain Saroc not with you?’
The brother-captain didn’t react to his words, but Count Macove betrayed a flicker of uncertainty that made Isak press the matter.
‘Come on, I could hardly expect two forces to be tramping around without at least one alerting the suzerain. Since I see no hurscals or banners, I would guess he’s part of your order and just too far away to introduce himself yet. If, however, he is deliberately snubbing his new liege lord, I will have to take offence and replace him with someone a little more respectful unless he steps forward right bloody now!’ Isak’s voice had risen to a shout.
‘My Lord,’ called a cowled figure standing twenty yards off. Revealing his face to the daylight, Suzerain Saroc marched forward to kneel before Isak, his cheeks red. The suzerain was a remarkably short man, but powerful, almost a direct opposite to the second man who stepped forward, a pace behind Saroc, and also knelt. Isak glimpsed the devices sewn over their hearts, the only signs of nobility they wore. Saroc’s was a red chalice; the other man bore a white ice cobra. Isak recognised it even as the owner spoke.
‘Forgive us for not coming to greet you, my Lord,’ said Suzerain Torl, his pale face contrasting with the black uniform when he pulled back his cowl. ‘It is our policy to keep those with power in the Order from having to confront their lieges as emissaries for the Brethren. Our Order does not play the great game. We have no wish to act as though we were making a show of who our members are, lest it cause complications.’
Isak frowned momentarily, then reached out a hand to take the suzerain’s arm in greeting.
‘That’s the second time you’ve fought by my side; if such crimes were the only ones I had to forgive, I would be a far happier man. But what are you doing here? You’re a long way from your home . . .’
‘I am. I was in the hills on the Danva-Foleh border on business when an associate informed me of Lord Bahl’s death. As I came in search of Suzerain Saroc, one of my agents informed me that the Duke of Lomin had left with his hurscals suddenly, so we decided to keep track of them.’
‘A welcome decision for me - but how did you find out about Lord Bahl’s death so quickly if you’ve come from the Danva border?’
Torl’s expression was grim. ‘The Brethren have a number of -we’ll call them associates -who use unorthodox methods -and in certain cases, lack sanity. These are not men we have brought into our Order, but we often find uses for them.’
‘That’s not an explanation,’ Isak pointed out. The suzerain looked uncomfortable for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he struggled to match the looming white-eye’s stare.
‘The College of Magic would describe him as a rogue mage, which he is, but not in an insane or impious way. His methods simply differ from other mages, and that makes him a valuable asset.’
‘So why did you hesitate to tell me that? It’s a simple enough explanation.’
Torl gave a sigh. ‘That may be, but how he knew of the death of Lord Bahl is not. He first saw an image after spending several hours watching sunlight filter through the branches of a yew; then again in the movement of leaves in a herb garden. To most people that sounds like he’s some sort of prophet, and I wouldn’t want to give you that impression of our Order.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ Isak said. ‘Perhaps I should meet the man -and when you bring him to Tirah Palace, I look forward to your report on your Brethren as well.’ ‘My Lord—’
Isak quickly cut him off. ‘Your loyalty is not in question, but I must know what other allegiances my nobles hold. The events in Narkang and Thotel mean I cannot afford to be ignorant of anything, certainly not the activities of my subjects.’
‘The rumours about Thotel are true then?’ Suzerain Saroc interjected before Torl could continue his objections. He was very conscious that the dark monks and the Ghosts were eyeing each other suspiciously, and neither side had yet sheathed their weapons. ‘Has Lord Styrax has taken the city and torn down the Temple of the Sun?’
Isak nodded. ‘So I’ve been told.’
‘But what about Narkang? Were you not returning to claim your inheritance because you felt Lord Bahl’s death?’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as that. These parts may see more fighting before—’
‘My Lord,’ the ranger Jeil broke in, ‘I need your help.’
Isak nodded at the suzerains and returned to Carel. He crouched down beside Jeil to inspect the damaged limb. Carel was terribly pale, and sweat poured off him as he panted, almost gasping for breath.
‘I can’t save it,’ Jeil said calmly. He was too experienced to bother trying to hide the truth from Carel. ‘You’re his best chance.’
‘Me? I’ve never done anything like this,’ Isak protested.
Jeil pointed at Eolis. ‘The marshal doesn’t need a healer, not at the moment. He needs a butcher, and saving your pardon, my Lord, you’re the best we have. Eolis will give the cleanest cut, and with a touch you can cauterise the wound.’
Isak looked down at Carel. He could see the old man was weakening before his eyes.
‘There’s no other way?’
‘None.’
Isak looked around, but none would meet his gaze. He stood and drew Eolis. Carel couldn’t stop himself howling in pain as Jeil manoeuvred the injured arm away from the body and indicated where Isak should cut. As Isak raised the slim sword, he looked at Duke Certinse, a glare of such pure venom that the duke shrank back in fear.
‘On a spike,’ Isak growled. He slashed down.
CHAPTER 4
‘Lord Isak, your health.’ Suzerain Saroc, looking markedly different dressed up in silks and fine linens, raised his goblet for the other guests to follow. A bronze brooch bearing his chalice device was pinned to his left shoulder and he now sported his earrings of rank - though the three hoops through his left ear were not plain gold, like those worn by Count Vesna and Suzerain Torl; his were intricately carved and set with flecks of jet. To Isak’s intense surprise, the deeply religious Saroc, last seen dressed in dour black, had transformed into something of a peacock once they reached his estate.
The men echoed the suzerain’s words; the women, all wearing tight-wrapped dresses and feathers in their hair, hmmmed agreement. It was the first time Isak had participated in a formal Farlan toast, but Tila had found a few minutes to coach him in his expected role -which largely boiled down to draining his cup whenever his name was mentioned. He still didn’t grasp why only men carrying weapons were allowed to speak above a mutter, though she had pointed out one or two wearing ceremonial swords solely for that purpose.
Emptying his goblet: Isak was more than willing to do that in the name of protocol, and he did so with a flourish. He nodded graciously to each of the noblemen around the table and set his goblet down for it to be refilled - but somehow he miscalculated, and the thump as it hit the table caused the bowl of rice beside it to jump and overturn. He frowned at the table; it seemed to be closer than he’d first thought - but when he looked up, he realised there were startled faces turned his way. Perhaps that had been a little loud; suddenly he was reminded that his huge frame was oversized for this rather delicate dining hall.
A hot feeling began at the back of his neck as he felt the eyes of the room on him. With painstaking care he disentangled his fingers from the goblet and raised his hand in apology to the suzerain, who smiled back and nodded graciously as the rest of the room looked away with embarrassed expressions. Oh damn, Isak thought, I’m the guest of honour, I shouldn’t be apologising. Didn’t Tila say I couldn’t do anything
wrong at a meal in my honour?
‘He’s going to be fine.’ The soft voice in his ear was accompanied by a waft of perfume. Around them, conversation sputtered back into life as the guests returned to their meals.
Isak turned to Tila and nodded glumly. The doctors were agreed on that point at least, despite it being the only one they had been able to reach a consensus on. A middle-aged monk with a hard stare, accompanied by three novices, had arrived from a nearby monastery to help tend to the wounded. He’d been friendly to the suzerain and polite to Lord Isak, of course, but his face betrayed his feelings when he saw a local woman also tending to the sick; her hair cut short to display the scars and tattoos around her neck marked the woman clearly as a witch. No one said much, but even the veteran soldiers had deferred to her opinion.
‘I know he will be,’ Isak said, prodding the lump of pork on his plate with a knife, ‘but I can’t seem to get the smell of burned flesh out of my mind.’
Looking round at the forty or so faces in the hall, Isak saw a number still watching him with slight concern; the Countess Saroc was one who had little time for alcohol and no patience with drunks. Isak ignored her sharp eyes, which shone from her long, thin face. His natural charisma had a more dramatic effect on inanimate objects than on the Countess Saroc, but her courtesy remained faultless and her compassion for the injured unmatched; that she didn’t like him was a small price to pay.
‘He’s too old to be leading men into battle,’ Isak continued, picking at his meal. It was too rich, and had set his stomach churning. Aside from the wine, he had consumed only rice and a bowl of dressed tomatoes. Popping another in his mouth, Isak licked the oil from his fingers and sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have asked it of him.’
‘You’re right that he’s too old,’ agreed Tila, placing her fingers on his forearm. ‘You’re wrong that it’s your fault. The old buzzard knows his own strength better than you do, and you can’t claim to be more aware of the dangers of battle than he. Let his decisions be his own.’