by Tom Lloyd
They watched the heads of the guards at the gate turn their way: nervous Litse faces looking like deer that had sensed wolves. The white-eyes were slowest to react. Three of them were facing out towards Ismess, feeling the wind that rose up Ilit’s Stair. One had his wings fully outstretched, though he would have to walk another ten yards or more to be able to fly. As large as they were, those wings would not be capable of lifting a man without magic.
‘Caged birds,’ Styrax said, nodding towards the white-eyes as they finally turned towards them. He appeared to be enjoying their discomfort. ‘They’re bound to this place; conditioned to stare past the bars but never slip through them.’
Amber admitted, ‘I don’t understand these people. Even their white-eyes seem alien to me, and I thought your kind at least would be the same the Land over.’
‘They are a broken tribe, unaware even of their past glories. Without a man or woman of vision, they will wallow another thousand years in this festering place, until inbreeding or war destroys them.’
But which solution will we provide? Amber wondered as Styrax turned abruptly away, motioning for Amber to accompany him.
It had rained during the night and the ground was muddy, so they headed for the nearest gravel path. Gesh followed behind. The white-eye was dressed as he had been the day before, in formal white robes underneath ceremonial armour. It was strange to see so little colour in a man; with his pale skin, creamy yellow hair and white eyes, Amber thought Gesh hardly looked alive. His slim build and ethereal appearance put Amber in mind of tales of Elves, and the contrasting bright red and green javelins held in an oversized quiver at his hip only added to that unreal image.
‘He’s got some spirit, that one,’ Lord Styrax commented, having followed Amber’s line of sight. They continued down the gravel path as it meandered to follow a stream, then swung back towards the looming Fearen House.
‘Give me some time and I’ll find a way to get to him.’ At Amber’s puzzled expression Styrax gave a laugh. ‘No, not like that! Lord Celao is an embarrassment and a fool; better he chokes on a fishbone and Gesh takes command of Ismess. I will not allow any vassal state to remain so weak.’
‘They’ll never love you,’ Amber said, thinking aloud.
‘True, but neither will they hate me, and their children will grow up knowing who restored their future to them. No, Ismess is a problem I need only time to solve - it is Byora that will require proper thought.’
‘The duchess, Natai Escral, or that bodyguard of hers?’
‘Both of them. Your information reaffirms my belief that Byora is the Circle City’s tipping point, and we’re clearly not the only ones to think that.’
‘This is all beyond my comprehension,’ Amber sighed. ‘How do you second-guess immortals?’
‘In some ways they are simpler to understand; their desires and fears are magnified to a far greater scale. I suspect Zhia is merely keeping herself in the game for the time being. She senses great things are afoot and she knows she must remain on the board if it is ever to be of use to her.’ Styrax clapped a massive hand onto Amber’s shoulder. ‘You did much good in Scree, Major; you played the hand you were given well. Until then Azaer was nothing more than an obscure reference for me; now I see where its schemes have directly involved me. Zhia’s legend also obscured the person behind it, but before the great traitor, before the monster, she remains a person, someone to be known, just like any other.’
Amber nodded. The debriefing when he rejoined the army had been exhaustive and exhausting, at times verging on interrogation as Lord Styrax and General Gaur hungrily deliberated and debated over every conversation and action he could remember.
‘All I heard of Azaer was its legend.’
‘One carefully fostered, but yes, it is Azaer I need to know better before I can understand it. The shadow warned me before I killed Lord Bahl that I would be facing rebellion when I returned. Why? Did it require my conquest to continue apace? Did it want me here as a witness, or had Salen betrayed it? What is it doing in Byora that may require a diversion? That will be your job in the months to come, to run a low-level observation of Byora and tell me what is happening there.’
‘I’m honoured, my Lord.’
‘I doubt you’ll find much honour in it,’ Styrax said with a smile, ‘but you survived Scree and you know what you’re looking for. Don’t worry about your men; you’ll be leading them next time they go into battle.’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ Amber said, touched that his master understood his need to be with his men when they faced the enemy.
At the entrance to the Fearen House, Lord Styrax stood looking at the oblong monument again. ‘Mysteries upon mysteries, ’ he said aloud. ‘However, the first business of the day is the puzzle of the heart. I take it your skills do not extend to cryptography, Amber?’
Amber shook his head and Lord Styrax clapped him on the back. ‘Never mind; let’s see how fast you learn!’ he said brightly, leading the way up the steps to the main entrance.
Sighing, Amber followed along behind.
Suzerain Torl left his tent when the dawn was still grey, the sun nothing more than a glimmer beyond the horizon. The camp was unnaturally quiet, even though it was early. As he looked around he saw a few fires being revived, but there were few men about. He had been pushing them hard for the last few weeks, but fatigue was not the only reason for the heavy silence. It was a good thing that Lord Isak had kept his distance, for there was quite enough death after nightfall already.
To his left Torl could see the fires of Lord Isak’s army. One of his aides had jokingly described it as the Farlan’s Temporal Army. Crusade was not a word the clerics had liked; for all their venom and spite, they had insisted on more palatable terms: Soldiers of the Gods, Defenders of the Faith, even Spiritual Envoys; every cult and faction had a different name, and each had a different idea of their goal. It left as bitter a taste in Torl’s mouth as their insistence on consultation in everything, even logistics.
‘My Lord Suzerain,’ called Lieutenant Zaler as he hurried over, ‘good morning, sir.’
‘Is it?’ Torl growled. ‘It’s hard to tell.’
Zaler hesitated. ‘Ah, which, my Lord?’ He was a young man, the nephew of Torl’s wife’s cousin, and still oddly earnest despite having spent more than a year as Torl’s aide. He was short and slim - he would never be much of a fighter - so Zaler tried to make up for it by being unfailingly helpful and efficient. Unfortunately, he lacked a soldier’s common sense, and had not yet developed a soldier’s cynicism.
‘Good or morning?’ Zaler repeated anxiously.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Lieutenant,’ Torl said, exasperated.
‘Sorry, sir. Shall I sound the reveille?’
Torl nodded, then realised from Zaler’s expression he was once again screwing up his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He guessed he was looking as washed-out and old as he felt. A camp bed was no substitute for the huge feather mattress in the master bedroom of Koan Manor, his principal home. Though he was well used to campaigning, the years had suddenly caught up with him.
Zaler signalled the suzerain’s bugler, who saluted sharply and raised his horn, producing a sharp flurry of notes that brought groans from all around even before the regimental buglers picked up the call and sounded it in all directions. Within seconds the notes echoed back from the other camp as General Lahk roused his own troops.
Torl looked down the rows of tents: his troops remained neat and disciplined, while the penitent legions were becoming increasingly ragged and disorganised. That meant the priests’ men were not reaching camp before the light failed - but the only response the clerics had was to flog the slowest companies, which served only to make matters worse.
‘Sir, should I fetch a healer? You look exhausted,’ Zaler asked, sounding worried.
Torl shook his head. ‘It’s just fatigue. I can’t have the men see the healer attend me two mornings in a row, it would send out the wrong m
essage.’
‘My Lord, are you sure? Your face is awfully pale.’
Torl saw the anxiety in Zaler’s face and reconsidered for a moment; the young man was not one to push things unnecessarily, and in truth his hauberk felt as heavy as full armour this morning. ‘Men won’t fight for a cosseted fool, Zaler,’ he said after a moment.
‘Sir, no man in the army would ever think that way. The fact of the matter is that you’re twenty summers older than most of us, and you’ve told me before that a general is more important than any of his troops. Your own words, sir; a general must look after himself. Illness or exhaustion means poor decisions and those cost lives.’
Torl scowled at his aide. Perhaps the boy’s not entirely useless after all. ‘This is the time you choose to demonstrate that you do listen? When you’re contradicting a general in the field?’
Zaler winced, but he didn’t back down. ‘You were most specific on the duties of a general’s aide.’
‘If it means you leave me alone, fetch the damn healer—’ Torl paused. ‘No, first tell me if there was trouble last night.’
‘I’m afraid so, but we appear to have come out on top again.’
‘Gods, we march to war while fighting with ourselves,’ Torl sighed, sinking down into his campaign chair and accepting a bowl of tea from his page. He cupped it in his hands and as he sipped the hot liquid, the furrows on his brow softened slightly. ‘Takes longer each year to get the morning chill out of my bones,’ he said to himself before looking up. ‘Is Tiniq here?’
Zaler nodded and waved over General Lahk’s twin brother. He was an Ascetite - a soldier whose latent magical abilities had never developed properly, but who was nevertheless gifted beyond normal standards. Lesarl had seconded him from Isak’s personal guard to help Suzerain Torl deal with the more unfriendly clerics.
Thus far there had been two direct attempts on Torl’s life, and most nights had seen violence of some sort, but the Chief Steward’s agents were more than a match for the mercenaries trying to eliminate opposition to the cults’ control. Tiniq himself now slept in the baggage carts during the day so he could be awake all night.
‘Suzerain Torl,’ Tiniq acknowledged, walking over briskly. His left arm was bandaged, but it didn’t seem to be bothering him much.
For the twin of a white-eye - an impossible feat, so every doctor would claim - Tiniq was far from remarkable to behold. The former ranger was of average height and build, and his eyes were normal. The only apparent skill he had was that of fading into the background wherever he went. Other differences became clear when one found out he was only five years younger than Torl, and saw his speed when a priest of Nartis had tried to murder the suzerain.
‘What happened to your arm?’ Torl asked, grumpily noting that one of them wasn’t feeling his age that morning. There was an unnerving gleam in Tiniq’s eye. For a man uncomfortable with being the centre of attention, he was unusually energised by the night’s excitement.
‘Assassins tried to take us out,’ he announced. ‘Nothing like a bit of recognition, eh? We picked up a team heading for the Saroc section; assumed they were looking to kill Colonel Medah.’
‘And they ambushed you?’
‘Tried to, but they didn’t notice Leshi and Shinir ghosting along behind us.’
‘Prisoners?’
Tiniq shifted his feet. ‘Ardela got a little over-excited.’
‘Ardela? The shaven-headed hellcat?’
‘That’s the one,’ Tiniq agreed, grinning wholeheartedly. ‘It turns out she’s got a real problem with anyone attached to Nartis. Once she saw they were penitents of Nartis she just went berserk.’ He saw the expression on Suzerain Torl’s face. ‘My Lord, I’m sorry; I’d never met the woman until the day we left Tirah. I had no idea she was as mad as that.’
Raised voices not far off interrupted their conversation and they all turned to watch a party of men approach. Suzerain Torl’s hurscals reached for their weapons.
Torl looked past his men and spotted the massive figure swathed in white at the centre of the group of priests. ‘Gods, that’s all I need,’ he muttered before raising his voice. ‘Sir Dahten, stand your men down.’
A grey-haired hurscal turned to the suzerain and gave him a pained expression. Torl ignored it, so Sir Dahten growled an order to the rest of the bodyguard. None of them dropped their weapons, but they stood less belligerently as the breaking of camp went on around them.
‘Chalat, good morning,’ Torl called out. The Chetse white-eye didn’t immediately respond. His attention appeared to be focused on the other army’s camp in the distance. Torl knelt and offered his sword hilt, the Farlan custom. He had not met the former ruler of the Chetse before this campaign, but there were stories aplenty. His appetites were legendary, as was his remarkable physical prowess, but it appeared some of the stories would have to be revised.
‘Torl, your men are not performing the morning devotionals.’ Chalat said at last, his gaze moving over the assembled hurscals before settling on the suzerain. ‘Their lack of piety is a concern for us all. All success depends on the blessing of the Gods.’
Chalat was as tall as General Lahk, but far more heavily built than any Farlan. His forearms were as thick as a man’s thigh - his recent fasting had done little to reduce them - but where Chalat had once been famously barrel-shaped, now his belly had reduced and he tapered dramatically below his enormous rib-cage, the new shape highlighted by the robe he wore tied at the waist by a length of rope. His face was gaunt, and he had dark rings under his eyes. His hair was silvery grey, rare for a white-eye. Though Chalat had lived far longer than a normal human, until the summer it had been the normal Chetse light brown.
‘I do not question their piety, Chalat,’ Torl said in a strained voice, ‘which cannot be said for some of those who follow you like carrion crows.’
The crows behind fluttered their feathers angrily, but Chalat stilled them with a raised finger. His face showed no emotion - he was at peace with the Land and secure in his purpose. For Suzerain Torl, father to a white-eye and Lord Bahl’s confidant for many years, it was a worrying sight. No white-eye at the centre of an army should look that way; it went against everything that drove them.
‘They are moths, not crows, and they are flocking to my light,’ Chalat intoned solemnly. On his back he still wore the great broadsword he had been given when he became the Fire God’s Chosen all those years ago. The Bloodrose amulet that had accompanied it, however, he had given away before leaving Lomin. Torl had laughed when he first heard that, refusing to believe any white-eye would give away an artefact of such power, but Chalat really had: he had been irrevocably changed.
‘A white-eye no more,’ Torl remembered Chalat saying the day he joined them, ‘a lord no more, but envoy of the Gods.’
That’s too close to ‘prophet’ for my liking, and everyone knows they’re all mad. Do you think faith will turn spears? he wondered to himself.
‘Moths are brainless creatures, soon consumed by the flame,’ Torl responded.
Chalat nodded slowly, clearly interested only in the glory itself and not the effect it might have. ‘The army must perform the devotionals each morning, the officers alongside their men. The priests shall oversee them and instruct them in the ways of the Gods. There is talk of the godless among us, of creatures that sleep during the day and stalk the camp at night.’
Instruct them in the ways of the Gods? I can just imagine what that will mean. Do they really think men will stand by and watch their friends be dragged off?
Torl looked at the priests lingering in the Chetse’s shadow, seeing if he recognised any - they changed regularly, which pointed to a savage struggle for supremacy within the clerics of the crusade. Two were priests of Tsatach, still of fighting age, who Chalat had taken as his disciples. The rest were predominantly a mixture from the temples of Nartis and Death, although today there were representatives of Belarannar, Vrest and Vasle in attendance.
‘To make
the men perform the devotionals en masse would delay us by an hour each day,’ Torl protested, ‘and that gives the enemy greater time to detect us and prepare.’
‘You claim your mages and scryers hide us from his sight. Is this not true?’
‘I make no promises; the Chosen of Larat may prove too strong for our mages.’ Now you have a use for them? Yesterday you wanted me to hang the lot as heretics, even as they told us where the Menin were!
‘In that case they are of no use to us,’ Chalat replied simply. ‘They shall stand before a Morality Tribunal and account for themselves.’
Torl bowed in what he hoped would look a conciliatory manner. ‘I’m afraid they cannot. Lord Isak has already ordered all mages to his army. After the deaths two nights past, he recalled all those with college contracts.’
‘They are under my command,’ Chalat said, for the first time actually focusing properly on Torl. A spark of the white-eye he had once been flickered in his eyes. ‘They are tools of the Gods, to do with as I see fit. Tell the boy to send them back.’
‘As you wish,’ Torl said, amazed at Chalat’s behaviour. The white-eye could not conceive that his order would be refused. Presumably he expected Lord Isak would meekly comply.
The Morality Tribunals were becoming increasingly violent; men were being flogged, sometimes to death, before the sitting priests to obtain confessions, but it was those who survived that Torl felt sorry for. Forced to admit their guilt, denounce their friends and punish their comrades, then ordered to receive ‘correction’ - Torl wasn’t sure those sentenced to death weren’t luckier. He had found himself ordering Tiniq to kill to save men from this madness, which was being repeated day after day.
‘We are close to the enemy; I can smell their heresy on the wind,’ Chalat said, interrupting Torl’s grim thoughts.
‘We will ride in battle-order this morning,’ Torl agreed. ‘In four days’ hard ride we should have sight of Blackfang. My latest reports have Lord Styrax’s forces to be encamped outside Akell.’
