by William King
The tower was an immense structure, tall and thin, jutting a thousand feet into the air, tapering to a needle-sharp point at the tip. It glittered in the summer sun, reflecting the light greenly, for it appeared to have been carved entirely out of one titanic emerald. The sides were sleek and shiny. Here and there he could see small balconies and windows. Strange runes had been inscribed on its sides; they were of a lighter green and seemed to glow with inner light. Towards the tip were panels of the stuff, like vast stained glass windows.
The Tower was taller than any Terrarch structure he had ever seen, and gave off an aura of immeasurable age and strength. He knew those walls could resist dragonfire and sorcery; they could not be chipped with blades of truesilver. Seeing it for the first time he was brought face to face with the concept that there once had been mightier powers in this world than ever his own people had been. The sorcery that had created the Serpent Tower had been of an order greater than any his folk ever had access to, on this sorry world at least.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” said Asea.
“Aye, Lady. Lovely.”
“Strong beyond measure too.”
“Any fortress can be taken, Lady.”
“So Lord Azaar says but no one has taken the Tower since Ilmarec made it his own five centuries ago.”
“Who had it before him?”
“No one. It was shunned for centuries. They claimed a mad sorcerer lived there once, performing awful rituals. He was old before the Terrarch conquest. He ruled one of the old petty human kingdoms. His name was Lharquon.”
“What happened to him?”
“They say he was carried off by demons. It might well be true. Such creatures are always difficult to control.”
She should know, Sardec thought, for she had summoned a few in her time. It was strange to think of this serenely beautiful woman consorting with horrors from the Pit. At least by the light of day it was. He knew he would have no trouble believing it if he encountered her by night.
Sardec found his gaze glued to the tip of the Tower of Serpents. It glittered even more than the rest of the tower as if some great jewel caught the sun there. At any moment, he expected the green light his father had described to lick out and destroy them, but nothing happened. He raised his spyglass to his eye and studied the structure. There were people on the balconies, tiny at that distance, and robed. He wondered if one of them was Ilmarec.
The Foragers began the long descent of the ridge, following the road that led to the town. All around them were fields. Off to the east was an area of the ruins that looked burned and scorched. Large stones lay all around. Asea pointed to them. “Once there were huge Elder World buildings there. Now all that remains are those shattered fragments.”
“The green light?” Sardec asked.
“I am guessing so.”
As they entered the sprawl of houses, Rik felt as if he were coming home. He was a city boy at heart, and he never felt completely at ease in the countryside. Now with the tall crooked buildings rising around him, he felt more relaxed. There would be dangers here, but they were of a type he was prepared to deal with. The houses were not quite like the ones he knew. There was more stone than brick here, and the roof slates were a deeper, more brownish-red. But there were more similarities than differences. The buildings were still packed close together, and leaned towards each other like drunken men supporting each other after a big night out.
“A tavern,” said the Barbarian, pointing to a wooden sign swinging in the breeze above an open doorway. It showed a plump farmer dancing with a tankard in his hand and a serpent in the other. A crowd had gathered in the doorway to watch the soldiers riding by. As Rik watched, Sardec sent Corporal Toby to ask for directions. He knew from what Asea had told him last night they were heading for a mansion owned by a merchant. He had some business connection with her factors and her house. Toby returned and spoke to the Lieutenant. They headed on through the winding roads until they came to a bridge.
As toll money changed hands with the bridge-keeper, Rik studied their surroundings. Morven looked a prosperous place. It had three large Temples. Two had the plain spires of the New Faith, one was topped by a bronze angel. That would be where the followers of the Old Way worshipped.
He noticed that some of the new soldiers, the ones from Redtower, were pointing out the Old Way Temple. They imagined it the house of heretics and heathens, just as those who used it would imagine them to be. Like everything else, the faith had split in the great wars of the Schism. The New Faith was followed in the predominantly Scarlet nations like Talorea. The Old Way, which had never accepted the legitimacy of the Martyred Prophet, was followed by those aligned with the Dark Empire. The New Faith was said to be more open to humans, and more true to the spirit of the teachings of the Prophets, but if that was the case, he shuddered to think how repressive the Old Way was.
“You look as thoughtful as a fat man being offered a choice of pastries, Halfbreed,” said Weasel. “What are you thinking about?”
He lied from force of habit. “I am thinking at least we were not struck down by Elder World magic.”
“That’s what I like about you, Halfbreed. You always look on the bright side.”
“There’s no need to be so bloody sarcastic.”
Weasel merely smiled his annoying smile. “The Quartermaster gave us a special job. We’re to get in touch with the right people.” He made the peculiar wriggling motion of his fingers that let Rik know he was talking about the local underworld.
“Business as usual,” Rik said.
“If you’re not too busy with your new ladylove,” said Weasel
“Lucky bastard,” said the Barbarian. Rik said nothing to disabuse them of the notion that he was Asea’s fancy boy. It was a lot better than telling them the truth.
Why was it, he thought, that he always seemed to end up lying to his friends? He had not told them the real reason he had wanted Zarahel’s book back before Achenar. Now he could not tell them the real reason Asea was interested in him. He was destined always to walk apart even from the people who knew him best. He shrugged. What of it? He had always been set apart. His unknown father had seen to that.
They started to march again, passing over the cobbled bridge. It was a hundred strides long and lined with statues of saints and knights. As they came out from among the buildings he caught sight of the Serpent Tower again, looming above them like the spear of God. It was awesome. He had never imagined anything so large or so beautiful could exist. He saw no way any force on this earth could take it. It was just too old and too strong.
They crossed the bridge and entered another twisting, narrow cobbled street. Rik returned to his brooding. He had often wondered about his parents. He had often hated them and just as often fantasised about finding them, particularly his father. In his wildest and most unrealistic dreams he had thought about being acknowledged and taken in by some Terrarch clan. Now it seemed that even that was forbidden him. He came from bad blood. His father was a demon clad in flesh, and Asea believed some aspect of that had been passed on to him.
He wondered if it was true. The priests at the orphanage had always told him he was deep down bad, and perhaps they had been right. After he had escaped from their clutches he had done nothing but cheat and lie and steal and kill. He had done it to keep himself alive but he doubted the clergy would think that a satisfactory excuse.
Perhaps he had always been destined to turn out the way he had. Perhaps his destiny had been fixed before ever he was born, by the Terrarch who had sired him and the woman who had died. Perhaps it went deeper than that. Perhaps, as some of the preachers claimed, God had already decided who was damned and who was not. After all, if he was infinite and omniscient, surely he must have known how things were going to turn out when he created the universe. All life was part of his vast incomprehensible design.
Such thoughts made his head spin. What sort of god would create a universe in which people were damned before they fi
rst drew breath? It was the sort of logic that almost made you believe those that claimed that the Shadow had made the universe in defiance of God’s will. For himself, he was inclined to side with those who claimed that God had made the universe and then abandoned it as a botched job and left everybody to their own devices. That seemed to fit the facts better.
He shook his head. He took responsibility for his own actions. There was no sense in blaming any God, good or bad, for anything he had done. If ever he was called to account for those actions by God, he would ask him why he had created such a crazy, fucked-up universe in the first place.
“What are you frowning at, Halfbreed?” The Barbarian asked. “A man in your position should look happy. I would.”
He made an envious face, and then laughed. “I guess I will be drowning my sorrows elsewhere tonight.”
The streets had widened out into a square. In the centre was a statue of a tall Terrarch man in a military uniform. He was striking a heroic pose, sword in hand, leading an invisible army towards victory. Who was he, Rik wondered? In Sorrow he would have known the answer but this was some local hero or noble, and as such a stranger.
“Who are those bastards?” the Barbarian asked. Rik looked in the direction he indicated. A group of Terrarchs lounged against a street corner. They all wore long coats with silver buttons. They coats were coloured with a purple so deep and dark it was almost black. Their boots were high. Near them were squads of large, blond-haired men. All of them were big, with the brutal, brutalised faces of eastern peasants.
“Those, my friend, are part of the Legion of Exiles,” said Weasel.
“Khaldarus’s elite guard?” Rik asked. The Legion had an evil reputation. They were rogues and killers so bad they had been banished from the Dark Empire. Or so it was claimed. Others said they were a secret Dark Empire army in the service of Prince Khaldarus sent to infiltrate Kharadrea in a way that did not break the terms of the Treaty of Oslande. The refugees from the civil war had spoken of their cruelty and their efficiency.
“What the hell are they doing here?” asked the Barbarian.
An exceedingly tall, exceedingly thin Terrarch strode towards them. His skin was so pale he seemed almost albino. His long hair was so blond it could have been bleached. At his side hung a long sword in a black, rune-encrusted scabbard.
“Looks like we are just about to find out,” murmured Weasel.
Chapter Eleven
“Lady Asea,” said the stranger, completely ignoring Sardec. “This is a pleasure.”
Asea responded with admirable calmness. “Lord Jaderac! I had not expected to meet you here. Particularly not in that uniform.”
If the barbed allusion affected Jaderac, he gave no sign of it. He was the very model of the eastern aristocrat: superbly arrogant, totally at ease, poised and charming. Sardec hated him immediately, the more so because Jaderac possessed many qualities he wished he had himself.
“I regret there was a misunderstanding back at the Queen-Empress’s court- an insult, a duel, a death, a scandal. You know how these things go. I was forced to take leave of civilisation for a while, and seek refuge in these exceedingly dull lands. Fortunately you are here to illuminate the place with your presence and so I can now count my exile a blessing rather than a misfortune.”
“May I present to you, Prince Sardec of House Harke,” said Asea, cutting through the flow of easy flattery.
“Charmed,” said Jaderac, executing an intricate formal bow. It should have looked effete and foppish, but it was performed with such gusto and precision that it was impressive instead.
Sardec inclined his head and kept his gaze fixed on Jaderac. The easterner met his eyes briefly then turned the full force of his charm back on the Lady Asea. “You are here to speak with Lord Ilmarec?”
“You presume correctly. I represent Lord Azaar. And you?”
“King Khaldarus sent me to demand the release of his sister. I fear Lord Ilmarec holds her against her will.”
“Khaldarus’s timing is astonishing. We only just learned of Lord Ilmarec’s decision, and yet you, it seems, have somehow contrived to be here before us although you came all the way from the East.”
“I was in these parts performing other duties. I have just received a messenger from King Khaldarus. He fears for his sister’s safety.”
“It is pleasant to see such fine family feeling,” said Asea. “The Prince’s concern is touching.”
“I can assure you that the King intends that no harm come to his beloved sister. I am here to ensure to it.”
“I doubt your force, formidable as it undoubtedly is, can storm the Tower of the Serpent.”
“I am sure no one intends to try such a foolish thing.” An airy wave of Jaderac’s hand took in their surroundings. “These kennels are not the place to discuss such matters. Can I ask permission to call upon you, and we can talk at our leisure?”
“Of course,” said Asea. “I look forward to the pleasure of your company.”
“And I yours, dear Lady. I will present my card this evening then. I presume you will be staying at the mansion of the merchant Fharog, the so called House of Three Swans.”
“I see you have done your usual thorough job of preparation, my Lord.”
“I wish it were so. It’s just that I too have taken a mansion here and your host informed my host of your coming. You know how humans love to talk.”
“And not just humans, it seems,” murmured Sardec. Jaderac gave him a cold glance, then his gaze went to Sardec’s hook. He made it quite plain what he was thinking. There was no honour to be gained in duelling with a maimed opponent. Sardec scratched the back of his left hand with his hook. Lord Jaderac clearly found the sight disturbing for he transferred his gaze back to Asea.
“Till this evening then, milady,” he said, all gallantry once more. He performed another superb bow and strode back to his companions. Sardec gave the sign for the Foragers to move onwards. He was very conscious of how shabby they looked compared to the easterner's superbly kitted-out humans.
Once again Asea appeared to read his thoughts. “I am sure they look fine drilling on a parade ground,” she said. “The men behind us can fight and they have proved it time and again.”
Sardec agreed with her, but he knew that the Legion could fight just as well. Their name was known and feared throughout the Ascalean continent. “Let us hope it does not come down to a contest of arms, milady. I fear we are outnumbered.”
The House of the Three Swans was a large manor in the Old Mercantilist style. It had been built to double as a warehouse and a fortress. The walls were thick, the external windows small, high and barred, and there was access only through one large gateway which now stood open, with the fur-robed master of the house standing fur hat in hand to bow them in.
Once inside, in the broad courtyard, things were different. Here were rain barrels and a well. Two sides of the courtyard held arch-covered walkways and wide windows on the second floor. The side directly facing the entranceway was a warehouse space. It had been cleared to give the Foragers a place to sleep. Fharog himself showed Sardec and Asea to their chambers. These were wide and spacious and furnished with the heavy solid furniture human merchants seemed to favour. Elder signs carved in varnished wood covered the whitewashed walls. The rooms were clean, the beds soft. There were writing desks, and pitchers of water, and everything needed for basic comforts. Asea pronounced herself satisfied with them, and Sardec could hardly disagree. Once the merchant had bowed himself out, Sardec went to make sure the soldiers were bedded down comfortably, and had everything needed for their welfare.
He told himself that it was nothing less than he would do for a horse, but he found himself concerned for their well-being, particularly for the veterans who had followed him through the hell of Achenar, and who had held the manor house at the ford. After a few words with Sergeant Hef and Corporal Toby that assured him everything was satisfactory, he assigned sentry shifts to the men. Twenty men were to be
in the mansion at all times in case of trouble, the rest were to be allowed leave to scout out the city. They were told to keep their ears open particularly for rumours concerning Jaderac, Ilmarec and the Exiles. Duty done, he headed back into the mansion and knocked at the door of Lady Asea.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” she said. He wondered how she knew it was him. Had she set wards or did she merely recognise his footfall or knock?
Asea sat at a table, sanding a letter to fix the ink in place. Even as he watched she folded it and sealed it with her signet. “I have placed sentries to make sure of your security. If you wish to go out, please inform me. If I am not available please talk to Sergeant Hef. He will see you are provided with a suitable escort.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Won’t you sit?” He accepted gratefully. She smiled at him.
“I have been watching you, Lieutenant. You have changed since our time in the mountains.”
He tapped his hook with the fingers of his left hand. “Yes, I have.”
“That is not what I meant. I would say you have grown. I see you treat the men differently and they respond differently to you.”
He shrugged. There was no sense in denying it.
“You speak less too.”
“I am sorry if I lack the polish and wit of Lord Jaderac.”
“You are worth a dozen of him,” she said. The compliment took him off guard.
“Thank you. I thought you rather liked him.”
“He is witty and charming. He is also cold and deadly, one of those who regards killing as a sport. Duelling is something of a hobby with him. He is very good with his blade.”
“I will be sure to challenge him with pistols then.” She appeared to consider this.
“That would be wise, should things ever come to that. I doubt he practises much with them. His sort spurns all the new weapons. They are demeaning, un-aristocratic.”
There had been a time when Sardec would have whole-heartedly agreed, but at this moment, a pistol was the only weapon he could use with even a modicum of skill.
