The Silver Thief

by Edward W. Robertson

  Gladdic couldn't remember the last time he'd chopped wood or dug a pit. He did, however, enjoy his walks, for precisely the reason Horstad had stated. Gladdic could feel his mind spinning, groping about for wedges he could drive into Horstad's argument. There was no denying the premise. But perhaps he could prove that martial arts were an inefficient means of finding clarity? How? Compared to meditation? Or perhaps—

  A man jogged into the courtyard. He had the dark hair of a Mallish man, but wore the plain jacket of a Collener. A scout. Gladdic summoned the name: Dafid.

  "Ordon Gladdic." Dafid's eyes shifted to the dueling monks. "Please, pardon my interruption."

  "I assume," Gladdic said, "you wouldn't be making it unless it were of importance."

  "Just so, milord."

  "Then cease wasting time and explain what is so important that I must be interrupted."

  With infuriating deference, Dafid quietly explained that the dam had been destroyed. Along with every trace of Gladdic's forces, priests included. His strategy had been to claim the remainder of the basin without expending troops he didn't have. Instead, in one fell swoop, a tenth of his army had been annihilated.

  Gladdic's mind roared like wind through an empty room. Across from him, the monks' weapons clacked on.

  "Is it known…" Gladdic's mouth was too dry to speak. He moved his tongue until it moistened. "Is it known who's to blame for this crime?"

  Dafid lowered his gaze. "There were no survivors, milord. Most were killed by common arms. But some were burned like they'd been shot through with bolts of fire."

  "The dam was composed of boulders. Was there any indication how these were moved?"

  "There's no sign of…anything. It's like the entire dam was never there."

  "Thank you, Dafid. Now leave me."

  The scout bowed and turned to go. Gladdic flexed his hands. His fingers were long. Graceful. Like those of a harp player. He'd always been proud of them. With a thought, lines of light condensed from the air. The geometry was perfect, like the framework of the ideal cathedral. The light poured into a sphere.

  His mind felt as clear as windless winter air. He split the sphere in two and exhaled sharply. The two hemispheres swept forward, shifting on the fly into thin, shimmering disks.

  The disks swooped through the chests of the dueling monks. The two men flew back, landing in heaps. Blood showered the hard-packed dirt. One of the monks thrashed weakly; the other lay still.

  "Ordon!" Horstad blurted. He took a step toward the fallen monks, then stopped with a lurch, turning to gape at Gladdic. "Why..? Were they involved in the attack at the river?"

  Gladdic's hands twitched with the urge to summon another sphere and smash it into Horstad's flabby face. He could smell the shower of blood and viscera, feel the thrill of having torn down that which was flawed.

  "Ordon," Horstad pleaded. "Help me understand."

  Gladdic's eyes twitched. He returned the ether to the sky and stepped over the dying monk. "They dress their practice in cloaks of art and prayer. They say this art is holy. But do you know the true reason they train to fight, Horstad?"

  "No, milord."

  "So they can fight us."

  Enlightenment filled Horstad's eyes. "I see."

  "Their treachery runs fouler than that. Dante Galand accompanied those who attacked the dam. He may even have led them. He's the only one who could have destroyed it so thoroughly."

  "Then it's just as you said it would be."

  Gladdic nodded. During the chaos of the battle for the city, Galand had disappeared. Gladdic had scoured the city for him, using that same search to conduct a census of the residents—and learned that the veins of nine out of ten citizens was overwhelmed with Collenese blood.

  His monks had interrogated a great many of the locals. None of them had credible information regarding Galand's location. Somehow, the heretic had escaped the city. Gladdic had given much thought to hunting him down. He'd received reports the nethermancer and his friends had been seen in the town of Tanner. Yet the only ones powerful enough to dispatch Galand were the Andrac and Gladdic himself.

  And the city of Collen remained full of warrior-monks like the two that had just enlightened Gladdic. If he brought the Andrac out of the city to bring Galand to justice, he risked his soldiers being overrun by Collenese partisans. If he lost his troops now, King Charles would refuse to provide him with more. For those entrusted with the responsibility of leading campaigns into other lands, patience was more than a virtue. It was survival.

  Even if prudence hadn't insisted Gladdic remain in the city, he would have been inclined to leave Galand to run free. As the Ban Naden said, "Thieves hang themselves." Left to his own devices, Galand would cause trouble. Foment unrest. Murder the innocent. And cement Gladdic's case against Narashtovik. The destruction of the dam wasn't a setback. It was the next step toward scouring the north of heresy.

  Galand's actions had clarified Gladdic's mind better than the most vigorous exercise. Everything the Colleners did, they did in defiance of Mallon and the gods.

  Gladdic kneeled and dipped his finger in the blood of the monk, who'd gone still. It looked as red and healthy as all blood did. There was no more nether in it than the blood of the Mallish. Yet he could feel the taint lurking within it.

  "The land here is blighted." Gladdic wiped his hand on the monk's blouse. "When blight comes, the only way to save the farm is to burn the crops and start anew."

  * * *

  That same day, he announced the systematic evacuation of the city.

  By the middle of the afternoon, four hundred citizens gathered at the top of the road down from the butte. Every single one was blond-haired and blue-eyed. He had decided to spare those who showed Mallish or Parthian features. It would be unjust to punish them for Collen's crimes. Gladdic nodded to his commanders, then turned and walked down the switchbacks.

  Dunswell, one of his officers, began to explain that they were relocating the Colleners to outlying towns for their own safety. Gladdic wasn't listening. A third of the way down the road, he entered one of the caves cut into the side of the butte and finalized his preparations.

  Gladdic had left the twin doors open, allowing sunlight to slant inside the chamber. Outside, the priests lifted their voices in the Hymn of Good Travels. The hymn was energetic and hopeful, as befitted such moments. Gladdic waited on a short platform laden with candles, pewter statues, and bags of supplies. Before their departure, the Colleners were to be blessed and provisioned.

  A team of soldiers in blue uniforms appeared in the doorway. They ushered a column of citizens into the cavern. The Colleners gathered in front of the stage, watching Gladdic, who was the only other person in the space. He stared back, silent.

  In time, the last citizen was led into the cavern. The soldiers exited, leaving the doors open.

  "People of Collen," Gladdic said. "Today, you set foot on a new journey. One I hope will at last foster peace between our two peoples. In the spirit of that hope, before you leave, I give you a gift."

  He extended his hand. A ball of light leaped beneath the center of the ceiling, illuminating the cavern. The people squinted, shielding their eyes.

  "As this light rids this room of darkness, so shall I rid your souls of stains."

  This time, he thrust out both hands. Across the room, the doors slammed shut. Voices called out in surprise. Frightened eyes turned back to Gladdic.

  He let his hands fall. "May you at last find Taim's peace."

  A shadow moved from the wall. Its eyes shined silver. When it opened its mouth, so shined its throat.

  It fell among the Colleners with the hunger of fire.

  Outside, the priests sang louder and louder, drowning out any screams that escaped the cavern. People rushed for the doors and found them barred. Gladdic spent a few moments watching the demon for signs of disobedience, but the more lives you fed them, the more prone they were to listen. After today, the Andrac would be indistinguishable from a
slave.

  Satisfied, Gladdic returned his attention to the people. Dozens had already dropped to the smooth stone floor, wounds blackening. He watched the rest die with great interest.

  In time, the cavern was silent again. They lay on the floor like autumn leaves. The smell was unbelievable. Gladdic moved among them, peering into the darkness behind the surface of the world.

  For when a man died, he left not one, but two varieties of feces behind. The first, common and earthly, everyone knew. But the second—Gladdic believed it possible that he alone knew of its existence. A stain. Black and hidden. He believed it was the waste left behind by a life of sin. In death, every single Collener had left such a stain.

  Not that this was unique to Colleners. Gladdic had seen a great many Mallish die as well. Each had also left a stain. He had spent years searching for its ethereal equivalent: a shimmer of glory signifying its body's bearer had lived a life of virtue, and would now join Taim in the measure and judgment of the world.

  Never had he seen the white mark.

  He searched the cavern from front to back and side to side. As always, there was no light. Only darkness. For a moment, he felt the horror implied by the lack of light. Then he exhaled. These were Colleners. As tainted as vampires. If he found no lights among them, that confirmed his path was righteous.

  He took another moment to soak in the scope of his vision. He smiled. Just as every martial artist's move served more than one purpose, so did Gladdic's. He would kill those capable of fighting against him. Then he would use their remains to strengthen his defenses.

  And he would rebuild Collen with untainted blood.

  26

  Two days after Dog's Paw declared war on the invaders, the Strong Senate of the Collen Basin convened on the heights of the town. Much like Justice Falls, two shallow grooves had been carved into the bare rock, winding their way to the edge of the cliff. To the north, the butte of Collen was a blue-brown lump on the horizon. Thirty-six senators milled about, exchanging greetings. In a minute or two, Dante would be expected to deliver the Cause of War.

  Serta had explained this to him shortly after Dog's Paw had made its fateful vote. The Cause of War didn't sound as much like a speech or a fiat as it did a court case—and Dante would be the one on trial.

  "I thought the Code of the Wasp bound them to declare war," Dante had replied. "It sounds like we're seeking their permission."

  "No permission is needed. With our declaration, each town is bound to certain responsibilities. They must supply no less than one hundred able-bodied soldiers. They must provide lodging and provisions for these soldiers in the field. In addition to the infantry, they must employ a certain number of scouts. And so on."

  "Great. Then why do we have to make a case for war?"

  Serta smiled wryly. "The code binds them to war. But how can it bind them to be enthusiastic? When you step into battle next to your ally, do you want him to be fighting with only half his heart?"

  "Of course not. I want him to be fighting with every inch of his heart, lungs, bladder, and wiggly gray things."

  "The Cause of War is how we fan the flames. We are at war. Why? What is the plan? And how is it in their best interests to support our war with every resource at their disposal?"

  "I've got this one," Blays said. "Because the losers of wars tend to be raped, killed, and burned?"

  Serta winced. "I recommend downplaying that angle of the venture."

  And so Dante had spent the last two days crafting an argument, along with replies to the most likely questions and critiques of that argument. As the senators finished up their greetings and turned to face him and Serta, who stood at the "source" of the miniature river beds carved into the rock, Dante felt more than prepared.

  In response to an unspoken signal, Serta tipped a large copper jug, spilling water into the two grooves. When the rivulets of water reached the cliff's edge and trickled over, he lifted his face and smiled at the other senators.

  "Colleagues of the Basin. Thank you for answering our summons. Today, we present you our Cause of War. I will be happy to answer your questions as well, but for now, I'd like to leave matters in the hands of our guest: Dante Galand of Narashtovik."

  Thirty-five pairs of eyes shifted to Dante. Once upon a time, such attention would have made him feel uncomfortable, but after so many years in the public eye—first as a member of Narashtovik's Council, then as the city's commander—he no longer felt that teenage resentment at being looked at by a crowd.

  "Senators of Collen," Dante said. "I'm sorry we have to be here today. But one man—Gladdic of Bressel—has given us no other choice."

  He launched into the tale of Gladdic's crimes stretching back to Bressel, layering and arranging the facts to create a narrative of a man maddened by fear of the nether and Arawn. It was just the opening to his argument, and he hadn't made it halfway through before he was interrupted.

  "Enough." An older woman stepped forward, straw-colored hair blowing in the wind; Ana, the haughty senator from Tanner. "As I told you before, this is about far more than Gladdic. Arawn himself has turned against us. Unleashed demons we have no hope of defeating. Tanner comes to answer the Code of the Wasp, adherence to which has always kept our people alive. This time, however, it will be our death."

  "I don't know the last time I've heard one person be so wrong about so much," Dante said. This drew sharp looks from several senators, especially those from Tanner. He ignored them. "The demons weren't sent from Arawn. They can be created by any sorcerer who knows where to look—which, fortunately for human existence, rules out almost everyone. And they can be defeated by sorcerers, too."

  "Is that so? How would you know the workings of the mind of Arawn?"

  "Follow me to Bloodlake. It isn't far. There, I created an Andrac. We've defeated it dozens of times, honing our skills in preparation for the battle against Gladdic."

  This rocked Ana back on her heels. Dante stood before the others, eyebrows lifted, waiting for someone to take him up on his offer.

  "You're sure of this?" said Madd, Ana's fellow senator from Tanner. "You can kill the demons?"

  "I'm not sure if they can be killed. But we know how to banish them to the shadow realm. Once they're removed from our world, then their master—Gladdic—is left vulnerable."

  The three dozen senators took a moment to mull this over.

  "And so you've convinced Dog's Paw to invoke the code," Ana said, recovering from her earlier shock. "What's your involvement in this conflict? Exhorting us to war, then moving to the safety of the rear to give us your commands?"

  Dante shook his head. "I had nothing to do with declaring war. You've been at war since the instant Gladdic drained the canals. As for my involvement, I'm not here to lead you. I've learned better than to try to give orders to Colleners."

  This drew a round of appreciative chuckles. Ana waited for them to subside. "My question remains unanswered."

  "We're here to kill Gladdic and destroy the Andrac. After that, it's your fight to win or lose."

  "You say you don't want to lead," said an old man whose white eyebrows looked like squiggles of whitewash on a stone wall. "That's good. Wouldn't be right. But it sounds like you've got some ideas about how this is to be fought. I'd like to hear them."

  "You're sure you want the opinions of a former Mallisher?"

  "Pah. Only an idiot would turn down good advice just because the advisor was born in the wrong place."

  "The truth is, I don't know how we should conduct the fight." Dante paced in front of his audience. "We don't have any idea what's going on in the city. And the people inside the city don't know that we're ready to come to their aid. Our first step will be to address these issues. We'll install scouts in the city. I can help with that. Once we know what's happening inside Collen, we can formulate a battle plan."

  "Sounds like you're itchin' to move."

  "We'll have three weeks to prepare. That's when my priests will arrive in the basin. Befo
re they get here, we may know how to fight the demons, but I fear we wouldn't have the strength to deal with them in open combat."

  Dozens of questions followed this. Rather than being critical or hostile, they were practical, oriented toward strategy and logistics. As the conversation went on, Serta fielded more and more of the questions. Sometimes the senators of other towns answered as well.

  After two hours, the discussion finally wound down. Serta asked if there were any other questions. No one spoke up.

  "Then I have one last question for you." He gazed across the other senators. "Dog's Paw calls for war. To free our brothers in Collen and drive the invaders out of a land they've never belonged in. Are our sister towns prepared to join us?"

  The senators thrust their fists into the air. All said, "Through unity, we survive."

  Serta smiled, but it was the expression of a man knowing he's choosing the best of a bad lot. "Then to war we go."

  * * *

  The butte of Collen stood against the night, a raised shelf that blacked out the stars behind it. They had left the Keeper behind in Dog's Paw, allowing the four of them to travel as fast as the moonlight allowed. They hadn't been this close to the city since fleeing from it, and as they neared, Dante kept both eyes out for scouts and sentries. In good news, the city didn't appear to be on fire or smashed to pieces. On the east side of the city, he thought he spied the intact dome of the Reborn Shrine.

  Dante moved beside Blays. "You're sure you want to do this?"

  "What's this?" Blays said. "The fourth time you've asked? Or the tenth?"

  "It's easy to make a promise when you're miles and days away from fulfilling it. But Collen's right there. So, for the fourth or tenth time: are you sure?"

  "Do I want to halfway drown myself sneaking into a city controlled by a man whose idea of a good time is a hanging where the noose isn't long enough to break the prisoners' necks? Not really. But Cord isn't exactly the inconspicuous type, is she? If we're going to learn what's going on in there, we're going to need someone who can get around without being seen."