by Angus Wells
“I’ll speak with him later.” Talle scratched his narrow nose, his expression thoughtful. Var was reminded of a carrion bird studying a carcass. “Go on.”
“They made good their promise.” Wyme’s eyes met Talle’s at last, almost defiant. “More holdings were destroyed and folk flooded into the city. Food grew scarce. I must find quarters for them all.…”
“Or send them back.” Talle’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “At bayonet’s point, if necessary.”
Wyme flushed. “They’d have fought,” he protested. “God knows, but there’d have been rioting. And had they gone back, surely the demons would have slain them.”
“And where was Major Spelt the while?” The Inquisitor’s bird-bright eyes swung to the officer. “Why was no punitive expedition mounted?”
Wyme appeared grateful that attention was focused on Spelt, who shrugged uncomfortably and said, “It was discussed, Inquisitor. But I’ve only so many men—and enough lost already. You must understand … it was the governor’s decision—” He avoided Wyme’s angry glance. “—that it were best we hold Grostheim secure against the threatened attack. These demons are not such creatures as I’ve ever fought. They come out of nowhere and disappear like shadows … they’re savage beyond belief. Had I taken my full force out—or even sufficient men to scour the land—I should have left Grostheim undefended.”
“We believed ourselves alone in Salvation,” Wyme added desperately. “We’ve never had more than a garrison here—not enough men to fight a war! And so many folk had come refugee, we deemed it best to hold the city secure. And as well we did!”
He paused, topping his glass as if the memory required the fortification of alcohol. Var studied his face, and Spelt’s, and thought two very nervous men sat here. Doubtless both feared for their positions—nor did Talle’s interrogation reassure them—but there was more. He wondered what these demons were, that they induced such unease.
Talle grunted and gestured that Wyme continue.
“They came in the night, with fire.” Wyme shuddered at the recollection. “They burned those buildings outside the walls—the warehouses and the docks, all the boats there. Worse, they sent fire-arrows over the walls. In God’s name, it was chaos!”
“I sallied against them,” Spelt took up the narration as Wyme fell silent, “but I was beaten back. God knows, but it was all we could do to hold the walls.”
“What of your hexes?” Talle locked eyes with Wyme.
“Not strong enough. It requires one of your strength to fix those secure.”
He essayed a nervous smile that Talle ignored. “They breached the walls?” It was the first time Var had seen the Inquisitor disconcerted.
“They did,” Wyme said. “We held them off for seven days, but then they entered. God, it was terrible!”
“It was a hard fight.” Spelt looked to regain some measure of authority, of respect. “We fought them through the streets, and finally drove them back. But there were losses.…”
“Yes, yes.” Talle was unconcerned with the fallen. “And then?”
“They sieged us,” Spelt said.
“A month,” Wyme added. “Then they quit. Between the sun’s setting and the next day’s dawn, they were gone—praise God!”
“And then?” Talle prompted.
“We set to repairing the damage as best we could.” Wyme dabbed anew at his face. “There’s not so much timber left in the vicinity, so we sent armed expeditions south to the Hope River.”
“South? Why south?”
“The demons would seem to inhabit the north and west,” Wyme explained. “The attacks began there, along the wilderness edge.”
“And did you find sign of them to the south?”
“None.” Wyme shook his head. “Indeed, I was able to persuade a good number of the refugees to return in that direction.”
Had he hoped this news would please the Inquisitor, he was disappointed: Talle only nodded, his face expressionless, and asked, “And those with holdings to the west and north?”
“Some have gone back. Under armed escort. Mostly those closest to the city. The rest—those with holdings closer to the forest rim—are afraid. They believe the wilderness spawns the demons.”
“They’ll return.” Talle glanced at Var. “When the major goes out, he shall escort them home.”
“They’ll likely argue.”
Talle frowned, his angry eyes prompting the governor to retreat back into his chair. “This land belongs to Evander,” he snapped. “To the Autarchy! We shall not give it up.”
“No, of course not.” Wyme hastened to agree.
“And since this … siege … what further attacks?” the Inquisitor continued.
“None,” Wyme said. “We’ve seen no sign of them.”
“Save, of course, you do not venture very far.” Talle pursed his narrow lips, staring at nothing, and for a while silence descended. It was clear who commanded here. Wyme and Spelt, for all their faces were dark with anger and indignation, made no sound, only waited on the Inquisitor as if fearful of disturbing his silent contemplation. Var sipped the last of his brandy, thinking that he should welcome venturing inland. Grostheim, he felt, would not be a pleasant place while Talle remained.
Finally Talle broke the uncomfortable silence: “I’d speak with this officer, Danyael Corm.”
“Now, Inquisitor?” Wyme snapped a fob watch open. “My wife prepares dinner in your honor. She looks forward to meeting you.”
Var doubted that anticipation should last long. From his recollection of Celinda, he suspected she and Talle were likely to find one another mutually distasteful. He thought that dinner should be a strained occasion.
But that dinner was, in any event, postponed. Talle looked at Wyme and said, “Now,” and the governor swallowed nervously and motioned at Spelt, who rose as if grateful to escape.
No, there was no doubt who commanded Grostheim now.
8
Frightened City
Var could not remember Captain Danyael Corm from his previous visit and doubted, even had he, that he would recognize the man now. Corm’s hair was stark white, paler even than his ashen face. His eyes were hollow and bloodshot, bagged with purple pouches that stood out against his pallor no less than the scarlet tracery of veins decorating his swollen nose. His tunic was crumpled and stained, the stock at his throat tied loose and dirty, his boots grubby. As he stood to attention, his lips trembled in time with the shaking of his hands, and his eyes darted anxiously about the room, resting longingly when they fell on the decanter. Var wondered how Spelt tolerated so slovenly an officer; Talle seemed not to notice the man’s decrepitude.
“So you spoke with these demons.”
Corm’s throat flexed as he swallowed. He nodded dumbly, eyes closing as if to shut out a nightmare.
“Speak up, man.” Talle’s voice was commanding, empty of any sympathy.
“Sir … Inquisitor … I … Yes,” Corm stuttered. Spittle glistened on his lips, swept up by a nervous tongue.
“In Evanderan.”
“In Evanderan, yes.”
“And they frightened you.”
It seemed to Var that Talle savored the man’s obvious terror, as a connoisseur might savor the aroma of a fine brandy.
Corm said, “Yes,” in a faint and frightened voice.
“But they let you live.” Talle’s voice was speculative. “Why did they do that?”
“That … that …” Corm swallowed vigorously, eyes shifting wistfully to the decanter.
“Look at me!”
Talle’s harsh order brought Corm’s eyes back to his face; his own shone dark as he fixed the frightened man with a look so intense it seemed to bind their vision, denying Corm escape.
“That I might bring back their word,” Corm said slowly, but no longer stuttering, as if Talle’s gaze drew out the words. “That I tell our folk the demons were coming to destroy them, to destroy Grostheim. That the demons claim all this land for t
heir own.”
“And they said all this in Evanderan.” Still the Inquisitor’s fierce eyes held Corm transfixed.
“Yes. Not very well, but I understood him.”
“Him?” Talle’s head cocked to the side, though his eyes remained firm on Corm’s.
“Their leader, I suppose.” Corm shuddered. “He was … horrible. Like an animal. Like a demon come out of hell.”
“Who speaks our language?”
“Surely demons would be gifted with tongues,” Wyme suggested.
Talle ignored him. “Did you slay any?”
“Yes.” Corm nodded without taking his eyes from Talle’s. “We slew some few before they overwhelmed us.”
“So, honest steel and musket shot kill them. Go on.”
“They came out of the night,” Corm said. “So sudden we had no warning. The shadows hide them, I think.”
“Shadows hide a great many things.” The Inquisitor turned his gaze on Wyme. “But they defied your hexes. Even weak, that should not have been possible. Still …” He nodded, a finger reaching absently to scratch at his nose. Var thought the nail came away grimed. “They speak Evanderan and they die. What did you do with the bodies?”
The question took them all aback.
“Well?” Talle was irritated at the delay.
“Burned them,” Wyme said quickly. “They were gathered up and burned. What was left we buried in a pit, with quicklime.”
“So there’ll be no remains. A pity.”
“They were demons!” Wyme protested. “What else should we do with them? By God, had we buried them, they’d likely have risen again.”
“Perhaps.” Talle shrugged. “But I’d like to have a body.”
“In God’s name why?”
The Inquisitor favored the governor with a look of utter contempt, as if the question came from an idiot child. “So that I might study one,” he said calmly. “Dissect the thing—demon or man. Better still, I’d have one alive.”
A horrid gagging sound came from Corm at that, and he shook his head vigorously. Var feared he might faint, or vomit over Wyme’s carpet. Talle glanced at him and smiled unpleasantly.
“Does that disturb you, Captain?”
Corm swallowed, nodding. “Only destroy them, Inquisitor. In God’s name! They’re not fit to live.”
“No,” Talle agreed, “not whilst they contest this land. But still … a live one should be useful.” He ducked his head, confirming his own thoughts, and waved at Corm. “You may go now.”
Corm needed no further bidding: he sketched a shaky salute and spun on his unpolished heel, almost running as he quit the room.
“Excellent.” Talle smiled, contentedly now. “For all the man’s a drunkard, he aids me.”
“How so, Inquisitor?” Wyme ventured.
Talle shook his head. “In time perhaps I’ll tell you. But now … do we eat that dinner you promised?”
It was as awkward an occasion as Var had anticipated. The governor’s wife was readied to play the perfect hostess to an illustrious guest, voicing effusive excuses for the simple fare she offered. She simpered, seeking to engage Talle in conversation, he returning curt monosyllables that before long brought a flush of anger and embarrassment to Celinda’s plump cheeks. Nor did it help that what conversation ensued soon revealed that her husband was effectively displaced, that Talle was now Grostheim’s premier authority. Var, feeling acutely embarrassed, did his best to alleviate the tension. But in face of Spelt’s taciturnity and Wyme’s obvious discomfort it was a vain effort, and the dining chamber fell silent save for the clink of glasses and cutlery as the branded servants mutely tended their masters.
Var was grateful for its ending. Talle consumed two portions of the sticky confection served for dessert and declined coffee, throwing his napkin carelessly aside and rising without preamble.
“I’ll find my bed. Major Var, do you attend me at sunrise in the governor’s study.”
And he was gone, leaving Wyme anxiously calling for a servant to light his way. Var sipped coffee, determined to make some show of manners for all the Inquisitor had none It was not easy: Celinda sat with angrily reddened cheeks and pursed lips, her husband and Spelt drank brandy—all in disgruntled silence. Clearly, they regarded him as Talle’s man and he supposed that he was. His instructions were to obey the Inquisitor, and was Talle a boor, still he was—by order of the Autarchy—Var’s commander.
As soon as he might—politely—quit the table, Var made his excuses and left, explaining that he’d check his men. He anticipated that Spelt would accompany him, but the major only nodded a silent farewell and watched him go. Var thought that once the door closed on his back the conversation would grow animated. It was tempting to linger, eavesdropping, but a servant came with a candle and he had the man escort him to the outer door instead, warning that he should return later.
The night was warm, the sky all pricked with stars, the moon a slender waning crescent. The streets were quiet and dark, few windows showing light and the fires of the homeless banked to dully glowing embers. A dog barked at his passing, and from the shadows where canvas hung from charred uprights and lean-tos sheltered refugees, faces silently watched him go by. He heard a baby cry, and the soft murmuring of the mother; from an alleyway where splintered timber and ragged cloth roofed the dirt below, he heard the chink of bottles, the slurred mumblings of drunken men. There was much wrong in Grostheim, he thought, and wondered how bluntly Jared Talle would rectify matters.
The north gates were closed when he arrived there, and he must hail the sentries to open the sallyport.
Beyond, he was halted by pickets, starlight glittering on the bayonets they leveled. He announced himself and was escorted through the lines to the center of the bivouac. He was pleased to see the cannons were placed and work already begun on the rampart. It was an orderly encampment: no less than he expected.
He found Captain Matieu Fallyn, his second-in-command, still awake, stretched on a campaign bed and puffing industriously on a long-stemmed pipe as he read Pico’s account of the Gavarian Wars. Fallyn set down the book as Var entered the tent, starting to rise.
Var waved him down, taking a stool. “How goes it, Matieu?”
“Well enough.” Fallyn knocked the pipe on his heel. “They fed us, and I’ve arranged with the commissary for provisions. But by God, Tomas, they’re a glum lot!”
“They’re short of food.” Var gave a brief account of events.
Fallyn ran a hand through his unruly curls. “And so we’re a problem, eh?”
“So far as feeding us is concerned,” Var nodded. “The sooner we take to the field, the better, I think.”
“And how soon shall that be? I’ve already men asking when they might visit the taverns.”
Var shrugged. “It depends on Inquisitor Talle.”
“Ah, yes.” Fallyn grinned mischievously. “How was your dinner?”
Var grimaced. “Inevitably, there’s some resentment felt by the governor and Major Spelt.”
“And our dear Inquisitor does little to placate them, eh?”
Var hesitated. He and Matieu were old friends—fellow captains until his promotion, and no envy after—but even so he was loath to voice openly his dislike of the Inquisitor. No matter his personal opinion, Talle was the representative of the Autarchy. So he only smiled and said, “He’s surely his own way about him. But listen, Matieu, best we show the locals only courtesy. We shall need their cooperation, eh? So let it be known that I’ll not have our men lording it over them. I want no trouble.”
Fallyn nodded. “And what of leave? They’re somewhat restless after the sea crossing. After all”—his grin expanded—“we’re not all billeted in the luxury of the governor’s mansion.”
Var snorted, chuckling. “Had I any choice, my dear fellow, I’d be here with you.”
“That bad, eh?” Fallyn assumed an expression of mock solicitude. “Still, orders are orders, no? And must you suffer a soft bed, servant
s, fine wines … Well, such is life on campaign.”
Var answered his friend’s grin. By God, but it was good to be able to relax. “Indeed. And as for leave … I think it best I speak with Major Spelt first. But meanwhile, do you draw up a roster. Small groups, eh? The city’s already overcrowded with refugees.”
“You shall have it tomorrow,” Fallyn promised.
“Excellent.” Var rose. “Then I’ll leave you. All well, the Inquisitor should decide soon when we march.”
Fallyn nodded enthusiastically. Var felt less sanguine: his friend had not witnessed Corm’s naked terror or Spelt’s grim resignation. It seemed to him that there was about both Militiamen, indeed, about the city itself, a fatalistic conviction that the demons could not be defeated. He wondered what Talle had made of Corm’s account.
Owan Thirsk had sooner died, but he was not granted that benison.
He had seen his farm burned down and his wife slaughtered, and when he had fled the wreckage of his life he had been clubbed to the ground and woke to find himself a prisoner of the demons. He had thought they’d torture him, and prayed for swift and painless death, but that had not come. Instead, he had been dragged away and slung across a horse, lashed like a sack in a manner he’d not even have used against a branded man, and suffered the indignity and the pain and the far worse wondering … what did they want with him, that they kept him alive?
But they had fed him and given him water—just enough to sustain his body while his mind wandered wild—and taken him off to the wilderness woods, which now he knew were infested with demons because they had brought him to a camp where they lived like animals in leather tents, and none had houses or servants or any of civilization’s accoutrements. But they had fed him and so he stayed alive because there was a tiny scrap of hope that he might survive, and that made him more afraid of death than of living. So even when they cut his heels that he not run away, even through his screams, he clung to the scrap, and accepted it when they tethered him like a wounded dog outside the leader’s tent.
He had thought they tired of their sport and meant to poison him when he was dragged to a tent heated hot as an oven by the fire there, and the bitter potion had been forced into his mouth, and his nostrils pinched closed as his lips until all he could do was swallow. And find himself … he was not sure where … perhaps wandering in limbo, or gone to hell. It was like a dream; like speaking with the minions of the devil, tempting.…
