‘Blackroot is a poison. It is known as widow’s nutmeg – it kills anyone who swallows even the smallest amount.’
With a sense of theatre, Syalin pulled out a small pouch attached to her belt under her cloak. Opening it, she pulled out a small object that resembled a piece of fresh ginger in that it was bulbous, but, like everything else about her, was completely black. With one of her knives, she shaved off a small piece, held the knife and its shaving up to her mouth, and – with Aganosticlan watching wide-eyed – slowly and deliberately licked it off with her dark tongue. The King fancied he saw her pupils dilate ever so slightly and she definitely gasped, slightly but audibly. When, after a brief time, she gave no sign of dying she held out both arms as if to say ‘I’m still here’.
‘If used correctly,’ she said, ‘blackroot needn’t be a poison. For us, it gives us our speed, strength and the ability to endure pain. It is what makes us so different to you. It also enhances the thrill of danger, heightens our senses and our libido. I have always thought that, if we were not burdened with our onerous responsibilities, we would be the most stimulating company.’
‘And you are the best of the Strekha?’
‘I am one of The Ten. We generally number between a hundred and a hundred and fifty. The Ten are personally chosen by the Emperor, so, as you say, we are the best of the Strekha. At least four of us are required to be by the Emperor’s side at any one time; others can be assigned duties away from his person, as the Emperor wills. Generally for us to assist another requires the amount of coin most men can only dream of, but in his wisdom the Emperor has changed this policy, at least for now.’
‘Fascinating,’ the King said, stroking his beard. ‘Two more questions, and then I shall stop annoying you and we can discuss your first mission.’
‘Ask. Be brief.’
‘How are The Ten selected, and how does your armour make no noise?’
‘I can answer your second question easily, Your Majesty,’ said Hem-Khozar. ‘It is made from xhikon, “dull iron” in your tongue. There are only two seams of it known to man, both located deep in the mountain range from which Syalin herself hails. It requires extreme heat to shape, but when that is achieved it can be forged into tiny, powerful links of mail that are also almost noiseless, ideal for one who wishes to strike from the shadows.’
‘It is obviously expensive then.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty, but in general the Strekha represent a colossal investment of time and resources on the Emperor’s part.’
‘What with the armour and the blackroot, you possess items that many would want to take for themselves.’
She looked at him – her disdain had returned tenfold. ‘Do you wish to try?’
‘As for your other question,’ – the ambassador had returned to his seat – ‘the Emperor chooses The Ten personally; he watches them train and fight each other with blunted weapons, fights that are still dangerous nevertheless. Our current Emperor also requires poise and intelligence in those he selects. If he chooses to replace one girl with another, the disgrace means that the one dismissed often takes her own life. Emperor Gyiliakosh has forbidden this practice; all Strekha can serve while they live.’
‘Most interesting,’ said the King. ‘Now I had better start giving you details. My court is riddled with Chiran spies and I do not want word of our discussions to get back to Hylas.’
‘Riddled, you say?’ The assassin sounded curious. ‘How is this so? Are you unable to control the loyalty of those in your presence.’
‘Coin can purchase many loyalties, my dear.’
‘But fear can concentrate those loyalties to whom they should belong. I tell you what – give me the names of those you suspect. When they start to die, their corpses prominently displayed, you will have the loyalty of your court, and no, this will not count as one of the Emperor’s missions. I will do this as a favour for a beleaguered king and ally, and to keep me in shape; I am a little rusty and could do with the practice.’
‘Very well, I shall have Obadrian draw up a list.’
‘The people you consider as spies only, though, not those your man dislikes or people who slighted his wife or who accidentally ate his dinner. When I kill, it is for a purpose, not a whim or because of some person’s idle fancy. If I am misled, it will be the writer of the list who suffers next.’
‘Of course, it will be as you wish. I am grateful for your attention in this matter.’ Despite everything, the King rather found himself warming to her. There was something about her though, in her eyes and her manner, that set him to thinking. He had seen similar things in other men before, those berserker mercenaries who drank blood before battle and who charged their enemies wielding a giant axe and no armour. The same men who would bite their arms or put glass in their mouths, so they could spit blood and terrify their foes. It was the demeanour of those who were not truly sane.
‘Tell me, Syalin, does this blackroot have any other side effects?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘None that matter anyway.’ She actually smiled at him; she seemed almost coquettish ‘Now, my dear king of the muddy fields, exactly who do you want me to kill?’
34
‘Now, lean on me, take it slowly now... Good. How does it feel?’
‘I am OK. I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, but the strapping helps. Now perhaps I can leave this confounded tent.’
Leaning on Marcus, Cheris slowly but surely made her way around the tent. A lot of sleep and the firm bandage around her torso had strengthened her and made her feel a lot more confident. She had an invite to Baron Felmere’s council in the manor house in Grest and was not going to miss it.
‘What is the weather like?’ She asked.
‘Windy ‘Marcus grunted ‘And there is rain in the air.’
‘Sounds lovely. ‘She smiled her sweet smile ‘Come on then Marcus, take me on a tour.’
With Sir Norton walking well ahead of them she ambled her way into the fresh air. As soon as she got outside she stopped to drink it in and feel the wind on her face. She shut her eyes feeling her hair being tugged by the breeze. It felt blissful.
‘Are you all right?’ Marcus looked concerned.
‘Never better. Let’s move on.’
The camp was a small tent city surrounded by a hastily constructed stockade, sitting directly under Grest Hill, right on the path leading up to the town itself. As she hobbled around she was noticed. Many of the soldiers engaged in running messages or making deliveries saw her. To a man they all either hailed or saluted her.
‘See what I mean,’ said Marcus. ‘You are quite the heroine. Do you want to get on the carriage to take you up the hill?’
‘I had better,’ she said, ‘before I get too sore.’
Sir Norton was already waiting for them on an uncovered wagon. Gingerly, she climbed up and sat next to him with Marcus sitting behind them. Once positioned, he tugged the reins and they were on their way. She felt a light smattering of rain and pulled her cloak tightly over her red robe. The wagon went over a stone, making her wince.
As they left the stockade, she had a bit of a surprise. Some two or three dozen men had collected either side of the path and as they rode past they loudly saluted her. She noticed a few ale jugs being bandied around, which obviously added to the general bonhomie. Not knowing how to react, she contented herself with smiling at both sides, a smile that quickly became a laugh as the gauntlet was run. Leaving the noise and the drunken cheering behind, they ascended the path. On the western side of the hill the trees and grass were dead and blackened, the ground scorched. Smoke was still rising from the cracked and scored earth, and the smell of burnt wood and resin was inescapable – it was a desolate scene. In a bizarre contrast, on other side of the path, the woods were untouched and were silently brooding, as if lamenting the loss of their comrades.
They approached the gates, both of which were open. The city walls themselves were not high, but sturdily built of large stones mortared together. S
mall wooden towers stood atop the walls either side of the gates, with a solitary guard in each. Both saluted them as they rode through and into the town.
Grest itself was not a big place. Small, closely packed thatched cottages pressed tightly against the narrow cobbled road they were progressing along. Being on a hill, there was no natural water supply, which came instead from wells and butts put out to collect rain. Consequently, sewage and other trash collected in trenches either side of the road. Now and then it would all be put into carts and dumped in the river, or put on to the fields, but not until it had reached an unpleasant level of putrefaction. It was Tanaren’s poor quarter all over again.
The road opened on to the square. It was a motley affair – the largest building was the only one built of stone rather than being half-timbered. It stood at the other end of the square and she guessed correctly that it was the manor house. There was a house of Artorus and a tiny house of Meriel, with a statue of the goddess standing just outside the painted red and white door. All that, however, was incidental, for just to her left were a series of spears whose butts had been forced into the earth between the cobbles. Each spear sported a severed head; their white eyes stared glassily in her direction, and sticky blood coated the spear shafts and pooled over the ground. Carved into their foreheads, probably while they were still alive, was the word ‘traitor’. In the stocks behind them were four young women, their heads shaved, all branded with the ‘W’ for whore.
And the executions had not finished. In the centre of the square was the executioner’s block, black with the blood of its victims. A burly man stood close by, brandishing a colossal axe which he was using to make practice swings. A crowd was with him, goading him on, and, in a makeshift wooden cage not twenty feet from the executioner, were three men, bound and gagged and looking suitably terrified. A man in fine but slightly worn red robes appeared to be directing proceedings. Evidently the afternoon’s entertainment was due to begin shortly.
‘As you said, Marcus – reprisals,’ Cheris said through gritted teeth.
‘It is as I feared,’ he replied. ‘I hope the Baron calls a halt to this soon.’ He appeared to be getting his wish. A group of Felmere’s soldiers moved across the square and started talking to the man in red. An argument appeared to break out between them. Were those men to be reprieved? Cheris wondered what they were thinking, imagining the hope flickering in their hearts. Alas, after a couple of minute’s discussion the soldiers returned to their posts leaving the man to his bloody business.
Cheris felt deflated. So this was what victory was like.
‘Ride on, Sir Norton,’ she said. ‘I think we have seen enough.’
The manor house’s main door was open, and guards clustered around it. Aided by Marcus, Cheris alighted from the carriage. The three of them passed the guards, who stood aside for them and went inside.
They entered a small reception room. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the light but when they did she noticed that the carpet was torn and stained with dark patches that she realised were probably blood. A small bench to her right had been smashed; splintered wood lay around and about. She guessed the Arshuman garrison had made a stand here, one that hadn’t gone well for them.
Sir Norton passed boldly through the arched doorway, and the mages followed, Cheris wishing for half of the knight’s assertiveness. They were in the main hall. She looked about her – torch brackets were hanging off the wall, fragments of pottery were scattered over the floor, a painting lay drunkenly in the corner – it looked like somebody had put his foot through the canvas. What a party! she thought drily.
Directly ahead was the long table. It had been scored with knives and even partially burned, but it was a sturdy object and stubbornly remained in its original place. It was to the men surrounding it that her attention was drawn, though. She knew some of them – the knights Dominic and Reynard were there along with another whose breastplate sported a writhing green serpent. He was a rugged red-haired man with striking green eyes and a couple of days’ growth of stubble on his chin. She saw Felmere sitting at the head of the table, right hand clasping a goblet, and next to him was Lasgaart and a craggy bald man in his sixties she believed to be Maynard. There were faces there she was unfamiliar with, though – a saturnine man scarred by smallpox, a boyish-faced blond who appeared to be fonder of the mirror than she, and a dashing dark-haired man of about thirty sporting a blue cloak emblazoned with crossed red spears. The cloak was stained with mud and grass, suggesting he had travelled a distance to get here. The other man whom she noticed among the crowd she found a little more disquieting. He was massively built, scarred and bearded, his eyes glittering with dark malice. When they entered the room all eyes turned to look at her, but it was only his gaze that she noticed.
Felmere got to his feet and raised his goblet. ‘The mages!’ It was a cry echoed by everyone there, except the big man who stared at them fixedly and with such intensity she briefly wondered if she had forgotten to put her robe on.
They were invited to sit at the bottom of the table, Cheris at the opposite end to Baron Felmere; there really was nowhere to hide here.
‘Before we start,’ Felmere said, ‘I probably need to do some introductions and make an apology. These days I am so unused to female company you would at least think that, when I actually get to meet a woman, I would get her damn name right. The lady present and the architect of our victory is called Cheris, or, as the men are calling her, the “Queen of Storms”. It is good to see you feeling better, my dear. I formally give you the honorific “Battle Mage of Tanaren” and express the gratitude of myself and my soldiers for your contribution to our cause.’
He went around the room quickly spouting out names. Ulgar with the scars. The preening Fenchard. ‘This,’ he said, indicating the man in the blue cloak, ‘is Esric Calvannen, Chief Prosecutor of the War in the South; he has left his army for a few days so information can be shared between us and we can make plans for the future. And this, for those few of us who don’t know him, is Sir Trask, whom Fenchard has appointed to lead his men and give them the experience he lacks.’ The big man gave no indication that he even knew his name had been mentioned.
‘Finally,’ said Felmere, indicating the red-haired knight, ‘we have Sir Emeric of the Knights of the Serpent. They also fight mainly in the south, but maybe the time is coming for us to concentrate our efforts.’
‘Now,’ he continued, looking around the table. ‘We have won a great victory. The scouts tell me that the enemy have withdrawn to Tantala, a small town on the Broken River. It is poorly fortified and they barely number a thousand men. These are the only substantial body of troops remaining in the north between us and Roshythe. And so we have our quandary – what do we do next? My plan at first was to rebuild the bridges here and gather the army for a major assault in the early spring, but it is so tempting, just so tempting, to try and smash them while they are demoralised and without a general. Heart and head are saying two different things, so I would like to hear your thoughts before we decide what to do. Firstly, Esric. I have heard little from the south in recent months – what are the enemy troop numbers like down there?’
Esric smiled, flashing a row of pearly-white teeth. ‘Before I start,’ he said, ‘I would like to congratulate you all on your victory. The whole balance of power has changed and perhaps the end is finally in sight for us all. As to the south’ – he paused and took a sip from his goblet – ‘well, it has always been different for us in the south. For those who know little of our situation, I will give you a brief overview of our more recent travails.
‘In the north you have the gem mines, tracts of arable land and large cities defended by walls of stone. In the south we have none of those things. The land can be fertile but is boggy and prone to flooding and our cities are smaller and defended by wooden stockades and ditches. When all my forces are summoned, I can at best put a thousand men into the field, backed by a hundred Serpent Knights. I myself am a ba
ron in exile; our family’s lands lie between the Broken River and the Helkus, an area we have not held in many years. As for our army, I took command after my father was killed in a skirmish three years ago. The enemy pressed us hard for a long time and our camp was riddled with desertions and treachery. Until recently things were as bleak as I have made them sound.
‘Then I petitioned Lukas’ – he indicated Felmere – ‘for aid. He sent me a man who found our traitors for us. One of them was even the son of a baron, in the Arshumans’ pay...’
‘You are referring to Morgan,’ said Ulgar.
‘Yes, to be honest I half expected to see him here.’
‘He is doing another job for me,’ said Felmere. ‘I do not know when he will return.’
‘A pity,’ said Esric. ‘A good man. I was half hoping he could assist me with the new troops I have levied.’
‘Not all of us,’ Trask interrupted, his voice rumbling like a cave avalanche, ‘have such a high opinion of the man of Glaivedon.’
Felmere smiled. ‘Not you – I know, Trask,’ he said. ‘I know of your past run-ins but at least’ – he looked at the man pointedly – ‘he has always fought on our side.’ Trask said nothing; he almost looked amused.
‘He has insulted me and Ulgar, too,’ bleated Fenchard. ‘Personally I would have him whipped.’
‘And I would have you whipped for having him whipped,’ Felmere replied. ‘He is not the matter here now; he is out of our sight. Carry on with your report, Esric.’
‘As I said, our problem with the traitors was resolved, so I decided on a surprise attack on the main body of their forces. I hoped, seeing as they were still expecting secret reports from our lines that they would be complacent. And I was right. We moved swiftly, and hit them at dawn. Within the hour their camp was overrun and they were fleeing. The battle continued on the banks of the Whiterush. Boats were ferrying their men across it, so we kept at their rearguard. By late afternoon it was over. For the first time in four years they had no troops west of the river. Granted, they still hold some island forts on the Axe – that is the river that runs between the Vinoyen and the Whiterush – but hopefully we have time to take them at our leisure.
The Forgotten War Page 49
