by Tom Lloyd
The man didn’t bother saluting, but that didn’t surprise Teral; witchfinders were a law unto themselves, and even the best were half-mad.
‘Name?’
‘Islir,’ came the reply, followed eventually by, ‘sir.’
‘You tested these priests?’
‘’Course I did,’ floated down the mocking reply. ‘My job, ain’t it?’
‘They’re mages?’
‘Bugger me, yes, and strong’uns too!’ Islir said with a laugh.
Jackler half-drew his sword as Islir spoke, prompting the other soldiers to follow suit. Islir watched them with increasing amusement. ‘Hah, bloody knitting circle, the lot of you! They’re safe; dosed ’em meself. Not going to be casting anything for another few days at least - I gave ’em enough to stop bloody Aryn Bwr himself in ’is tracks.’
Teral winced at the mention of the great heretic’s name, never spoken aloud within the Order.
‘Get down here and check again,’ he ordered. With a theatrical sigh, the witchfinder climbed to his feet and headed for the stair.
‘What are you doing, Teral?’ Sants said, the irritation plain in his voice.
‘They’re foreign priests, and mages,’ he explained, ‘and before I open the gate I want that lazy shit to double-check they’re no threat, just as the Codex of Ordinance requires me to.’ He gave what he hoped was a suitably respectful nod to the priest, who smiled and bowed again, making it clear he took no offence.
The Knights of the Temples did not use mages in battle, and despite their various factions, none disputed it was the province of the Gods alone. Mages were only accepted into their ranks if they foreswore use of their powers, except for witchfinders, whose meagre ability allowed them to do nothing more than sense power in others. Any mage not of the Order but in their midst was required to drink a concoction that suppressed all magical abilities. Teral wanted to ensure they had not found a way to negate the effects of the potion.
‘This ain’t necessary,’ grumbled Islir as he appeared from the stairway.
‘Indulge me,’ Teral growled.
The witchfinder grabbed the first of the priests by the hand. He paused for a moment then moved closer to look the pale-skinned man in the eye. Teral could see his lips moving, probably chanting some sort of charm to Larat.
It would certainly explain the man’s sense of humour, he thought darkly. Let us hope the priest’s own weathers it, otherwise I’m in deep, deep shit.
‘This one’s fine,’ Islir announced. ‘I’m strong enough to sense power without needing to touch the rest of ’em - which is just as well, ’cause I’m not touching no bastard aligned to the Wither Queen. All their power’s deep down and locked tight; they couldn’t light a fire if their lives depended on it. The only magic they got is in those daggers, and that’s latent.’
‘What do you mean, “latent”?’
‘Latent means it ain’t doing nothing at the moment. It’s a ritual weapon, so ’course there’s going to be some trace o’ power in it - but not enough to take on an army, so don’t you worry ’bout that.’
‘You’re certain?’
Islir squinted up at Major Teral. ‘Cardinal Sourl’s orders are that any witchfinder who makes a mistake is to be executed as a traitor, no second chances. Believe me: I’m damn sure.’
‘Satisfied, Major?’ the priest asked. ‘We are no threat. May we now go and pray, or must we dance for you next?’
There was an edge to the man’s voice now, a note of warning that Teral had heard often enough over the last few months. Offending a priest with influence within the Order had become tantamount to heresy. Even this unknown wanderer could cause trouble for him.
Teral tried to look contrite. ‘Of course, Father. I apologise, but our regulations are quite clear and I must fulfil my obligations, which I have now done. Your request is granted.’ He looked up to the men hanging around on the gantry and shouted, ‘Open the gate!’
‘What is this?’
Lord Styrax turned to his right with an expression of excessive innocence. ‘This, Lord Celao? It is called “food”. I had not been aware that scarcity had turned to nonexistence so you no longer recognise it.’
The Chosen of Ilit, unable to match Lord Styrax’s gaze for long, scowled down at the bowl before him instead.
It took all Major Amber’s efforts not to stare at the white-eye. He had an enormous, spherical head, currently red with fury, and Amber thought he looked more than ever like a red melon wearing a wig of straw.
Celao was nearly as tall as Lord Styrax, and he was one of the few men in the entire Land to out-weigh the Menin lord. He was not just fat; he was a corpulent monstrosity who would not be able to walk were it not for his Gods-granted strength. The wings sprouting from his back were significantly larger than either Kiallas’s or Gesh’s, but there was no way they would lift Celao even an inch off the ground.
It would take a dragon to lift that body, Amber mused. He’d probably make quite a snack for one too. If I were him, that’s what my nightmares would be about.
‘Peasant food,’ Celao declared petulantly, shoving the bowl of mushroom soup away, slopping it onto the table. The Lord’s companions leaned back from the table, unable to eat what their lord had rejected.
‘You could usefully miss—’ Kohrad started, but was cut off short by his father.
‘A little civility over lunch, if you please,’ Lord Styrax said sharply before his belligerent son could say anything more. ‘Lord Celao, I apologise for my son’s demeanour, and also the food. I am a man of simple needs; I have no taste for such delicacies as swan’s liver pâté or white-thrush tongues.’
Amber noted the differences between Styrax’s perfect calm and the boiling bag of emotion that was his white-eye son. Lord Celao was a huffing whale wrapped in what looked like a tent of cloth-of-gold, and he betrayed his discomfort by a host of fussy mannerisms, but he at least was touched by a God’s strength. Kohrad had only the frustrations of young manhood in the presence of at least two men above him in the food chain.
Gesh and Kiallas sat at either end of Lord Celao’s table. The lord himself sat between golden-haired noblemen with androgynous faces who looked near-identical, though their badges of nobility showed no family link. Both appeared unaware of either the Knights of the Temples or the Duchess of Byora; their attention was fixed on the Menin, their historical enemy.
Amber wondered what exactly they were expecting Lord Styrax to do, for they sat like rabbits just waiting for the dog to notice them and attack. Do you think him Deverk Grast reborn? Has the Land changed so little for the Litse?
‘Your food and hospitality is ill-fitting to a man of my position, ’ Celao announced after a long moment.
Amber saw Kohrad’s mouth open, the words ‘ill-fitting’ forming on his lips, but his father cut him off with a look.
‘For my part, I am quite content,’ announced the man sitting opposite Lord Styrax. ‘I have spent too much of my life travelling to consider a fine soup anything less than a pleasure.’
All eyes turned to the man at the centre of the Devoted table. Except for the High Priest of Belarannar, the men were dressed almost identically: scale-mail hauberks of black-iron over red and blue tunics with red sashes bearing the white runesword of the Order. The speaker, who was half a hand taller than his companions, was clearly no local, his dark hair and elegant Farlan features marking him out from those around him. His expression was amiable and he ignored the scrutiny, supping a spoonful of soup, then helping himself to more bread as they stared.
‘I am pleased we are of a similar mind,’ Lord Styrax said, picking up his own spoon, which looked tiny and fragile in his hand. ‘I hope that continues.’
‘Perhaps,’ the man said calmly. ‘It rather depends on whether you revise yesterday’s threat.’ He gestured towards Messenger Karapin, who was standing stiffly at one side, a pair of Devoted officers on either side.
Amber had almost missed the man as the Devoted party
approached the Scholars’ Palace - until he realised Cardinal Sourl was walking half a pace behind him, not leading the group. When Lord Styrax had planned this meeting, he had not expected Knight-Cardinal Certinse, Supreme Commander of the Knights of the Temples, to be anywhere within a hundred miles - and yet here he was, making quiet inroads into his lunch while everyone else waited for Lord Celao to begin. Amber wondered what this unexpected turn of events would mean for their plans.
‘Message,’ piped a child’s voice. Amber looked past his lord to where Ruhen sat beside Natai Escral. The boy sat in the centre, between the big sergeant, Kayel, and the duchess, looking like a mismatched set of parents from some ridiculous romance story. Curiously enough, Sergeant Kayel - to whom Amber bore no similarity, now they were in the magic-deadened valley - was as attentive to the child’s needs as the duchess. The man was a better actor than Amber would have given credit.
‘Yes dear,’ the duchess said in a soothing voice as she gave Knight-Cardinal Certinse a sharp look, ‘the message. Lord Styrax, you wish our surrender. Now, while I may be a feeble woman, I cannot but remark that you are a long way from home. The dull little men I employ to pay attention to such matters, they tell me that in the business of war this is considered bad.’
‘Yours will not be the first army to have marched from Tor Salan,’ Lord Celao added bluntly.
‘I have no desire to force anything on you, my honoured guests,’ Styrax said smoothly. ‘I wish only to present certain inescapable facts.’
Amber recognised his lord’s tone of voice; when he spoke in that overly polite way, Lord Styrax was not bluffing a weak hand, but was confident he could back up his threats. There was no need to force the issue, so he could be reasonable. This lunch was so he could look each of the Circle City’s rulers in the face and tell them the plain truth: that he could crush them utterly.
Their intelligence had led them to believe that the duchess, a ruthlessly pragmatic woman, would accept her vassal status easily enough. Lord Celao was a coward without an army. The only problem was in Cardinal Sourl’s quarter, and that problem was worsened by the presence of Knight-Cardinal Certinse and his army.
Ego, Amber thought, that’s what it’ll come down to. They’re too proud to accept the threat, and perhaps with good reason under normal circumstances - our supplies are limited, and Raland and Embere are still Devoted city-states; they may be squabbling for primacy within the Order, but that isn’t going to stop them realising who’d be next. They’ll prefer to march to Akell’s aid than fight us one by one.
‘You have yet to present us with facts, my Lord,’ the duchess commented, her hand resting on Ruhen’s shoulder. Here, in the presence of her peers, she had found some of the poise that had been missing from Amber’s first meeting with her. The little boy was obviously still distracting her, but there was nothing wrong with her political senses. She was watching everything that was going on closely.
Lord Styrax inclined his head to the duchess. ‘The facts, your Grace, are that I will take the Circle City within the next few days. The only thing you can affect is the manner of that conquest.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ snapped Celao. ‘You don’t have the troops.’
‘I brought with me the tools I needed for the job,’ Styrax said mildly. ‘Why would I bluff on a poor hand when it would have been simple enough to bring the Second and Fourth Armies with me?’
‘Because Tor Salan hasn’t been the tea party you thought it would be,’ Certinse said. The Knight-Cardinal mopped up the last of his soup and looked up, his mild smile unwavering. ‘Without a strong garrison, you’ll lose the city again. You need to recruit there before you can conquer the Circle City, and you’ve not had the time to build a force.’
He broke off when the man beside him, the High Priest of Belarannar, judging by his robe, tapped him on the arm.
Cardinal Sourl, sitting on Certinse’s other side, glared at the priest. He was obviously not enjoying his newfound subordinate rank. The cardinal wore military uniform, as befitted his rank of general, but it didn’t appear to fit him very well and he looked uncomfortable. He lacked the martial or political power to challenge the Knight-Cardinal’s authority, but he had to be irked by the fact his counsel was not even sought, so deeply did the high priest have his claws into Knight-Cardinal Certinse.
And Sourl had lost weight too, since he last wore that uniform. The Menin still knew very little about whatever had enraged the Gods so, but following that event Sourl had apparently taken to preaching to his troops every day, dressed as a priest of Nartis - he had been ordained as such when he joined the Order. The once-noted soldier had been eating like a monk and acting like a zealot, and was no longer the well-built man in his fifth decade they had expected to find.
After a few moments of whispering, Certinse looked up again. ‘My Brother-in-creed reminds me that you, Lord Styrax, have built monuments like shrines to your own glory, and you destroyed the Temple of the Sun in Thotel. Such desecration only clarifies our position: the Knights of the Temples cannot accept your rule.’
Lord Styrax leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. ‘Indulge me and listen a little longer. I will explain this fully, for your further consideration.’
And all the while, Amber added to himself, while you turn to your priests for advice, we’re exploiting that trust you place in them - give it an hour or so and you won’t be smiling so easily.
The white-eye was looking pleased. Major Teral had always feared that.
‘Gentlemen, greetings,’ he began. ‘My name is Anote, Duke Vrill, and in accordance with Menin tradition, I am here to offer you the chance to surrender.’
The Devoted officers exchanged looks of amusement. Major Sants might be an arrogant shit, willing to undermine Teral’s authority at every opportunity, but he knew how to keep his place when the enemy were watching.
‘And what exactly makes you think we would want to surrender? ’ Teral asked. ‘The Fist has never been taken by enemy action, not once in three hundred years, and you’ve chosen a poor week to threaten us. Our reinforcements have made our biggest concern back there the lack of bunk space. So you are welcome to break your army on the Fist and distract the men for an hour or so.’
Vrill gave a menacing laugh. He had removed his helm to receive the Devoted men and Teral could see his long dark-red hair fell past his shoulder - it was dyed, presumably, since the Menin were supposed to be as dark as Teral’s own tribe. The snarling head of an animal Teral didn’t recognise topped his helm and his armour was painted white, adorned with red and blue ribbons, and imbued with some magic that made the duke blur slightly when he moved. Teral had seen something like this before and he recognised how difficult it would be to fight a man wearing armour like this.
He was escorted by Bloodsworn, who stared straight ahead. Their lances were stowed and their right hands rested lightly on their saddles, inches from the handles of their long-handled crescent axes.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Vrill asked, looking in turn at each of the men facing him. ‘Lord Styrax took Tor Salan with ease, and their defences were greater than yours. My lord wishes the Circle City to accede to his rule without bloodshed.’
‘Your lord,’ spat Chaplain Fell, unable to contain himself any longer, ‘has abandoned the Gods. He desecrated the Temple of Tsatach and turned away from his Patron God, the Lord of Battle.’
‘My lord is fighting and winning battles,’ Vrill replied, ‘and what is that except serving Karkarn?’
‘He shall burn in the black fires of Ghenna!’ roared Fell, his hand instinctively going to his mace, but Sants anticipated it and grabbed the chaplain’s arm. Fell struggled for a few moments, but he was a small man and couldn’t break Sants’s grip.
‘Duke Vrill,’ Teral said in a loud voice, ‘I am the duty commander here, and I have neither the authority nor the desire to negotiate any surrender, unless I am receiving yours. You do not have the men to take us by force, so I am afraid you are w
asting your breath.’
‘On the contrary,’ Vrill said, his smile widening, ‘it was hardly a waste.’
‘And why is that?’ Teral asked, even as he finished the sentence in his mind: to distract us. He turned and looked back at the fortress. Nothing had changed, not yet.
I don’t understand, he thought, puzzled. They couldn’t have sneaked troops around us, it’s not possible.
Even the five Reaper priests were doing nothing unusual, other than kneeling in the mud with their acolytes and praying - just as the priests of Death and Karkarn within the Fist would be doing.
‘I wish to make it clear that any man who surrenders and throws down his weapon shall not be harmed,’ said the Menin white-eye. He raised his left hand and a monstrous roar cut through the air.
Teral almost jumped in surprise. The minotaurs were bellowing up to the sky as they headed off to the open ground to the right of the Fist.
‘Your Western gate would be a good place to march your troops out of, once you surrender,’ the Menin general advised.
‘Are you deaf, or just mad?’ Major Sants demanded, though Teral knew Sants was just as worried as he. ‘We’re not going to surrender the damn Fist just because you asked us nicely!’
‘Oratory is not enough of a reason?’ Vrill shrugged. ‘As you insist, I shall arrange a demonstration instead. Do not let me keep you, gentlemen.’
He offered them a crisp salute and sat there beaming as the Devoted soldiers turned their horses and galloped back towards the half-open gate of the Fist. All four were dreading what they would find.
‘Enough!’ Lord Celao shouted, cutting Styrax off in mid-sentence. ‘Your administrative plans do not interest me, your trade strategies do not interest me, your political assessments do not interest me!’ His face was red and his jowls were shaking with fury. ‘You insult my tribe by your very presence; you insult us further by suggesting we could ever accept Menin rule! The descendents of Grast will never rule Ismess!’
