by Tom Lloyd
Purn gave a thin smile that grew wider as he spoke. ‘Men of my profession often find themselves party to bargains with the creatures of the dark. Upon my death a number of debts were set to be collected, but the Lord of the Menin has done me a great service. My slate is wiped clean.’
You still have Death to answer to,’ Isak said.
The necromancer dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand, Every man must answer to Death; that I am in a position to worry about it is more than satisfactory, a boon I could not have hoped for.’ Since his hands were restrained, he dipped his head towards Isak. ‘ Lord Styrax faced down one of the greatest of daemons this day - I advise you to remember that when he reaches your lands.’
‘Is he all they say.” Isak asked, trying to control the trepidation in his voice. Kastan Styrax had defeated a daemon? First Lord Bahl, then I-, a creature of the Dark Place; was there anything that could stop the man? Images from his dreams filled Isak’s mind: a fanged blade driving into his gut, a black-armoured knight who would mean his death. I know I can’t stop him, I’ve always known that.
Purn laughed. ‘All they say? I have heard soldiers and courtiers sing his praises, but how could they really understand? There is a prophecy that says his standard will fly above every city in the Land, but that does not interest me, and I suspect neither does it interest Lord Styrax. Empty men strive for glory or power, for flags and gold and nations on bended knee. The great care only for the stars and the heavens above.’
Isak glanced at his left hand. Encased in silver, the skin underneath remained a perfect snow-white, unchanged since he’d called the storm down onto him on the palace walls in Narkang. The memory of soldiers fighting on the wall reminded him that time was not on his side.
He stepped forward with grim resolve, Eolis raised. ‘Then when I see your lord, I’ll warn him that those who reach too high end up burned. Give my compliments to Lord Death.’
CHAPTER 28
At General Gort’s signal, the columns of light infantry advanced with flaming torches held high against the darkness, marching down the Bearwalk, the wide avenue that ran almost directly south from the New Barbican. It would take them most of the way to Six Temples. They were exposed and vulnerable on that wide avenue, but Gort was determined to keep a tight grip on his growing fears. That he wasn’t exactly sure what was frightening him was making his imagination run riot.
The Knights of the Temples had taken the New Barbican with a minimum of fuss, and since then they had seen none of the mobs the New Barbican’s defenders had spoken of with such terror - in fact, they hadn’t seen anyone at all. They marched through abandoned streets, watching the shadows nervously and feeling increasingly disconcerted.
General Gort felt horribly alone, the only man on horseback at the head of the column and a prime target for even a mediocre archer. Behind him rumbled a dozen carts, guarded by sappers, then General Chotech, his long, curved axe resting on his shoulder, led his ranks of heavy infantry. His men were armed with heavy shields and thrusting spears: at the first sign of the mobs roving the city, they would lock shields and present a spiked wall that even disciplined troops found hard to break through.
The general turned and inspected the troops with him. A legion of infantry and two hundred lancers stretched out along the Bearwalk. The major of the lancers saw him and gave a theatrical salute, prompting a smile. Major Derl was an excellent officer, from Canar Thrit, a city well known for producing line soldiers. He was experienced enough to know any idle gesture would be noticed by the nervous troops, so Gort suppressed his own fears and gave a cheery wave in return, noting a few smiles before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.
‘What have I got us into?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Will a legion be enough?’
His horse twitched its ears at the sound of his voice and he tightened his grip on the reins. The horses were as skittish as the men. Perhaps they too sensed that this was not a place for the living. It was obvious, and not just in the smashed windows of abandoned buildings, or the shadows lurking at the base of every shattered wall, or even the brutalised corpses strewn across the city. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the hellish sight of fire raging unchecked through entire streets and consuming everything in its path, or the broken ruins wrapped in unnatural dark. He felt the sweat trickle freely down his spine. The heat was still a palpable weight on his shoulders, despite the stiff wind that had recently picked up.
General Gort caught Lieutenant Mehar’s eye and the aide obediently stepped closer.
‘What do you make of this place, Mehar?’ he asked. ‘It’s so hot at night you can hardly bear to wear a shirt, let alone armour. You’re a scholar, what are your thoughts?’
Relief flushed Mehar’s face for a moment. Gort suppressed a smile, the young man had been worrying that he was being punished for some failure; unusually, he’d been excluded from most of the general’s meetings over the last few weeks. Mehar was a good aide, and he had a fine intellect, but his devotion to the order made it hard to tell what he would make of discussions about a deal with the Farlan, or the developing quarrel with the Knight-Cardinal. Right now they couldn’t risk finding out.
‘It feels like the Land has been turned on its head,’ Mehar said hesitantly. He was a shy young man of twenty-five winters whose temperament didn’t fit with his large, athletic frame. His father had been barely bright enough to swing an axe, but he had been keen to eiiiin his eldest son spent as much time studying as trying to fill his fathers oversized shoes. It had paid off: Mehar loved his books.
‘A natural order has been upset here, sir. I think that’s why the horses were reluctant to pass through the New Barbican gales. What we need to know is whether this discord is the result, or the purpose.’
‘And we’d need a mage to work that one out?’
Mehar nodded unhappily. Their order vehemently disapproved of magic, of any description. It was their greatest weakness in battle, but it was a belief they all held to: magic was an unnatural art, and the province of Gods, not men. Individuals who had the talent were not blamed for it, but they were encouraged to forsake the magic inside them. The order considered magic to be an addiction, one that could be controlled through faith.
‘I just hope we don’t find it out the hard way, sir.’ He took a breath and looked around at the gutted shells of building that lined the avenue. ‘The natural order of things is that of the Gods on high and mankind, their servants. If that has been reversed, what are we going to find at Six Temples?’
Gort paused. ‘Not a comforting thought, Mehar. Not comforting at all.’
Neither man spoke again until they reached the far end of the Bearwalk.
Parties of light infantrymen flanked the main column, half carrying torches, the other half with weapons at the ready. The wavering light illuminated the rubble of an old marketplace, the remnants of broken stalls and shattered awnings.
Gort started at a dark shape that flitted behind the furthest stalls, tall and flowing, with a bone-white face - but in a blink it was gone, and the soldiers marched on unhindered. The light from the torches, the general assured himself, the moon catching a pane of glass. To the flicker of doubt in his heart he said nothing.
At the end of the Bearwalk stood a large, ornate fountain, and beyond that six smaller streets fanned out, leading to different parts of the city. The fountain itself was old, though its stone looked scrubbed clean; those statues that remained whole - a scattering of cherubic bodies reaching up from the lower bowl, three pike rising out from corners of a central plinth, and a pair of legs that were all that remained of whatever Aspect had fed the fountain - had been scoured by centuries of wind and rain. The broken fragments in the now-dry bottom of the lower bowl made it clear that someone had vented their rage upon the fountain, stopping when the Aspect’s statue had been destroyed.
Gort rode closer to the fountain as his troops spread around it and locked shields, waiting lor the light infantry to regroup. Hi
s height afforded him a good view: I heir were not only smashed limbs of stone, but human remains too. The people of this thirsty city had refused whatever succour this Aspect of Vasle might have offered, fouling both fountain and water so no one could drink from it.
Gort lowered his eyes and whispered a short prayer, a lament for the passing. Aspects might be nothing more than local spirits subsumed by a God of the Pantheon, but they remained part of the divine. The waters no longer ran here, so this part of the divine had died.
Mehar appeared at his side, looked inside the fountain then carefully stepped away. He swallowed, and said, ‘Your fears were justified then, sir.’
‘Thank you for your approval,’ Gort snapped, irritated by the young man’s tone. ‘I will be sure to check every other decision I make with you.’
Mehar’s mouth dropped open. For a moment Gort thought he was going to retort, then he shut it again with a snap of teeth.
The general looked away; he didn’t have to explain himself to his aide, and certainly not when they were in the field, surrounded by enlisted men. He waited in brooding silence for the ranks to form up into companies, tight blocks of fifty soldiers ringed by smaller knots of flickering torches held high in the gloom. He shifted in his saddle. The hot night air was responsible for an infuriating itch that had worked its way under his skin, even to the back of his throat, while the stink of rot from the fountain grew heavier.
The clatter of hooves preceded Major Deri as he led his lancers into the plaza and joined General Gort at the fountain.
‘Blood and piss,’ the major growled as he looked over the lip, ‘let’s hope they’ve treated the temples with more reverence.’
‘There’s no reason to suppose they have,’ Gort said. He gestured at the roads leading off the plaza, all dark bar one, where a burning building had collapsed halfway down the street. ‘Which of these takes us to Six Temples?’
Deri looked up at the pedestal where the statue of the Aspect had been. ‘We were told the fountain pointed directly towards Six Temples. Could they have torn it down intentionally?’
‘They tore it down because they’re godless wretches who have forsaken their sanity,’ Gort growled. ‘They are animals, not men. They act as their instincts tell them - they do not have the forethought to lead us into a trap.’
‘Animals can still possess cunning, sir, Derl said, before he caught sight of Gort’s furious expression and added quickly, ‘but only the insane desecrate a shrine, of course. Mehar, why have those damned skirmishers not come to report to the general yet?’
Mehar jumped. ‘I will summon them at once, sir.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Major Deri said dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t trust them anyway.’ He stood up in his stirrups and turned to look back up the Bearwalk. Gort did likewise. Halfway up they could see the torches of the cavalry company he’d ordered to follow behind, to protect their line of retreat. They would hold there, with another positioned here, within eyeshot: no great defence, but enough to summon help if required.
One lancer broke off and made his way over, offering a sloppy salute to the general. Gort glared at the insolent cavalryman, but said nothing. The man was so pale, his face drained of energy and slack with fatigue that he looked about ready to fall from his saddle. The dark rings around his eyes were a strange contrast to the feverish glow within.
‘Woren, which road takes us to Six Temples?’ Deri asked.
The lancer looked around at his surroundings as though astonished at being there. Slowly, he raised a finger and indicated two of the streets, wavering between the two. He opened his mouth to speak, but managed nothing more than an exhausted sigh.
Strange, thought Gort, the man must be a native of Scree, but is he the only one we could find? He looks touched by fever, or madness, maybe - is this what has happened to the rest of the city?
‘Well?’ Deri demanded.
‘That way curves round to the east,’ Woren said dully, indicating the Ieft-hand road. ‘The other goes straight, leave it at the Corn House and past that to the north edge.’
‘Right.’ Deri turned to his commander. ‘Sir, I suggest we head for the east, since the road is better; we don’t want to be confined if we are attacked.’
Gort nodded. ‘Send the skirmishers off, lancers behind.’ He leaned forward in his saddle, staring intently at the street they were about to take. Did he see a movement in the darkness there, a flash of skin even whiter than Woren’s? Or was that just his own fear?
‘Mehar, as soon as we’re within the outer ring of Six Temples, block as much of the south and west as you can so our backs aren’t exposed; use everything you can find, unless it’s been blessed, and everything we’ve brought in the carts.’ He didn’t notice his left hand going to the hilt of his sword and tightening around the grip.
He spoke up so all the men nearby could hear, hoping conviction would swell into courage. ‘This whole city may have turned against the Gods, but while there are still temples here, our oath to defend them binds us.’
Isak took the lead as they ran back through the corridors of the palace. The handful of soldiers they met were dispatched without breaking stride. The sounds of destruction echoed in their wake: men dying, the distant crashes of the fire Vesna had set raging out of control. Isak didn’t care how much noise they made now.
When they reached the postern gate there were no guards waiting, and when they checked, they could see the remaining guards on the wall were leaving their posts and fleeing for the far side of the palace. They could hear the roar of flames echoing through the passageways they had run through. Outside, orange shards were leaping higher and higher into the night sky.
Without further delay, Isak charged through the open gate and down the stepped gardens until he was once again in the lee of the building where he’d left Major Jachen and the ranger, Jeil.
The troops he’d left behind were already mounted and formed up, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Only Jachen, Jeil and Suzerain Saroc were on foot, and as soon as Isak rounded the corner they ran forward, leading their horses.
‘My Lord, we have to hurry,’ Saroc said, his voice muffled by a black-iron helm with a red chalice painted on the left cheek. The plate armour accentuated his short stature; he would have appeared comical had it not been for the massive axe resting easily in the crook of his arm.
‘What’s happened?’ Isak asked, sheathing his sword and swinging up into Toramin’s saddle. His huge charger danced on the spot, the emerald dragons on its flanks rippling as he did so.
‘Jeil went to check on the decoy troops. The mobs have found them. We need to get you away to safety before they move further this way.’
Isak didn’t move. ‘And what about the decoy troops?’
Jachen stepped forward. ‘They’re surrounded, my Lord. There’s nothing we can do for them.’
‘And that’s it?’ Isak asked in astonishment. ‘You’re happy to leave them to it?’
‘There is nothing we can do, my Lord,’ Jachen repeated. ‘There are thousands attacking them. We’re not enough to help - and the sight of you will drive them into a greater frenzy.’
‘So you suggest we abandon them? Leave men you’ve fought alongside to be torn apart by a mob?’ Isak roared. ‘Or is it simply that you’re as much a coward as I’ve been told?’
‘My Lord,’ exclaimed Suzerain Saroc, ‘it is not a question of cowardice; Major Jachen has a duty to the tribe, and that must come first.’
‘Come before the lives of five hundred men and the most loyal suzerain in the tribe?’ Isak turned to Count Vesna, but he remained silent. ‘Vesna, have you got nothing to say about this?’
‘My Lord …’ his voice tailed off.
His face-plate was up, and Isak could see the helplessness on his lace. At last he realised what the count had been talking about in Tor Milist: good men were dying when they shouldn’t have had to. To Isak’s surprise, Count Vesna said nothing more. ‘You can’t agree with them,’ Isak
gasped, almost pleading. He felt a clammy horror sweeping over him. He’d had a change of heart in Tor Milist; was he now going to leave these men to die, without even a word?
‘I-Lord Isak, duty must come first,’ Vesna said eventually.
‘Duty? Will even you not follow my orders? Isak growled, his shock turning now to anger.
The other suzerains, Nelbove and Fordan, had dismounted and come to add their voices to the argument, but Isak’s obvious fury kept them silent.
‘Well? What about it, my loyal subjects? Are you going to follow me, or does one of you want to be the first to try to force me to run?’ Isak’s voice was tight with fury. Eolis remained in its scabbard, but that meant little; they all knew he could draw in the blink of an eye.
‘My Lord,’ said Major Jachen, moving a hall step forward.
Isak whirled to meet the man and saw naked fear in Jachen’s eyes, yet the former mercenary refused to buckle. A spark of defiance remained and he forced himself to stand tall and match Isak’s relentless gaze. ‘My Lord, they are loyal to death. They will follow you.’
‘Well, what are we waiting for then?’ Isak snapped.
‘You’ll have to cut me down first, my lord.’
Isak faltered, surprise overriding anger momentarily. ‘What?’
‘They’ll follow you to death if you ask them to-‘
‘And you won’t?’ Isak cut in angrily. ‘Last time I looked, you were also under my command.’
‘Do you remember the first time we met?’ Jachen said with fatalistic calm. ‘You asked me if I’d have the guts to face you down if I thought you were wrong.’
Isak thought for a moment. ‘So this is you clouting me round the head, is it? You’ve picked a bloody stupid time to grow a spine, Major Ansayl.’
Jachen ignored the jibe. ‘I am in command of your personal guard. My first duty is to the tribe - and that is to keep you safe. You said it yourself: you’re a white-eye, and you don’t always make the best decisions, and you need a commander who’ll tell you when you’re plain wrong.’
