The Sah'niir

by Kim Wedlock

  "My contacts aren't chatterboxes."

  "They might be, for the right price."

  His frown evaporated. "We pay them..."

  "But just where would we do this?" Anthis looked towards Rathen. "You must have had somewhere in mind?"

  "Nowhere in particular - but we...want him to attack us," it almost physically hurt to say it, "so there are lots of places that won't work. It will need to be empty of people, and open, but not so open that we don't have cover, and he might not come out if there's none for him, either. And if it's in the wild, he could potentially get the jump on us, and so could we on him... The only advantage we can have in this is that we'll know he'll be there..."

  "A ruin." Aria looked up with a pensive knot between her eyebrows. "Somewhere open like a village but empty of people, and where we can still jump on him from the trees."

  They each looked at one another, then towards Anthis, who blinked at the little girl in surprise. "I suppose I'll get to work on finding us a spot, then."

  "It's perfect. It will look like we're going there to repair it - he'll think we're distracted and that his luck is in..." Garon nodded, thoughts racing through his eyes. "We'll need a solid plan first, and the sooner the better. Then we can find ourselves a tail - and once we do," the gaze he cast back across them all was steel, "we don't speak of this again. In the mean time, if we're heading for a ruin, we may be able to call upon some of our allies."

  Rathen frowned. "You said that before - who exactly do you have in mind?"

  Aria gasped, and beamed at them all in knowing. Garon smiled with satisfaction. She turned her father a devious look.

  Chapter 53

  A fool. He'd been taken for a fool. He'd been taken for a fool from the very beginning. He should have seen it. Why hadn't he seen it?! They knew the Arana would get to their intel at some point, they'd recognised their skill, they knew it was inevitable, but rather than try to hide it, they let him find it, and laced it with one single, subtle thread that enticed him into a wild goose chase!

  It was exactly what he would have done. And it had yielded precisely the results he would have sought in their position: now, Salus was second-guessing everything.

  There was only one certainty that had come from obsessively turning everything upside down and inside out: Kora couldn't have been a distraction. The thread towards the wretched lockbox was planted deliberately to lure him away from it. He knew better than most that a lie is always more credible when delivered among truths.

  No, they were putting too much into Kora, too much subtlety. It was far too calculated. The presence of the city's archives was not known to the public; Doana had gone through a lot of trouble to discover that what they needed in order to secure ownership of the throne was kept in that city. And all the while, their army had held Turunda's eye and kept its forces contained, weakening their fighting power.

  The impasse had unsettled the country, drawing soldiers away from smaller outposts and reserves in anticipation of a great strike, for the longer Doana bided their time, the more devastating it was sure to be. Which meant more and more eyes were fixed on the two armies, leaving smaller forces - individuals - free to move unnoticed.

  And move they did. But not onto Kora alone. Some had begun spreading out, heading into insignificant areas for no good reason at all. One had been followed into the Sotwolds and watched while they set traps for jackalopes, another into Hoarwood and observed while they practised bird songs, and another into Green Hills where they climbed up into a tree and simply sat, staring at the frost on the leaves for an hour before moving on to another. There was no mistaking the intent behind the activity: Doana were mocking him.

  His fingers tightened, hands in his hair, and his grotesque scowl set deeper. He couldn't afford to capture any of them for intel or to make an example of, no matter how much he itched, and neither could he afford to dismiss them as a distraction. He needed to keep an eye on them. But despite the open movements of individuals, Doana as a whole was another matter. Because the moment Moore had finally decided to make a move on them, they'd already vanished.

  Salus hadn't seen it. No one had. And he knew why: the spells he'd planted overlooking Doana's camps had been deceived. There was an image playing in front of them. Somehow, they'd been detected and overridden, and now the curs could be anywhere - they'd sneaked their armies in once, after all. Perhaps now they were moving closer to Kora - perhaps they'd almost found what they sought. Or they were getting desperate and pulling their forces in to take the city by force and scour it from the floorboards to the rafters. And all because he had presumed his spells were enough. Because he had underestimated Doana's mages. Because he had been a fool.

  He released his grip from his hair and dropped his fist heavily, clipping the edge of the table beside him. The teacup rattled in its saucer, drawing him at last back to the office and the sofa upon which he'd dejectedly cast himself, and squinted against the suddenly blinding light. The cold sun's reflection from the fresh snowfall bounced in through the windows, ricocheting through the room from one shining surface to the next. It was broken with an adjustment to the milk jug.

  With a lengthy sigh, he looked purposefully towards Teagan, sitting across the room at the desk, his face a mask of concentration, surrounded by small, neat stacks of reports. "Moore needs to know about Kora."

  The portian looked up from the parchments without a trace of surprise.

  "Doana can't hide for long; we have people looking, and so does he. The moment they're rediscovered, he needs to engage them - with radical tactics if need be. Stun them and stall them, then redirect them - push them away from Kora, straight north, and fence them in against the mountains. Push the armies away so that only the individuals are left, and we will deal with them directly. No more sneaking about - we'll obtain White Hammer uniforms if we must, and apprehend them in public."

  "It will cause a disruption."

  "War is disruptive."

  Teagan bowed his head in accedence. "But what of Moore's efforts against--"

  "Kalokh is already being dealt with." He sat up, rubbing the kink out of his neck. "They delivered a swift blow, but their numbers were too small - that was the only reason they were able to hurt us at all - and now they're being crushed for it. Their motive remains a mystery, but we'll acquire a prisoner or two to find out and prevent it from happening again. Kalokh is no longer an issue. We have the means to strike Doana - we just need to find them..." His scowl hadn't diminished, and it drilled now into the floor in pensive thought. When two second knuckles rapped furiously against the door moments later, his suffering fell even deeper. With the quickest twist of his fingers, the lock clicked into place.

  "Salus!" The imperious voice yelled indignantly outside. "Salus, I need a word!"

  "I can think of two," he mumbled to himself, then lay back in his seat and threw an arm over his face while Malson continued to rage. Salus grunted when he finally gave up minutes later, abandoning the assault on the door and storming away in a huff. "He's quick to point the finger. The military's scouts didn't notice anything, either." He rose and moved towards the window, watching for the liaison's departure. "It's rather suspicious, really. We still have nothing on the old fool?"

  "No. The tail lost him in the city."

  "Mm. Which means he moved deliberately. He knows we're following him. And that means he is hiding something... What of the palace?"

  "Nothing untoward on the council or the king."

  "Which means we need to dig deeper. Something is going on. They keep rejecting my requests for meetings, they're consistently dissatisfied, they expect us to deliver results immediately even when they order us in the opposite direction - it's reaching the point that I wonder if they want us to fail. They're keeping the Arana at arm's length but they still expect us to do their bidding. We're not dogs..." A growl rumbled in his throat as he watched the pompous old man stride down the long garden path and climb into his carriage. He whipped with disdain fro
m the window. "And the mages are moving with purpose now..."

  "There's no unusual activity in the Order, either."

  "That means nothing. We missed Doana's movements..." If Doana had tampered with the spells, the Order could have done the same...and what could he do about it if they had? The whole situation was getting away from him. He needed to regain control.

  Salus laughed derisively while Teagan read aloud a new report. Here was a matter he'd never thought could have become a problem. "Torching and flooding may not be enough. It looks like it's time to pull out all the stops."

  "What does that mean?"

  Salus smiled grimly and looked towards the portian. He didn't notice the faint shadow of unease in his favoured's eyes. "Most of them live in the woods. I can steer the chasms through and demolish homes. They'll be flushed out, their traps destroyed, and we can kill them directly. Non-humans will be eradicated in one fell swoop."

  "And what if you lose control again?"

  A perilous darkness flickered through Salus's eyes, and his cruel smile twisted into another terrible grimace. "I won't."

  "You may. What will be lost then?"

  "Nothing." His tone was dangerous. "I will not lose control of it. Not again."

  "How can you be sure? You didn't intend to the first time. The mistake could happen again just as easily. There's no telling the repercussions from the freez--"

  "Enough, Teagan."

  The portian fell silent. But the strange compulsion that fluttered in his chest wouldn't be ignored. Despite his efforts to prevent it, Teagan heard himself speak. "What will you do once you've cracked all the borders? You've been pushing the chasms, but how will you ever break the underbelly? Arasiin does not float, we've learned this - what chaos could you reap if--"

  "I will not lose control!"

  The compulsion was snuffed out like a candle. Flooded and drowned by the instinctive terror that arrived long before he could process the sight of the gaunt and skeletal cheeks, white skin and jet-black eyes. He swallowed hard and felt himself begin to sweat as those coals glowered through to his soul, and averted his eyes at last to the wall as those long, sharp teeth bared in a monstrous snarl.

  "Where," Salus's voice, tainted by some awful rasp, came through those teeth, "is your faith?" He turned fully towards him. "Nothing else to say? You've been increasingly doubtful over these past weeks, Teagan. Why is that?"

  "No--"

  "Oh, yes, you have. It's concerning."

  "I'm merely--"

  "Trying to provide an alternative point of view?" He stepped towards him. His tone remained frightfully soft, and the dreadful visage didn't waver. "Don't you think I've considered it all? That I weigh everything before making a decision? I don't act lightly. I have never acted lightly. You know this better than anyone - frankly, it disappoints me that I should have to spell this out to you, of all people. And this isn't the first time either, is it?"

  Teagan remained as still as stone.

  Salus grunted and stepped past him. He looked down at the desk, as calm as an impending storm, and studied the reports laid open. He didn't notice Teagan flinch when he finally spoke. "The phidipans are failing. Handle it."

  "They're failing because they have too many orders--"

  "Then prioritise them. Re-issue, re-assign, filter out the unreliable and stick them somewhere they will be useful. You were handling this, Teagan. Don't let this fall apart. Or the Arana will fall with it."

  Salus turned away from the desk, and Teagan listened acutely as his footsteps moved much too quickly through the room. There came the small click of the door latch, the soft, brief whine of the hinge, and then the decisive slam that set cupboard doors rattling.

  His breath shuddered in relief and his heartbeat slowly returned to normal.

  It was some time before he dared to approach the desk.

  The bustle of the trade district hadn't suffered despite the gnawing cold. Not even by the flurry of fresh snowfall that dampened the creeping evening, still much too light for the winter skin. Bundled in wool hastily retrieved from lofts and cellars, people moved through the streets with as much or as little purpose as usual, some seeking to complete their errands as quickly as possible to return home to a warm hearth, others instead ambling towards the warmth of tavern fire or tankard.

  But despite the flow of ale, the bartering of goods and the roll of day-to-day routine, panic had gripped the people.

  Beneath that biting wind, there were stifled whispers of the coming of the sulyax, the arrival of the end of times. Craitic prophecy held that the end of the world would come just as it had for the elves, preceded by the same inescapable snow and ice. Under that evening snowfall, Zikhon's name was on everyone's lips.

  Many buried their heads in the sand, stocking up on supplies wherever they could in the hope of hiding from it, but there were some who were doubtful over the intended victims. The Temple itself had declared that only the unfaithful would suffer, and many believed that it would not be man that fell, but mage. Sceptics, on the other hand, were adamant that the snow was the Order's doing entirely, an alternative brand of terrorism with nothing divine about it.

  The only agreement: it was not natural.

  Elias Malson pulled his cloak tighter about himself and his hood lower over his face. He wasn't sure whom to believe, but unlike the other nobles, who scoffed at the peasantry and allowed themselves to become charmed by the glittering powder, his mind was nailed to the dangers that would follow, whatever the source. Crops and livestock were not prepared for this disaster, and there were no stores of food, no surplus to see them through. All there had been, the brimming war had occupied, and a number of desperate measures had been taken to prevent Doana from using any of Turunda's bounty themselves.

  He passed by a general store as the tall and lanky owner hung a sign on the door outside. 'No wood til Tuesday'. It was Friday. Loggers and merchants were surely making fine business, but, as with meat, grain and vegetables, the demand was too high to keep up with and there were no premeditated stores of wood, either. That was built up when demand was low over spring and summer to meet the winter market. Now, there would be far too little to go around.

  The war had already promised an onerous winter, but now, with summer frozen, the hardships were set to cut deeper and sooner with every dazzling snowfall. People would die. Children, sick, elderly, vagabonds; they would freeze, or they would starve. And there was nothing at all that could be done for it.

  The old man sank deeper into his grim, pensive thoughts, but still he noticed as he walked the shadow that had been trailing him for so long.

  He watched it for a while from the corner of his eye. It was a distance away, but always present, and if he lost sight of her, she always reappeared a short while later, moving down a parallel street, sometimes even waiting ahead of him and appearing to peruse wares. But whenever he saw her, she was always at the same distance. She never lost sight of him.

  He turned away and ignored it, as he always did, and focused instead on his surroundings. Just ahead stood a bakery, watched sharply by pockets of desperate shoppers, while a cart unloaded sacks of grain and partially blocked a narrow path between the adjacent buildings. Another group of people were approaching in a hurry from his left to join the impatient customers, and the wet clop of hooves over slushed ice announced the arrival of another cart, heavily laden, moving along the road from the right.

  He slowed down, picking his steps carefully as though navigating a patch of ice. He was aware of his shadow's distance, and that she hadn't slowed. Of course not. It would have been too obvious that she was following him. If he stopped she would probably keep walking on ahead and duck out of sight to wait for him to pass, then slip back out a suitable ways behind him.

  He sped up after a few moments and made towards the narrow, cart-blocked path, apologising as he bumped into one of the wagoners busy pulling the final few sacks from the cart. He heard the soft, wet thuds of two sacks hitting the g
round behind him, but he didn't stop to look back as the man groaned and scrambled to collect them before they could soak. Then came the desperate scrape of hooves over iced cobbles, a neigh of alarm, an abrupt 'woah!' and the splintering of wood. As cries of anger rose, the way had closed behind him.

  He allowed himself only the briefest smug glance before vanishing around a corner.

  His pace increased as he stepped out into the wider street behind another group of people, and walked in their tracks for a while before breaking off down another lane. After a few further twists and turns he returned to the broad, busy streets, and the familiar old tavern, its windows well-lit and laughter spilling from two open panes, soon loomed ahead.

  As always, Lord Malson slipped into The Cockatrice unnoticed.

  Weaving his way through the patrons warming by the fire, he ascended to the second floor, making towards a particular table among those overlooking the tavern below. It was occupied by a lone, miserable man staring dismally into the depths of his mug. He didn't look up as Malson neared, nor as he stopped, pulled aside the curtain just behind the man's seat and slipped into the room beyond.

  "Marie may not be joining us," he announced as way of greeting, throwing back his hood and stopping beside the candelabra on the table, warming his hands rather futilely over its candles. The six gathered men and women didn't stir.

  "It's a stroke of luck that she should be the one charged with following you," the dark-haired fellow beside the window remarked, staring relentlessly through the smudged, veined glass to the street below. "Though she'll be under scrutiny for failing the order a second time."

  "With everyone wrapped up in hats and cloaks, and tracks crossing in the snow, it will be more reasonable."

  But the man shook his head, his eyes still fixed to the people outside. "Salus is not in a reasonable mood. How did you lose her?"

  They nodded in approval as he explained.

  "You're getting better," David told him, "but you caused a scene. She saw the direction you'd taken, she could have caught up. And as Bheid said, Salus is not in a reasonable mood."