by Tom Lloyd
‘Thank you. Signal the Arohat regiments and Lord Larim.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Amber replied, standing tall in his stirrups and gesturing to the three columns of soldiers behind him. Riding in the middle was a brightly coloured figure that could only be the Chosen of Larat. The soldiers broke into a trot to overtake their generals. The officers were at the front, also on foot, but unencumbered by packs or spears.
The Third Army had traveled at an unhurried pace from Tor Salan. Styrax had taken half the men with him as he went from town to town accepting surrenders and installing garrisons where necessary. The Second Army and the bulk of their Chetse allies had remained in Tor Salan, where they were enjoying the impounded wealth of the city’s slaughtered mages. Those few Chetse who had traveled north had joined the heavy infantry in the Third Army.
Once the Circle City had surrendered he would summon what was left of the Ten Thousand and unleash them on Embere: conquering other cities under his standard would tie them to it. Once they had seen friends die in Styrax’s name they wouldn’t rebel without good cause, and he had no intention of giving them that.
The Menin advance party covered the remaining distance to the city quickly, barely slowing when they encountered an emissary sent to greet them from Lord Celao. She was a young woman with pale skin and hair so fair it was almost white, riding a dappled grey horse and looking suitably terrified by the Menin force. On her tunic was the device of the Lords of the Air, the snow-white wings that were the notable difference between Litse white-eyes and those of other tribes.
Kohrad moved out of the way so she could ride alongside Styrax, but it was a few minutes before she managed a coherent sentence, despite being herself proficient in the Menin dialect. Once she had presented Lord Celao’s formal greetings Lord Styrax cut her speech short.
‘I thank your lord for his greetings. Please offer him my compliments and inform him I am going to visit the Library of Seasons. I believe it is traditional to obstruct no one’s passage to the library -I expect this gesture of respect to be extended to me irrespective of past crimes committed by members of our tribes.’
Amber could see by the woman’s face that she had grasped the full import of Lord Styrax’s words: both distancing himself from the spectre of Deverk Grast that would loom over any conversation between Litse and Menin, and the none-too-veiled threat.
‘Yes, your Grace,’ she managed to gurgle in reply. ‘Lord Celao has invited you to be his guest tonight, however. It would be reassuring for the city to have you enjoy our hospitality, to prove to the people that your army poses them no risk.’
‘I’m quite sure that would be nice for them,’ Styrax said firmly, ‘but it’s not going to happen. I would not enjoy Lord Celao’s hospitality; the contrast between his half-starved subjects and that bloated warthog would interfere with my appetite.’
If such a thing were possible, the woman’s face became whiter.
‘Furthermore,’ Styrax continued, his voice hardening, ‘I couldn’t give a damn whether your citizens are reassured or not. The three regiments under the command of Lord Larim will encamp in the Garden of Lilies, at the foot of Hit’s Stair. My companions, bar two, will accompany me up into the mountain while the remaining two will deliver messages to Cardinal Sourl and Natai Escral, the Duchess of Byora.
‘I have a message for Lord Celao as well, of course. He will attend me in the library tomorrow at noon to negotiate the surrender of the Circle City.’
‘Surrender?’ the woman coughed, nearly falling off her horse in surprise.
‘Your scryers and scouts must have told you that the rest of my army is close behind. If he fails to attend, I will take Ismess by force. I prefer not to have to do that, but if Lord Celao honestly believes he has a chance against my army he is free to test the theory.’
The massive white-eye turned to look straight at her. ‘I have eight elite legions close enough to deal with any pre-emptive attack on my person. They are all bored, and they are all hoping that they will at last get a fight.’
The young woman shrank back in her saddle, only too glad to jab her spurs into her horse’s flanks and gallop ahead of the Menin.
‘I think she’ll remember the message well enough,’ Styrax laughed. ‘Major Amber? Messenger Karapin?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied in almost unison. Amber glanced at Karapin out of the corner of his eye and felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was a humourless man of forty-odd summers who’d been wearing the brass vambraces of the messenger corps for almost thirty. It was unclear whether Karapin realised why he, rather than a soldier of Major Amber’s stature, had been chosen to deliver the message to Cardinal Sourl. Unfortunately for Karapin, the Devoted had a history of executing emissaries conveying a threat. Since Sourl was using his religious rather than military title these days, a considered reaction might be too much to hope for.
‘The same message to Akell and Byora. I will see you tomorrow.’
The pair saluted and broke off from the small party. As they headed northwest, the clank of armour receded behind them. They rode together in silence.
Amber found he was having to make an effort to keep his eyes on the road. The closer they got, the more the mountain dominated the entire horizon, and the harder it became not to stop and stare at the monstrous blot on the landscape.
He could see why the mountain had got its name. Blackfang looked like a tooth of impossible size that had decayed and broken. It was an ugly stub, with a sliver of a peak, if you could even call it that, rising from behind the cliff-wall Ismess backed onto. The rest of the mountain was a wildly jagged surface that supported so little life a desert might appear abundant in comparison.
Only behind Ismess was there anything other than dead black rock to look at: the single slender peak that at first glance could have been a tower of astonishing size overlooked the valley housing the Library of Seasons. Amber didn’t know much about the library itself, only that it was reputed to house a scholarly collection unrivalled throughout the Land, one assembled when the Litse were still the power in the region.
‘Karapin?’ Amber said suddenly, startling the army messenger. ‘Did you see those troops with Lord Larim? Why do you think he ordered regiments from the Arohat Tenth to escort him?’
‘I do not believe it is our place to question Lord Styrax’s orders, Major,’ Karapin replied solemnly. His heavy accent was slightly reminiscent of Lord Styrax; they both came from the outer lands, outside the Ring of Fire that was the Menin heartland.
Mentally, Amber apologised to Karapin. The man wasn’t an idiot - he most likely knew he was on a suicide mission, but he’d do his job cheerfully - or whatever passed for cheerful - because men from Lord Styrax’s home region possessed a loyalty even the devoted Major Amber could barely comprehend.
‘I didn’t mean to question them,’ he said, sounding conciliatory. ‘I was just trying to understand what he’ll require of us. The Cheme legions have been his elite for years; he’s always trusted them to keep him safe. I hadn’t heard that had changed.’
‘Your point, Major?’ Karapin’s eyes were on the buildings ahead of them. They had passed the boundary marker that divided Ismess territory from Byora a few minutes before. There were farm houses now, clustered around a small square fort; no soldiers yet in sight, but they both knew they’d be challenged soon.
‘My point is that our Lord does nothing without reason,’ Amber went on, working it out in his mind. ‘Not having his best regiment accompany him into an enemy city? There was a reason.’ Amber paused as he saw movement around the gate of the fort. ‘This trip into the Library of Seasons, he’s not expecting it to go well. The Arohat Tenth are decent enough troops, but not so good that he’ll lose sleep over their loss.’
If Karapin had anything to add on the subject he failed to voice it, and Amber didn’t bother saying any more. He checked his weapons one last time, ensuring they would be ready at a moment’s notice, and adjusted the black standard bearing Lo
rd Styrax’s insignia. After that there was nothing to do but ride and wait, so he started to whistle instead.
Karapin continued in silence, even when at last soldiers confronted them.
The soldiers sent to escort them looked young enough to be recruits. They traveled on a long curving road that appeared to skirt all the way around Byora, which was itself nestled between two jutting arms of what looked like impassable bare rock, riven with great crevasses.
As they marched over a wooden bridge crossing one small river, their escort split in half and Amber gave Karapin a comradely nod as the army messenger continued towards a second bridge.
The remainder turned right and led him down a busy road lined with large detached houses, on towards the city that rose in natural steps until it reached the base of Blackfang’s jagged cliffs. Standing tall were vast towers that could have only been built with magic -anywhere else, Amber might have marvelled at the size of them, but the oppressive presence of Blackfang behind, at its lowest point still double the height of the tallest tower, rather diminished the effect.
The farms and smallholdings had given way to the large detached houses; these in turn were replaced by closely packed cottages. To Amber it looked like they were all cowering away from the mountain. It took him a moment to realise why. He turned to look over the wide expanse of marshland fed by the river that cut the district in two before branching out in a dozen directions in the fens. He remembered that Byora suffered worst of all the quarters from rain washing off the mountain after a storm.
Here the tight knots of houses faced away from the city. Their rear walls were banked up with earth - though no more than half of those had grass growing on the banks, Amber noted to his surprise. The city had been carefully laid out, that was obvious from his position, with the main highways acting as long channels to carry the water swiftly away, but out here there was no real planning. The poor were on their own.
He continued through a wide gate, copying his companions and dismounting so he could lead his horse up the steep hill. The gates were manned by older guards, soldiers in wine-coloured livery, and the youths escorting him fled eagerly once they’d handed him over to the sergeant on the gate. Amber just continued on, ignoring his new companions. He had to trust to his own brutal appearance and the fact that the army was so near to avoid any casual intimidation.
Two of the soldiers were sent with him. They led Amber up a long, slightly curved avenue that took them straight towards a big gate, leading to the Eight Towers district, one of his guides informed him taciturnly when he asked. He could see a unit of the red-clad soldiers, and disordered groups of what looked to be irregular troops dressed in brown and white.
Strange, the city is full of troops, Amber thought, noting knots of soldiers at every major junction on the avenue. The duchess looks to be more worried about her own citizens than the approaching army.
Amber realised it wasn’t just the soldiers watching him; people were studying him from every alleyway and open door. He felt the suspicion and fear in their eyes, but what unnerved him most was the bubble of silence that accompanied him through the city, almost as though some sort of spell had been cast on him.
Just before he reached the gate a voice called out from one group of onlookers and the people all turned, then parted as a figure lurched forward. Amber slowed and stared at the figure dressed in rags heading towards him. One of the soldiers started towards it and the figure stopped, calling out again.
Amber blinked in surprise. He’d been expecting to hear the local dialect, but it was Menin the figure was speaking-moreover, it was his own name being called.
‘Major Amber,’ the figure repeated, and slipped the hood off to reveal hair the colour of dirty straw and the hopeful grin of a hungry hound.
‘Nai?’ Amber said, incredulously. The soldier walking towards the ragged man stopped and looked back, uncertain, but Amber ignored him, still staring in shock at Nai, once manservant to Isherin Purn, a deceased necromancer formerly in the employ of the Menin Army.
The last time Amber had seen Nai, he had been off on some fool’s errand in the unlikely company of King Emin and Zhia Vukotic, among others. Amber himself had barely escaped the massacre of refugees in the days following the fall of Scree, and he had assumed anyone unfortunate enough to not be immortal or have their own army could not possibly have survived.
‘Nai? he repeated, before realising he was looking foolish. He gestured the man over.
‘Good to see you too, Major,’ Nai said, trotting forward. As when they’d first met, in Scree, Nai was barefoot, as though proudly displaying his misshapen foot. Under his filthy rags he wore a thicker, cleaner leather coat. A subterfuge then, but who’ve you hiding from? Looks like your friends have turned on you.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Amber snapped. ‘Fucking necromancers; you’re like cockroaches crawling out the woodwork.’
If Nai took offence, he didn’t show it. The grin stayed on his face as he made his way right up to Amber and squinted up at the big soldier. ‘Major, if your lord could train cockroaches to bring him information, the West would be conquered by now.’
‘You’ve got information?’
‘Some.’ The necromancer made a dismissive gesture. ‘Not much - I’ve been keeping a low profile of late - but I can still be useful to Lord Styrax, if he’s willing to extend his protection to me.’
‘Someone’s trying to kill you? Zhia? That Farlan bitch?’
Nai grinned again, looking unperturbed. ‘Not just with a slipper either; there’ve been some very curious happenings in this city.’
‘Piss and daemons,’ Amber growled. ‘Considering our history, that’s not a good sign.’ He sighed and gestured towards the gate. ‘Fine, come along then. Just stay downwind of me,’ he added, wrinkling his nose.
Gaining access to the duchess proved to be a remarkably simple affair. Amber and Nai were stopped at the gate of the Ruby Tower compound while the guards sent word of Amber’s arrival. Within a minute or two a tall sergeant sauntered out to look them over. He stood there for a minute, scrutinising first Amber, then Nai, who scowled and looked at his feet under the weight of the man’s gaze. Amber immediately noticed the change in demeanour among the other guards; suddenly they were all nervous, even the seasoned men. Amber blinked and had a sudden image of himself, as though standing before a mirror.
Strange, Amber thought suddenly, he doesn’t look anything like me. Something in the way he stands, perhaps, or maybe it’s just the look of a veteran about him?
‘I’m Sergeant Kayel,’ the man declared eventually, flexing his fingers as if preparing for a fight. His stained steel vambraces were criss-crossed in twine, his only deviation from the standard uniform. There was no obvious point to the twine that Amber could see, but he guessed there’d be some significance to those who knew. Perhaps it was a reminder of an old regiment - Amber had seen enough small traditions, memories of the lost.
He dismissed the curious thoughts from his mind and leaned forward in his saddle. ‘I don’t care who you are,’ he said quietly; ‘just take me to the duchess. I am on business of state.’
They were of a similar size and age, both scarred veterans, neither men to mess with.
But there’s at least one difference, Amber assured himself, he’s not a man likely to back down from a fight and that’s something I grew out of years back. Something about the man screamed for Amber’s attention, but he couldn’t place it. He’s not a local, he judged, but that’s not what’s out of place…
Have we met already? No, surely I’d have remembered a man of his size who walks with the confidence of a king. And yet, there is something… Gods, maybe it is just that he’s like me and you don’t get men like me staying a sergeant.
‘We’ll see who pisses highest next time we meet,’ Kayel replied with a confident smile and gestured at one of the soldiers at Amber’s side. ‘He’ll look after your horse and weapons; the duchess is waiting for you.’
Without waiting for a reply, Sergeant Kayel turned and headed for the main entrance. Amber remained where he was, puzzled, for a few more heartbeats before heaving himself gratefully out of the saddle. He handed the reins to the soldier and unbuckled his sword’ belt, catching Nai’s eye as he did so. Understanding, the necromancer came closer.
‘Why do I feel like I’ve seen that sergeant before?’ he asked softly.
‘Looked in a mirror recently?’ Nai retorted. ‘For men who look nothing like each other, you’re more than a little similar.’
‘What in Ghenna’s name is that supposed to mean?’
‘You carry yourselves in exactly the same way. There’s the same look in your eyes, even if you’re more careful about it than he, and - ‘ Nai tailed off for a moment and gave Amber a quizzical look. Without explaining he passed his hand in front of Amber’s face and muttered a few words under his breath.
‘Be careful what sorcery you try on me,’ Amber growled. The soldiers nearby flinched, not understanding his words, though they could hear the tone of his voice.
‘I was just seeing if someone else already had.’ Nai frowned. ‘And I think I was right - without looking alike beyond build and a certain brutish demeanour, he reminded me intensely of you at first glance. I need time to test the theory, but there’s some sort of link between you two.’
‘How is that possible?’ Amber asked, astonished.
‘I have no idea.’ Nai pointed to where Kayel was waiting at the main door. ‘Presumably our answer lies that way.’
As he entered the circular audience hall, Amber noticed that there were only noblewomen there to meet him. A pair of guards on either side of the door watched him intently and a quick scan of the room revealed crossbowmen perched on a gantry above the door, their weapons ready. There were servants, but no men of rank in sight at all. It made him think for a moment of the White Circle, despite the fact that Byora had always resisted the Sisterhood. Now that the White Circle had been revealed as a political front for the exiled Yeetatchen tribe, Amber guessed that the duchess was delighted she’d kept well-clear of that particular can of worms.
