by Gav Thorpe
That he was forced to do so now was a source of deep vexation.
His course took him down flights of stairs lit by flickering oil lamps, whose steps descended beneath the precincts to caves where the ailurs were created and the flaming fuel normal men called lava was concocted. And it was in those deep caverns that the Brotherhood toiled at its other duties, which none save the king and the highest members of the Brotherhood knew.
Striding along a colonnade, Lakhyri came out into the sun. He stopped as the light and warmth hit him. Even through the mask and the robes and the hood, he could feel the summer seeping into him. He looked up with golden eyes and saw a bright blue sky, spotted with wraiths of cloud, and almost directly overhead the gleaming orb of the sun itself.
A doubt entered his thoughts as he walked down the wide flight of steps at the front of the Grand Precints. Maybe he had waited too long to make his presence felt; not just a matter of days or weeks or years, but perhaps he would have been better intervening a generation ago.
Udaan's memories guided him to a small, unadorned side door in the duskward wing of the palaces. Lakhyri could feel the Brother's presence like a tiny niggling itch at the back of his mind, for Udaan was not gone, merely placed to one side. Spirit and life were one; to remove the spirit entirely was to bring the death of the body. Essence and vitality were entwined throughout the world, from the smallest insect to the mighty eulanui. It was this secret, the knowledge of spirit and life, which the eulanui had bestowed upon Lakhyri and others like him. All life was energy, moving or trapped, active or inert, but always there, never gone.
A rap on the door brought quick attention. Two Brothers opened the small portal and bowed their shaven heads to Lakhyri as he passed into the palace. The corridor within was narrow and straight, leading directly to the throne room of the king. Two hundred paces later, Lakhyri pushed through the curtains at the far end and stepped into the main hall.
The king sat on his throne with Nemtun, Erlaan, Adral of Nalanor and several other self-important officials. Unseen, Lakhyri stopped and listened to their deliberations.
"Ullsaard still does not have Maasra," Adral was saying. "If we perhaps took ship and defended there, we could force him to a negotiation."
"Impossible," said Nemtun. "If he realises we no longer hold the Wall, he will be in Askhor quicker than a sailor jumps in a whore's bed. Whether he has Maasra or not makes no difference."
"I disagree," said Erlaan. "If he has Maasra, he has access to the Nemurians and we do not."
"We cannot defend two places at once," said Adral. "The bastard is still consolidating his hold on Nalanor. If we can get to Maasra first and raise some more legions, we can halt the momentum he has gained."
"What will Kulrua do?" asked Erlaan. "Will he at least try to fight?"
"What do you mean by that?" growled Nemtun, shifting his bulky form to face his grandnephew. "Are you accusing me of something?"
"My grandson is right," snapped Lutaar. "If you had dealt with this problem when you had the chance, we would not be where we are now. I gave you legions and orders, and what did you do? You chased Ullsaard all winter to no effect and allowed him to slip past you into the mountains."
"And you," the king rounded on Adral. "You gave up the crossings of the Greenwater without so much as an arrow loosed or a shield raised. You have fifty warships and yet you let this man walked through Nalanor without hindrance. We have given him these successes without a fight, because the two of you have failed to act."
"I have heard enough," said Lakhyri, striding to the centre of the hall. He turned his masked face to the court of the king. "All of you: leave. I will speak to the king alone."
"Who do you think you are?" said Nemtun, heaving himself to his feet. "You best remember your manners and who you address, Udaan."
Lakhyri did not dignify the outburst with a reply, but simply looked at the king. Lutaar realised something was amiss; his eyes narrowed as he looked at Lakhyri.
"Do as he says, leave us," said the king. He continued to stare with suspicion while the others departed, Nemtun and Adral continuing to voice their grumbling discontent as they did so.
Silence filled the hall as Lakhyri ascended the raised platform on which the throne was placed. He stood directly in front of the king, who watched every move like a hawk. With slow deliberation, Lakhyri raised his left hand to his mask and, reaching inside his hood, unfastened its strap. He pulled the silver mask away, revealing his own rune-etched features.
"I guessed it was you," said Lutaar. "I have been expecting a visit for some time."
"We have much to discuss," said Lakhyri. "Your leniency has been uncharacteristic. Ullsaard and the chaos he threatens must be stopped before winter comes. If he is not destroyed, it will be the end of all that we have strived to create. You cannot fail in your duty to our masters."
Lutaar pursed his lips and his brow wrinkled at the prospect.
"I understand that. I will accept whatever help you can offer. Between us we can deal with this upstart."
"We will, my brother," replied Lakhyri. "We will."
Askhira, Maasra
Midsummer, 209th Year of Askh
I
The dockyards were a cauldron of ceaseless noise. The thump of wooden mallets was so intense and so prevalent that Jutaar retired to his rooms every night with his head still pounding. The rat-tat-tat of rivet hammers, the buzz of saws, the creak of tensioned rope, the thud of planks and the constant pattering of bare feet intruded into every moment of Jutaar's waking life, and often his dreams.
It had seemed a simple enough job that his father had given him. Build a fleet large enough for fifty thousand men, to sail hotwards along the coast and make landing on the dawnward shores of Askhor, beyond the mountains that separated the homeland of the empire from its surrounding provinces.
And it should have been simple. Jutaar's father had drafted thousands of labourers from the shipyards along the Greenwater, nearly doubling the number of men in the port of Askhira. Carpenters and sailmakers, caulkers and coopers, overseers and ledgermen, all put into action the orders of the general, attended to by a similarly sized army of cooks and traders, wives and whores. To house them, three architects from Nalanor had arrived, with even more men to raise long tenements along the sea front, and to build new docks so that more ships could be laid down. All under the watchful gaze of the Tenth Legion.
Jutaar had only to keep an eye on things, to make sure the monies were paid, the materials supplied and the workers protected. Yet this had proven more difficult than he had been led to believe. Amidst the overcrowded workers' apartments, tempers flared regularly. Small incidents had a habit of sparking large confrontations, and four times Jutaar had sent in companies of the Tenth to suppress potential riots.
It was not just at home that the work force was unhappy; the labourers were constantly fractious with their masters, the captains argued with the harbour masters, and disputes between suppliers often brought the flow of materials to a standstill. Accidents happened every day, most of them minor, but several were more serious and had claimed the lives of nearly two hundred men in total. There were rumours that the endeavour was cursed, but how and by whom nobody would say.
That such superstition had taken root was in itself a symptom of the Brotherhood's absence. Not a single black-robed Brother could be found in all of Maasra, nor in Okhar, or Nalanor or any of the other provinces outside Askhor. It came to light over the course of a few days; in towns and cities across the empire, the Brotherhood disappeared. The precinct pyramids were deserted, their doors locked, their windows barred. This sudden departure had a twofold effect. Most obviously, the machine of state ground to a halt. Without the Brotherhood and their taxes, censuses, marriages, funerals, quotas and archives, people's everyday lives were left without structure, while commerce became sporadic and returned to a small-scale, local trade more common in savage places like Salphoria and Mekha.
It was just not the p
ractical issues that bedevilled Jutaar and the others attempting to run Ullsaard's newly acquired domains. The people of the provinces felt abandoned without the Brotherhood. There was a strange feeling in the towns; a hushed fear around the empty precincts; an unsettled atmosphere in streets where black-robed figures no longer walked.
Jutaar knew that his father and brothers thought him slow and somewhat dim, but he was not without some thoughts. It occurred to him that a Brother might simply take off his robe and be indistinguishable from any other man. It was unlikely that hundreds of Brothers across Maasra were mysteriously spirited away by some strange force; Jutaar firmly believed that the Brotherhood were still around, but had chosen to hide in plain sight.
He had written to his father to warn of the fear that the Brotherhood were agitating against Ullsaard. Jutaar knew enough about the morale of men to understand that it takes little to turn uncertainty into fear, fear into anger. It was Jutaar that had persuaded Allon's legions that they had no chance against Ullsaard, and taken his father's offer of a new allegiance to them. He had seen firsthand the disquiet sown by his father's manoeuvres and half-truths, the lies spread by his men through the ranks of the common soldiers. Now, as far as Jutaar could tell, the Brotherhood were retaliating in kind.
Men already working long shifts to build a warfleet did not need much of a push to start complaining. An act of sabotage, a whispered voice of dissent, could fan the embers of annoyance into something far more dangerous.
Other than asking for advice from his father, Jutaar could not see what else he could do. He kept the Tenth close at hand and walked the docks every day with kind words, resolving disputes, reminding people of the great venture they were embarking upon and the age of prosperity they would all enjoy under the rule of King Ullsaard. Jutaar was lavish with the treasury of Maasra, despite many complaints from the governor, Kulrua, who was by nature a miserly, bureaucratic man. Each ship completed was celebrated with a feast for all and Jutaar continued to build more homes to give the workers more space.
Despite this generosity, he felt that all of the gold in Magilnada, Nalanor and Okhar would not assuage the growing resentment of his newly subject people. Every time the legionnaires broke up a fight, every time a timber cracked and a man was injured, the shipyards bubbled with quiet rebellion. Tools were downed and shifts sent home while tempers eased.
It was even stranger given the placid reputation of Maasrites across the empire. They were known for the most part as peaceful people. A little more than one hundred years ago, the Maasrite tribes had joined Greater Askhor without a fight; famously, their six chieftains cut out their tongues so that they could offer no word of protest and keep their honour. This became the Vow of Service that a proportion of Maasrites still followed. Jutaar had always been uncomfortable with voluntary self-mutilation, but being in Askhira had taught him that the practice was far less common than he had thought. Most of those that took the Vow of Service were servants across the rest of the empire, who had followed their forefathers' act of sacrifice so that they could not dispute the wishes of foreign masters.
Jutaar wondered if the influx of foreigners into Maasra had upset the locals, but there was little evidence. The docile, workmanlike Maasrites had been agitated by far more than the arrival of belligerent, loud Okharans and Nalanorians. Like the other workers, they were fearful of some undisclosed fate and complained of nightmares of the town being swallowed by the sea.
All of this disruption had put Jutaar far behind schedule. Ullsaard was coming to the province to see the delays first-hand and to resolve them quickly.
So it was that Jutaar waited at the gate of Askhira's wall in the summer afternoon heat, feeling downcast that he had failed his father, and fearful of the meeting about to take place. The coming of Ullsaard was heralded by a dust cloud on the horizon, and it was quickly evident that the general had come with a large body of men. As the bells sounded the arrival of High Watch, the marching column of the Thirteenth could be seen in the haze, their golden standards and black shields snaking along the road from the Greenwater.
Jutaar and Rondin had arranged a guard of honour by the Tenth, who lined the road outside and inside the gate, spears raised in salute as General Ullsaard rode into Askhira, while the Thirteenth stopped half a mile outside of the town to make camp. The general had Urikh and Noran with him, both also on ailurs, though Urikh looked far from comfortable on his beast. Jutaar hurried down the steps from the gate tower to greet his father in the square just inside the wall.
Dismounting, Ullsaard clasped his son's hand and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't look so worried, son," said the general. "I'm not here to give you a hard time."
"That's good to hear," replied Jutaar with a smile of relief. He turned to his brother. "Urikh. Good to see you."
"Brother," Urikh replied tersely, half-falling from the back of his ailur.
"How are you doing, Jutaar?" asked Noran as he let himself out of the saddle with far more grace, tossing the reins to a waiting legionnaire. "You have been kept busy, I hear."
"Very," said Jutaar.
The group walked down the main street of Askhira, heading towards the docks. The town was quiet, a few women and children around to watch the new arrivals, the bulk of the inhabitants at work. Even from this distance the noise of labour was audible. As they crested a rise, Ullsaard stopped and the others gathered around him. The harbour was laid out before them, the town sloping gently towards the sea.
Set on an inlet of the Nemurian Strait, Askhira followed the shallow coast around the bay, a thin crescent of red-roofed homes and wooden-beamed warehouses. Warmed by the hotward winds blowing up the Maasran Gulf, Askhira was hot and humid, prone to summer storms that were violent but brief. Even in winter the coast was pleasantly mild and two rearing headlands provided natural shelter for ships. To coldwards the land rose swiftly into the foothills of the Askhinia Mountains, the hotwards range bordering the home of the empire. The hills had once been solid with forests, but centuries of shipbuilding and timber export had cut a large swathe through the trees, visible as a pale scar amongst the dark green, stretching out of sight into the distance.
The sky was clear and Jutaar could see out across the straits, to a dark blotch where sea met sky. That way lay the islands of Nemuria, a chain of active volcanoes that smudged the air with their fumes. When he had first arrived, Jutaar had taken a ship out into the straits to see the islands. By old agreement, no ship approached within a mile of those islands without permission, so Jutaar had tried his best to peer through the smog and gloom to see the lands of the Nemurians. They reared out of the water with high cliffs and steep, ash-wreathed shores. Through breaks in the cloud he had seen huge edifices of black granite standing high above yellow-leafed trees, and thought he glimpsed flashes of red and orange at the tips of the peaks.
The wind, treacherous around Nemuria, had turned foul and forced the ship's captain to tack back lest he break the one-mile limit. Nobody was sure what the penalty would be for breaking the convention, but Jutaar would be the first to admit he did not want to find out the hard way. Little was known of the Nemurians, least of all their numbers, and it was regarded by all to be a good thing that they seemed content to remain on their islands and only came to the mainland to work as mercenaries. Nothing had been seen of them since Nemtun had dismissed his corps of five thousand — even Maasra, their home away from home, was empty of the non-humans. The prevailing wisdom was that the Nemurians were waiting to see who ended up running the empire before they got involved again.
That had been Jutaar's first and last sight of Nemuria, but each time he gazed across the strait, he wondered what else might be seen in that patch of grey.
"You said you had trouble elsewhere?" Jutaar said, tearing his eyes away from the mysterious islands.
"In Parmia and Narun, mostly," replied Noran. Ullsaard was still staring across the sea at the pall of smoke. "A bit of trouble in Geria, but that's to be
expected as Nemtun's old capital. Even had a riot in Duuris."
"What did you do to stop it?" Jutaar asked.
"That, my son," said Ullsaard, breaking from his entranced state, "you will see tomorrow."
Wondering what this might mean, Jutaar led his visitors down into Askhira, to the houses he had occupied on the dockside.
II
It was the fourth hour of Gravewatch and Ullsaard was already awake and eating his breakfast. No doubt roused by the commotion of the servants preparing the meal, Jutaar wandered into the small dining room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, clad in a robe hastily belted.
"You should have warned me it would be an early start," said Jutaar, sitting to his father's left and reaching for a jug of fruit juice. "I would have had the servants wake me properly."
"Early start?" Ullsaard laughed. "You should feel lucky that you're not Anasind. He's been working all night. If you're quick, you can come with me when I join him at Dawnwatch."
"Working all night? Doing what?"
"Come and have a look," said Ullsaard.
He led Jutaar to the wide doors leading out onto a veranda overlooking the harbour. Throwing open the doors, the general stepped outside, his son just behind. The air was cool but not cold, dawn struggling to break through the clouds of Nemuria. Ullsaard waved a hand towards the town below. Bearing lanterns and torches, legionnaires were moving through Askhira from its hotwards tip along the harbour, spreading through the city like runnels of flickering light. There was a greater glow around the three-tiered ziggurat of Askhira's precinct building.
Despite this nocturnal activity, the town was quiet, a sea breeze sighing over the rooftops.
"What are they doing?" asked Jutaar.
