by Tom Lloyd
‘If there are traitors within the tribe, let them declare themselves so,’ Yetah shouted towards the penitents. ‘This creeping theft of authority must stop. The politicking and deal-making to sell the nation is over. They will learn our resolve and discover the consequences of their actions.’
Vesna raised his hands, a pacifying gesture that kept them away from the hilt of his weapon as much as anything. Yetah’s hurscals looked as fiercely resolute as their master, and itching for a fight.
Vesna had been hearing reports of suzerains reacting against the cults since returning to Tirah, but thus far it had been small-scale actions in distant parts. Suzerain Saroc had routed a party of a hundred soldiers at a monastery on his land, where they had been conducting Morality Tribunals and Tests of Faith that amounted to torture, but that had been the biggest engagement so far. Every morning brought news of deaths from one part of the nation or another, but they were all skirmishes involving a few dozen combatants at most. This was on another level entirely.
No one could ignore a battle involving hundreds on the streets of Tirah, nor fail to react to it. From where he was standing Vesna’s view was restricted, but he could see at least two regimental banners behind Yetah.
‘Suzerain Yetah,’ he said carefully, ‘contrary to what you have heard, the rule of law still governs the streets of Tirah. If you bring troops onto the streets of Tirah, you would be breaking the law, and force us to respond.’
‘Don’t bother to threaten me, Vesna, your position in all this is as much in question as that of the monster you serve now,’ Yetah growled.
‘Lord Fernal was named legitimate heir and Lord of the Farlan by Lord Isak, and I act in his name.’ Vesna paused, trying to slow things down as much as he could. ‘Suzerain Yetah, you must see that Lord Isak realised we need a strong ruler this coming year; we cannot wait for Lord Nartis to appoint a new Chosen! Without a figure to unite the tribe we will be invaded and conquered by the Menin.’
‘Whatever the consequences of Lord Isak’s warmongering, we will not accept a non-Farlan to rule the tribe - otherwise we might as well submit to Kastan Styrax and see his flag fly from the Tower of Semar!’
Vesna took a step back and lowered his hand to his hilt. There was obviously going to be no reasoning with the man. The ruby on his cheek glowed bloody red. ‘Sir, with the greatest respect, I cannot allow you to lead troops into Tirah; I will not let you pass.’
‘You do not have the authority to stop me, damn you!’ Yetah roared, drawing his sword. ‘You should have already given up the rights and rank of title - whoever your master, you have no right to command the Ghosts now, so get out of my way. I am acting to protect the tribe, and to stop me you will have to cut me down!’
Yetah started forward, certain in the knowledge that Vesna wouldn’t kill a man of higher rank, but when a sword-tip appeared at his throat Yetah nearly tripped in his surprise and outrage. He looked at the count and blinked. ‘Vesna, I mean you no harm. Step aside and let me pass. If you kill me, you will be cut down, or the law will see you hang, you know that.’
Vesna nodded. He did know it, and he knew too there would be no defence he could bring that would avoid it. Suzerain Yetah was his superior, both in title and military rank, and if he killed the man and avoided a hanging, that would invalidate any claims Lord Fernal might make about protecting the tribe’s laws. He just had to gamble that he wouldn’t kill the man.
‘Then lower your sword, sir.’
‘I will not.’
Yetah lurched to the left, trying to step around Vesna, but the count was a renowned duellist and swordsman, and he was there before him, his sword still raised. Yetah swatted the tip away from his face with his own blade, but as he advanced Vesna stepped forward and dropped his shoulder into the suzerain, shoving him backwards.
‘Damn you, Vesna,’ Yetah snapped. He struck without warning but Vesna was faster and caught the blade, again stepping into Yetah and this time hammering the pommel of his sword against the suzerain’s cuirass.
The move drove him back another pace, but the space was quickly made up by the youngest of the hurscals, who swung a wild blow at Vesna’s head. The count retreated, fending off blows for a few paces before flicking his opponent’s sword away and punching the man’s arm with his black-iron fist, snapping the bone and sending the man reeling into the hinge of the now-open gate.
A second man attacked with more purpose, his shield raised high. Vesna, moving with blurring speed, stepped around the hurscal’s lunge, and the man fell screaming. A diagonal cut had sheared his shield in two, and the arm behind it.
The others hesitated, stunned by the count’s unnatural speed.
Vesna took a step back. He could feel the power of the Crystal Skull begging to be used. As soon as he focused on it the Skull emitted a bright white pulse, and the remaining hurscals stopped dead in their tracks.
‘Enough - stay your swords,’ Vesna called. ‘Suzerain Yetah, order your men back. I will not kill you, my lord, but I will kill any other man who tries to pass.’
No one else stepped forward. Vesna met the eye of each one. None had the strength of will to keep their weapon raised. He pointed to the injured men.
‘See to your comrades, then leave this place and return to your own lands. Tell any others you meet: the law is not yours to protect, unless so ordered by the Lord of the Farlan. If any man intends to kill his fellow Farlan, he must face me first.’
He turned away and stopped dead when he saw the companies of the Palace Guard were lined up in defensive formation. Sir Cerse, the legion’s colonel, offered him a crisp salute, and after a moment he returned it. They had been ready to defend him, even to fight their own alongside him if necessary.
And that’s a gift even Gods cannot give, Vesna thought as the ranks parted to allow him through. Swordmaster Pettir handed him the reins of his horse.
‘Lesarl will be pleased with you,’ Pettir said with mocking cheer.
Vesna scowled. ‘This cannot continue.’
CHAPTER 19
Ruhen smiled, his face turned to the afternoon sun. Its diffused light cast a pale yellow tint over the valley, while long shadows enveloped the waiting soldiers. He felt its warmth on his face as he breathed in the fresh clear air. Winter’s grip was lessening day by day and he could smell the change in the air, even if the arguing delegates nearby couldn’t.
In the wake of the dragon, the valley housing the Library of Seasons had taken on a dismal air. All of the white stone buildings had been damaged and the beast’s gigantic corpse still rotted below the southern cliff, but today Ruhen could taste something other than decay on the breeze. A hundred yards away there were tables set out on the grass, as close to the centre of the valley as they could judge. Without Ruhen close at hand Duchess Escral’s wits had returned enough for her to lead the debate, but as yet there had been no progress.
Lord Styrax sat beneath a huge army standard emblazoned with his Fanged Skull, looking bored, while the white-eye Duke Vrill, his pet politician, stood at his side shouting something at the men in scarlet sashes opposite.
The Knights of the Temples were divided into three distinct camps, each desperate to assert authority over the others while the negotiations stagnated. The Knight-Cardinal led one, a pair of generals, envoys for Raland and Embere, comprised the second, while the scarlet-faced priests of several cults made up the third faction.
Two squads of Devoted heavy infantry were assembled behind them, watching the proceedings with as much bemusement as the Ruby Tower Guards behind Duchess Escral; Ruhen could see only contempt on the faces of the élite Menin soldiers around the valley.
‘I’ve beginning to wonder,’ said Ilumene from behind Ruhen, ‘whether our presence has somehow only made things worse.’ The big mercenary smirked as he spoke. He pretended to straighten the white patchwork robe he’d worn specifically to annoy the priests. The missionaries preaching Ruhen’s message of peace had been first admitted to Akell, the Devote
d quarter of the Circle City. Knight-Cardinal Certinse had given their presence his tacit blessing, but as soon as the cults heard their preaching, every priest in the quarter started screaming for blood. That Ilumene was attending the official negotiations dressed as one of Ruhen’s ensured the priests were filled with bile and fury when they started proceedings.
‘Let them dig their own graves,’ Ruhen replied and closed his eyes to savour the warmth of the sun.
‘Aye, every soldier there was disgusted by the reaction, I marked that well. It’s even taught me to be civil. The more polite I am to the bastards, the more crazed they look!’
‘Progress through discord.’
The boy contrived to look eight or nine summers now, though small and slender for that age he was in truth far younger. Ilumene realised he had shaken off the gangly awkwardness of early childhood, instead moving with the precision and elegance that normally only follows puberty.
‘So when do you step in?’
‘Not quite yet; let them tire a little more.’ Ruhen opened his eyes again and focused on the Knight-Cardinal. The man looked beleaguered, as well he might, but he had not yet looked in Ruhen’s direction. Certinse had accepted Luerce’s offer of assistance readily enough, and he knew the part he had to play. The more Ruhen could be seen as the answer to the Devoted’s problems - and in time the fulfilment of their prophecies - the more Certinse could wrest control of his Order from the clerics paralysing it . . . yet he had not yet committed himself.
Ilumene fell silent, sensing Ruhen didn’t want to speak any more. He could see soldiers watching the boy, trying to be surreptitious, but unable to stop staring at the child they were hearing so many stories about. The priesthood was at the very heart of the Knights of the Temples, with every officer an ordained priest, albeit usually in one of the less-demanding cults. Every cuirass was inscribed with a prayer, and every day was heralded with the devotionals spoken en masse.
Originally the religious aspect had been a veneer for the majority, a small matter, accepted in return for the Order’s weekly stipend, but it was no longer such; the common soldiers were beginning to feel their holy charge more as a yoke around their necks. They were informed on by their own, even flogged for impious behaviour, and resentment had been building for months. Some had been mooting retaliation of some sort, but it was hard to fight back against the appointed of the Gods ... unless the priests themselves were at fault, and then it would not be impious at all.
This was fertile ground for Ruhen’s message of peace, his dismissal of the priests’ role. They were far from ready, but even so, most of the Circle City had heard of the remarkable child Duchess Escral had adopted, the miracles he had performed.
And what better way to persuade a man, thought Ilumene, looking down at the slight figure beside him whose eyes were swirling with shadows, than to give him what he hopes for in his heart.
His gaze moved to Knight-Cardinal Certinse, presently exchanging angry words with his own spiritual advisor.
You’re not a man to care why you have been given everything you asked for, are you, Certinse? You assume you’ll be able to kill us when Ruhen has served his purpose. Ilumene smiled and ran his fingertips over the hilt of his own dagger. Good luck with that. When you do, that’s when you’ll start to notice the shadows moving out of the corner of your eye.
A few minutes later, Ruhen started off towards the bickering men and women. Ilumene kept back a while before following. He was there as a devoted servant of the child, nothing more. Ruhen had to look vulnerable, without guidance; his hypnotic eyes would do the rest.
‘Tribute?’ roared the general from Raland, ‘what new insult is this? There was no mention of such a thing an hour ago!’
‘An hour ago you were declaring yourselves ready to fight to the last man,’ Duke Vrill retorted with a pinched expression, ‘with the great dragon of your Order threatening to reach out with its claws and strike us all down.’
More than a few couldn’t help but glance at the rotting corpse of the dragon Lord Styrax had killed. The body had been butchered, its claws and teeth taken by Menin soldiers as trophies, but a large enough chunk remained rotting in the sun.
‘So much anger,’ Ruhen said in a quiet voice. ‘Where does it end?’
The general paused in his response as he noticed his presence for the first time.
‘What is this child doing here?’ demanded High Priest Garash, a tall man in the brown robes of Belarannar. ‘Damned heretic - false idol of heretics!’
‘High Priest,’ Lord Styrax said in a cold tone, ‘there is no call for incivility.’
Garash bristled visibly. ‘That child’s followers preach heresy in Akell and beyond, and I will not listen to the filth it has to say.’
Styrax looked from the priest to the small figure of Ruhen. ‘Then get out of my sight,’ he said. ‘If you think a child of eight winters capable of preaching grave heresy, then you’re a fool, and I do not treat with fools.’
The high priest opened his mouth to respond, but before he could Knight-Cardinal Certinse touched him on the arm. The pair conferred quietly, Garash’s eyes widening with anger, but Certinse’s expression was hard.
‘Go,’ he said softly, ‘the piety of a small boy is not the concern here.’ He looked past the priest to where his adjutant stood. ‘Captain Perforren, please escort the high priest back to Akell.’
Garash scowled, realising he would have to physically resist if he wanted to remain at the discussion. He gave Ruhen one last hate-filled look before he rose and turned his back on them.
‘Thank you, Knight-Cardinal,’ Styrax acknowledged. ‘Duchess Escral, perhaps your man would take the child away, and leave negotiations to the adults.’
Before the duchess could reply Ruhen turned towards her and fixed his shadow-filled gaze upon her. She froze, lost at once in the hypnotic swirl.
‘Do you not want peace?’ he asked, looking around at them all. ‘Do you not think the bloodshed should end?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Certinse muttered. ‘What does a child know of diplomacy? Duchess, would you — ’ He stopped dead as Ruhen stared straight at him, the words dying in his throat.
Ilumene had to suppress a smile. So Certinse intended to use Ruhen for his own ends? Ruhen could have that effect on many when he wished . . .
It was a strange sight; the small boy standing like a presiding magistrate between the opposing parties. Ruhen was dressed in a simple fawn tunic and calfskin trousers. There was a small pearl at his throat, but apart from that the boy could have been a shopkeeper’s son.
‘Very well, what do you suggest, little prince?’ Certinse asked.
Ruhen gave Certinse a small smile before turning to the envoys from Raland and Embere. ‘Do you want to make war?’
The generals exchanged a look. ‘Ah, of course not, if it can be helped,’ one said hesitantly.
‘Then do not fight.’ Ruhen’s high childish voice had them all transfixed now. His words were spoken without guile or inflexion, so plain that they sounded completely out of place around these men of politics - and that gave him his power.
‘It is not quite so simple,’ began the general, tailing off when he realised he was about to justify himself to a little boy.
‘He does not want to fight,’ Ruhen insisted, pointing at Lord Styrax. ‘Murderers came to Byora to kill my mother, and he must fight them. But he only wants peace with you.’
All eyes went to Styrax. ‘My offer remains, now that tempers are less heated. Sovereignty over your own lands, if you acknowledge my empire and rule. No occupying forces and only modest tribute, in return for protection against any and all enemies who may threaten your borders.’
‘What of those of our Order in Akell?’
‘They must remain,’ Styrax said apologetically, ‘for no less than a year. Their safety relies on your adherence to this non-aggression treaty.’
‘We cannot treat with a heretic,’ growled another priest, a bearded ma
n who’d barely spoken throughout the negotiations.
‘Why not?’ asked Ruhen.
The priest looked startled at the question. ‘He has turned away from the Gods, and such behaviour cannot be condoned!’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Our reports were quite specific.’
Ruhen blinked, and summoned an expression of innocent puzzlement. ‘You want to fight because of a rumour?’
‘One I deny,’ Styrax broke in, ‘if that’s any help?’ His face was inscrutable. The white-eye was careful not to let his lively enjoyment of the situation show in any way that might give offence.
‘Can you not forgive?’ Ruhen said. ‘Does your God not allow forgiveness?’
The priest purpled. He wore the black robes of Death. ‘Forgiveness is my God’s prerogative, not mine.’
