by Tom Lloyd
He couldn’t bear those unblinking white eyes. He looked down at the floor and asked, ‘Do you wish me to find Lord Kohrad and General Gaur?’ He knew the mage wouldn’t want his lord’s son and most loyal subject alerted, but it was as close to a protest as Mikiss could manage.
Salen didn’t bother even showing his contempt. ‘They are out of the city with the Third Army. I am quite sure they will join Lord Styrax soon enough.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’ Mikiss fled, stumbling on the uneven floor of the stonedun’s tunnels. Torches flickered weakly at each turn, barely sufficient to light the roughly hewn stone. As he descended the steep stairway to the main gate Mikiss felt a sudden breeze rush up past him, the tunnel channelling the unexpected wind. He flinched down, hands over his face, but was too slow to prevent the fine sand that lined the floor getting in his eyes. Cursing, he slowed, trying to blink the grit away.
At the ruined remains of the massive main gates, Mikiss saw a party of horsemen, one of the night patrols that kept the curfew, returning with a report for Salen’s staff. A soldier stood facing away from him on the high steps below the gate. Mikiss smothered his jangling fears and walked out from the shadows, blinking furiously and tugging at his sleeve, which had snagged on the vambrace on his left arm.
The soldier on the steps gave a start at the sound of footsteps and spun around, reaching for the axe at his belt. Untangling his sleeve, Mikiss revealed the brass vambrace that had his messenger warrant inscribed in deep Menin glyphs.
Something about the soldiers puzzled him. Mikiss squinted until he was able to read the painted glyphs on one man’s shoulder-plate: Cheme 3rd Legion. The Cheme legion? Weren’t they were part of the Third Army?
‘Hold it there, messenger,’ growled the man bearing the furled unit banner, ‘and where are you bound this fine evening?’ The banner-man, swathed entirely in a long grey cloak, pushed back his hood to reveal bristling fur and long tusks. Mikiss froze; it was not a man at all but General Gaur. Oh Gods.
The air was dry and light. The soft taste of the southern plains tickled the back of his throat as he brushed past the rough stonedun walls. He noticed the forced silence: a few weeks of Salen’s rule had changed the atmosphere of Thotel completely. The Chosen of Larat had done exactly as expected, performing one last act of service, however unwittingly, for the lord he had plotted against for years.
Here inside the stoneduns, Styrax could feel the pain of those slaughtered here, the entire extended family. Salen would not have noticed the voices, nor been able to sense the tears, the loss, echoing around the bloodstained tunnels. Rusty lines streaked the steps and sloping walls where blood and excrement had run down towards the deep heart of the stonedun.
He ran his stained fingernails over the rough-hewn surface. As ever, his left hand was ungloved. He almost savoured the discomfort of his damaged skin. The duel with Koezh Vukotic had left the feeling impaired in his pale and scarred hand, but it had been replaced with a less worldly sensation. He couldn’t feel the evening breeze on his skin, but it sang when power flowed through his body. Right now, the sensation was one of needles being pushed into the back of his hand.
He could feel the currents of magic running through the city, where both Menin and Chetse mages were engaged in a variety of activities. He wondered what else was busy in the city that night, what other treachery waited in Thotel’s dark streets. He thought of the daemon that had warned him of Salen’s betrayal, the shadow that lingered on the edge of sight. It had spoken to him in the desert as he left his forces and went after Lord Bahl. It claimed to have nothing but contempt for its own kind, but who could tell, in truth? Was it watching him now, waiting to exploit events as they unfolded for its own purpose?
His footsteps silent, his black armour melting into the shadows, Styrax felt insubstantial, temporary, nothing but a memory when compared to the solid, immovable stone that encased him. As he reached the high chamber he stopped and waited, buoyed by the accumulating power inside him. After a while he decided the time had come. He scuffed the sole of his boot lightly on the ground.
The figure up ahead didn’t move, but Styrax knew he had been heard.
After a longer pause, Salen asked, ‘Well, Mikiss, what do you want now?’
Styrax remained still, drawing more power into the Skull at his chest as he watched Salen’s back. He wanted the man to have time to appreciate the foolishness of his treachery, to understand how he had been anticipated every step of the way, and that he had been permitted his childish delusion of supremacy - before it was all stripped away.
Salen’s long robe of reds and yellows and blues, the seams stitched in silver and gold, moved a little in what little breeze reached the tower. ‘Mikiss?’ As he turned around, his expression of anger fell away.
Styrax smiled. His white hand burned savagely, every crease in his skin alive with sensation as the stored magic howled to be loose. He was glad of the pain; it reminded him of his mortality as much as his vast strength. He believed in the need for balance in all things -his son Kohrad was not the only person he tried to drum this into -so perhaps a demonstration would succeed where wise words had not.
‘Well, Salen? You’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks now. Time to make your move.’
The Chosen of Larat jerked into action, his hand darting into his pocket as he reached for the energy around him -and astonishment flashed across his face as he grasped nothing, the expected flow of power inexplicably absent to his touch. Instead, it was surging to the Skull fused to Styrax’s armour.
‘What?’ Salen whispered in confusion.
Styrax saw the white-eye was still open to the absent energies in the air, but he was no longer searching for the tang of magic. The path was laid, the energies inside him screaming to be released -with a gasping shudder, he let the torrent course through his body and surge towards Salen, who rocked back on his heels, flailing wildly, as if he were being physically overcome by the raging deluge. With the Skull, Styrax had barely been able to contain the power he’d stolen; now, as he reversed the flow, his enemy screamed hideously and writhed in agony as the rampant flood of energy burned through every nerve and blood vessel in his body.
The Lord of the Hidden Tower collapsed, still convulsing, and the patchwork robe burst into pyrotechnic flames, the colours searing through Styrax’s closed eyelids. He shielded his face with his hands, but still flinched as the amulets on Salen’s robe exploded into bright white light.
Wind whipped across his body and Styrax jerked away as a piece of stone hit the thumbnail of his exposed hand. The night air grew suddenly close around him, pressing tight against his throat. Styrax forced his arms down by his sides and rested one hand on his sword hilt as he recognised the presence of the Gods. He would not let them see him reeling, not even if he were dying.
A profound silence fell on the chamber. Styrax opened his eyes to see just a charred pile of bones where Salen had been lying, and darkness all around. As he watched, the harsh shadows softened; Styrax imagined Death stalking back into the night, dragging Salen’s scorched and pitted soul along behind him.
A sound came distantly, faint against the wind running through the city streets. Styrax listened closely, trying to identify it. For a moment he was puzzled, then he recognised Larat’s hollow chuckle drifting through the night. Lord Salen’s patron God was obviously amused at the irony of his Chosen’s death. The white-eye grimaced. Salen’s deranged indifference to life reflected his God’s, and Styrax did not understand men like that, men who lived their own lives as little more than pale reflections of their God.
Styrax turned at last and moved briskly to join his guards below. He trotted down the winding steps until he reached the gate where General Gaur waited with the horses and a wretched-looking messenger. There were more deaths to come this night, more blood to spill into Thotel’s ever-thirsty earth.
He drew his sword and stepped out into the pale moonlight.
CHAPTER 8
&nb
sp; ‘My name is Mikiss, my Lord, Army Messenger Koden Mikiss.’ He met Styrax’s gaze for a brief moment, then lowered his eyes again. His horse, surrounded by muscular cavalry horses made even more bulky by their armour, looked fragile, and added to the picture of misery that was the exhausted, frightened messenger.
Styrax smiled inwardly. He would surprise a man with unexpected mercy more than once tonight.
‘Come. We must ride,’ he said, and his party set off at a brisk canter through the empty streets of Thotel. The looming stoneduns dotted around the plain cast huge black shadows over the smaller buildings set in long, wide avenues. The single cliff of the river-valley reached away to their left, the quartz adorning ancient shrines set into the cliff-face sparkling where it caught lamplight or moonlight.
‘You have been carrying all of Salen’s messages,’ Styrax said, turning his attention back to Mikiss. It was not a question.
‘Not all, my Lord, but many.’ Mikiss sounded resigned to his inevitable fate; he had been expecting a sharp blade across the throat from the moment he recognised the general.
‘Then it is fortunate for you that I noticed an enchantment compelling you,’ Styrax said calmly, ‘or I would have been forced to conclude you were a traitor.’
Mikiss looked up, clearly startled by the word ‘traitor’. He cut a strange figure, with the red-dyed skullcap that marked him out as a member of the messenger corps and an over-large grey cloak. The brass vambrace was ceremonial; he wore no other armour.
No doubt he is a competent messenger, thought Styrax, or Salen would not have used him. The harried trepidation on Mikiss’ pallid face looked to be a permanent feature. Perhaps his family had bought the young man a commission as a messenger because he’d hardly survive a week in command of a squad, let alone a company of men. It appeared that he had not yet realised he was not for the immediate chop.
‘I’m showing clemency, man.’ He brushed away stammered thanks and went on. ‘Where is Quistal? Can I assume he’s waiting for me to return to the Gate of Three Suns before making his move?’
Mikiss nodded. ‘His troops are camped on the Plain of Pillars and Salen’s personal troops are in the sunken orchards. Where the coterie is, I don’t know.’
General Gaur turned towards Styrax with a questioning look; the white-eye shook his head. The two often had little need of words, for they had been something like friends for many years now.
‘They are of no consequence,’ Styrax said out loud. ‘Larim should have killed them all by now. The coterie will have felt their master’s death.’ He fell silent, thinking of the ground where they would have to fight. The Gate of Three Suns was a particularly remarkable construction. The massive stone wall was strung across a thousand yards of flat ground between a stonedun and a long rocky plateau. The three circular gates set into it served as the main passages in and out of the city. His brief inspection earlier had suggested that the wall was straightforward engineering, not magic.
The sophisticated irrigation of the sunken orchards had been his second surprise that day -this was the desert, for pity’s sake. Styrax hadn’t expected the Chetse to show such ingenuity, but there was no denying the enormous skill involved. He decided he was right to seek the trust of the tribe; clearly there were remarkable men within the wild, unwashed masses.
‘Before we discuss matters with Quistal, we have an errand to run,’ Styrax announced to the unit in general.
‘An errand?’ echoed Kohrad. The young white-eye’s voice sounded overly loud in the silent streets.
His words prompted a growled response from General Gaur. ‘Keep your voice down; we don’t want to run into a patrol if we can help it. Salen made sure all the night patrols were his own men. We don’t need word to get back to the Plain of Pillars before we’re ready.’
‘An errand,’ confirmed Styrax. ‘Mikiss, where is General Dev being held?’
The messenger blinked in surprise. ‘The commander of the Lion Guard? He’s at his family’s stonedun, under guard. He’d been injured before the battle and couldn’t be moved safely. Lord Salen wanted to make sure the general was alive for execution.’
‘I’m sure he did. Take us there.’
‘Father—’ Kohrad started before Styrax raised a hand.
‘No questions -have faith.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Styrax couldn’t see his son’s face, which was obscured by the red-stained steel helm. It was impossible to tell if Kohrad was seething underneath; his reply had been crisp and level, but meant little. The boy was learning to hide his emotions even as his grip on sanity appeared to be weakening.
‘Thank you,’ Styrax said. ‘Mikiss, is the stonedun guarded by Salen’s men?’
‘I believe so, my Lord.’
‘Right, you lead the way. We’ll follow, like troops under your orders. If any of the guards work out we’re hostile, you will break left and get clear. If any run once we reveal ourselves, you and your elegant horse are responsible for chasing them down. Gaur, we do this quietly and efficiently.’ He was watching Kohrad as he spoke and fancied he saw a slight twitch of the shoulder as his son recognised who exactly needed to be reminded.
‘Now if any of you can actually remember how to ride in formation: close order, two columns, weapons hidden.’ The veterans accompanying Styrax all chuckled. They might be élite troops, they might not have travelled in close rank for years, but no soldier forgot their first drills. Quickly they opened up for Mikiss to reach the front, then lined up behind Styrax and Kohrad. The slither of steel indicated they were ready for the trouble to come.
‘Creeping like a thief through the night,’ Styrax commented abruptly, ‘in a city I control, hiding from troops from my own army. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy this.’ His words faded on the light breeze. A bat darted over their heads, startling Mikiss, who shrank down in his saddle.
Styrax clapped a hand on Kohrad’s armoured shoulder and smiled at the night.
Fifteen minutes later, General Dev’s family stonedun came into view. It was a tall, roughly cylindrical block of granite eighty feet high, pocked with squares that indicated window holes. Lights flickered in the windows on the upper levels, but the lowest two were dark. There was a blazing fire at the gate that illuminated the guards nicely.
‘Idiots,’ growled Gaur. ‘Weeks of trouble in the city and yet still they make themselves easy targets for anyone with a bow.’
‘Salen’s best troops are waiting for us at the Gate of the Three Suns. With so many troops scattered around the city, I guess they’ll have expected a quiet night here.’
Kohrad’s reply elicited only a curt nod; General Gaur was rigorous in his duty and would naturally expect every Menin soldier to follow the regulations, whether they were troops of the line or quartermaster clerks, on duty or off.
The gate, an oval aperture ten feet high, served as the mouth for the lion’s head carved into the rock. It stood half open. A few soldiers squatted by the fire, one slowly turning a spit with the carcass of a goat speared on it. As the horsemen approached, another soldier came through the open side of the gate. He paused and peered out into the gloom, then barked at the men around the fire. They jumped up, scrambling for their weapons. Sparks scattered as someone kicked one of the logs and spread a tongue of fiery shards over the stone steps. Styrax grimaced as he heard a sound escape Kohrad’s lips.
Mikiss responded by pulling back his sleeve once again and holding his arm up high. Whether they could see the brass vambrace glinting in the firelight was hard to judge, but they all recognised the gesture. None of the soldiers drew a bow or nocked an arrow, but they did shuffle into some semblance of order, in case Mikiss turned out to be someone important.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ called the man who’d spotted them first. His voice was rough, his accent Menin.
‘You have a message for General Dev,’ murmured Styrax. Mikiss repeated the words.
‘Piss on your message,’ the man shouted back, his hand
creeping to his sword as the party continued closer. Styrax guessed he was the company lieutenant. ‘Lord Salen said we were to admit no one, not even Lord Styrax himself, without word from the Adepts of Larat in advance.’
They were less than forty yards away. The soldiers began to drift forward instinctively; one swung an axe up onto his shoulder. Styrax could make out their uniforms now; the white tunics with multi-coloured stripes on each sleeve identified them as Guards of the Hidden Tower, Salen’s personal legions. They were rightly feared: they were loyal enough to carry out any orders without question, and the Adepts of Larat put less value on human life than a troll would. Even if they were the dregs of the legion, trusted only to stand guard here while the rest fought elsewhere, they would be tough enough -for most soldiers, that was.
‘I have permission. Lord Salen himself sent me with a message. I have it here in my bag.’ Mikiss’ voice sounded uncertain, but as the horsemen closed, the guards could see clearly that he was a real army messenger.
‘Leave your guards and approach.’
‘Leave my guards?’
‘That’s what I said. Stop where you are and dismount. Approach on foot.’
‘That’s enough, I think,’ muttered Styrax. ‘Mikiss, break off.’
The messenger wheeled his horse sharply to the left. For a moment the soldiers followed him with their eyes. Styrax kicked his spurs into the flanks of his horse and as he drew Kobra, startled faces flashed back to him. He saw recognition blossom in the eyes of the lieutenant. Kohrad howled at his side as they raced together into the group of men. The first man to die didn’t even raise his weapon as Styrax’s wide fanged blade cut down. His men were the best of the Cheme Legion; they were close on his heels, their long-handled axes hacking down at the lightly armoured infantry, moving in perfect harmony as they had a hundred times in the past.