by Tom Lloyd
Shadows rise and faithful fall,
The readers sing and the lady comes with ashes in her hair and secrets in her hand …
Those words had echoed through Gort’s dreams for many years, not just because of the strange atmosphere that night, but also because of the ghastly look on his father’s face as he spoke. He had never seen that side of his father again.
He shook the mood from him; this wasn’t the time to indulge in childish fears. He needed to look strong for his men, both noble and common-born alike. His aide had the right idea: despite the sweltering conditions, Lieutenant Mehar looked positively resplendent in his formal armour. As an aide to a general of the Knights of the Temples, he had to stand out among the soldiery, so his brass-plated cuirass, vambraces and greaves were all spotless and shining.
Look at him, the general thought, another sign of how the order has lost its way. He must dress that exact same way every day he is on duty, while I go into battle wearing antiquated scale-mail because the Codex of Ordinance dictates it. He shook his head. And my second-in-command could order me flogged if I decided to wear a cuirass. We really have lost our way in this Land; I hope Lord Isak can restore us to the true path. He sighed and turned back to the young man.
‘What do the scouts say, Lieutenant?’
‘The remaining mercenary armies are marching on the southern gate of the city, General.’
Gort caught the attention of his second-in-command, General Chotech, and beckoned. The Chetse dismissed the men he’d been talking to and hurried over.
‘General, you should hear this; the mercenaries are on their way to the Foxport. Lieutenant, what was their order?’
‘I’m not sure, sir.’ The lieutenant coughed nervously. ‘The scouts were vague; they said the mercenaries had no order. I presume they meant both armies were attacking.’
‘They’re attacking?’ General Chotech spluttered. ‘Has everyone in this damned place gone insane?’
‘It appears that way,’ Gort said levelly, ‘but I would remind you, Lieutenant, not to interpret what you expect men of the line to mean from what they say; soldiers may be an excitable breed, but scouts tend to be veterans and most of ‘em have a modicum of sense.’ He sighed as the chastised aide nodded dumbly. ‘However, you could be correct; if they were marching as reinforcements for the city garrisons, one would expect a little more order. What the locals have told us appears to be true; the people of Scree have forsaken sanity and the Gods. They turn on each other like animals.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’ General Chotech asked.
Gort turned to his aide. ‘Lieutenant, you are dismissed. If Major Ortof-Greyl has returned, please send him to us.’
The lieutenant gave a curt bow and left, looking unhappy at being ordered away.
Gort leaned closer to the Chetse. ‘I believe we must also march on the city.’
‘If we become embroiled in that mess there’ll be no escaping until it’s finished,’ Chotech hissed.
‘I know.’ He scratched at his armpit as best he could though his scale-mail. Campaigning and an unremitting summer sun were not the best combination for an old man’s hygiene, but the bath he yearned for would be a disgraceful waste of water. ‘I don’t believe we have a choice. We are the Knights of the Temples and we have a clear duty.’
‘General, I understand your point,’ Chotech insisted, ‘but we have only six thousand soldiers here; Siala must have at least fifteen thousand to defend the walls, while we do not even know who’s commanding those two armies marching on the south. They might not be taking their orders from anyone!’
‘I agree. Whoever is leading them - and no matter what we’ve heard, I can’t believe the White Circle would be quite so foolish as to put Raylin in charge of whole legions - they must have decided it is time to salvage what booty they can, while something of Scree still remains. I can’t believe any mercenary would agree to march into a burning city to defend it.’
‘A move driven by desperation, then. Their supplies must have run out and their commander has realised to keep them together he must give a reason.’
‘Exactly, a move that could prove disastrous once they’re inside the city.’ General Gort broke off as he saw a man labouring through the gloom towards them: Major Ortof-Greyl was struggling to reach them with the aid of a crutch under his right shoulder. As he neared, they could see that his face was bloodied and his mail torn.
‘Gods, what happened, man?’ Gort exclaimed. ‘Did you speak to Lord Isak?’
‘No, sir,’ Ortof-Greyl replied, panting heavily. Lieutenant Mehar trailed behind the major, plainly confused. The aide, not privy to the secrets of their group, had no idea why the major had been sent to the Farlan Army camp in the first place. ‘I only got as far as the outriders.’
‘And they did this to you?’ Gort said, gesturing to the younger man’s head wound.
‘They did. I asked for an audience with Lord Isak and they refused outright; they wouldn’t even take me to their commanding officer. I’d gone ahead of my two guards and before they could make up the ground, the scouts had given me a kicking and ridden off.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘No sir, but I suspect Lord Isak is not with them,’ the major said, casting an uncomfortable glance at the lieutenant. ‘Their bluster was hiding something, I’m certain of it.’
‘Major, the scouts say the full complement of Palace Guard is with that army, and a large number of nobles and hurscals; surely the core of the Farlan Army would not be here without their lord? No, it must be a miscommunication; Lord Isak would not want his nobles to think that any sort of agreement had been made until he understands our motivations.’ He gave a dry laugh. And it’s not as though any Farlan noble would believe what had really taken place was a selfless act; they probably wouldn’t even understand the concept.’
‘Yes sir,’ the major replied with a short bow. The man clearly disagreed, but he knew when not to argue. ‘What are your orders?’
Gort looked at Chotech. As I was saying, we must not forget we are Knights of the Temples. Whether we succeed in bringing order to Scree or not, we cannot stand back and do nothing; you took the same oath as I did: “Defenders of the faith, a bond greater than blood or nation.” it is our duty to the Gods, and whether the citizens of Scree have abandoned the Gods or not, I will die before I do so.’
His second-in-command gave a heavy sigh and leaned over the map laid out in front of them. ‘You’re right, of course. Priests murdered on stage for the entertainment of the mob, and hunted down on the streets like dogs? We cannot allow this to continue. It’s only a matter of time before the Six Temples District is razed. Whatever evil is fuelling this madness, we cannot stand aside.’
‘Good; prepare the men. We will secure a section of the city and hold it. The New Barbican, I think - that’s the closest, according to our intelligence, and we don’t want to be moving any further through that city than we have to. Then a second area surrounding and protecting the Six Temples District. General Chotech, I doubt the garrison of the New Barbican is large, but it’s the strongest gate. I need you to prepare an assault that can take it before reinforcements arrive-‘
Gort broke off suddenly as a dull clang rang out. The three men looked up as a second sonorous peal echoed through the camp.
‘Call to stations?’ he wondered aloud as nearby groups of soldiers split up and marched off to their assembly grounds. From either side of his tent, half a dozen soldiers dressed in white-lacquered heavy armour rushed up with their swords drawn and fanned out around the general. They were his bodyguards, and they were reacting to the ponderous ringing of call to stations exactly as specified in the Codex of Ordinance. If it had been the furious clatter of the attack alarm, everyone in the camp would be reaching for their weapons.
‘Lieutenant, find out what’s going on,’ Gort called.
The lieutenant bobbed his head in acknowledgement and marched away, but before he could reach the lin
e of tents ringing the command tent, a young soldier - scarcely more than a boy, swamped in his studded jerkin - burst through.
‘General Gort, message from the advance scouts!’ the soldier yelled at the top of his voice. ‘The Farlan are advancing!’
Gort instinctively turned towards where the Farlan had been camped, but the fall of night concealed any dust trail or movement he might be able to see. He motioned for his bodyguards to let the boy through and forced himself to stand straight and calm while the youth fought to regain his breath.
‘Sir, the Farlan are moving towards the city in advance formation.’
‘Not towards us?’ Chotech blurted in surprise.
‘No, sir, towards the Autumn’s Arch gate.’ Once the young soldier had regained his composure he seemed to remember who he was now talking to. ‘The foot legion of the Ghosts are in front, ready to assault the gate, but the remainder are lined up in columns.’
‘Columns? They’re not expecting serious resistance then,’ Gort said. ‘But why are they attacking at all?’ He paused, then suddenly slammed his fist down onto the map-table. ‘Damn it, of course! Ortof-Greyl, you were absolutely right; Lord Isak isn’t with his troops, he’s already in the city. That’s why they’re not worried about assaulting the city, Lord Isak is waiting inside with a few elite squads to take them by surprise; it’s the only explanation.’
‘Your orders, sir?’ Chotech asked.
Gort was silent for a while, his face twisted into a scowl. ‘It makes no difference. We have no choice; we must march on the New Barbican and try once again to make it clear we are not Lord Isak’s enemies. General Chotech, take a party - and the major, if you’re up to riding, young man - and approach the Farlan. They won’t dare beat up a general. If they won’t take you to their commander, send them back with a message and return.’
‘And the message?’
‘That we are Knights of the Temples, sworn to protect holy ground from desecration. That we intend to march on the city and protect the temples. Our men will have orders to consider the Farlan allies against the common foe unless attacked and I ask that they send a deputation to us at their convenience.’
‘Yes sir.’ Chotech strode off towards his own tent where his horse was waiting, already saddled. Major Ortof-Greyl struggled along behind.
‘Lieutenant Mehar,’ General Gort snapped. The lieutenant jumped, wary of further rebuke, but the general was looking out over the heads of his army, towards the walls of Scree. ‘Get the men ready to attack.’
Set apart from the clank of steel and the urgent calling of men, he sat in the dark peace of an empty room, alone with thoughts that echoed the chaos outside. His head throbbed with the surging energies in the air: magic and the voices of the dying, the shrieks of the mad and their brutal desire to kill. He could smell it all; that desire he knew as well as the rage coursing through his body that left his hands quivering. He’d sought this place out in desperation, fleeing from the animal stirring inside as the badgering questions broke in a tidal wave over him. As the army had marched in through the gate, the nobles and officers had all crowded around him as soon as they could with a thousand questions and requests, all completely unaware of the effect Scree had had on him, or the news he’d just received.
Before him there were only bare floorboards, split and warped with age. A shutter clung grimly to the window frame by one last rusty hinge. A curtain hanging over the doorway was the same grey as the walls in the weak light. There was nothing to disturb or distract as he sat on the floor with his silver blade across his lap, listening to the ragged movement of breath through his tight throat. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heart beating, counting out the pauses between inhaling and exhaling, bringing the wild gasping once more under control, just as Carel had taught him all those years ago.
Slowly his hand began to uncurl from a fist and the great hammering of his heart calmed to a steady thump. The pressure behind his eyes subsided a little and he felt a flush of relief. For all the monstrous side of his soul raged and blustered, it could still be reigned in by the human side. The comfort was meagre, but in darkness, any tiny thread of light was to be embraced.
Isak opened his eyes and ran a finger down the smooth blade of the sword in his lap. The whispery echo of magic tingled on his fingertips as he brushed the invisible runes that had been beaten into the silver, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were fixed on the events of the last half-hour.
Grave news, my Lord. The voice echoed through his head like an accusation. Had he known that it would come one day? Had he been wilfully negligent?
It had been a simple enough thing to cow the defenders of the Autumn’s Arch gate into surrendering; half were nothing more than frightened city guard, suddenly facing a straight assault from the Ghosts of Tirah. The poorly trained men from Scree had grown up with the threat of the Farlan on their border, and they’d all heard stories of the prowess of the Ghosts, a professional legion the city could not hope to match. When Isak had appeared in the street behind them with a spitting corona of raw magic blazing about him, Mariq adding to the display before being joined by King Emin’s pair of mages, most had simply broken and run. Those who surrendered he’d sent south to the Greengate to join Zhia Vukotic’s motley army - by the time General Lahk had ridden up to the gate, it had been clear of defenders and unbarred.
Isak gritted his teeth and took another moment to will his hand to unclench from around Eolis’ hilt. It had been a strange meeting, that one: General Lahk at the head of a column of soldiers who roared a greeting to their lord, while a small party of liveried suzerains followed on the general’s heels, all looking buoyed and elated at the taste of battle in the air. By contrast, the witch’s companion, Fernal, had been disturbingly silent. Fernal’s monstrous bulk made the mounted men beside him look small, fragile, even, and even the Ghosts greeting their comrades in Isak’s guard had fallen silent when Isak and Fernal stood face to face. The contrasts and parallels made every man present catch his breath and wonder what would happen.
Fernal was of a size with Isak but, unlike Isak, he looked far from human - it wasn’t just the deep blue of his skin, which faded into the evening gloom; the thick mane of hair that fell from his head and neck, framed a fierce lupine face with blackness and highlighted the white gleam of his eyes and curved fangs. Where Isak was clad in his armour and long white cape, Fernal wore no clothes, save for the tattered cloak that hung loose on his shoulders and served as a reminder to anyone watching - or perhaps to himself - that he was not some mindless creature from the Waste. He carried no weapons, and kept his taloned fingers turned inward, away from Isak.
For a few precious moments the two had regarded each other as proud equals, then they had exchanged a respectful nod. Fernal had bowed low and introduced himself in a smooth, deep voice that had sent a wave of relief rippling out through the watching rank and file. The sound had clearly unnerved Fernal; he straightened quickly with a hunted look in his eye that made the nearest soldiers freeze, as though they had heard the hiss of an ice cobra.
Isak stepping forward to clasp Fernal by the arm had broken the tense moment, but the son of Nartis had been clearly relieved when Isak turned to the other men and he was able to slip back into a dark corner where the witch awaited him.
It had been with relief and a welcome smile that Isak had finally taken General Lahk by the wrist after the strange formalities with Fernal. Only then had he seen the troubled look in Lahk’s eye, anxiety in the face of a man legendary for his lack of emotion.
Grave news, my Lord.
In that moment he’d felt the air change around him, suddenly laden with boiling energy.
This should have been foreseen and prevented. Chief Steward Lesarl apologies for not pressing the matter further with you.
His throat had dried. Any feeble attempt at a reply went as the general ploughed on, almost as if afraid to pause for breath before he’d finished.
Your father, my Lord, he had
said quietly. Your father is missing, taken.
Isak could feel it bubbling under his skin: that restless nag of guilt and anger, made worse by the fact it had no outlet. The only person he could find to blame was himself. He was the one with the power - he was the one who’d failed to recognise there could be a threat. His father Horman was as wilful and proud as he was. The antagonism between them had been constant, but it hadn’t really mattered before Isak had become one of the Chosen. Now their relationship was a matter of state: a tool for insurrection, or for another nation’s use against him.
But that wasn’t what haunted Isak; it was the damage that followed in his wake. First Carel, lying sick and enfeebled in a bed, missing an arm; and Vesna with that broken look in his eyes - both men were seasoned campaigners, but they had been indelibly scarred by Isak’s company. Now his father, who’d not even wanted to be a part of Isak’s new life, was paying the price for his association. He was Chosen, and cursed. Would the rare gift of his friendship exact a similar toll on everyone?
Isak winced as the fire behind his eyes threatened again and the insistent spark of magic swelled in his palms. This almost primaeval feeling welled out from his gut, begging to wreak havoc, to tear the house apart, to do anything - just to distract him from the guilt which threatened to drown him.
‘Do not blame yourself for the actions of others,’ said a voice inside his head. Isak’s eyes flew open in alarm. The witch of Llehden was standing in the doorway, motionless. Even the rise and fall of her breath was imperceptible. Ehla reminded him of the statues from his dreams of the White Isle: timeless and forbidding, yet calming, still.
The dreams of the White Isle, and Bahl’s death there … they hadn’t returned since they had come true. Nowadays his nights were more fragmented, jagged shapes in his mind, scraps of Aryn Bwr’s brutalised memories, mingled with his own fears for the future. Apart from when Xeliath chose to visit him, Isak dreaded his dreams. The familiar trepidation of the White Isle was almost preferable now.
