by Tom Lloyd
Around the altar were three people, two men and a woman, with a fourth standing back in the recess of the half-dome shrine. He was dressed as an officer of the Black Swords, and was of no importance to proceedings here, even though he’d been summoned to a meeting where ranked commissars had not.
Of the other three, one, truly ancient, was a High Priest of Alterr. The white-haired, white robed relic stood with his hands clasped and eyes downcast. He had perhaps been instructed to avert his gaze even as he bowed with the other two.
‘My Lord, you honour us with your presence,’ declared the elder of the remaining two, a man past his prime but still strong and fit looking. ‘I am Prefect Darass, Overseer of Toristern Settlement, and this is my deputy, Counsel Aels.’ He indicated the handsome woman of perhaps fifty summers beside him who bowed a second time. Both wore plain brown clothes of good cloth, the yellow scarves of the Commissar Brigade, and identical black coats that hung like academic robes – but there was one crucial difference between them. The deputy, Aels, wore the white clasp of the Sentinels on her scarf, while Darass had a black one.
So Aels, Isak guessed, must be the Night Council’s local commander. He stopped himself right there, telling himself, don’t be stupid now; it doesn’t mean they’re the only danger, just the most obvious one.
Isak introduced himself and Vesna briefly before the Prefect turned to face the sinking sun and declared it was time for the dusk rituals. As though restored to life, the high priest jerked into action and began to drone a long, monotone prayer to Alterr. Isak kept silent, though he could hear Vesna reciting the Farlan equivalent under his breath. After five interminable minutes he was bored and restless, but at last the priest took one of the chalices and lifted it to his lips.
The brim was reverentially wiped with a cloth and both chalice and cloth were passed to Darass, who did the same before giving it to Isak. Rather startled, Isak swallowed some of the water it contained, then Vesna reached out to accept it from him, knowing he’d rarely been to temple and barely knew the rituals of Nartis, let alone any other.
When the chalice made its way back round to the High Priest and a second round of incomprehensible droning started up, Isak felt his heart sink. He belatedly realised each chalice must contain a different liquid, no doubt to be sipped in turn, and he gave Mihn a look – but the failed Harlequin had anticipated him. His hands clasped across his stomach, he was already staring fixedly at Isak. The white-eye got the message and returned to his former stance, closing his eyes to let the words slip gently over him with the evening breeze.
After four more rounds the ceremony was over, and after a nod from Prefect Darass, the High Priest bowed to those present before leaving. He didn’t make eye contact with Isak at any point, apparently afraid, even in these circumstances, to risk what a commissar might view as contamination.
‘And now, my Lord Sebe,’ Prefect Dasass announced, advancing with a studied smile of welcome, ‘may I offer you refreshment?’
The soldier standing in the wings was already moving as the Prefect spoke, heading around behind the half-dome and returning with glasses and a swan-necked glass jug that Isak could see was filled with pale red wine. With each of his guests served, Prefect Darass spoke several toasts – to the moon, the Upper Circle and his guest. Each was recited as if by by rote, the words no doubt set in stone.
‘You bring us exciting times, my Lord,’ Darass said next, the formalities finally completed. ‘The future of Vanach and all servants of the Gods may now follow your guidance, but I find my thoughts lingering on the past still. Your name is not known to me; might I enquire a little of your background?’
Isak forced himself to keep eye contact. ‘There’s little to tell. My parents were Farlan. I became a soldier like most white-eyes, then I found a different path.’
‘Quite a path, my Lord,’ Aels interjected. She indicated the Roaring Lion emblem on Vesna’s cuirass. ‘Whilst we might be isolated, we do hear a little of the Land beyond our bor ders. Another white-eye had the renowned Count Vesna as his vassal—’
‘Who then died, as I’m sure you also heard,’ Vesna said, the menace in his voice unmistakeable. ‘Nor am I a nobleman of the Farlan any longer, the Gods have set a different path before me. The tribe of my birth lies behind me.’
Aels inclined her head. ‘I am reminded of a saying by one of Vanach’s founding Priesans: “Mindful of our past, we walk to the embrace of the Gods with ties of family and honour falling in our wake”. Our future does not lie with the Tribes of Man, nor with the tyranny of kings: so it is written in the Ziggurat Mysteries the messenger of the Gods granted us.’
‘Everything will change,’ Isak agreed. ‘For good or for worse, change has come.’
‘Surely you do not doubt the power of the Gods?’ Aels asked in studied surprise. ‘No force could overcome their majesty, not even the Great Heretic when he is reborn and summons his daemon army.’
Isak blinked. He couldn’t see Mihn’s face, so he didn’t know what dogma or prophecy this daemon army might refer to, but he was not surprised the last King of the Elves, the great heretic Aryn Bwr, was part of these zealots’ ultimate calling.
Let’s just hope they don’t find out in whose body Aryn Bwr tried to be reborn.
‘The enemy of the Gods is born,’ he said carefully, ‘and my fear is that the power of the Gods has been turned against them. Your priests must have informed you that the Gods are weakened, drained by the effort of striking a faithless servant’s name from history. The enemy will act soon, and the faithful must be ready for him.’
‘The enemy has a name?’ Darass demanded before Aels could speak again.
Isak inclined his head. It seems lies come more easily now I’m not a politician or nobleman. ‘It masquerades as a child, a ward of Byora named Ruhen. Under its influence the duchess has already banned the cults there, and its disciples now carry its heresy throughout the Land.’
‘Troubling news,’ Aels said with less emotion than Isak would have expected, ‘but the faithful of Vanach are ready. We walk with the Gods. I pray you share our resolve for the third of the signs requires that be demonstrated unflinchingly.’
‘You think I lack resolve?’
Aels shook her head. ‘No, Lord, but I fear you must lose a powerful ally to fulfil the sign. The loss of a servant means little in the eyes of the Gods.’
‘Loss? I’ve no intention of losing anyone,’ Isak said. His fingers itched for the grip of Eolis, currently wrapped in cloth on his hip to avoid it being recognised as the weapon of the great heretic.
The woman looked genuinely apologetic, but there was no such emotion in her voice when she explained, ‘Lord Sebe, the third of the signs, as described in the Ziggurat Mysteries, is that the one sent by the Gods shall know the true meaning of sacrifice. This has been debated at length by the Councils of the Commissar Brigade, who believe it calls for the sacrifice of one of the twelve. I am here as a member of the Night Council to attest to your constancy.
‘The death of a servant cannot be of any true loss to one who will lead the faithful in battle, however, and now the sign is invoked it must be fulfilled properly and under Alterr’s watch this night.’
Isak nodded towards the Black Swords officer. ‘That why he’s here? To take the place of the one I kill?’
‘Your companions must number twelve still, so the mysteries say.’
He looked at Vesna and shrugged. The Mortal-Aspect said nothing.
Aels saw the spark in Isak’s eyes and drew back a touch as Isak growled, ‘And who are you, to make such demands of me?’ Anger smouldered in his belly. ‘You demand a sacrifice from me? You demand to see what I have lost – what I’m willing to lose in this war?’ He could feel his hand shaking; the weight on his shoulders building. On the distant breeze he could hear the groan and rumble of the Dark Place, voices raised in unholy cries. His nostrils filled with the sulphurous stink of Ghenna’s tunnels and something deep inside him began to scream for w
hat he had lost, for the pain he remembered in his bones.
An image of Tila’s face flashed before his eyes, her elegant features contorted in death, and looming behind her was the dark shadow of a man whose face he could no longer see. Carel.
The word meant little to him, but it sparked a pain like no other and the loss tore through his gut: the nameless, unspeakable pain of a part of him that was gone for ever: his childhood, the foundations of his life, vanished into a murky void. With it mingled the death-scream of Xeliath, and the feel of huge claws tearing through the rune burned onto Isak’s chest.
‘Pray,’ Isak ordered, voice tight and rasping with rage, ‘pray you never understand what I have sacrificed.’
He took a step towards her without even realising and found himself looming over the woman, his hands clawed and apparently ready to grab her by the throat. Aels was plainly terrified, and frozen to the spot, staring up at the tortured vision now standing before her.
Slowly, with great difficulty, he withdrew his hands, gasping for breath as he realised how close he had come to tearing out her throat with his twisted fingernails. His hands went to his head and he pushed the hood back off his battered scalp.
Mihn had cropped his hair close to the skin to highlight the indentations and claw-marks that defined his head. A lopsided widow’s peak indicated where part of his scalp had been torn away; a furrow ran from his ragged ear down to his throat, and it was there Aels’ eyes lingered: on the deep, dark regular curves of scarring from the chains that had bound him in Ghenna.
Isak opened his robe to reveal his bare torso. The patterns of scarring continued there, covering so much of his chest and arms that Aels gasped aloud in horror. Chain-marks looped over his shoulders and across his belly. The indentation where the Menin lord had opened his guts was only the largest of the injuries visited upon his body. Runes and daemon-script were carved into his skin: rough, uneven symbols inscribed with savagery, torture beyond anything that could have been inflicted on the living.
His left arm had been burned white by the touch of Nartis in Narkang, and in the fading light of dusk his skin now shone with terrible intensity. Haphazard loops and slashes of shadowy scarring seemed to rise and swarm like traces of dark magic before Aels’ eyes.
Eventually she turned away, unable to bear the look on his face as the memories of those injuries returned afresh in his mind. From across the city came the haunting sound of daemon-song, a terrible jubilation ringing across a land of weakened Gods, running its cold claws down the spine of all who heard it.
‘I know sacrifice only too well,’ Isak breathed, ‘for I am its favourite plaything.’
‘It was a mistake to try and kill them,’ said a figure in black, one slim shoulder visible against the open window behind.
Counsel Aels froze, halfway inside the door to her private office. Her hand went to her belt, but the knife wasn’t there now. She’d left it behind on her desk; there it was, just visible in the twilight of the darkened room.
‘You?’ she exclaimed, ‘how did you get in here?’
The man inclined his head to the open window by way of explanation.
Aels frowned as she pictured the wall outside: twenty feet at least of sheer stone, all while regular patrols walked the path underneath. Only an acrobat could climb that, or a Harlequin. ‘You take a great risk, invading the office of a member of the Night Council,’ she muttered as she shut the door behind her.
She jumped as she saw another figure shift slightly in the dark, this one wearing the familiar diamond-pattern clothes and white mask. ‘Still more so by dictating to us how we should respond to threats to the state.’
‘You showed him your hand by sending troops to kill him.’
She dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand. ‘An underling overreacted; the council did not sanction the action.’
‘That is no longer relevant,’ said the one who’d named himself Venn on his previous visit. He stood perfectly, unnaturally still as he watched her, unnerving her and making her wonder about this new ally of the Night Council, but she suppressed the question. This one claimed to be the enemy of their so-called saviour, the man who would tear down everything they had built here in Vanach. The Night Council’s decision was correct, and the price of Venn’s information modest.
‘There will be no further efforts.’
‘Good. Have you decided how you will proceed?’
Anger welled inside her. ‘Who are you to demand answers from me?’ Aels snapped. ‘I am a Sapesian of the Commissar Brigade and Second of Toristern Settlement, sitting member of the Night Council. Adopt a more respectful manner or my inquisitors will ensure you can never climb again.’
If there was any change in Venn’s expression it was too minute for Aels to discern. ‘My apologies, Sapesian Aels.’
Again, the man’s manner made her hesitate. His words sounded entirely sincere and cowed, but his poise indicated no such correction.
‘We will proceed as we see fit,’ she said at last. ‘The Night Council does not rule the Sanctum; other ranking councils must have a reason to follow our lead.’
‘Confirmation of your concerns?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Exactly. Why? Can you arrange this?’
Venn bowed and slipped out of the window. His mocking reply drifted through the night air. ‘All things are possible for those of faith.’
CHAPTER 15
Major Amber looked down the main street of Kamfer’s Ford in a daze, unable to quite believe this wasn’t a dream. From some of those passing, civilians and soldiers alike, came a few askance glances, but bizarrely, that was all: no shouts or curses, no drawn weapons … Were these people used to such strange sights that an armed enemy in their midst was barely noteworthy? In a Menin camp, a Narkang soldier would have been beaten into the ground or run through, not ignored.
The most suspicious looks came from the groups of women prowling the town – priestesses, he guessed, escorted by armed, scowling women who looked like they had once been Hands of Fate, devotees of the Lady trained as killers. Most were wearing pendants of emerald or green glass, some new symbol of allegiance, most likely.
The early autumn sun casting a low yellow haze over the cloudless sky somehow added to Amber’s disjointed sense of bewilderment. The streets of this bustling town were similarly tinted, and even the gloomy mien of Camatayl Castle on the hill was diminished. A squad of troops in Kingsguard uniforms tramped past and Amber turned to watch them go, wondering why his hand was not automatically reaching for a scimitar.
The town was in a sorry state, he realised. The Menin Army had passed near here, destroying much of what was in its path. According to Nai, this town had been the heart of military operations in Narkang, and the people had fled before the Menin arrived.
‘They got off lightly,’ he said, frowning at his own lightheadedness. ‘I thought most towns were destroyed.’
‘Most were,’ the soldier behind him replied, his hand returning to his sword. He couldn’t have been more than a year or two in the army; he was too young to hide his fear of the big Menin officer he’d been assigned to guard. ‘The locals left enough supplies behind that your scouts were more interested in scavenging than burning. Bastards still managed to wreck it, though.’
Amber nodded distantly. He had nothing to add to that, and no reaction at all to the soldier’s belligerence.
In every direction he looked there were repairs taking place, and new construction too. Two large fields of tents flanked the town, and it looked as though they were planning on wintering here. The major looked back to the castle. His companions had gone there, Nai and Ardela both demanding to see King Emin as soon as they arrived here. He’d felt a jolt in his stomach at the prospect of meeting the man responsible for all that had befallen the Menin, only to be left empty when informed that the king was away.
A cool gust of wind, unexpectedly chilly in the bright sun, woke him from his reverie. Amber sighed and turned to the
door nearby. There didn’t appear to be much else to do since the king wasn’t here, so he went in. Eyes watched warily as he stepped through the door and blinked at the dim interior. There was a fire ahead of him, dividing the room in two, and a bar extended the length of the wall on the right. Amber ignored the looks and not-so-subtle loosening of weapons and headed to the bar.
‘Beer,’ he said to the plump man behind it, a greasy, nervous specimen with a short, scraggly beard, but once Amber spoke, hatred won over fear on the barkeep’s face.
‘Not for you,’ the man said with a shake of the head. ‘Get out.’
‘Make me,’ Amber growled.
Aside from the handful of locals there were four soldiers in the tavern. He could feel their eyes on his back, Nai had insisted Amber be allowed to keep his scimitars for some reason, and he was big, even for a Menin. If they wanted him out they’d need to do more than throw punches. After what their king had done Amber didn’t have any fear left; pain was an old friend of his and there was nothing more they could take.
‘I don’t serve Menin here.’
‘I’ll fucking serve myself then.’
‘Not while I breathe.’ The barkeep pulled a shortsword from behind the bar, no doubt plundered from some battlefield. He didn’t look like he knew how to use it, but he pointed it defiantly enough at Amber. The Menin officer let his baldric slip off his shoulder and the grip of one scimitar fell into his hand. He didn’t yet draw it, but turned side-on so the soldiers behind him were in view.
‘Doesn’t strike me as a problem,’ Amber said as his left hand moved slowly to the hilt of his other sword.
‘Major!’ the young soldier called as he moved between the Menin and his comrades, his hand still on his sword. ‘You are paroled under honour – stow your weapons.’
