by Tom Lloyd
‘Well, Salen? You’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks now. Time to make your move.’
The Chosen of Larat jerked into action, his hand darting into his pocket as he reached for the energy around him - and astonishment flashed across his face as he grasped nothing, the expected flow of power inexplicably absent to his touch. Instead, it was surging to the Skull fused to Styrax’s armour.
‘What?’ Salen whispered in confusion.
Styrax saw the white-eye was still open to the absent energies in the air, but he was no longer searching for the tang of magic. The path was laid, the energies inside him screaming to be released - with a gasping shudder, he let the torrent course through his body and surge towards Salen, who rocked back on his heels, flailing wildly, as if he were being physically overcome by the raging deluge. With the Skull, Styrax had barely been able to contain the power he’d stolen; now, as he reversed the flow, his enemy screamed hideously and writhed in agony as the rampant flood of energy burned through every nerve and blood vessel in his body.
The Lord of the Hidden Tower collapsed, still convulsing, and the patchwork robe burst into pyrotechnic flames, the colours searing through Styrax’s closed eyelids. He shielded his face with his hands, but still flinched as the amulets on Salen’s robe exploded into bright white light.
Wind whipped across his body and Styrax jerked away as a piece of stone hit the thumbnail of his exposed hand. The night air grew suddenly close around him, pressing tight against his throat. Styrax forced his arms down by his sides and rested one hand on his sword hilt as he recognised the presence of the Gods. He would not let them see him reeling, not even if he were dying.
A profound silence fell on the chamber. Styrax opened his eyes to see just a charred pile of bones where Salen had been lying, and darkness all around. As he watched, the harsh shadows softened; Styrax imagined Death stalking back into the night, dragging Salen’s scorched and pitted soul along behind him.
A sound came distantly, faint against the wind running through the city streets. Styrax listened closely, trying to identify it. For a moment he was puzzled, then he recognised Larat’s hollow chuckle drifting through the night. Lord Salen’s patron God was obviously amused at the irony of his Chosen’s death. The white-eye grimaced. Salen’s deranged indifference to life reflected his God’s, and Styrax did not understand men like that, men who lived their own lives as little more than pale reflections of their God.
Styrax turned at last and moved briskly to join his guards below. He trotted down the winding steps until he reached the gate where General Gaur waited with the horses and a wretched-looking messenger. There were more deaths to come this night, more blood to spill into Thotel’s ever-thirsty earth.
He drew his sword and stepped out into the pale moonlight.
CHAPTER 8
‘My name is Mikiss, my Lord, Army Messenger Koden Mikiss.’ He met Styrax’s gaze for a brief moment, then lowered his eyes again. His horse, surrounded by muscular cavalry horses made even more bulky by their armour, looked fragile, and added to the picture of misery that was the exhausted, frightened messenger.
Styrax smiled inwardly. He would surprise a man with unexpected mercy more than once tonight.
‘Come. We must ride,’ he said, and his party set off at a brisk canter through the empty streets of Thotel. The looming stoneduns dotted around the plain cast huge black shadows over the smaller buildings set in long, wide avenues. The single cliff of the river-valley reached away to their left, the quartz adorning ancient shrines set into the cliff-face sparkling where it caught lamplight or moonlight.
‘You have been carrying all of Salen’s messages,’ Styrax said, turning his attention back to Mikiss. It was not a question.
‘Not all, my Lord, but many.’ Mikiss sounded resigned to his inevitable fate; he had been expecting a sharp blade across the throat from the moment he recognised the general.
‘Then it is fortunate for you that I noticed an enchantment compelling you,’ Styrax said calmly, ‘or I would have been forced to conclude you were a traitor.’
Mikiss looked up, clearly startled by the word ‘traitor’. He cut a strange figure, with the red-dyed skullcap that marked him out as a member of the messenger corps and an over-large grey cloak. The brass vambrace was ceremonial; he wore no other armour.
No doubt he is a competent messenger, thought Styrax, or Salen would not have used him. The harried trepidation on Mikiss’ pallid face looked to be a permanent feature. Perhaps his family had bought the young man a commission as a messenger because he’d hardly survive a week in command of a squad, let alone a company of men. It appeared that he had not yet realised he was not for the immediate chop.
‘I’m showing clemency, man.’ He brushed away stammered thanks and went on. ‘Where is Quistal? Can I assume he’s waiting for me to return to the Gate of Three Suns before making his move?’
Mikiss nodded. ‘His troops are camped on the Plain of Pillars and Salen’s personal troops are in the sunken orchards. Where the coterie is, I don’t know.’
General Gaur turned towards Styrax with a questioning look; the white-eye shook his head. The two often had little need of words, for they had been something like friends for many years now.
‘They are of no consequence,’ Styrax said out loud. ‘Larim should have killed them all by now. The coterie will have felt their master’s death.’ He fell silent, thinking of the ground where they would have to fight. The Gate of Three Suns was a particularly remarkable construction. The massive stone wall was strung across a thousand yards of flat ground between a stonedun and a long rocky plateau. The three circular gates set into it served as the main passages in and out of the city. His brief inspection earlier had suggested that the wall was straightforward engineering, not magic.
The sophisticated irrigation of the sunken orchards had been his second surprise that day - this was the desert, for pity’s sake. Styrax hadn’t expected the Chetse to show such ingenuity, but there was no denying the enormous skill involved. He decided he was right to seek the trust of the tribe; clearly there were remarkable men within the wild, unwashed masses.
‘Before we discuss matters with Quistal, we have an errand to run,’ Styrax announced to the unit in general.
‘An errand?’ echoed Kohrad. The young white-eye’s voice sounded overly loud in the silent streets.
His words prompted a growled response from General Gaur. ‘Keep your voice down; we don’t want to run into a patrol if we can help it. Salen made sure all the night patrols were his own men. We don’t need word to get back to the Plain of Pillars before we’re ready.’
‘An errand,’ confirmed Styrax. ‘Mikiss, where is General Dev being held?’
The messenger blinked in surprise. ‘The commander of the Lion Guard? He’s at his family’s stonedun, under guard. He’d been injured before the battle and couldn’t be moved safely. Lord Salen wanted to make sure the general was alive for execution.’
‘I’m sure he did. Take us there.’
‘Father-‘ Kohrad started before Styrax raised a hand.
‘No questions - have faith.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Styrax couldn’t see his son’s face, which was obscured by the red-stained steel helm. It was impossible to tell if Kohrad was seething underneath; his reply had been crisp and level, but meant little. The boy was learning to hide his emotions even as his grip on sanity appeared to be weakening.
‘Thank you,’ Styrax said. ‘Mikiss, is the stonedun guarded by Salen’s men?’
‘I believe so, my Lord.’
‘Right, you lead the way. We’ll follow, like troops under your orders. If any of the guards work out we’re hostile, you will break left and get clear. If any run once we reveal ourselves, you and your elegant horse are responsible for chasing them down. Gaur, we do this quietly and efficiently.’ He was watching Kohrad as he spoke and fancied he saw a slight twitch of the shoulder as his son recognised who exactly needed to
be reminded.
‘Now if any of you can actually remember how to ride in formation: close order, two columns, weapons hidden.’ The veterans accompanying Styrax all chuckled. They might be elite troops, they might not have traveled in close rank for years, but no soldier forgot their first drills. Quickly they opened up for Mikiss to reach the front, then lined up behind Styrax and Kohrad. The slither of steel indicated they were ready for the trouble to come.
‘Creeping like a thief through the night,’ Styrax commented abruptly, ‘in a city I control, hiding from troops from my own army. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy this.’ his words faded on the light breeze. A bat darted over their heads, startling Mikiss, who shrank down in his saddle.
Styrax clapped a hand on Kohrad’s armoured shoulder and smiled at the night.
Fifteen minutes later, General Dev’s family stonedun came into view. It was a tall, roughly cylindrical block of granite eighty feet high, pocked with squares that indicated window holes. Lights flickered in the windows on the upper levels, but the lowest two were dark. There was a blazing fire at the gate that illuminated the guards nicely.
‘Idiots,’ growled Gaur. ‘Weeks of trouble in the city and yet still they make themselves easy targets for anyone with a bow.’
‘Salen’s best troops are waiting for us at the Gate of the Three Suns. With so many troops scattered around the city, I guess they’ll have expected a quiet night here.’
Kohrad’s reply elicited only a curt nod; General Gaur was rigorous in his duty and would naturally expect every Menin soldier to follow the regulations, whether they were troops of the line or quartermaster clerks, on duty or off.
The gate, an oval aperture ten feet high, served as the mouth for the lion’s head carved into the rock. It stood half open. A few soldiers squatted by the fire, one slowly turning a spit with the carcass of a goat speared on it. As the horsemen approached, another soldier came through the open side of the gate. He paused and peered out into the gloom, then barked at the men around the fire. They jumped up, scrambling for their weapons. Sparks scattered as someone kicked one of the logs and spread a tongue of fiery shards over the stone steps. Styrax grimaced as he heard a sound escape Kohrad’s lips.
Mikiss responded by pulling back his sleeve once again and holding his arm up high. Whether they could see the brass vambrace glinting in the firelight was hard to judge, but they all recognised the gesture. None of the soldiers drew a bow or nocked an arrow, but they did shuffle into some semblance of order, in case Mikiss turned out to be someone important.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ called the man who’d spotted them first. His voice was rough, his accent Menin.
‘You have a message for General Dev,’ murmured Styrax. Mikiss repeated the words.
‘Piss on your message,’ the man shouted back, his hand creeping to his sword as the party continued closer. Styrax guessed he was the company lieutenant. ‘Lord Salen said we were to admit no one, not even Lord Styrax himself, without word from the Adepts of Larat in advance.’
They were less than forty yards away. The soldiers began to drift forward instinctively; one swung an axe up onto his shoulder. Styrax could make out their uniforms now; the white tunics with multicoloured stripes on each sleeve identified them as Guards of the Hidden Tower, Salen’s personal legions. They were rightly feared: they were loyal enough to carry out any orders without question, and the Adepts of Larat put less value on human life than a troll would. Even if they were the dregs of the legion, trusted only to stand guard here while the rest fought elsewhere, they would be tough enough - for most soldiers, that was.
‘I have permission. Lord Salen himself sent me with a message. I have it here in my bag.’ Mikiss’ voice sounded uncertain, but as the horsemen closed, the guards could see clearly that he was a real army messenger.
‘Leave your guards and approach.’
‘Leave my guards?’
‘That’s what I said. Stop where you are and dismount. Approach on foot.’
‘That’s enough, I think,’ muttered Styrax. ‘Mikiss, break off.’
The messenger wheeled his horse sharply to the left. For a moment the soldiers followed him with their eyes. Styrax kicked his spurs into the flanks of his horse and as he drew Kobra, startled faces flashed back to him. He saw recognition blossom in the eyes of the lieutenant. Kohrad howled at his side as they raced together into the group of men. The first man to die didn’t even raise his weapon as Styrax’s wide fanged blade cut down. His men were the best of the Cheme Legion; they were close on his heels, their long-handled axes hacking down at the lightly armoured infantry, moving in perfect harmony as they had a hundred times in the past.
Those with more sense fled into the stonedun, desperately trying to pull the heavy door closed behind them, but Kohrad slipped from his saddle and ran for the entrance himself. He threw his sword at the man trying to pull it shut, spearing him in a burst of yellow light, then leapt into the gap to stop the massive door on its inward swing. One man, seeing the white-eye had no sword, turned back and attacked him, but Kohrad dodged out of the way of the falling axe, then twisted back to grab the weapon, pulling the soldier off balance.
Kohrad shoved the door open again to disentangle his foot, then snapped a kick into the man’s ribs, knocking him over. A second soldier ran forward as Kohrad tugged the axe blade free and spun it upwards with a flourish to catch his attacker under the chin.
In a matter of seconds it was over and stillness returned. Styrax surveyed his troops and gave an approving nod. The Reavers were unparalleled throughout the Land, but most of them were white-eyes and they were actively encouraged to be wild. These Cheme troops were normal men - albeit many were far from normal - but discipline was as valuable as strength. He could trust these men to be swift and neat. Without an order spoken, they had dropped from their horses and started to drag the bodies inside. Styrax looked around and realised that Kohrad had disappeared. He opened his mouth to ask Gaur to fetch the unpredictable youth when the boy appeared again, sword drawn and dripping with blood.
‘The guardroom is clear,’ Kohrad announced in a low, level tone. Styrax nodded briskly. His son was making a great effort to remain in control, and he wouldn’t insult him by remarking on it.
‘Good. Major, stay here with the men. I doubt anyone will come; if they do, deal with the matter or pull back. Gaur, Kohrad, with me.’
The major nodded and unsheathed his dagger to cut the colourful robes from one of the dead men: they might as well look the part. Styrax left the man to it and swept through the door. Speed was of the essence now. The Third Army was waiting outside the city for the signal to attack. The longer they waited, the greater the likelihood that Salen’s troops would discover them, losing them the element of surprise. As he moved silently up the stone steps, he heard frightened whispers. Ahead of him was a sharp turn - anyone hearing the fight outside would no doubt be waiting there to see who came up the stairs. They would be expecting an assassination, a quick death in the night for the talismanic general instead of an execution that would likely spark a riot.
Styrax checked his pace as he reached the corner, in case an axe was going to be swung blind, then shot round it. A grunt of surprise preceded a heavy spear being thrust forward. Styrax, ready, grabbed the shaft and tugged hard, pulling the youth from the shadows. Gaur, close behind as always, slammed a hairy fist into the unprotected forearm holding the spear. The youth yelped and dropped the weapon, trying to scramble back until he realised the bestial general had him by the scruff of the neck.
‘You’ll do,’ muttered Styrax. He took the boy from Gaur and gave him a shake. Startled, fearful eyes stared up at the huge white-eye as the boy froze. ‘You understand me?’ Styrax demanded in Chetse.
The youth flinched then opened his mouth to speak. Unable to find words, he nodded hurriedly.
‘That was a foolish thing to do. Lord Salen would have used it as an excuse. Lucky for you that you just tried to run me thro
ugh instead of one of his men, wouldn’t you say?’ Styrax smelled an acrid smell rise up from the boy, who looked to be less than thirteen summers - too young to join the army, too young to have developed the muscle a Chetse warrior needed. He smiled and put the boy down, then removed his helm and let the boy see his face, instead of the unnervingly angelic aspect of Karkarn etched into the faceplate.
‘I want you to do something for me, boy,’ he said. ‘Did you hear what happened at the gate?’
The boy managed a nod.
‘That was us killing the men who’ve been guarding you. They were going to wait until dawn, and then kill the general. Are you related to General Dev?’
Again, he got a nod. In a dry rasp, the boy said, ‘He’s my great-uncle, sir.’
Styrax thought it sounded strange to hear the Chetse tongue in a high girlish voice. It sounded lighter, more poetic than he’d suspected - until now, he’d only heard it spoken by soldiers. ‘I thought as much. What’s your name, boy?’
‘Esech, sir.’
‘And you know who I am?’
The boy nodded, unable to say the words.
‘Esech, I gave no orders for the general to be killed, nor for many of the other things Lord Salen has done in the city since I’ve been gone. Do you know what I do to men who don’t follow orders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now tell me whether there are any more Menin in the stonedun.’
‘Only four, sir; two in Uncl-in the general’s chamber and two at the door.’
‘Thank you, Esech. We’re going to go and free your great-uncle now. I want to talk to him a while.’
‘You’re-Are you going to kill him?’
‘No, I’m not. You believe me, don’t you?’
