by Tom Lloyd
The divine air surrounding Vesna hadn't been enough for Karkarn, it appeared, nor had turning the scars of past injuries blood-red, so they stood out on his pale Farlan skin. Now Vesna was a clear statement to the entire Land: Gods walk among mortals once more.
'Count Vesna?' the mage said in an abrupt, emotionless voice. He knelt on the stone floor, swaying rhythmically as though listening to a song in his head. Despite the privations they were all suffering, the mage's head was freshly shaved and his skin scrubbed clean as he was ritually purified.
'Yes,' Vesna barked, moving back around the mage with such speed the attendant's eyes widened in surprise.
'This is Fernal,' the mage replied after a pause in which he had mouthed Vesna's reply. The ritual matched his thoughts to those of his twin, allowing them to relay a conversation across hundreds of miles. 'I am here with Chief Steward Lesarl, Lady Tila and High Cardinal Certinse.'
Vesna and Torl exchanged puzzled looks. Only one person could speak through the mage; why would that be Fernal? Vesna imagined the huge Demi-God sitting in the now-vacant ducal throne in Tirah, and something about that image made him pause. As big as the Chosen, with midnight-blue skin and a mane of shaggy hair falling from his fierce, lupine face; Fernal presented a savage visage that belied his quiet nature. He was a bastard son of Nartis, the Farlan's patron God, but he remained an outsider to the tribe.
'I have been named Lord of the Farlan,' the mage said after a longer pause. 'Lord Isak appointed me as his successor and the Synod has reluctantly confirmed it.'
Vesna gasped. Isak had discussed nothing of the kind with him, and he was one of the dead lord's closest friends. 'I – I had no idea,' he stammered, seeing Torl was as shocked as he was. 'I congratulate you, my Lord.'
Isak's death hung like a black cloud at the back of Vesna's mind, but he refused to allow himself to mourn yet – not while his grip on the battered Farlan Army remained so tenuous. His new-found divine emotions had allowed him to dissociate himself from the ball of loss that appeared in his stomach whenever he remembered the moment when he had sensed Isak die, as he was cutting a path through the small Byoran Army, but he knew he could not keep it away forever.
The power now surging in his veins had not removed his humanity, though he had feared it might, but other than that, Vesna found himself not so different to a God. His strength was increased, his speed was unnatural, but his mind was still that of the flawed man he had been before.
The awe he saw in every soldier's face was unnerving in its intensity, but it was just that – intensified, rather than new. Vesna has been a hero of the army for ten years or more, and he had seen it before.
'Thank you,' said the mage dully, 'I am told your circumstances have also changed.'
Vesna looked at the black steel plates attached to his left arm and touched the ruby lodged in the skin of his cheek.
'I am changed, but I remain a servant of the Farlan,' he said carefully. Gods, what is Tila going to think when she sees what I've become? he wondered privately. No, she will know to expect changes. Thank the Gods I told her about Lord Karkarn's offer before I left.
'You're welcome,' said a voice inside his mind, prompting Vesna to flinch. 'I'm happy to claim the credit on behalf of us all.' Karkarn chuckled. 'Still skittish about communion with your God, I see? Never mind, it will pass. Just be thankful I don't have Larat's appetites.'
The Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn shook his head to try and get the sensation of being ridden like a horse out of his mind. The God of War had shown no compunction about appearing without warning, seeing through his eyes as though he was just an instrument.
And for my sins, maybe I am.
'That is good to hear,' the mage repeated, eyes closed, rocking backwards and forwards on his knees. 'We have need of you here more than ever. Lord Isak's death has been widely reported, and there have been a dozen new prophets in Tirah alone. The clerics are using it as an excuse to demand greater control over the running of the tribe.'
'Has there been bloodshed?' Vesna asked.
'Only a few small incidents. The clerics are trying to get the population on their side before pressing the matter. High Cardinal Certinse may buy us some time but the fanatics grow restless. It appears the worst did not all travel with the army.'
'What are your orders?' Vesna asked, remembering to add, 'Lord Fernal,' after a moment.
'Pull the army back to Farlan territory; have the Quartermaster-General set up camps for them, one on the border, a second near to Tirah. Return to the city yourself with a legion of Ghosts.'
'Yes, my Lord. Ah, Lord Fernal? The clerical troops were scattered after the battle, those that survived, anyway. I have about seven thousand men under my command; of those only about a division's worth are clerics.'
'You think the rest will return here?'
'Possibly. The Penitent troops took the worst of the casualties, but some escaped the killing ground. There is no way of predicting how they will act now.'
For a while the mage was silent and Vesna assumed Fernal and his companions were discussing matters amongst themselves. He turned to Torl for a wiser man's thoughts, but he had nothing to offer. The suzerain looked troubled and distracted, presumably at the thought of a non-Farlan as lord of the tribe.
White-eyes were difficult masters, but they were sanctioned by the Gods, and they were predictable to a certain degree. Fernal did not fit into the rigid Farlan structure. He had been presented as the protector of the Witch of Llehden, and had been assumed to be just another Raylin mercenary by the Farlan nobility. That he was a bastard son of their patron God had mattered little to them. The title Demi-God meant Fernal was more mortal than divine, but for the Farlan it made him nothing more than a wandering fighter to be employed or killed.
'The Penitent armies are a problem for another day. Have your scouts keep a weather eye, but travel for speed, not safety. I need your presence in Tirah, both you and your troops. The clerics will hesitate in the presence of the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn, and Lady Tila has guaranteed your continuing loyalty.'
That stopped Vesna in his tracks. It had never occurred to him that he might be considered a threat to the nation now. He and Torl hadn't thought to discuss allegiance yet.
'Consider your new lord,' Karkarn reminded him, 'so new to his position that they are most likely still deciding whether it a legal claim.'
'He cannot afford to assume,' Vesna agreed, 'so Tila has offered herself as hostage to my actions. But what do I do when I return?'
'Be the good servant. Lord Fernal knows nothing of war; suggest he needs a general in supreme command. You are now the best choice, General Lahk and Suzerain Torl would both agree.'
'What are you planning?'
'You expect me to demand a coup? No, nothing so dramatic, but you are my Mortal-Aspect now and I dub you the Iron General. A general is nothing without an army behind him – to serve all of the Gods, you must ensure the armies of the Farlan are mobilised and ready to fight.'
'How do I go about that?'
'You will find a way.'
'Count Vesna,' the mage interrupted in his dead tone. Vesna assumed it was meant in a questioning way.
'Yes, Lord Fernal,' he said, gathering his wits.
'Will you serve me?'
'I will, my Lord. Do you have any further orders?'
'Yes. Lord Isak's directions included orders to send his Personal Guard to King Emin's service. I do not know why, but I intend to respect his wishes.'
'As you command, sir.'
'Good. Can you tell me how Lord Isak died?'
'I…' The words caught in Vesna's throat and he felt his armoured hand tighten into a fist. 'He died in battle with Lord Styrax. While fending off a dragon, he advanced alone on the Menin Army.'
'Why would he do that?'
'To save us.' Vesna felt his hand start to shake and realised it was because he was clenching his hand so tightly. 'The army was in danger of being obliterated, so he sacrificed himself.'
'I understand,' came the maddeningly level response. 'It must – '
Before he could finish the sentence the mage's eyes flew open, an expression of pain crossing his face, and he fainted into the waiting arms of his attendant.
Vesna cursed under his breath; he would learn nothing more now for a week at least. As soon as the attendant had confirmed the mage was still breathing Vesna bowed to Torl and stalked out.
With the weight of the Land on his shoulders, he went to find Major Jachen, commander of Isak's Personal Guard.
It seems I have much to learn about being a God. I can't even enjoy the thought of ruining Jachen's day.
Lord Fernal looked up at the three humans anxiously watching him. 'One of you should speak.'
Tila looked at the other two and cleared her throat. 'If the Penitent troops took such a beating, the cults will have to recruit before they can challenge your authority.'
'Not necessarily,' Lesarl said gloomily. 'The cults have done themselves no favours, but – with your pardon, my Lord – the clerics are at least human, and Farlan. Son of Nartis or no, there'll be plenty of folk who will see you just as a monster.'
Fernal nodded, absentmindedly scratching the fur on his cheek with a long hooked talon. He wore as little as ever, despite the cold vestiges of winter lingering in the Spiderweb Mountains. Only his cloak had changed; upon Lesarl's advice he had replaced it with a fine white cape edged in gold and emblazoned with the snake emblem of Nartis.
Quitin Amanas, Keymaster of the Heraldic Library, was due later that morning to draw up a crest and colours for Fernal. The new Duke of Tirah might not have pale skin or wear clothes like the rest, but his position in society was set and Lesarl was keen to have every possible custom adhered to.
'My Lord,' High Cardinal Certinse began hesitantly, nervously pinching the scarlet hem of his robes, 'may we return to the matter of a confessor for you? I know it is unpalatable – '
'Unless you find one young and plump, yes, they probably would be,' Fernal interrupted. The three Farlan stared at him in shock until the huge Demi-God shook his head and gave a soft growl. 'Just a joke! That is something I am still allowed to do – despite Cardinal Veck's best efforts.'
From their expressions, the humour was lost on them, so Fernal quickly moved on, 'If you can find an advisor not acting under orders of fanatics I would agree. However, the nature of your tribe is that every man has a master, so I doubt you will.'
Lesarl was quick to agree. 'Cardinal Disten is about the only one who I would trust right now to withstand pressure from his superiors, and suggesting him would negate the point of agreeing to a confessor in the first place!'
'Then keep looking,' Certinse insisted. 'The factions within the cults are becoming increasingly restless – if I can't give them something of substance soon my position will become an irrelevance.'
'How many factions?' Fernal asked.
Certinse grimaced. 'It changes from week to week, but they're beginning to coalesce. Broadly speaking; the Council for Piety is populated by the priests of Vellern, some of Vasle's, and the priests and chaplains of Nartis. The God of the Birds may have only a minor temple here, but Vellern was more hurt by the abomination in Scree than any other and these days, it's zealotry that counts, not seniority.
'The Adherents are driven by my own cardinal branch and some of Death's priests; the Warriors of the Pantheon are comprised of priests of Karkarn and Vasle, with Lady Amavoq's bitch-priestesses weighing in because they're determined not to be out-done in matters of spite.' Certinse wearily shook his head. 'Amavoq was not even one of those affronted in Scree.'
Fernal's brow crumpled even more as he counted the Gods that had been mentioned. There had been six affected by the minstrel's spell in Scree, six Gods whose cults had been taken over by fanatics. 'There is one more God to account for?'
'Aye, Belarannar's followers have allied with the remainder of Death's. What they call themselves now I couldn't tell you; it changes on a weekly basis.' Certinse held up his hand before Fernal could speak again. 'That is only a most simplistic view; there are schisms, rogue elements and the Gods only know what else going on right now, but I think most of the rest will only cause trouble for each other. I know of at least a dozen deaths of ordained men and women at the hands of their own.'
'Aside from those you yourself ordered killed?' Lesarl asked acidly, waving away the High Cardinal's indignation. 'Enough. I will find some concession we can give you. Your clerk is a handy man with a knife and Senior Penitent Yeren should be able to handle anyone they send now the Temple of the Lady is not accepting commissions.'
Certinse rose and bowed to Lord Fernal. 'Tell that to Unmen Telles,' he muttered in a resigned voice. 'She had her head ripped off by an Aspect of Vellern, so I heard.' Not waiting for a response he headed for the door.
He paused to straighten his robes and to stand a little more upright. Waiting in the corridor was his staff, six priests of different cults, all with sharp eyes and even sharper tongues.
A good thing I renounced my bond with Nartis years ago, Certinse thought as he glared at the first man to blurt out a question. I have so many masters now; I don't think I could serve a God as well.
The High Cardinal – with his attending party of priests and penitents – travelled by carriage back to the Domon Enclave in the east district of Tirah. The compound of beautiful, grand old buildings constructed around three large quadrangles served as the administrative hub of the cult of Nartis. At its heart was a temple to Nartis as fine as any in the Land, but restricted for use by clerics and the nobility. The stone temple spire and its surrounding framework of wrought iron dwarfed the entire eastern half of the city. It had been designed to attract the arrows of their patron God during Tirah's regular storms.
Not even the sight of the enclave in all its glory was able to lift Certinse's gloom. Normally the sight of the manicured lawns, soaring architecture and myriad Aspect shrines never failed to inspire him; he had walked these stone cloisters as a young man, marvelling at the wealth and power on display, dreaming of the day his family would secure the very post that he had, perversely, been given in the end by his enemies.
'Stop the carriage,' he ordered suddenly as they passed through into the enclave.
Ignoring the questions from his shepherding priests he stepped down and shut the door firmly behind him. The driveway between the main gate and the warden's office where all guests were received was no more than forty yards. Certinse waved the carriage on and stood alone for a while in the cold, watching the sun momentarily break through the clouds and cast its light over the rooftops.
'What am I doing?' he muttered to himself, waiting until the sun had disappeared once again before setting off down the driveway. There were few people about in the outer grounds today, and none willing to pay too close attention to the High Cardinal.
'For the first time in years, perhaps in my entire life, I feel like praying,' he murmured to himself with a wry smile. 'Has that ever happened before? Before I was old enough to understand it I knew my family were different, that Nartis was not our lord. Did I ever make that choice, or did I just do what I was told?'
He shook his head, knowing he was well past questions such as that. 'And now I have an urge to pray. And what holds me back?' He paused, considering. 'I suppose it is the fear of what might happen. However weak my link to Nartis might be these days, he might respond to the office I hold, even if the man himself is nothing to him.'
Reaching the central quadrangle he looked up to the windows of his private rooms and saw his aide, Brother Kerek, looking down from the chapel window.
What's he doing in there? Certinse wondered, and stepped up his pace a little.
Nodding absentmindedly to priests on the way, he made his way to his rooms, ignoring the salutes of his guards as they opened the doors for him. As he walked through the austere audience hall used for greeting chaplains and low priests he realised a monk holding a letter was waiting on hi
m… and the letter in his hand reminded Certinse that he had written to several abbots recently and had no response… but that was something that could wait.
'Brother, I have an urgent matter to attend to. Please wait here and I will have my aide summon you presently,' he said, barely pausing.
The monk bowed his assent as a second pair of guards admitted Certinse to his formal reception room, used for more notable guests but presently containing only Senior Penitent Yeren, who was sleeping off his latest hangover.
Certinse scowled, ignoring the guards chuckling at their commander's state, but he didn't bother to start another argument. Most likely Kerek had news for him; one of the few places they could talk without other priests listening in was in the High Cardinal's private chapel, which was forbidden to those of other cults.
As he walked through his private study to the chapel he called softly, 'Kerek?' The vicious little clerk turned, an enquiring look on his face. 'Yes, your Eminence?'
'Well? What is it?' Certinse asked gruffly. 'I assume you're in here for a reason and I don't believe it's a love of Nartis.'
His aide frowned. 'Your Eminence, you ordered me to wait for you here.'
Certinse opened his mouth to deny doing any such thing when he heard the door open behind him and the Senior Penitent strode in. Before Certinse could protest, the mercenary had his left arm out wide and was hugging Certinse to his chest.
A white-hot pain flared in Certinse's back and wrapped its way around his body. He felt as though his ribs were on fire. Yeren kept on moving, his powerful arm keeping the High Cardinal upright as he bore him backwards.
Kerek started to move, but he faltered at the sight of Yeren storming towards him, so shocked that he didn't even raise his arms to defend himself as Yeren hacked his broadsword into his scrawny neck.
The aide dropped like a stone, blood spraying out over the highly polished wooden floor. His legs kicked once and fell still, but Certinse, himself paralysed with pain, saw none of it. He stared up at Yeren as the mercenary surveyed the room, then checked back the way he'd come. Certinse's body spasmed and he wheezed in pain, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't find the strength to scream. His body rigid in agony, he watched Yeren's expression change from grimly professional to calculating wariness, until, finally, he allowed himself a small smile of relief.
