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  The boy listened.

  The boy spoke.

  The Bloodletter squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to think of anything other than the words coming out of the boy’s mouth. This was the Vile Tongue, a profane language of blasphemy and curses, of hatred and terror.

  Tears rolled down Errol’s face as he repeated what the sword told him.

  He went on and on, and—listening, though he tried not to—the Bloodletter thought he might go mad. He wanted the boy to stop speaking. He wanted the sword to cease its ghastly whispering. He thought if it did not stop soon he might use the blade to hack the boy’s head from his shoulders, though he wondered if even that might bring silence.

  And then—just like that—the boy closed his mouth and lowered his head.

  “Amen,” Errol said.

  All was quiet again, but only for a moment.

  The dead god upon the throne drew a ragged and rattling breath. Its bones creaked as it shifted his enormous bulk. It slowly, painfully, gripped the arms of the chair and pushed itself to its feet. Dust fell from its body, hissing against the stone floor like rain.

  The dead god did not acknowledge the Bloodletter or Errol as it stepped past. Its gait was unsure and unsteady as it lumbered toward the light at the end of the hall.

  Errol moved to follow, but the Bloodletter held him back.

  “You’ve done enough, boy. Neither one of us wants to see what comes next.”

  The dead god staggered through the open door to the temple. A great cry of wonder and adulation rose from the gathering of worshippers outside.

  Soon enough, those cries turned to screams.

  The Bloodletter watched Errol. The boy’s eyes were wide with wonder as he listened to the shrieks coming from outside.

  When he grew sick of the screams, the Bloodletter busied himself gathering coins from around the base of the throne. After all, the dead god had little interest in them.

  Once the screaming stopped, the Bloodletter and the boy walked slowly to the door and exited the cathedral.

  The dead god was gone, but he had left a trail of mutilated bodies in his wake. They had been torn apart, crushed underfoot, tossed around and broken. Every person in the procession lay dead, an awful pilgrimage of corpses stretching as far as the eye could see.

  The Whispering Blade rasped in delight as the Bloodletter sheathed it once more.

  Errol stared out across the bodies.

  “We did this,” the Bloodletter said.

  “We did this,” Errol repeated.

  “And, no doubt, we’ll do it again.”

  He took the boy’s hand—gently—and together they walked along the trail of dead bodies. The Bloodletter could not help but notice that some of the men and women had died with expressions of happiness and love upon their faces. Soon, he turned away from the corpses and walked south, unsure of his destination other than—

  Somewhere else.

  “Sing us a song,” the Bloodletter said to the boy.

  To his surprise, the boy did.

  THE SECOND SIEGE OF TELEA

  Anna Smith Spark

  This story is set in the world of Irlast, but can be read without prior knowledge of the Empires of Dust series, of which it is a brief and peripheral part.

  SO THIS IS me. Tobias. And here we are. Roaring fire, mugs of beer, complimentary bar snacks. Pork scratchings—love ’em. And you want me to tell you a story about myself.

  Why?

  I’m a squad commander in, clears throat, The Free Company of the Sword. I tramp around much more rarely than you’d think killing people. Mostly I really don’t kill people. It’s not as dangerous as people think, being a sellsword. Honestly. Walk around. Cook meals. Yell at people. Hold a sword in a vaguely threatening way. Most exciting job of the last week was giving my kit a full clean and polish. Most exciting event of the last month was a woman selling meat pies at a knock-off.

  You’re assuming I’m going to say something to the effect that the meat pies turned out to be rank, aren’t you? Second most exciting event of the month was us all needing the urgent shits?

  Second most exciting event of the month was the meat pies being fine and healthsome. Which does go to show exactly how dull the last month was, I’ll give you that.

  No, you just thought I meant something else by ‘meat pies’? Gods, you’re filthy-minded, you are. Now shut up.

  Okay, right. Anyway. Tries to get that thought out of his mind. Nice fat juicy meat pie, hot and dripping… gods, thanks, that’s put me off them for life.

  Anyway. Right. Ahem. A story. For some unknown reason. About me, Tobias, being a squad commander in a company of sellswords. Not an exciting life, most of the time. Walking, drilling blokes into some attempt to at least pretend to do what I tell them, bollocking them, bollocking them again. Sleeping out in the open, which is miserable, or in a stinking tent with a bloke who’s not washed for a week and had beans for supper and likes to relieve the pressure we all sometimes feel at night while lying two feet from my head. The free life of the glorious killer! I’m not even thirty and my knees bloody crack like my grandma’s, and my fingers ache all the time and I get a pain something chronic in my right shoulder when the wind blows from the east.

  “Lighten up?” Fuck off. Life’s pain etc.

  But I can give you a story. Oh yes.

  You ready? Got a beer? Pork scratchings? Sick bowl?

  Then I’ll begin.

  THE SECOND SIEGE of Telae. Heard that tale yet?

  No?

  What do you mean, “No”?

  And there was me thinking what we did there was something famous.

  I’m joking. Like I was about the meat pies. Don’t sweat yourself. It’s not like I’m a hard bastard sellsword with a fuck-off big sword I killed a bloke to get hold of, is it? You don’t need to look so nervous around me.

  Bloody nice sword too. Got a real ruby in the hilt and all.

  Yes, it’s a real friggin’ ruby. Oh ye of little faith. I’m not stupid. Checked with the bloke before I finished him.

  Anyway. The Second Siege of Telea. Here we go:

  Telea, rich in men and horses! Telea, whose walls are made of gold! An oasis of civilization on the wild border between Immish and Cen Andae. Sits on a bend of the fast-flowing river Enias, that runs down from the Mountains of the Heart to the Bitter Sea bringing timber and furs and iron and precious gems. Sits on a bridge over the fast-flowing river Enias, that carries the trade road from the old wealth of Ith and Immier down to the new wealth of Immish and the ancient wealth of the Asekemlene Empire of the Eternal Golden City of Sorlost. You might, if you’re feeling particularly acute today, notice a few hints there to the idea of “rich.” “Very rich.” “Stinking rich.” “Unbelievably chuffin’ rich.” Thus much fought over by Immish and Cen Andae and almost anyone.

  During the Salavene Wars, the Queen of Telea fought in single combat with the Godking and almost defeated Him: “You are invincible!” He cried to her, and granted her that her city would be left untouched by the demons of war. And to this day, the walls of the city are impregnable, cannot be damaged by iron or bronze or wood or stone.

  During the conquests of Amrath, the Teleans decided to fuck it, who needs impregnable walls, marched out at meet the Army of Amrath in battle. Didn’t do too well. Swore never to march out again. Might even be some good in having impregnable walls.

  During the Seven Years War between Immish and Chathe, the Teleans allied themselves with Chathe and the White Isles. Didn’t march out. Sat tight. The Immish besieged them and tried to starve them out. Nearly succeeded, the walls not being impregnable to hunger and disease and boredom. Until the White Isles sent a general to aid them, Prince Tiovyn Altrersyr, the second son of Fylinn Dragonlord, who was smuggled into the city disguised as a beggar in rags. Tiovyn ordered the Teleans to demonstrate their resolve by throwing their children headfirst from the city walls. “Look!” he shouted to the Immish. “We have plenty of fresh meat!” Tiovyn changed
sides a week later, opened the gates to the Immish army. Charged his fee twice as a part of the city’s sack. Once to the Teleans, once to the Immish.

  Telea! City of horses! May the stories told of her never cease! Pig-ugly city, actually. Her walls aren’t made of gold at all, just grey stone covered in yellow paint. They can still show you the house where Tiovyn stayed, though. And the bloodstains on the rocks where the children hit the ground.

  Ruled over by a prince of the House of Selba, who could trace his ancestry back at least ten years. Knew the name of both his parents, and even one of his grandparents too. But, gods, his people loved him. Merciful to the poor, firm to the powerful, fair to the innocent. Firm but fair to the very large army he was building up.

  That’s the background, that you probably already knew. Who hasn’t heard the name of the city of Telea?

  Oh, shut up.

  THE COMPANY WAS sitting around on its collective scrawny arse in the shit-hole that’s the town of Reneneth. I won’t waste time describing Reneneth to you, seeing as it’s one of the top five most depressing places I’ve ever been to. Falling down buildings, piles of rubbish in the streets, the houses are made of white stone going green with mold. The air in the place stinks. The people in the place stink. Poor and grumpy, the people of Reneneth. Getting poorer and grumpier as every day goes on. Living in the rubble of your great-great-great-great grandparents’ boundless riches maybe does that to people. Turns you to drink and letting your dogs crap in the middle of the street. Not a place I’d choose to visit, or ever intend to go back to. But our last job had been as caravan guards down in Maun; Reneneth, being a depressing shit-hole, was a cheap convenient place to sit around and wait for the next job to turn up.

  “Good news, Tobias,” Skie said to me one morning. “We’ve got the next job.”

  “About time. Thank all gods and demons.”

  Skie gave me a cold look.

  Skie. Our commander-in-chief, leader of the Free Company. And you should be nervous around him, oh yeah. See his left hand, do you? That area of empty space where his left hand used to be?

  You should see what the other guy looked like.

  Skie said, “Telea, rich in gold and horses. Telea, whose walls are—” what I just said, only in a grey dull monotone voice. He got out the company’s map, pointed. Greasy-looking, the bit of the map showing Telea and Cen Andae and Immish. Generations of commanders-in-chief of, clears throat, The Free Company of the Sword had poked and prodded and stared and traced route marches and sneezed bits of bacon on that bit of the map. Shame, cause it’s a nice map, nicely drawn, with little decorative pictures that are a smart touch. I’m told it once had gold leaf on the edges, before some previous commander-in-chief of the Free Company picked the gold leaf very carefully off. Skie said, “Telea is proud of its independence. Fifty years, its independence goes back. Imagine. Chucked out the Immish while the Immish were preoccupied hammering Cen Andae. Fifty years later, the Immish want control of Telea back.”

  As I just said, greasy-looking, that bit of the map. Like the blood’s soaked in to it, I’d say, if I was a superstitious man.

  Skie said, “Telea fell to the Immish three weeks ago, following a short, sharp siege and a very large bag of gold.”

  Pretty standard.

  Skie said, “The Teleans butchered the Immish troops in the city two weeks ago. The siege has resumed. The Teleans are proving rather more resistant this time around.”

  Pretty standard again.

  Skie moved his finger up to the city of Raen to the north. “Cen Andae is sending troops to relieve Telea. We’ve been hired to go into Telea in advance. Confirm it. Prepare them.”

  Sneak into a city during a siege. Joy overflowing filled my heart. Although, actually, this kind of thing is what the Company does best. And pays bloody well, which is the main thing. And a good chance of killing, as well as of getting killed.

  “I’ll get the lads ready, then,” I told Skie.

  As I said, being a sellsword is mostly not an exciting life.

  WE MARCHED OUT at dawn the next morning, noble men with hard faces and harder weapons, slaughter and glory and lust for coin singing in our hard hard hearts. The whole Free Company of the Sword, an old and illustrious company. Bright our swords and bright our legend, we did not fear to march out. Let the earth shake! Let women tremble! Let men cower before us in the dust! All ten of us. Boom boom.

  We’re a bigger company now, yeah. Very astute of you to notice that. Been on a recruitment drive.

  Not that that makes me think of it or anything, but you want another beer at all? Sure?

  Marched north with a brisk wind in our faces. Grey desert harsh with dust. Grey rock that rang with our footsteps. Only the shriek of carrion birds overhead to accompany us. Their shadows fell on the dust before us. Ill-omened, that. The desert opened into grassland, silvery, dry, coarse grass that cut at your legs. Fewer crows. More insects. Wild horses, sometimes, at a distance, running, the ones the Teleans caught and broke to make themselves rich. Clear skies every night. Bright stars. The red star of the Dragon’s Mouth. Skie made us go as fast as possible. Jog along, all ten of us. Get the blood going, stretch the limbs out, wear off the rot of Reneneth, all the rank wine and rank meat and rank pastries a man could eat. Hurry up there, lads. Get going. No sloggers on the job. It’s kind of urgent.

  “What happens if the city falls before we get there?” Alxine asked me. Sitting by the fire one evening, we had maybe six days to go still till we got there. There were Immish soldiers now occasionally, moving around on the roads. Five of us, me, Alxine, Piyrce, Mela, Jag the slowcoach, and another five under the command of Skie somewhere else nearby in the darkness. Half a night’s walk off, maybe. Meet up with them again in the city, on the chance both lots of us made it in. I remember really clearly that night turning, looking away into the dark, thinking about them somewhere out there, the rest of the Company, might be alive, might have been captured and killed by the Immish, might have been eaten by a bloody wolf. Might never know what the fuck happened to them. Never stops being a strange thing, thinking about that, not knowing if your comrades are alive or dead. Strange generally, this time before something happens. Like you’re not really alive right then. Run forward a few days and you could be dead. They’re dead, your comrades, far as you know. I’m dead. Skie’s dead. Alxine’s dead.

  Morbid fuck, ain’t I? Sorry. Honest, it’s not so bad really, just me being a grouch. Too cynical for me own good. Ignore me.

  Sure you don’t want another beer there?

  “What happens if the city falls before we get there?” asked Alxine.

  “If the city’s already fallen, there’s still an army on the march from Cen Andae.”

  You’ve met Alxine, haven’t you? My second-in-command, really, now. Back then he was the new boy, green, wet behind the ears, those kind of things.

  “The city hasn’t fallen, anyway.” That was Piyrce. Been with us five years. Knew what’s what.

  You haven’t met Piyrce, no.

  Alxine said, “How do you know that?”

  “Wind’s blowing from the north. Take a sniff.”

  Alxine took a sniff. Looked puzzled. Gods, it’s funny, thinking of Alxine all wet and green like that back then.

  “What can you smell, then?”

  “Dunno. Woodsmoke. Us lot. Dinner cooking. Someone farted.”

  Piyrce said, “That’s life you can smell, Alxine. You can’t yet smell death.”

  COULD SMELL THE siege, the next evening. Ten thousand men, the Immish had, ringed all round Telea. Came on a burned village that must have done something stupid like ask the Immish for payment when they gutted it. Bodies in the village, stretched out, painful-looking. Two of them had bound hands. One of them was wearing armor. The Immish went in, took prisoners, then something happened and they ended up killing everyone.

  “Check for anything left.” Wouldn’t be, place would have been gutted, but a smashed-up abandoned village is alw
ays worth a quick look. Might be few sausages or a keg left lying around. Call it the eternal optimism of the sellsword in the face of despair: they died for no reason, slaughterhouse, this place is, these poor blokes, some fucker killed a fucking baby here, and these two could have been me and my mum—but I’ve got a string of sausages out of it.

  Stripped. Nothing. Professional soldiers done a damn fine professional job.

  “Tobias!” Alxine calling. I strolled over. An old woman, lying on her back hunched up, soaked in blood. Clothes torn to ribbons. Face black and blue. Wrists black and blue.

  Rasping breath. Very loud. It sounded like the wind in bare trees. Sounded like a spinning wheel turning. Click click click. Made me itch.

  I looked at her and I looked at Alxine.

  Alxine got his water bottle out. Tipped a bit of water over her mouth. She licked her lips. Her tongue was black and it left bloody slime round her lips.

  He did it. Well and smooth, no flailing around, one stroke of the knife.

  “You didn’t need to call me over and show me, lad.”

  He looked proud, you know?

  WENT ON FOR a few more days. Tramp tramp jog jog. Keep going. Got a deadline here. March, you fuckers. March. Quick! And then one afternoon we reached the top on a ridge, in a thicket of trees, and Telea was there on the other side before us, ringed round with ten thousand Immish soldiers in leather and bronze and boars’ tusk helmets, strong and healthy on looted food.

  “Told you it hadn’t fallen,” said Piyrce.

  “Just about, it hasn’t,” said Mela. “Clinging on by its fingernails.” The Immish had brought five siege engines up. Trying out the old story, to see if the magic had worn off them painted walls as much as the paint had. Gold walls? Don’t make me laugh. Chipped paint. Plus, whatever magic there might be round those walls, no one ever said the houses inside them couldn’t be ground down to powder if you hit them enough. That old Queen of Telea, she nearly defeated the Godking.

 

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