by Tom Lloyd
‘What you ask exceeds my power,’ the Aspect hissed.
‘This afternoon I ordered a temple to your glory to be constructed in Lomin, and shrines built in every town of those parts. The last day of the Festival of Swords shall be your praiseday, when all will worship you for the protection you extend.’ Isak hesitated, licking his lips nervously.
Mihn felt renewed fear. There’s more? What else is he offering her? Is that not enough?
‘If you pledge to protect the Farlan throughout the Great Forest, and hunt down our enemies, I swear that for the rest of my days I shall further your name - the temples funded, the shrines maintained, the people reminded of your plagues.’
‘The rest of your days?’
Mihn could hear the hunger in her voice, a sickening anticipation for what could be hundreds of years of service. How powerful would she be by then? What sort of Goddess would they be serving? Would there truly be only one Reaper?
‘For the rest of my days,’ Isak confirmed. ‘Your service must continue as long as there are prayers spoken in your temple in Lomin, and my life is forfeit if I break this vow.’
‘There must be a covenant,’ the Wither Queen insisted. ‘This bargain must be sealed.’ She reached her hand out to Isak—
—and before he even knew what was happening, Mihn found himself shouting, ‘No! Don’t touch her skin!’
Isak hadn’t moved. There was a cold set to his face that Mihn had rarely seen. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, never taking his eyes off the Wither Queen, ‘I saw what she did in Scree. I’ll not forget the faces of the men she touched.’ With a flourish he drew Eolis.
The Wither Queen cringed, keening softly, but Isak ignored her. ‘A covenant is required,’ he whispered. He touched the edge of his sword to the index finger of his left hand, where the skin was as white as hers. His blood looked shockingly bright in the stark light. As the trickle began to run down his finger, Isak flicked it in the face of the Wither Queen.
To Mihn’s disgust she reacted like a dog snapping at a bone, her dead blue tongue flicking out to try and catch the drops.
‘An acceptable covenant,’ she rasped.
Without sheathing his sword Isak pulled a small silver box from a pocket in his tunic and dropped it at the Wither Queen’s feet. ‘The covenant is not yet complete,’ he warned. ‘Break one of your fingernails and put it in the box.’
‘You claim a piece of my body, boy?’ the Wither Queen demanded with sudden fury, ‘a relic of the divine in the hands of a child?’
‘Without it there is no bargain.’ Isak’s voice was controlled and calm; his concentration absolute. The stubborn nature of a white-eye was to pursue every goal relentlessly; to be unshakable until success was won. Often it made them uncaring, even soulless, but, as the Gods had intended, they were more often than not the victors in any struggle.
The Wither Queen snarled and twisted from side to side, as though trying to shake off the bonds of the bargain, but it would be fruitless. Whatever the limitations, the power Isak offered was impossible to refuse. At last the Aspect of Death, hissing like an enraged cat, tore at one fingernail and threw a fragment into the box.
Isak nodded solemnly. ‘Then we have a covenant, my Lady,’ he said in a far more respectful voice. ‘The first prayer to your name shall be spoken at dawn on the steps of Death’s temple. I will leave you to your work.’
The Wither Queen stared at the Lord of the Farlan a long moment before whirling away and melting into the wind. The crawling sensation stayed on Mihn’s skin until the wind carried it high over the city and away.
Mihn could barely move. He watched in stunned silence as Isak nudged the silver box closed with his boot and dropped a piece of cloth over it. He swiftly wrapped the box and tied it with some grey cord.
‘You . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘That was . . .’
Isak looked up, his jaw tight with anger, but he couldn’t hide the tear that fell. ‘It was necessary. They’re our enemies.’
‘But—’
Isak cut him off. ‘I know. There’s no hiding from it; I can’t even count how many will die from this.’ He looked down. ‘It’s genocide, and one more scrap of my soul withers to nothing.’
Isak and Mihn didn’t speak for the rest of the evening. Isak knew the condemnation he felt was his own, but he could not bear to look at Mihn, or any other of his friends in the eye. He tried to lose himself in a book, but the effort increased his frustration and only Mihn’s incredible reactions saved a rare work from the fire.
He felt sick to his stomach, and even his preferred option of drinking himself to sleep betrayed him as he retched up the first gulp of wine.
As a last resort he tried the forge, hoping to lose himself in the sweat and exertion of hammering, but when that failed he drifted back towards his rooms. As he passed through the Great Hall, something caught his eye. He stopped dead and stared at the heavy double doors that were the entrance to the Tower of Semar. They were framed by the wrought-iron wings and head of a dragon, a clear reminder of a task he had been avoiding for far too long.
‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ he said to himself. ‘I can hardly say I’ve got anything better to do.’
From the stairway there came a cough and Tila moved into Isak’s view. ‘Xeliath was asking for you,’ she said with a smile.
‘Is it urgent?’
‘I don’t believe so - she wasn’t swearing, anyway.’
‘Will you let her know I’ll be there later - I’ve something that needs doing and I’ve put it off long enough.’ At Tila’s quizzical look he added, ‘The dragon made a bargain with Lord Bahl, not the Farlan nation. I must try and strike the same bargain.’
He wanted to get on with it now. Isak walked into the centre of the room and reached out a hand before stopping himself. Instinctively he had reached towards the symbol on the wall that would carry him up, but for only the second time in his life he needed to go down. He put his hand on the lowest of all the symbols and let it draw a little magic from his body. A torrent of ghostly wings burst into life all around him as he felt the floor rush downwards.
In a moment the swirl dissipated to nothing and Isak found himself in pitch-blackness. He recoiled automatically before creating a ball of light in his palm. Total darkness was a rare thing in his life; it unnerved him. Here in a small, crudely finished stone chamber that more than resembled a tomb, it was worse.
The only exit was a hole in the wall that led onto a long sloped tunnel. As he followed it, walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a run, he remembered the first time he’d walked this way, a little more than a year ago. He found it hard to recognise the youth he had been then: he had changed in every possible way; the snow-white skin on his left arm and shoulder was far from the least welcome.
As he walked he began to detect the strange acrid smell he recalled from his previous visit, and listless threads of dormant magic in the air, drawn to the beast and the magical artefacts that had been entrusted to its care. He reached the cavern sooner than he’d expected and lingered a moment at the crudely cut archway that led in. He allowed the ball of pale blue light to dissipate, blinking to let his eyes adjust. There was the faintest of green tints outlining the room, tracing the flowing line of the ceiling and walls and producing a faint sparkle from the quartz nodules that studded the cavern’s central pillars.
‘Welcome, Lord Isak,’ came the unexpected boom in his head.
He gave a start at the sheer volume, and it took him a moment to gather his wits. He crossed the threshold and entered the cavern, peering around, trying to make out the shape in the gloom that was Genedel. The last time he had been here the dragon had been resting in the centre of the room, between the crystal-studded columns, but he could not see it there now.
‘Ah, thank you,’ Isak said eventually.
‘What brings you to my cavern?’ There was a shuffling sound in some far distant corner of the cave which prompted Isak to peer forward.
<
br /> ‘I—Where are you?’
‘Where I choose to be. The sound you heard was a gargoyle; there are a number of entrances to this cavern system and more than one sort of carrion-eater comes down here.’
Isak froze. It was hard to tell whether there had been rebuke or insult there, but even so, Genedel’s words had sounded less than friendly.
‘Do they bother you?’ he asked tentatively.
‘I am a dragon; do you think much bothers me for long?’
He swallowed, remembering the sight of Genedel in battle. ‘No, no I suppose not. Why do they come down here then?’
‘They have their reasons. Some to pick over the bones of my prey, others to escape the dangers of the city. Your breed does not welcome others to its city, and of late I have sensed even daemons walking the Land.’
Isak nodded. ‘It’s not been a lot of fun for anyone up there.’
‘Yet you appear to have thrived. Why have you come down here, young lord ?’
Isak hesitated. He was growing increasingly nervous of the fact that he still couldn’t see the dragon anywhere. Since it was speaking directly into his mind the only source of echoes were his voice and whatever carrion-eaters were lurking in the dark.
‘You had an agreement with Lord Bahl, one that appeared to benefit both the Farlan and yourself.’
‘And you come to negotiate?’ The edge of hostility in Genedel’s tone suddenly magnified. ‘Bearing weapons that have killed Gods, you come to my cavern to strike a bargain?’
‘I—No! No, that wasn’t the reason!’ Isak blurted out in protest. He looked down. While he wasn’t wearing Siulents, Eolis was buckled to his hip as always and fused around the guard was a Crystal Skull. ‘Gods, I didn’t even—’
‘Those objects have been used to kill and enslave my kind over the millennia,’ the dragon snarled, causing Isak to wince and clutch his head. The darkness above him suddenly changed into a swift flowing movement. Isak retreated a pace as the silent swirl of dark curved back on itself and a huge horned head appeared barely two yards away from his own.
‘They are not welcome here, and neither are you,’ Genedel growled. ‘Leave now or negotiations shall be swift!’
Isak heard the low rushing sound of an enormous pair of lungs drawing in breath and took another step back.
‘But I didn’t—’
‘Go!’
Isak stared a moment longer at the dragon’s opening mouth and enormous teeth before his survival instinct kicked in and he threw himself to the right, barely managing to stay on his feet as he stumbled through the dark up the slope and back to the palace. As he ran, the roar of an enraged dragon rumbled down the tunnel after him.
CHAPTER 27
Tor Salan was a city of footsteps; merchants, labourers and clattering hooves. Within its borders there were two small rivers, but neither was big enough for much trade and the city existed solely on the happy coincidence of its location: it was the heart of the West, sitting at the centre of a web of trade routes that brought both wealth and diverse population.
As he sat in the darkened guardroom of Tor Salan’s northern gate, Major Amber realised the city was as quiet as it had likely been in decades.
The city that never slept; the city that night never truly darkened - in one savage move the Menin had stripped away its names to leave just a collection of buildings and people, shocked into fearful silence. Without its thousand mages, Tor Salan cowered like a whipped dog anticipating the next blow. Without its mages, Tor Salan’s streets remained dark and empty - the only light and movement Amber could see came from the massive oil lamps flanking the monument they’d built to Lord Styrax’s victory. The squads of soldiers keeping curfew were barely necessary, but Lord Styrax used it to impose routine on his newest troops. Thus far the tachrenn of the Ten Thousand had reported no unrest. Amber knew that every day the Chetse soldiers patrolled the streets in Lord Styrax’s name, wearing Lord Styrax’s crest, was another day closer to winning their wholehearted loyalty.
We’re a simple breed, he thought, running his tongue around his mouth for a last taste of the pale wine he’d been drinking. Give us routine, food and women, and we’ll bark on anyone’s command.
He had been sitting there concealed by shadow for half an hour, staring out through the open doorway at the empty street beyond, before anyone but the patrolling troops passed. When they did come it was in two groups. He could see each distinctly, despite the city’s new-found gloom now that there were no mages to light its streets. The first looked little different to the Menin guards posted around the gate, unconsciously walking in time with each other, as soldiers always did. The second group came a few minutes later; their furtive voices and glances were enough to arouse suspicion, if the patrols hadn’t already received specific instructions.
Amber sighed. He was there as a nursemaid, to usher the groups quietly out of the gate and ensure there was no confusion between troops. When he walked out of the guardroom, the first group saluted as one. The second, four men and a woman, barely broke the flow of their conversation to give him a cursory inspection.
The big soldier didn’t bother taking umbrage. He looked up and gave a short whistle which was swiftly echoed from the vantage point above the gate. A head appeared to look down at the men below, then disappeared again before the muffled clank of gears sounded and the gates began to open ponderously. As soon as they were wide enough, a small figure hopped through the gap and approached Amber.
‘All ready?’ she asked after offering a sloppy salute. Amber nodded to the woman. In the darkness he could just about make out the easy smile on Kirl’s face, made lopsided by a broken jaw from years back. He’d realised one lazy evening that he’d known Kirl longer than any other woman in the Land. There had never been anything between them - a great shame, Amber thought; every time he felt the years lift off his shoulders when he saw that smile, but she had been attached to the Cheme Third Legion for longer than he’d served in it.
‘What do you call that?’ spat one member of the second group. The rest of them fell silent and looked at Amber.
‘I call her Horsemistress Kirl,’ Amber growled, ‘and I suggest you do too, or you might find yourself walking to the Circle City.’
The man took a step towards Amber, close enough for his expression to darken the soldier’s mood further. He was dressed in functional travelling robes of poorly cut hessian. ‘Just make sure she knows her place,’ he said, peering forward with unconcealed distaste at Kirl. His face was thin and pale, and there appeared to be no spare flesh on his body at all. As ordered, his hair and eyebrows had been shaved. The lack of hair made them look less Menin; it was as good as a disguise because they barely looked human without it. The man was probably younger than Amber, but there was an unnatural sense of age surrounding him that added to his otherworldly appearance.
‘My place,’ Kirl replied in a level voice, ‘is giving you orders when and as I feel like it.’ There was no hostility in her tone; the veteran horsemistress had had a lifetime of dealing with soldiers and knew not to let the man rile her.
Amber bit back the words on his lips; Kirl was perfectly capable of handling this herself.
‘You will find it different soon enough.’
‘No I won’t,’ she said, bored now. ‘You hold no military rank and this is a military exercise. My job is to escort you to the border, then return. If I return early because you’ve decided to play your games on the way, you’ll be jeopardising the operation.’
‘And then you’ll find out that your master’s position means nothing when it comes to punishing you,’ Amber added, turning to face the man head-on. He was big even for a Menin soldier, and powerfully built. Amber didn’t want to try his luck in a fight - even though the man looked like a wimp, he and his colleagues were adepts of Larat, mages one and all. He would be quick enough to take their leader down, but the rest would surely kill him for it.
‘Threatening a man of the cloth?’ the adept said with
a cruel smile. ‘That is as foolish as trying to deny my master.’ To emphasise the point he raised one hand, showing the black sleeve and silver ring on his middle finger that indicated he was a priest of Death.
‘I know exactly what you are, and that you’re in costume doesn’t make any difference, mage.’ Amber leaned closer, using his bulk to force the man back. Adepts of Larat, the God of Magic, were not priests but mages, acolytes of the Chosen of Larat. Since Lord Larim had slaughtered his predecessor’s closest followers, he had wasted no time in building a coterie of his own mages to extend his power base, each one young and ambitious, and as keen as Larim for power. However, it looked like they lacked the white-eye’s sense of where to stop. They weren’t unusual in disapproving of a woman holding military rank, but it surprised Amber since magery had always been open to both sexes.
‘Keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told,’ Amber warned the adept, looking past him to take in the other four as well. If anything, the female of the group was giving Kirl a more poisonous look than her colleagues. ‘You’ve got ten days’ head start on us; once Horsemistress Kirl drops you off you’re on foot so I suggest you enjoy the use of her horses while you can. Whether you’re alone or have witnesses, make sure you act like the priests of Death you’re supposed to be - and that includes whatever drugs you might be carrying. Take only those necessary for the mission, understand me?’
The adept looked sullen, but he didn’t argue.
‘Good, now go and get mounted up,’ he snapped.
The five adepts went without a further word, though they all glared at Amber, but he was already beckoning forward the first group, who’d been watching the proceedings in silence.
‘Same goes for you lot,’ Amber started, ‘but you’re soldiers and I don’t expect you need telling.’
The men all nodded. They were dressed as novices of Death, and each was to act as servant to one of the adepts, or so they had been told. He didn’t know which legion they were from, just that they were loyal, and they had not been given the full details of their mission. Loyalty would go only so far, even in the Menin Army.
