by Tom Lloyd
Hain bellowed above the din of cracking flames from the warehouse and two more squads advanced from between buildings, moving at a fast trot with their shields and spears held high.
As the remnants of the decimated squad screamed in agony nearby, their skin blackened, their weapons abandoned, the creature appeared confused.
It barely moved as the two new squads approached - until they were close, when the elemental jumped forward and tried to smash through the interlocked shields with its fists. As soon as it had chosen a target, the free squad lurched towards it, their spears lowered, and passed it at a trot.
Three or four spear-heads passed through the Chalebrat’s body without apparent effect, but as it struck down at the squad, the company lieutenant slashed up with his scimitar and as elemental arm met sword there was an explosion of fire.
Hain heard his lieutenant cry out as he fell to the floor, but the clash drove the elemental back too.
‘Come on,’ Hain roared, axe held high, and the circling squads obeyed, charging forward as one. Hain was the first to reach it and once again he led them past, strafing to get its attention off the beleaguered squad that had faltered. The elemental turned to follow them before it saw the remaining units.
Slashing wildly at the air, the Chalebrat tried to back away, then realised there was nowhere to go and turned towards Hain’s squad. He yelled at them to stop, and his élite troops obeyed, hunkered down behind their shields and set their spears forward.
The elemental thrashed at them with a long whip of fire, but it burst harmlessly on their shields and within seconds the remaining squads were behind it, impaling it on their spears. The Chalebrat reeled and turned, snapping spear-shafts with savage slaps.
Now’s our chance, Hain realised, and he pushed his way through the shields. Ignoring the scorching heat he ran forward as the elemental battered away the never-ending wall of spears. His eyes watering, his skin tightening, he could feel the Chalebrat like a brand pressed against his exposed lips and chin. Hain hacked upwards at its arm, and was rewarded by an impact. The contact drove him back a step, but he forced himself on, eyes half-closed and swinging blindly at the yellow glare.
The elemental screamed again and again, the light intensified and Hain felt a blow to his shoulder that knocked him over, but in the next moment the fires winked out.
Hain felt himself hit the ground and kept on rolling, abandoning his axe in a desperate attempt to put out any flames. When his mind registered cheers coming from all around him he stopped and blinked up. After the glare of the Chalebrat the smoke-tinted sky looked blessedly dark and cool. He fought his way to his feet and took a breath, gasping with pain as the skin on his lips split and blood spilled down his mouth.
‘Sir!’ he heard an urgent voice call as hands went under his armpits and helped him up. ‘Sir, you ’urt?’
Hain blinked again and at last the blurs resolved themselves into shapes. ‘Gods,’ he croaked, realising it was Deebek’s mangled features right in front of him, ‘can’t be in paradise yet.’
He heard the words slur and felt blood spill from his mouth, but the twisted grin on Deebek’s face told him the injury wasn’t as serious as the pain in his face suggested.
‘Don’t worry, sir, there’s a special’un fer the likes o’us.’
‘The ugly?’ Hain asked drunkenly, prompting a roar of laughter that showed him far more of Deebek’s remaining teeth than Hain needed.
‘Bloody heroes, sir!’
Hain looked around at the cheering soldiers, then down at the scorched earth underfoot. There was a shapeless, blackened patch at his feet about a yard across, but no other trace of the Chalebrat.
‘Bloody heroes,’ he repeated before half-spitting and half-dribbling more blood from his mouth. Someone pressed his axe into his hand and Hain held it up to roars of approval from the survivors.
‘Well, boys,’ he said as loud as he could, wincing at the effort of a smile to make the old sergeant proud, ‘you wanted a real war and an enemy worth fighting. Looks like we got one.’
CHAPTER 22
Witchfinder Shanatin sucked his teeth and thought, his round face screwed up with the effort. He was a large man, and his thinning hair and air of harmlessness led people into thinking him a fool. Shanatin had often wondered, in the quiet of night, why he’d ended up the butt of every joke in the Knights of the Temples, and the target for every bully. There must be something about his open, honest face that caught the eye and inspired malice, while a lack of coordination in his unwieldy frame meant he tended to come off worse every time he stood up for himself. The bruises on his face were now yellow and grey, still visible in what daylight crept through the shattered roof of the ruin they were standing in.
Luerce cocked his head and watched the man think. Significantly smaller than Shanatin and never much of a fighter, Luerce nevertheless found himself wondering what it would be like to punch the fool in his fat face. To see the dismay and fear blossom; to see blood smeared across his plump, greasy cheeks . . . he tried to clear the image from his head: today he was Shanatin’s friend.
‘Do you want me to explain it again?’
Shanatin shook his blotchy, melon-like head. ‘Just don’t get why.’
Luerce raised an eyebrow and the witchfinder raised his hands submissively, ever the coward.
‘’Course I’ll do it, no fear - but why not Garash? He’s the bastard giving orders to harass the preachers.’
‘High Priest Garash is a useful man; I wish him nothing but the finest of health.’
‘Eh? But — ’
Luerce sighed. You really are a fucking idiot, Shanatin. Lucky for you the master keeps his promises.
‘Garash is a fanatic; a sadistic and violent man. The more he abuses his position, and the soldiers of the Devoted, the faster he pushes them to the master’s service. Remember, small steps in the shadows will lead us to greatness. We leave the grand statements of power to others; far safer to prepare the path and allow others to bring about their own downfall.’ He smiled like a snake. ‘If a few of Ruhen’s Children fall along the wayside because of Garash’s excesses, such is the sacrifice we must all make.’
Shanatin’s piggy eyes widened. ‘All? You mean they’re going to find out it’s not true?’
‘Some more than others,’ Luerce reassured him. ‘As for your share, we’ll apportion it to a certain sergeant who tore up your books.’
At last Shanatin smiled. His only true friends were the three books he owned - at least, he had owned them, until a drunken sergeant had ripped them to pieces and pissed on the remnants.
Not one of the master’s greatest acquisitions, Luerce reflected, but sometimes we must make do with what is available. If a few soldiers are the price of his service, I’d gladly pay it ten times over.
‘Now,’ Luerce continued, not wanting the fat lump to get distracted by what might await his tormentor. The first time a snivelling Shanatin had been nursing his bruises alone and the shadows whispered his name, the result had been his abuser clawing his own eyes. This time might not be so dramatic, but it would suffice. ‘Do you remember what to do?’
Shanatin affected to look hurt, but only managed constipated. ‘’Course I remember. I’ll go now.’
‘Thank you, my friend.’ Luerce put something in Shanatin’s pocket and patted it meaningfully. Then he tugged the hood of his white cloak up over his head and smiled at the witchfinder from the shadows within it. ‘Stay strong, the twilight reign is coming. Our time is coming.’
The thin Litse turned and disappeared into the broken rear room of the building, secreting himself out of sight until Shanatin had gone. They were in the poor inner district of Akell, the Circle City’s northern quarter, where few Devoted would venture.
Unlike Byora where the rich lived in the lee of Blackfang’s cliffs, here the long, shallower slope led up to the highest side of the mountain. Parss, that malevolent - some said simpleton - child of the mountain Goddess, Ushull, tossed
his boulders down this slope too frequently for the rich, for they hit the buildings as if flung from siege engines. Shanatin left and checked his surroundings before leaving, careful to wait until the street was empty.
The witchfinder headed east, following the tall spur of wall that was all that remained of a gaol once built here. A landslide had demolished the rest during a storm when Shanatin was a child. As he walked through a haphazard network of makeshift shacks, the sound of the landslide boomed again in his ears. That demonstration of divine power had been his reason for joining the Knights of the Temples, just as the petty cruelty of men had been spark for him to accept what Azaer promised him, years later.
When he reached the more respectable areas he started seeing Devoted uniforms and hunkered down low as he walked. He had been careful to not wear his uniform - the white and black of the witchfinders was as easily noticed as Shanatin himself - but it meant he had to return to the Brew House, where they were quartered. It was an island within the main garrison complex, so he’d be forced to pass the barracks. He gritted his teeth and walked with head down and hands in pockets, silently asking Azaer to watch over him as he went about his task. He’d never heard the shadow’s voice or felt its presence except after sundown, so it didn’t worry him when he didn’t receive a response.
And Shanatin muttered words of thanks when, almost an hour later as the sun met the eastern horizon, he reached Cardinal Eleil’s offices unmolested. He’d done his best to ignore the sights as he walked; the entire main thoroughfare was lined with punishments of various sorts, from stocks at the mouth of the street, at the junction of the main road, to the gibbets closest to the Cardinal’s office. He didn’t count the soldiers and citizens being disciplined that day; undue interest itself was a crime now. The priests had made cowards of them all, though it was a familiar sensation for Shanatin.
He was admitted to the courtyard with only a cursory inspection, the guards making it clear they thought him incapable of causing trouble as they opened the gate. Inside he discovered the offices were in fact two tall buildings connected by a central hall.
The cardinal himself was said to have a desk situated on a mezzanine in the hall - from which, if rumour was to be believed, he could see and hear everything that happened at the desks below, the administrative heart of the Devout Congress.
Outside the hall’s wide barred windows, and blocking Shanatin’s path, was a company of soldiers, dressed like regular Knights of the Temples infantry, except they were armed where most of the other soldiers in the city had turned their weapons in to the Menin. A few eyed him suspiciously, the rest didn’t bother.
‘You lost?’ a soldier called out. Shanatin shook his head and approached the man, a sergeant with pox scars on his face.
‘I need to speak to Cardinal Eleil,’ Shanatin said in a quiet voice.
‘The cardinal?’ The sergeant snorted. ‘Gen’rally speakin’, he don’t bother with any damn stray that wanders in.’
Cardinal Eleil, once head of the Serian in the Circle City, the Devoted’s intelligence-gathering arm, was now High Priest Garash’s deputy on the Devout Congress. While Garash was the driving force behind this moral vigilance within the Knights of the Temples, it was Eleil who administrated and instituted Garash’s reforms.
‘It’s important,’ Shanatin insisted, dropping his eyes to look at the sergeant’s scuffed boots. The man looked like a bully to Shanatin; he just had to hope he looked cowed already.
The sergeant was silent a moment. ‘Better be,’ he muttered before walking past Shanatin and jerking open the main door. ‘Hey, you - where’s Chaplain Fynner?’ he asked someone inside.
Shanatin didn’t hear a reply, but the sergeant stepped back and a few seconds later a tall, white-haired man in the dark red robes of a chaplain came out.
‘What is it?’ Fynner asked in a deep, rich voice.
‘Witchfinder’s askin’ for the cardinal, Father,’ the sergeant explained, pointing at Shanatin. ‘Says it’s important.’
The chaplain frowned at Shanatin, who wilted under the look.
‘Very well,’ said Fynner with resignation, ‘come with me.’
Shanatin followed him into the large, chilly hall. It was still bright inside; orange-tinted sunlight streamed in through the windows lining the wall above the door and lamps were lit below. There appeared to be no one looking down over the room, but a dozen or so priests of various ranks were busy at the lower desks.
Once the door had shut behind Shanatin, Fynner rounded on him. ‘So, Witchfinder, you’ll have to convince me before you see anyone,’ Fynner said sternly.
‘Yes, Father,’ Shanatin mutter respectfully. ‘I ... I overheard somethin’ I shouldn’t of a few days back. I been keepin’ my eyes open since then and I don’t think he’s the only one.’
‘The only what?’
Shanatin hesitated. ‘Mage; a mage off the books.’
‘You are talking about an officer of the Order? That is a serious charge, young man; a very serious charge for an enlisted to make.’
‘I know, sir, important officer too.’
Fynner looked around the room. The other priests seemed to be busy with their work and oblivious to what was going on, but still he beckoned for Shanatin to follow him to one end of the hall, where they went through a door. Without a further word Fynner took him up a short flight of stairs, past a sentry and into the private quarters of the cardinal.
‘Cardinal Eleil is eating,’ he explained at last when they reached one doorway, ‘which may be for the best; this is sensitive information after all.’
Shanatin nodded, looking relieved. Fynner knocked and entered without waiting for a response, ushering Shanatin inside and shutting the door behind him.
‘Fynner?’ inquired the cardinal, seated alone at the head of a polished mahogany table and with a laden fork raised.
Shanatin felt his mouth start to water as the aroma of roast pork filled his nostrils. He could see roasted apples and potatoes on the plate, all liberally doused in thick nut-brown gravy. For a moment all thoughts of his mission were forgotten - until Chaplain Fynner cleared his throat pointedly and Shanatin realised he was staring open-mouthed at the food.
‘My apologies, Cardinal Eleil, but this man has just brought a matter to my attention that I felt sure you would want to hear.’
‘Well?’
Cardinal Eleil was older than Shanatin had assumed; his face wrinkled and weathered, his hair perfectly white, which indicated he was probably pure Litse blood.
‘Ah, your Grace,’ Shanatin stuttered, giving an awkward bow.
The error put a slight smile on the cardinal’s face, as Shanatin had hoped. He inclined his head to acknowledge Shanatin’s respect and took a swig of wine while the witchfinder started to speak.
‘I was comin’ back from ... ah, meetin’ a friend, four nights back - past midnight. I was out past curfew so I was sneakin’ back into the Brew House, but before I got in I saw two men speakin’ in the shadows. I hung back ’til they left. One o’ them was Sergeant Timonas, see, from the witchfinders.’
He hesitated and glanced at Fynner, who gestured for him to keep going. ‘Right, well, the other were an officer, and he bought some dose off of Timonas, gave him money, right in front of me. For more than one person too - brew don’t last too long after it’s cooked, and I reckon Timonas gave him enough for two, maybe three. Before the officer left he told Timonas to make damn sure he was doin’ the next inspection too. The sarge said the schedules had bin worked out right an’ it was all sorted.’
The cardinal leaned forward, his meal forgotten. ‘Did you recognise the officer?’
‘Yes, sir. It were Captain Perforren, the Knight-Cardinal’s adjutant.’
The two priests exchanged a look, then Fynner spoke. ‘You are certain that was what was being discussed? There is no room for confusion or explanation?’
‘No, sir, they was clear enough, an’ I recognised the bottles Timonas gave Perforren
- they’re the ones we use for the dose.’
Shanatin fell silent, letting the news sink in. The Order’s laws were specific: all mages within their ranks had to be registered and monitored. A man with ambitions, however, would know any ability as a mage would count against him when it came to promotion - certainly no mage would ever be elected to the Council, and Captain Perforren was aide to the man who had led that Council for years. Corruption, bribery, wilful flouting of the Codex ... these were all breaches of the law, and they added up to a capital offence.
‘They did not mention who the others were?’ Cardinal Eleil asked at last.
Shanatin shook his head.
‘Then we must move cautiously. What is your name, Witchfinder? ’
