by Tom Lloyd
The day she’d left the temple, Legana had realised the firm hand of the devotees had tempered her impetuous nature, and made her a better woman. She owed them - and her Goddess - a lot, and she would serve the Lady however she could.
And Legana was smart enough to know that this offer would never be surpassed. It was more than she’d ever dared to dream for.
‘Are you so sure?’ Fate said after a moment. ‘This is not something to be undertaken lightly, and I have no wish to bind myself to an unwilling soul.’
‘I’m certain,’ Legana said, looking her Goddess directly in the eye, her fear gone. ‘I have never felt I belonged, other than inside your temple - any lack of piety on my part was because I felt insignificant, not worthy of you. I’ll not betray my people, or my lord, but I wish to be more than an agent of a man I barely know.
‘I’ll take your gift and pay the price it demands.’
Fate studied the young woman, then broke into a sudden, brilliant smile. ‘I have indeed chosen well. Now, listen before you put the necklace on, for I suspect the sudden sense of mortality will come as an awful shock to me, and I may have to retreat to the Palace of the Gods to recover.’
Legana nodded quickly, her eyes glimmering with eagerness.
‘Consorting with necromancers and vampires will no longer do. Deal with your current companions, then go to my temple in Hale. You may live there; Zhia Vukotic will not come after you there.’
Legana nodded again, her eyes flickering to her fallen weapons. Neither Mikiss, the vampire asleep in the next room, nor Nai, the necromancer she’d last seen the previous night, would be easy to kill, but with the strength of a Goddess what could she not achieve?
The Lady had seen Legana’s eyes move to her swords. ‘Good; kill them both, and then look to the voices in this city. The crossroads of the West is divided into quarters, but to get through whatever is coming, it will need to stand united - and believe me, the crossroads of the West must survive.’
The Lady spoke quickly now, and handed over the necklace to Legana.
She ran her fingers over the emeralds without taking her eyes off the Lady’s face.
‘I suggest you start your work by killing the High Priest of Alterr here in Byora. He’s a waddling little misery of a man who goes by the name of Ayarl Lier.’
Legana’s eyes widened. The Gods are turning on each other now? ‘We have never been the most harmonious of entities,’ the Lady said with a smile, guessing correctly what Legana had been thinking. ‘Alterr is one of those whose rage flows unabated. She will lead us to rashness if her strength is not curtailed, and Lier has great influence, both within the court of Natai Escral, and with the common folk of Hale. It is best that influence be removed. And anyway,’ she added with a mischievous smile, as though she had suggested nothing more than a mild prank, ‘Alterr is of the Upper Circle of the Pantheon, while I am not. Ambition is not limited to mortals.’
Venn slowly opened his eyes, trying not to wince at the light as he focused on the figures sitting nearby. They were all young, all with the unmistakable poise of Harlequins, dressed in furs and leather, the rough clothes of the clans rather than the distinctive diamond patchwork of a Harlequin. Not their final visit to the cavern then, but not long until this fresh crop would be presented with their blades and sent out into the Land.
And they have waited for me, Venn thought with satisfaction. It appears my newfound weakness is yet another sign of my divine mission.
There had never been a Harlequin who had renounced the ways after years out in the Land - those who saw it as a betrayal had no idea what to do about him, and increasingly, folk of the clans were seeing him as a man who had moved beyond the usual pattern of life. The Land had reforged the finest of the Harlequins and returned him to them to usher them into the future. The otherworldly air about him, courtesy of Jackdaw, ensured those with complaints or accusations spoke them only quietly. He had asked nothing of them and had spoken no heresy; until he did so their very uncertainty protected him.
His arm felt leaden as he reached out for the water-bowl he kept close at hand. The cavern was a vast place of open temples and shrines, but the natural grain of rock meant there were dozens of ledges and alcoves. Venn had adopted once such ledge and spent most of his days sitting there with his back resting against the wall. He ventured outside only rarely; what little exercise he took nowadays consisted solely of walking from one shrine to the next.
There were more visitors despite the winter months, and they were there to see him, the Harlequin who had returned from the Land a changed man, so he forced himself to be awake when they came, to debate with them, or preach to them.
He drank thirstily, then replaced the cup, ignoring the growl in his stomach. Jackdaw remained in his shadow, silent for sometimes days on end, yet still requiring everything a normal man needed to live. The only difference was that he now drained it from Venn.
Is this how a mother feels? he wondered, his cracked lips curving into a slight smile. A child feeds greedily from my body while I must sit here and extol the virtues of another? Master, once more I applaud your sense of humour.
‘Age is a curse we must all bear,’ he began, aware that the group of young men and women were all waiting eagerly for his latest teachings. Religion: what a masterful tool. They expect wisdom, so that is what they hear.
‘The wisdom of years clouds understanding. In life there is always fear, and that leads us from truth. Given the power of speech, a newborn would provide counsel surpassing that of any king because a newborn has not known pain, not the pain of loss, nor of love, nor of hunger, nor of fear.’
Beside him he felt Jackdaw stir as the former monk recognised his cue; his skills were required again. Venn raised his palms in a manner that would remind some of the icons of Shaolay, Goddess of Wisdom, that often adorned thrones. He saw the wonder in the eyes of his new disciples as a sliver of Jackdaw’s magic raced through his body, subtly enhancing the God-touched image he was presenting.
‘A perfect child can remind us of how we ourselves once were, before we were stained by our years in the Land; its voice can strip away the fear that clouds our judgement and take us back to that unsullied state. Such a child would calm the enraged. Such a child would give heart to a coward, and cause him to fight like a God in the defence of innocence. To seek out such innocence in others, to serve a child who knows nothing of hatred; what higher calling could there be?’
CHAPTER 9
Major Amber ducked out of his tent and looked around at the Menin camp. The wind raced over the line of tents and into his face; he flinched as a piece of grit caught him in the eye. He blinked the irritant away and dabbed at his eye with the fox-fur trim of his heavy black cloak. It wouldn’t do to attend his lord in tears; this was not a day for the Menin to show any shred of weakness.
The sun lurked sullenly somewhere at the horizon; hiding under a thick grey blanket, as Amber himself should be doing. He pulled his cloak closer as the wind continued to nip at every exposed part of him, including his ears, left exposed by the steel half-helm he wore.
The Menin were camped in the lee of a tree-topped hill, on the western bank of a swollen river Amber didn’t know the name of. He’d reached the army only two days previously, meeting it here outside the city of Tor Salan. The Menin were marching northwards; he had fled south from Scree.
‘Major!’ called a voice over the clatter of the camp. Amber stopped and watched as Captain Hain hurried through the mud towards him. The breastplate and pauldrons Hain wore under his cloak, like Amber himself, made the squat captain look even bulkier than usual. Hain was carrying his helm under one arm, but as he reached Amber the major gestured pointedly at it and Hain reddened. He dropped the hood of his cloak and put the helm on, trying not to shiver as the wind whipped around him. The order had been clear: they were to look at all times like the fearless warriors everyone knew the Menin to be - and that, unfortunately, meant going armoured and appearing oblivious t
o hardship, no matter how cold it got, especially while they were in their lord’s presence.
‘Good morning, Captain.’ Amber raised one armoured arm for Hain to smack his vambrace against, the soldier’s greeting, but he was much taller than his subordinate and found himself falling back into old habits, raising his own arm so Hain had to stretch to reach it.
Strange that only some habits are so easy to adopt again, he thought. I’ve been wearing heavy armour for half of my life, and yet ever since I got back this has felt like it belongs to another man.
‘Is it a good morning?’ Hain replied. With his helm on he presented the same grim grey face as Amber, although the major could see Hain’s broken front tooth through the vertical slit over his mouth as he grinned. ‘Doesn’t look like either fucking one to me.’
Major Amber slapped him on the back. ‘I don’t know, from the sound of it, it is going to be a good one for you.’ He led the way up the slope. He could see the backs of Lord Styrax and General Gaur as they stared out at Tor Salan through the morning mist.
‘You could be right there - and for that I have you to thank, sir,’ Hain said buoyantly. The glyphs on his shoulder-plate and helm proclaimed Hain one of the Cheme Third, Lord Styrax’s favourite legion, and Amber had recommended Hain for special duties. His first job would have very public results.
‘A soldier makes his own luck, you know that. Anyway, I had a few spare captains - and I couldn’t leave you in charge of my division - the men would’ve spent the summer whoring.’
Hain laughed. ‘Happily married man, sir, don’t know what you mean! Hope you’re right about the day, but I ain’t counting my virgins until I’m dead, as the Chetse might say.’
‘They say that?’ Amber asked with a frown.
Hain shrugged. ‘Mebbe, they’re an odd lot.’
As they reached earshot of Lord Styrax they fell silent. Out of habit Amber scanned the figures arrayed on the rise where Lord Styrax was overseeing his latest piece of audacity, facilitated by a certain captain of the Third. General Gaur was close at his lord’s side, of course, and Kohrad Styrax, the lord’s son, was stationed between them and a group of men clad in fine green and blue cloaks - emissaries from Sautin and Mustet, so Amber had heard.
They were all looking anxiously at the two regiments formed up in blocks at the foot of the slope. Amber’s eyes immediately went to the banners flying at the head of each block. He realised with a start that they were his own men, some two-thirds of his five-hundred-strong division. Above them all fluttered longer banners, the Fanged Skull of Lord Styrax a bloody mark against the dull sky.
That’s curious. I wasn’t fetched with my troops to stand guard here. Doesn’t look like I’ll be returning to my usual duties quite yet.
Unlike most legions, the élite Cheme Third had half again as many officers. The first division of the Third was Major Amber’s command, and Major Ferek Darn had been seconded to it after some notable deed; the result was that either could be used for special missions without crippling the command structure.
Looking past the various notables, including Amber’s own commander Colonel Uresh standing with General Vrill and a group of grey-swathed men he guessed were part of Hain’s entertainment, he saw a regiment of the Bloodsworn also assembled, still and silent. The fanatical cavalrymen were an intimidating sight, with their armour painted all in black, except for the Fanged Skull, which was bright, bloody red.
So that’s the message to the emissaries then, Amber thought as he led Captain Hain around Gaur to kneel before their lord. Inspect us as closely as you like. All you’ll see is that we’re every bit as big and scary as you’ve heard. Here’s another fight we’ll win without much effort. Just imagine what we could do if we tried. Amber had seen enough of the camp to realise Lord Styrax had only part of the Third Army assembled, probably seven legions’ worth of men.
As he watched, the men in grey cloaks were brought horses. They all looked short and fat to him, some almost too obese to be anywhere near a battlefield - but they all mounted with ease. General Gaur said something to them, a banner of negotiation was handed to one of them and they galloped off towards the city.
‘Gentlemen,’ Lord Styrax welcomed the newcomers, his voice deep and rumbling. Amber felt a flush of pride as he and Hain bowed; few career soldiers would ever be addressed in that way, this was an honour to be earned. ‘Captain Hain, will everything go as planned?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Hain replied as they straightened up.
Lord Styrax stood the best part of a foot taller than Amber, and he was far broader, but he carried himself with a smooth grace that few large men could manage. His face was pale in the weak morning light, but it looked untouched by time or cares and was marked only by a single faint scar. Even after years of service, Amber couldn’t help feeling awe as he looked upon the massive white-eye.
Again he was reminded of his drill instructor’s words on his very first day of training in the army. ‘If you remember nothing else of today, remember this: there’s always someone better than you. However strong and quick you are, there’s always someone better, so being cocky is the fastest way to get dead.’
One young recruit had nervously asked, ‘What about Lord Styrax?’ Instead of cuffing the boy, as Amber might have expected, the instructor had nodded. ‘Our lord is the exception to every rule; he’s the one who stands above us all.’ Amber had never forgotten that moment, and the instructor’s words were as true now as they were then.
‘Major Amber, good to have you back - even if things didn’t quite go as we’d hoped.’
Lord Styrax’s words jerked Amber back to the present day. ‘Ah, no, my Lord, not at all as planned, but I learned a lot all the same.’
‘Excellent. We should always be open to instruction, even old men like me.’ The white-eye gave Amber a brief smile before turning to the men from Sautin and Mustet. ‘Emissary Jerrer, High Priest Ayel, don’t you agree?’
Kohrad shifted slightly to allow the two men past to converse with his father. Amber scrutinised their faces; Jerrer was obviously still trying to fathom why he’d been brought here to watch a siege, but it was impossible to tell what was going through the mind of the High Priest of Vasle. Amber had heard contradictory rumours about what was happening to the Land’s priests, but nothing that made sense to him.
‘What is the instruction you offer us today?’ snapped High Priest Ayel. He was a tall, proud-looking man, young for his position, not yet withered by years of service. ‘Cardinal Afasin will not fear this display of strength, such as it is. Your army looks remarkably small for one about to lay siege to a city as rich - and as full of mercenaries - as Tor Salan.’
‘Hah! A city full of as much cooperation as a bag of cats,’ snapped Kohrad Styrax as Amber felt his own hand twitch towards his scimitar’s hilt. The young white-eye appeared to be back to his normal bristling, belligerent self, a great improvement from the last time Amber had seen him, lying unconscious in Thotel, the Chetse capital . . . where the Menin had been forced to slaughter their own, that dreadful night.
‘Well, Scion Styrax,’ Ayel continued, his eyes wide with anger, ‘I invite you to march on Mustet if you wish instruction in how to conduct a defence; the Knights of the Temples will be happy to provide you with an edifying lesson.’
Amber felt his breath catch. Gods, this priest is insane. You don’t show you’re not afraid by riling white-eyes!
‘As the seal on that scroll has been broken, I must assume you have already read my offer,’ said Lord Styrax without a trace of anger as his son squared up to the mage.
‘I have read it, and my—’
‘Do not reply yet,’ Styrax said sharply, cutting the high priest off before he could make too great a mistake.
Flushed with anger as he was, Ayel still hesitated in the face of Lord Styrax’s glare. ‘Do not say something you cannot take back. You will leave today to take the offer to Cardinal Afasin.’
Cardinal Afasin? Amber smiled
grimly to himself. Bastard was General Afasin last time I heard. Never a good sign when a white-eye gets religion. I doubt Knight-Cardinal Certinse will be much amused either. What does it say about the state of the Knights of the Temples when Afasin prefers to call himself priest rather than soldier?
‘Today?’ said Emissary Jerrer. ‘We’ve been here a week - why do you release us now?’ The Sautin diplomat was a nondescript man: greying, middle-aged, with weak blue eyes. His clothes were functional, not elegant, which meant he was either a lackey and sent as an insult, or he was some sort of spymaster. After a few moments of scrutiny, Amber decided on the latter; he couldn’t possibly be as harmless as he looked.
‘Why today?’ Styrax repeated. ‘Because today is the day I hang my standard from the Sky Pillars.’
‘Today?’ spat Ayel, stepping in front of his compeer. A growl from General Gaur stopped the high priest moving any closer, but he continued to speak. ‘You have yet to even besiege the city; it is caution alone that has made the Council of Patriarchs bar their gate!’ He jabbed a scarlet-gloved finger in the direction of Tor Salan. ‘I have seen the Giants’ Hands at work; it will take them little time to decimate your army.’
Following the direction of Ayel’s pointing finger, Amber looked out over the fifteen regular humps, each surrounded by heaps of rubble, that dotted the ground outside Tor Salan. From that distance they looked far from threatening, but if the Menin camp had been much closer, the threat would have been significantly clearer. He pictured Lord Styrax’s fortress in the Menin homeland in his mind: even from a distance the Black Gates of Crafanc were a terrifying sight; up close they just got worse.
Lord Styrax raised a hand to stop Ayel. ‘I must confess I have not seen the Giants’ Hands in action, but I have studied accounts carefully. Tor Salan: city of a thousand mages - and some unique defences. It must be quite a sight indeed, those great arms of brass, steel and stone, surpassing the range and accuracy of any trebuchet - all driven by the magic of Tor Salan’s mages.’
