by Tom Lloyd
‘I can do it,’ she said finally. ‘I’m no soldier but I can organise the legions to bring this about. Do you have any competent Sisters at all I can add to my staff?’
Siala spread her hands helplessly. ‘Half of them have fled to Helrect, to be further from the Farlan - as though Helrect could stand if Scree fell - and of the rest, I despair. All I have is what are left of the Fysthrall, who are stretched thin enough already. The Third Army consists of our remaining Fysthrall troops’ soldiers, and I need every one of those.’
‘What about that new girl, Legana? She doesn’t look like a fool, and a pretty face is always useful to get soldiers to do what you tell them. Can I trust her?’
Again, Siala looked defeated. ‘I cannot say. If you want her, then take her. Can you trust her? She was working as a whore until I took control of the city and her pimp thought to make some money by selling her to us. A shame he didn’t understand the principles of the Circle a little better.’ That put the ghost of a smile on Siala’s face; the pimp had obviously found a squad of soldiers at his door, keen to explain how the Fysthrall thought women should be treated.
‘Then I will take her and deliver you an army as soon as I can,’ Zhia said brightly.
‘Good. You will find the mercenary captains based in the Dawn Barracks, where I can ensure their obedience. Recruit as many more as you can, just be sure their commanders are drawn from Scree’s nobility.’ Siala’s eyes narrowed. ‘There is only one ruler of Scree, so please do not forget that my agents will be keeping a careful eye on everything. And now, I have yet more city officials waiting with yet more requests. Please, send them in on your way out.’
Zhia gave a slight bow and left. Outside, the men stretched and smiled with relief, then trotted obediently into Siala’s room while Zhia walked to where Legana and Haipar were leaning on the banister of the stair, talking softly together. She beckoned to the pair and they followed her downstairs.
‘I need somewhere private,’ she told them, and Haipar nodded curtly and led the way to a secluded corner on the first floor.
Once Zhia was certain they were alone, she relaxed and turned to face her new aides. ‘Haipar, a pleasure to see you again, and alone, too.’
The Deneli tribeswoman smiled like a cat. ‘Erizol is outside the city, but I’m sure she’ll gladly return to see you.’
‘Don’t bother telling her; I really don’t need the irritation.’ She stopped herself baring her teeth; Erizol the Fireraiser brought out Zhia’s temper in a way that few could these days. Bane and his petty little crusade against vampires bored her, but there was something about Erizol’s very personal hatred that annoyed Zhia immeasurably.
‘I don’t doubt it, but, ah-‘ Haipar cocked her head towards Legana, who was watching the exchange with a puzzled expression on her face.
Zhia smiled. ‘Oh, don’t worry about Legana. She doesn’t pose any threat; no true member of the White Circle would be here under orders from a man.’
Legana stepped back, instinctively reaching for her dagger, but Zhia, moving faster than any human could, grabbed Legana’s wrist in an iron grip and pulled the woman close. Legana froze, trapped in Zhia’s gaze, until she blinked and let her expression soften. She released Legana’s wrist and pushed her back to beside Haipar.
‘Let’s not get dramatic here,’ Zhia said calmly. ‘I think we might yet become allies. What are you, a devotee of the Lady?’ Legana looked at Zhia and Haipar and nodded hesitantly, though she showed no fear now, only a flicker of apprehension. Zhia felt a small glow of satisfaction: Legana would indeed prove useful.
‘I thought as much. Your employer is Lesarl, the Chief Steward of the Farlan, yes? When you report to your master, please tell him that one day I will instruct him in the finer points of subtlety.’ She smiled. ‘Until then, you’re both my aides while I take charge of the army here and decide what I intend to do with it. Siala has just bitten off more than she can chew.’
‘Does this mean I’m the only genuine person here?’ beamed Haipar, her accent noticeably more refined than when she was in Siala’s office.
‘Well, shapeshifter,’ Zhia snapped, ‘I suggest you don’t spend too much time crowing about that - you’ve picked a poor employer this time, though I doubt you’ll have heard yet.’
‘About the White Circle? Please Zh-Apologies, Mistress Ostia, the entire city knows of it. They attacked Narkang and almost killed King Emin.’ Haipar shrugged, as though the news did not interest her one bit. ‘But I’m a mercenary, war is my trade and I go where they can afford to pay me. If that means going up against Narkang, so be it.’
‘But you would prefer to be alive at the end? What Scree doesn’t yet know is that the White Circle has made it clear their principal goal is to kill or capture the new Lord of the Farlan. Siala needs this army because she will soon be at war with the Farlan. Lord Isak is young and headstrong, and he now commands the largest army in the entire Land. I doubt he will be reluctant to use it.’
That wiped the smile from Haipar’s face. She’d been expecting the usual messy squabble, the sort of war that never quite flowers into anything too terrible but offers plenty of scope for profitable activities for her kind. Sitting across a poorly defended border from the largest army in the Land was not part of her plans. ‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked, a scowl on her face.
‘My business is my own,’ Zhia replied, ‘and I see no reason yet to discard an identity that has been useful. Things will need to be pretty desperate before I flee the White Circle, but I am quite confident that should it come to that, I would get out alive.’
Haipar had seen Zhia forced into a corner before, and if the Farlan did attack the city, there was no question: Haipar would want to be allied with Zhia. Raylin had no truck with loyalty and honour; you got what you paid for, and what you paid for were unstable tempers and barely controlled skills and talents.
‘So what now?’
‘Now, we have work to do.’
‘Work?’ Legana repeated, finding her voice at last. ‘You’re going to follow Siala’s orders?’
‘Certainly, since that was exactly what I had hoped for. She wants me to liaise with her armies to get them trained and give her a chance against the Farlan - at the moment she has a rabble: raw recruits, mercenaries of varying talent, unblooded noblemen and Raylin of all shades. A rabble will be useless, but a rabble they will stay unless someone takes control. That means I need to find officers, ensure each regiment has some experienced staff, and get whatever Raylin we have onto the command staff. You Raylin can smell trouble coming. Haipar, your first duty will be to persuade the Jesters to sell me a few of their acolytes, half a dozen, if possible, for there’s more than just training to do.’
Haipar gave a mock curtsey. ‘Smelling trouble is part of our job; we are mercenaries, after all.’
‘I know, but it’s an innate sense sometimes. You mentioned Erizol the Fireraiser; is Matak Snakefang traveling with you too? Did one of you suggest Scree for any particular reason?’
‘I-‘ Haipar looked confused at the question. She smoothed her white-grey hair away from her tanned face. ‘I don’t think so. We decided it was time to hit the road again, and it took us this way. We didn’t know there were other Raylin here until we reached Braban, the village where I left the others. We’d been joined by Tachos Ironskin and some woman I didn’t know called Flitter, and city guards tend to get over-excited when they see more than a couple of us together, so I came to speak for us all.’
‘The fact that so many are congregating in Scree is important, I think - your kind are as bad as white-eyes when it comes to tolerating the presence of your own. There’s something in the air here, a storm brewing. I intend to find out what that is, and be ready when it comes.’ Her expression darkened. ‘When I see a wandering minstrel wearing an augury chain, it makes me think you Raylin might have got it right when you smelled trouble.’
CHAPTER 7
In the burnished light of evening Lo
rd Salen looked down over the valleys and ravines that served as streets for the great city of Thotel. At this distance the pickets and patrols that kept the conquered inhabitants under control were silent, the torches and guard-fires little more than pinpricks of light. Salen enjoyed the sense of standing above the rest of humanity. Here, above the darkness of the streets, a trace of sunlight still remained. For a dizzying moment it felt like he stood on the peak of a mountain, his body light enough to float away into the abyss below.
He shook off the feeling and turned his attention back to Thotel, a city quite unlike any Menin city. The hollowed-out rock formations that the Chetse called stoneduns were massive weathered chunks of granite scattered around this deep valley like a giant’s discarded toys. Wind and water had eroded the softer stone to expose these gigantic boulders, then the Chetse had chipped and scraped until the rocks were riddled with tunnels and living chambers. The mud-brick houses that surrounded them looked like worm-castings in comparison.
Each stonedun had a clan name carved into the rock, identifying it as a community, a fortress in its own right. Some clans had refused to surrender to the Menin, believing their barred gates would hold them safe through a siege …
Lord Salen was leaning out of an open window at the highest point of one such stonedun. The rough rock ledge felt curiously pleasant against his palms, as though the wall still resisted, long after the gates had been torn open and the inhabitants slaughtered.
A brass-bound, wax-stoppered bottle hanging on a long golden chain from his neck chinked delicately against the stone and he pulled it up and slipped it into one of the many pockets of his patchwork robe. He was small for a white-eye, but he was the Chosen of Larat and Lord of the Hidden Tower, and his mind was sharper than his blade. He wore no armour and carried only a long dagger, but years of study had armed him with weapons few soldiers would even understand. Though the Menin were Karkarn’s chosen people - the War God’s own - Salen had always preferred the controlled ways of Larat to Karkarn’s brutal strength. In Lord Styrax’s absence, he had quietened this city with mere words. When he stirred himself to action, the very bedrock of Thotel would tremble.
‘Lord Salen?’ The messenger coughed uncomfortably, trying not to look too hard at the charms and amulets set into each of the brightly coloured fragments of cloth. Some made his eyes water, writhing to avoid his gaze; others, of tarnished metals, had gems that sparkled too brightly in their pitted settings. A few were impossible to make out in the gloom. Those were the one Mikiss found his eyes drawn to the most - he was glad that he couldn’t discern any details.
The mage didn’t move.
‘My Lord, a message from Larim,’ Mikiss repeated.
‘The maggots are quiet tonight.’
‘My Lord?’
‘The Chetse. Don’t you think they live like maggots, Mikiss? Tunneling their way through these great stones; riddling these ancient forms with holes. There’s been violence every night since we took the city, but tonight is quiet. Perhaps even maggots have primitive senses, enough to smell something in the air.’
‘I wouldn’t know, Lord. One of the patrols killed some youths breaking curfew - one was carrying a weapon, so they were all executed, according to your standing orders.’
‘And the benefit of those orders is now plain to see: I am enjoying the peace it has brought to the city this evening. These people can only be cowed; a shame Styrax could not see that.’ The white-eye leaned over the balcony and looked directly down. Mikiss could hear the man’s rings scrape on the stone as he watched a ripple run though Salen’s robe, though there was no hint of any breeze.
Ah, the message, my Lord?’ Mikiss said again, trying to hide the apprehension in his voice. ‘Lord Larim has seen the wyvern approaching. Lord Styrax will be here very soon.’
‘Good. I’ve been waiting for him. I wonder what he’s been up to; what can have taken so long.’ Salen’s aristocratic voice was measured and calm, but Mikiss still found it sinister and shivered - he imagined a lizard would speak that way. Larat’s adepts were all like that: their words were measured, whispery, their eyes were clinical and inhuman. He knew treachery was planned, and he was beginning to feel as if the foulness in the messages he’d carried over the last few weeks had seeped out to infect him with the poison of Larat’s influence. A long-forgotten sense of duty, of honour, was awakening, crying for action, but he had felt Salen’s gaze on him constantly over the last week and he could hardly eat or sleep with that unnatural presence sitting cold and heavy at the edges of his mind. The weight of exhaustion dragged at his heels.
‘Go to Quistal; tell him to be ready to welcome our lord.’
‘I-‘ He stopped suddenly.
Salen turned around, slowly. His thin face tightened. ‘You have something to add?’ One manicured nail tapped at the ivory hilt of his dagger, the other hand played with something in a pocket. Mikiss knew enough of the adepts of Larat to fear what was hidden there.
He couldn’t bear those unblinking white eyes. He looked down at the floor and asked, ‘Do you wish me to find Lord Kohrad and General Gaur?’ He knew the mage wouldn’t want his lord’s son and most loyal subject alerted, but it was as close to a protest as Mikiss could manage.
Salen didn’t bother even showing his contempt. ‘They are out of the city with the Third Army. I am quite sure they will join Lord Styrax soon enough.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’ Mikiss fled, stumbling on the uneven floor of the stonedun’s tunnels. Torches flickered weakly at each turn, barely sufficient to light the roughly hewn stone. As he descended the steep stairway to the main gate Mikiss felt a sudden breeze rush up past him, the tunnel channelling the unexpected wind. He flinched down, hands over his face, but was too slow to prevent the fine sand that lined the floor getting in his eyes. Cursing, he slowed, trying to blink the grit away.
At the ruined remains of the massive main gates, Mikiss saw a party of horsemen, one of the night patrols that kept the curfew, returning with a report for Salen’s staff. A soldier stood facing away from him on the high steps below the gate. Mikiss smothered his jangling fears and walked out from the shadows, blinking furiously and tugging at his sleeve, which had snagged on the vambrace on his left arm.
The soldier on the steps gave a start at the sound of footsteps and spun around, reaching for the axe at his belt. Untangling his sleeve, Mikiss revealed the brass vambrace that had his messenger warrant inscribed in deep Menin glyphs.
Something about the soldiers puzzled him. Mikiss squinted until he was able to read the painted glyphs on one man’s shoulder-plate: Cheme 3rd Legion. The Cheme legion? Weren’t they were part of the Third Army?
‘Hold it there, messenger,’ growled the man bearing the furled unit banner, ‘and where are you bound this fine evening?’ The banner-man, swathed entirely in a long grey cloak, pushed back his hood to reveal bristling fur and long tusks. Mikiss froze; it was not a man at all but General Gaur. Oh Gods.
The air was dry and light. The soft taste of the southern plains tickled the back of his throat as he brushed past the rough stonedun walls. He noticed the forced silence: a few weeks of Salen’s rule had changed the atmosphere of Thotel completely. The Chosen of Larat had done exactly as expected, performing one last act of service, however unwittingly, for the lord he had plotted against for years.
Here inside the stoneduns, Styrax could feel the pain of those slaughtered here, the entire extended family. Salen would not have noticed the voices, nor been able to sense the tears, the loss, echoing around the bloodstained tunnels. Rusty lines streaked the steps and sloping walls where blood and excrement had run down towards the deep heart of the stonedun.
He ran his stained fingernails over the rough-hewn surface. As ever, his left hand was ungloved. He almost savoured the discomfort of his damaged skin. The duel with Koezh Vukotic had left the feeling impaired in his pale and scarred hand, but it had been replaced with a less worldly sensation. He couldn’t feel the evening breeze on his
skin, but it sang when power flowed through his body. Right now, the sensation was one of needles being pushed into the back of his hand.
He could feel the currents of magic running through the city, where both Menin and Chetse mages were engaged in a variety of activities. He wondered what else was busy in the city that night, what other treachery waited in Thotel’s dark streets. He thought of the daemon that had warned him of Salen’s betrayal, the shadow that lingered on the edge of sight. It had spoken to him in the desert as he left his forces and went after Lord Bahl. It claimed to have nothing but contempt for its own kind, but who could tell, in truth? Was it watching him now, waiting to exploit events as they unfolded for its own purpose?
His footsteps silent, his black armour melting into the shadows, Styrax felt insubstantial, temporary, nothing but a memory when compared to the solid, immovable stone that encased him. As he reached the high chamber he stopped and waited, buoyed by the accumulating power inside him. After a while he decided the time had come. He scuffed the sole of his boot lightly on the ground.
The figure up ahead didn’t move, but Styrax knew he had been heard.
After a longer pause, Salen asked, ‘Well, Mikiss, what do you want now?’
Styrax remained still, drawing more power into the Skull at his chest as he watched Salen’s back. He wanted the man to have time to appreciate the foolishness of his treachery, to understand how he had been anticipated every step of the way, and that he had been permitted his childish delusion of supremacy - before it was all stripped away.
Salen’s long robe of reds and yellows and blues, the seams stitched in silver and gold, moved a little in what little breeze reached the tower. ‘Mikiss?’ As he turned around, his expression of anger fell away.
Styrax smiled. His white hand burned savagely, every crease in his skin alive with sensation as the stored magic howled to be loose. He was glad of the pain; it reminded him of his mortality as much as his vast strength. He believed in the need for balance in all things - his son Kohrad was not the only person he tried to drum this into - so perhaps a demonstration would succeed where wise words had not.
