by Tom Lloyd
‘The only word you’ve had,’ Amber said slowly, ‘is that of some fucking necromancer. I got no honour left.’
His escort hesitated; he hadn’t been part of the discussion Nai had had with his captain.
Amber began to slip one scimitar from its scabbard, planning his first strike and parry in his mind, when one of the locals at the bar spoke up.
‘Give him a damn beer.’ The speaker was a good decade or two older than Amber, and not from these parts, by his accent. The whole room stared at him in surprise until he lifted his head and looked back at them. Amber saw a weathered face and a white collar to his tunic; there was no fear in the man’s eyes, just irritation and weariness. He had his jacket draped over his shoulders and when he shifted round Amber saw the left sleeve of his tunic hung empty.
‘You hear me? Put your bloody swords away and give the man a drink. I’ll even pay if you children start playin’ nice.’
Amber glanced at the barkeep and saw him deflate. He lowered his sword and grabbed a mug instead. The Menin nodded and relaxed his own grip, slung the baldric back up on his shoulder and took the nearest stool. He grunted as a mug of beer was dumped in front of him and reached into his jacket, but the older man had already tossed a coin onto the bar.
‘I can pay.’
‘Said I was payin’, friend.’
Amber took a long drink and turned his head. ‘I ain’t your friend.’
The old man snorted. ‘Reckon I’m the best you got right now. Unless some necromancer counts.’
Amber tried to think of a real friend who might still be alive and felt a fresh ache blossom behind his eyes. He put his elbows on the bar and hunched over his beer, running a hand over his tangled hair to cover the pain on his face.
‘Aye, as I thought.’ The old man pulled out a tobacco pouch and set it on the bar, removed a battered wooden pipe from it and tried to fill it one-handed. The pipe slipped from under his hand and scattered shreds of tobacco over the sticky bar top.
‘Mind helping an old veteran?’ he said, waving the pipe at Amber, who scowled, but took it and quickly filled it. ‘Thanks, friend.’ The old man jammed it in the corner of his mouth and lit it with a taper.
‘I ain’t your friend.’ Amber finished the beer and gestured for another one. When the barkeep took the mug off him he glanced at his companion’s. It was nearly empty, so he pointed to that too.
‘I know you’re not,’ the old man said quietly. Amber felt a familiar flicker in his gut, but the old man did nothing more than take a swig of beer before continuing, ‘Truth be told, I hate you fucking Menin, and if I find my way t’Moorview I’ll piss on your lord’s grave there.’
Amber’s hand clenched. ‘One word more and you’ll never make the journey.’ There was murder in his voice.
The old man recognised it sure enough. He went still, but his demeanor was not that of a frightened man; Amber recognised it only too well: this was a man with nothing more to lose.
‘Reckon you’re right there,’ the old man said carefully. ‘Don’t expect me t’sing his praises, though. Man took my boy from me, sent him straight t’the Dark Place.’
There was something in the way he said it that made Amber hesitate. Veterans weren’t prone to theatricality, but it was a strange expression to use idly.
‘Your boy?’
‘Aye.’ The old man’s hand shook a little as he drew hard on his pipe, but the smoke seemed to help him recover. ‘Not by blood, but I raised him.’
‘White-eye?’
The old man nodded.
Amber shook his head in disbelief. ‘I heard about that – didn’t see it myself; I’d been knocked out by then. Way I heard it, he went defiant to the last, goaded my lord even when he was beaten.’
The old man smiled sadly. ‘Aye, that’d be just like the little bastard. As wilful as the storm he was sometimes, as great as any God at others.’
Amber was silent for a while, unable to think of what to say to the man who’d loved Isak Stormcaller as a son. He finished his drink and bought another round, feeling the tension in his head slowly start to ease as alcohol softened the jangle of his thoughts.
‘What brings you this way then?’ he asked eventually. ‘I didn’t see a Farlan army out here and you’re no nobleman. Why’d you travel all the way out here?’
The old man gave a bitter laugh. ‘There’s nothing for me back home. My closest friends are out this way; joined up with King Emin, or dead. Those back home are only interested in keepin’ out of any war. I’ve seen too much to hold my tongue around cowards like that.’
‘So you’ve got nothing left,’ Amber said with empathy.
The old man snorted and raised his mug in mock salute. ‘Here’s to the broken, you and me both. Ain’t nothing can help us now, ’cept drinking our way to an early grave, mebbe.’
‘Aye. Strange that.’
‘Eh? What’s strange?
Amber rubbed a hand over his face, stubble rasping against his palm. ‘Me, all broken. There’s a man back home, got wounded in the head years back. Man was frightened o’ his own shadow before that day, but when he came round he was changed. Forgot who he was—’ He shuddered, and screwed his eyes up tight shut. It took a while to pass, but the old man waited it out patiently, and when Amber at last blinked away the stars he saw under standing in his eyes.
‘He forgot where he’d come from,’ Amber recommenced hoarsely, ‘forgot everything about his life ’cos of that injury, and he forgot how to be afraid too. He got called Frost after that – his hair had turned as white as snow. Every time he went to sleep he forgot everything that’d happened to him the previous day – he could remember places and things, but not who he’d met, where he’d been or what he’d done his whole life. He needed a protector, so he got assigned a veteran who’d seen one too many fights.
‘Turned out they helped each other, so when the veteran recovered, Frost got another broken protector assigned, and he helped him too. The man’s got a quiet way about him, they say. He’s almost a myth back home these days. Supposedly you can’t lie to Frost; he’s so innocent he walks with the blessing o’ the Gods.’
Amber sighed and shook his head, exhaustion suddenly catching up with him. ‘Somehow my lord knew I’d end up this way. He trusted me with some o’ his most dangerous missions – he thought me strong enough for that – but something told him I’d end up broken, so he said there’d always be a place for me with Frost. If I ever get home, I’ll go and find him, maybe. Make sure my lord’s promise to him is kept.’
The old man stared away into nothing.
Amber concentrated on his beer, but he could see the glowing embers of the veteran’s pipe wavering uncertainly in his peripheral vision. Another round was bought, but the old man just stared at his drink, not touching it as Amber raised his in silent toast.
At last the old man turned in his seat and offered his hand.
‘Name’s Carel. Marshal Betyn Carelfolden of Etinn, properly, but that’s all just so much piss, between you an’ me.’
Amber nodded and took the man’s arm. ‘Amber,’ he said. ‘Just Amber now.’
To Lord Fernal it looked like the stone walled town had been breeding in the night. A pair of staggered defensive earthworks now stood on either side of Borderkeep, the southernmost of Helrect’s major towns, and a small fort at the western end of the town commanded an uninterrupted view of the vast grassy plains to the south and, more importantly, the roads that cut through them. Behind each set of earthworks was a village of tents for the soldiers stationed there, brightly coloured banners marking the territory of each suzerain and count in attendance.
Since the collapse of the White Circle, Helrect had suffered a chaotic struggle for power among the noble families. With many of the most powerful tainted by White Circle associations or weakened by the fall of Scree, those unable to defend their positions had been murdered or cowed into submission and their lands stolen.
While the state hadn’t cea
sed to exist so completely as Scree had, the common folk of Helrect were almost as pleased as their neighbours to hear the Farlan’s declaration of annexation. The remaining nobles and their warbands hadn’t been so pleased, but there had been little they could do other than submit. Other than a few mass executions of marauding soldiers, the Farlan had effectively conquered two city-states in the name of peace.
‘My Lord!’ called an approaching nobleman through the clusters of hurscals. He ended up barging soldiers out of the way as he approached, almost knocking one proud young knight to the ground as he went. ‘There is a delegation to meet you,’ he announced as he reached Fernal at last. He sank to one knee, unclipped his sword from his belt and offered it to the massive Demi-God.
He was from one of the oldest families in Lomin, Fernal had been told, in a way that made it clear this was important; the count was an experienced soldier and commanded the scouts sweeping the fringes of Helrect territory.
‘Rise, Count Mekir,’ Fernal said, gesturing with one huge taloned hand. ‘What sort of delegation?’
‘Knights of the Temples, my Lord, and a group of preachers wearing white.’ Mekir stood and pointed back the way he had come. ‘They follow a mile or so behind me, escorted by some of my men.’
Fernal scowled as he followed the man’s pointing arm, looking over the heads of his guards. In the distance he could see a large group of riders approaching, still too far for him to make out any banners or formation.
Clearly my instructions were not simple enough.
‘Duke Lomin,’ Fernal said as he turned to the recently raised nobleman, one of those attending their lord, ‘what instructions did you give your men regarding parties from the south?’
Belir Lomin’s face tightened as the eyes of all the men present turned to him. He was barely secure in his position and still learning how to act in the company of his new peers, and he knew they’d take any opportunity for scorn or condescension.
‘I relayed your orders exactly, my Lord,’ he said carefully, taking note of who might be enjoying the implied rebuke. He outranked all of the five suzerains and scions present, but he was equally sure they all considered themselves above him, even if Suzerain Lehm was the only one who showed it.
‘My Lord,’ Count Mekir interjected hesitantly, ‘they came in greater numbers than my men, and they refused to turn back. When they heard your decree they asked specifically to present themselves to you as a delegation from the Circle City. As I did not have troops enough to forcibly stop them, I had no choice but to accede.’
So they did pay attention, Fernal mused. It’s amazing what loyalty these Farlan show once the niceties of rank are agreed and observed and there’s profit to be made. ‘I understand. Duke Lomin, have your troops make ready.’
‘My Lord, is the hostility necessary?’ asked Suzerain Fordan, gesturing to the soldiers surrounding them: there were five legions of troops, either camped around Borderkeep or patrolling within a day’s ride, and a similar number were stationed around Scree and Helrect to maintain order there.
‘That can’t be more than two regiments approaching; the threat is unnecessary, and it will be considered an insult if they are an official delegation.’
Fernal gave Lomin a look, and the duke relayed the order without waiting to hear Fernal’s response. Once men were rushing for their horses and forming up, the Demi-God addressed his six high-born companions, who had been granted the greater bulk of Scree’s territories between them, each to rule their portion as they would their own suzerainty. Of the six, two were scions, bearing the full authority of their suzerains as Torl and Saroc had marched west with the Palace Guard.
‘Let me add to my decree for the benefit of all of you: the territories in Scree you now own were granted because of your loyalty – or your lords’ – in the expectation that you will command this first line of defence of the Farlan nation and protect our borders. I do not care what deals you make with your peers to secure troops or boost trade, so long as Farlan law is extended to Scree and Helrect and is equally respected in our protectorate of Tor Milist.
‘These laws include bans on the Knights of the Temples and all followers of the child Ruhen, and I mean the laws to be kept to the letter.’ He took a pace forward, his lupine fangs bright against the dark blue of his fur. ‘The Farlan like laws; you like your bargains and compromises. This I understand – and I have Chief Steward Lesarl for this – but there will be no compromise where Ruhen’s Children are concerned, nor for any other groups that preach his message.
‘You will all do well out of me, you who govern the Farlan and gather the wealth of the nation: I will make you even more wealthy and powerful by the time my father chooses a new Duke of Tirah, this I promise. I shall not demand the Farlan make war on Byora, as my predecessor did. That is the price, the bargain that keeps the Farlan from civil war. What I expect in return is no grey areas; no unseen deals or “interpretations” of my decrees. It is very simple: any man or woman within the Farlan nation who aids or encourages the followers of Ruhen in any way will be deemed a traitor of the nation, and they will be killed.’
Fernal plucked at the long shirt he wore, fitted loosely over his powerful furred frame, and gestured to the adapted trousers and boots he had adopted to conform to the strictures of Farlan society. ‘I wear this to show publicly that I, as Lord of the Farlan, am one of you, but do not forget my heritage. If you wish to test me on this, you will see what I have inherited from my father, God of Storms – and you will see how widely and indiscriminately I can destroy.’
As the noblemen stared aghast at their lord, Fernal realised just how close to a growl his voice had become.
Lomin was the first to move; he dropped to one knee in acknowledgement of Fernal’s words. ‘Your words are clear, my Lord. Shall I order the delegation to be slaughtered?’
Fernal shook his head, the dark mane of hair flying freely. ‘I think they also must hear it explained clearly. Let them report my words back to the shadow so there will be no later “misunderstanding”. I will meet them.’
The hurscals spread out to flank the assembled lords. Fernal’s company of liveried personal guards formed a narrow avenue, to physically limit the numbers approaching their lord. A tense hush fell over the Farlan soldiers as they watched the newcomers arrive, and Fernal noticed more than one of his men whispering to each other. Even the officers were looking a little uncertain of how to treat the arrivals – until they looked at their lord, and took their cue from him.
Fernal stood with his arms crossed, his axes ready at his belt. He knew to his cost that humans could read little from his face, and that they always assumed a creature his size was capable of nothing but aggression – but in this instance that was precisely what he wanted his subjects to display.
When the Devoted and their white-cloaked companions were within shouting distance, one officer nudged his horse ahead of the rest and called out, ‘Lord Fernal, I thank you for receiving us. My name is Major Kadin. I am a Knight of the Temples.’
His accent placed him as Farlan, no doubt one of those Tildek men who’d followed the Knight-Cardinal into exile when Lord Bahl, Isak’s predecessor as Lord of the Farlan, banned their Order. The major dismounted and those behind him followed suit and continued their approach on foot, showing no apparent apprehension. Another Devoted officer, a captain, took up position next to a white-robed woman carrying an oak staff.
‘May I present to you Child Ileil, whose preachers we are escorting?’ Major Kadin said.
The preacher bowed. She was tall and thin, no doubt once beautiful by Litse standards, though perhaps twenty winters past her prime now. ‘Your divine blood graces us with its presence,’ she murmured.
Child? That’s the title she uses to bear Ruhen’s authority? ‘Why are you here, Major Kadin?’ Fernald asked bluntly. ‘Did you not understand my decree?’
‘We thought official relations between the Circle City and Tirah might yet be possible,’ he said smoothly,
‘especially given this mercy mission you have engaged in here.’
‘You bring them peace,’ Ileil broke in, her face shining with fervour, ‘you bring them the justice of the Gods, to save them from lawlessness. The child Ruhen asks us all to do what we can to aid our brothers and sisters in these parts – we carry his message of hope to everyone in these troubled times—’
‘Not without breaching the laws of the Farlan,’ Fernal said loudly, forcing the woman to break off from her rehearsed speech. ‘This is the only warning you will receive, you and any others sent in your stead: the lands of the Farlan are closed to you all. Any violation of this will be considered an act of war and receive the appropriate response.’
Child Ileil looked aghast. ‘How can you threaten war in such troubled times? The Farlan are assailed by the cruelties and corruption of the cults, just as the Circle City has been. Your people are wearied of war and fear – all we ask is to speak to them of peace!’
‘You ask to speak lies!’ the Demi-God roared, anger welling up inside him. The fury in his voice forced even the fanatic to move back several paces, fear on her face. He growled, ‘Your master is a daemon with a child’s face, taking advantage of the Land’s troubles to further its own power.’
‘Ruhen is but a child,’ Ileil gasped, ‘special only in that his mind is not clouded by the fears and desires suffered by others! Look around you – look at the Land you inhabit and the allies your nation claims.’ Her voice became shrill as she spoke louder, to reach as many of those nearby as she could. ‘We are plagued by daemons, all of us. The borders of this world have been weakened by the rash actions of King Emin. Just as the cults have poisoned the message they were entrusted with, so King Emin has weakened the Gods in his desperation for power, for victory – and his madness has opened the very gates of Ghenna!’
Fernal shook his head, unable to find the correct words to dismiss her claims outright. This was a perversion of what King Emin had done, he knew that, but he had always left the verbal diplomacy to the witch of Llehden. Instead he snarled, ‘Your master is a shadow, one that twists everything to its own advantage. I will not have Ruhen’s message inflicted on the Farlan.’
