by Angus Wells
But when he woke—he was quite unaware how long after—he found he understood the demon who sat with him and told him that its name was Hadduth, and that he could live if he did its bidding and served it.
It had seemed to Owan Thirsk that this demon assumed manly shape, for he could see little difference between its physical contours and his own, save that its skin was darker and its hair was long. He had asked what it wanted of him, and it had told him: “Your language. My akaman would know your tongue, that he might speak with your kind.”
“And if I refuse?” Owan Thirsk had been surprised that he could ask that. “What then?”
“Why refuse?” the demon had countered. “I can feed you more of the pahé and you will tell me. Or Chakthi could take his knife to you again. What does it matter? Either way, you will tell us.”
Thirsk had thought then of how the knife had felt, cutting into his heels, and how far away from home he was, and that he wanted very badly to live, and nodded.
“I’ll tell you.”
“That is good,” the demon called Hadduth had said. “Chakthi will be pleased.”
And so Owan Thirsk had taught the two demons, Chakthi and Hadduth, Evander’s tongue and lived.
He had told them of what settlements he knew, and of Grostheim: of its walls and cannons and garrison. He had told them about muskets and gunpowder, and of the Autarchy—which they could not at all understand—and of how that authority would doubtless send troops against them.
And they had laughed and spat on him, and men and children had urinated on him as he lay tethered outside Chakthi’s tent, and he could do nothing to protest for fear they kill him. Only hope that someday he be rescued: and wonder if his rescuers—who must surely come from Grostheim—not execute him as a traitor for all he’d told the demons.
He had obediently laughed when Chakthi spoke of the attack on the city, and after been careful not to ask why it had failed—the akaman was fond of inflicting pain, and Owan Thirsk knew that a misdirected question would earn him suffering—but he also knew that the Tachyn had withdrawn. Not entirely in defeat, but still denied the absolute destruction Chakthi sought. As best he knew, the Tachyn had pulled back into their forested stronghold, and waited to attack again.
He thought they would: he thought they would rally and go out once more until they burned Grostheim down and no farms were left, or mills or vineyards, or any other civilized things. And he was resigned to that. He was Chakthi’s creature now and no longer a civilized man: only a thing, existing.
Sunrise found Tomas Var fresh bathed and dressed in a clean uniform, facing the Inquisitor across the width of the governor’s ornate desk. Wyme was banished from his own study, curtly dismissed by Talle with the blunt announcement that he should be informed of his orders once the Inquisitor had spoken with Major Var. His face had darkened again, and a vein throbbed on his forehead, but he had not dared voice objections, only mutter that he would take his breakfast and retreat with what little dignity he could muster.
“A pompous man,” Talle observed. “Worse, he’s incompetent. In God’s name, what possessed him to allow the farmers to stay?”
Var was uncertain it was a question, but then a black brow rose, like an arching caterpillar, Talle’s small eyes fixing him inquiringly. It occurred to him, for the first time, that the Inquisitor was not so cognizant of military matters as he pretended.
“Likely as he said,” Var answered, “that he feared rioting. And that the garrison lacks sufficient troops to patrol all Salvation.”
Talle grunted, finding a pipe that he filled from Wyme’s humidor. He struck a lucifer and drew deep, exhaling a cloud of sweet-scented smoke before he spoke again.
“He also said the attacks come from north of the river, so you’ll concentrate on that area.”
“When?”
The Inquisitor thought a moment. Then: “First, I’ll see the city walls hexed secure. That should take me no more than two days, three at most. Do you meanwhile inspect the other defenses and report to me. How long shall that take you?”
“A day, I’d think; surely no more than two.”
“Good.” Talle puffed out more smoke. The day was already warming and the study windows were closed, the room stuffy with the mingled aromas of tobacco and the Inquisitor’s own rank odor. “Then, when you’re done, obtain maps from our pompous governor and have him mark you every untenanted holding. Plan your line of march in such a way that we can deliver the owners back.”
“As you order,” Var said. “But … what if they refuse to go?”
The Inquisitor smiled. “They’ll not. My word on it.”
Var nodded, holding his expression bland. He wondered if Talle’s authority, his own show of force, could be enough to persuade the terrified farmers to return. Or would Talle work his magicks on them? That thought he liked not at all: he had come to Salvation to rescue its folk from danger, not impose tyranny.
“I shall issue a proclamation,” Talle declared, “once our work here is done. Your men are ready?”
“They are. And with food in short supply here, we’re a drain on Grostheim’s resources. But meanwhile, I’d grant my men leave to visit the town—with your permission.”
“Granted.” Talle waved a careless hand. “Now breakfast, I think.”
Var felt no wish to again suffer last night’s awkwardness, and so he asked that Talle excuse him, explaining that he wished to inspect his men and commence the investigation of the city’s physical defenses. Talle agreed, and with a sigh of relief Var quit the mansion.
His excuses were not unreasonable. Were they to march soon, he must soon prepare. Horses must be purchased or requisitioned to haul the cannon, and shortages or no, his men would need supplies to augment what they might find in the field. He anticipated problems, but even so could not deny the excitement he felt at thought of the campaign. It should be a novel expedition, against an unknown foe, and such as might well make his name. It was, for all his doubts, a heady prospect.
He went first to the garrison barracks, finding Spelt at breakfast, and accepted the man’s ungracious invitation to join him. It occurred to Var, as he was served by a branded man, that the shortages afflicting Grostheim seemed not to apply to governor or garrison, and he experienced a small pang of guilt as he ate. He could not ignore the feeling that the servant’s eyes lay hungry on his plate, and when Spelt pushed away his half-finished breakfast and gestured that the servant remove it, Var wondered if the man smiled somewhat in anticipation of the leftover food.
But such considerations were Grostheim’s affair, not his, and he set them aside as he outlined Talle’s orders and his own needs. Spelt was as uncommunicative as before, listening in silence until Var was done.
“Food we can manage,” he allowed, “if you’re prepared for short rations. Horses though …” He smiled sourly. “We ate most of the horses this past winter, before we started on the dogs. Most of those left were taken by the farmers for the spring planting.”
“Surely there are some available.” Var frowned at the prospect of manhandling the artillery inland. “I’ve twelve light cannon and three times as many swivel guns for the forts. Also the powder and shot; and we’ll need wagons to carry our supplies.”
Spelt drained his cup and dabbed fastidiously at his mouth. “How many in all?” His voice was flat, as if he already had his refusal prepared.
Var made a swift calculation. He had sooner taken extra horses, but if the animals were truly in such short supply and Grostheim so hungry as to eat dogs, it were better he settle for the minimum. He said, “A hundred, at least.”
Spelt laughed, shaking his head. “Major, there’s not more than fifty horses left alive in this city. And four of those haul the governor’s carriage.”
Var felt irritation tighten the muscles of his cheeks, even as he forced himself to maintain a pleasant smile. He had anticipated problems with Spelt—could not, in all honesty, blame the man for feeling resentful—but by Go
d, he was come here on Wyme’s request to salvage a situation Spelt had admitted he could not handle, and it seemed that all he got from the garrison commander was obstinacy and prevarication.
“Then those four, at least,” he said, “will be accustomed to pulling their weight.”
Spelt frowned, his eyes narrowing. “The rest are Militia animals, for my mounted infantry.”
Var nodded. “But as you and your men will remain here, you’ll not need them. Now, as to the remaining animals?”
Spelt shrugged, fidgeting with his waistcoat. “There are no more, not here.”
“Then where?”
“On the farms,” Spelt said, reluctantly.
“Then they must be requisitioned.”
“But what of the plowing? The harvest? Grostheim could starve! By God, Major, we depend on the farms for our sustenance.”
Var thought of the meal they’d just eaten and felt his patience dissipate. “What of the demons? What if they come again? Shall there be a harvest then? Or shall they conquer your?”
He saw Spelt’s face pale at that, the frown deepening. But still the man argued: “The farmers will object.”
“And shall you tell Inquisitor Talle that, Major? That he’s not to have horses for fear you’ll not have bread to eat?”
Spelt’s face flushed—God, but mention of the Inquisitor elicited fear—almost, Var felt embarrassed; almost, but not quite. It was akin, he thought, to bringing in the threat of heavy artillery. And it worked: Spelt nodded sullenly and asked, “What would you have me do?”
“I’d have at least one hundred sound horses,” Var said, “as soon as possible. More, if you can find them.”
“Aught else?” Sullenly.
“How far’s the closest farm large enough to provision my full force?” Angry now, Var could not resist adding, “Remember that most shall be on foot.”
Spelt blushed and said, “On foot? Five days; thirteen more to the next.”
“Then,” Var said calmly, “we shall need provisions for five days at the least.”
Spelt nodded, no less sullenly than before. “What else?”
“My inspection,” Var answered. “The Inquisitor would have me check your defenses.”
Spelt scowled. “Which shall I do? Find you your horses, or take you around my walls?”
“I think,” Var said, “that a junior officer might show me the walls. Why do you not see to the horses? Doubtless the farmers shall take it better from you.”
Spelt’s scowl deepened, but he nodded, and Var marveled again at the power invested in mere mention of Jared Talle’s name.
“I’m speaking out of turn, of course, but …” Lieutenant Jolyon Minns hesitated, glancing nervously toward Var, who leant against the northern wall, surveying his command’s bivouac and the burned structures layered like discarded waste along the river’s bank beyond. Var nodded, indicating that he go on. “… Well, it took us all by surprise. No one ever thought Salvation was aught but empty, and us the only folk here. Then there came the attacks, and farmers coming in frightened, and patrols going missing. And then Danyael Corm came back, and not long after the siege began. It scared the governor, I can tell you; and Major Spelt. You’ll not repeat this, eh?”
“On my word.” Var shook his head.
“It was devilish hard.” Jolyon chuckled grimly at his pun. “The demons sieged us fierce, I can tell you. Winter was on afore they quit, and scarce little harvest brought in for fear of their attacks. Nor the hunters going out, so it was a hungry time.”
“Major Spelt said you ate horses and dogs.”
“We did.” The lieutenant nodded solemnly. “But worse than that—God, I’ve no objection to eating horsemeat. Why not? How’s it different to beef or sheep, save we ride them?—it was like …” He broke off, shaking his head, nervous again.
Var said, “Go on.”
“It was like,” Minns said, “neither the major or the governor could believe it was happening—that they were attacked, that Grostheim was besieged. I think …” He shook his head, shamefaced.
“What do you think?” Var asked. And thought to add, “This shall go no farther.”
“That they gave up,” said the lieutenant. “That they drew back to Grostheim and left the rest of Salvation to the demons. And waited for you to come.”
“Are they so terrible then,” Var asked, “these demons?”
Minns ducked his head. “Yes! I thank God you’ve come, you and the Inquisitor. You’ll drive them out, no?”
Var nodded. “Such are my orders, and I shall do my best to execute them. Now, do you show me the rest of these walls?”
They went on, past burned sections patched with innocent timber and places entirely new, the signs of attack left like old scars, memories of battle. But most was sound, and all the guns were in place, so that it seemed to Var the city had suffered no more than such siege as he had witnessed in the War of Restitution. Save then he had fought against men, knowing them men, and here it was clear they believed demons had come against them.
He concluded his inspection and went to find Jared Talle.
The Inquisitor was in the church, aided by a nervous and subservient vicar, busy mixing his hexing potions. A succession of Wyme’s servants were delivering him those items he needed, such as paint and herbs, chickens’ blood, the livers and bladders of certain animals, the spleen and claws and eyeballs of others. The brew seethed in its cauldron atop the altar, noxious, Talle’s arms colored with the stuff, his hair lank about his downturned face, dripping. Var had witnessed Inquisitors at work during the War of Restitution, and for all he had benefited from their power, he could never like it much. It seemed to him a thing, delivered from God’s dark side, that frail men might conjure occult strength where honest force of arms and purpose not prevail. But he was an officer of the God’s Militia, and Jared Talle his commander, so he clenched his nostrils against the fulsome stink and delivered his report.
And Talle said, “Well done. How long shall it take Spelt to find us our horses?”
“I cannot say for sure.” Var shrugged. “He’ll bring them from the southern holdings, I’d think.”
“Well enough.” Talle drew his arms from the cauldron. He had shucked off his coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to his thin shoulders. His arms were all red; he wiped them, depositing gory drips back into the steaming hex mixture. “You’ve checked Wyme’s maps?”
“Not yet.” Var shook his head.
“Then do it now.” Talle wiped his hands across his shirt, coloring his chest. “He’s skulking in his mansion, I think.”
Wyme was, and Var was embarrassed afresh. He found the governor in his study, the windows open now, loosing the stale odors of tobacco and brandy and sweat. Wyme sat with a pipe in hand, a glass at his elbow, wearing a harried look that fused with concern and indignation as Var entered.
“I understand you ordered Major Spelt to find you horses.”
Var doffed his tricorne, bowing slightly. “I requested that Major Spelt obtain us animals for our campaign, Governor. Also such supplies as we shall need for the first few days.”
“Difficult, difficult.” Wyme shook his head. “Alyx told you most were eaten?”
“He did.” Var sat uninvited. “But am I to progress against the demons, I’ve need of animals. Surely you understand that?”
“Of course; yes.” Wyme smiled around his pipe, unctuously, reached for his glass. “But … how can I put this? Major Var, you are only recently promoted to major, and have seen Salvation but the one time. Can you truly understand our situation here?”
Var answered honestly: “No.”
“And yet,” Wyme said, “you come with Inquisitor Talle to … what? Usurp my position; Major Spelt’s. To command us, to bend us to your will. As if we know nothing of this country.”
“Governor,” Var said, recommending himself to patience, “I am come here under orders of the Autarchy to exterminate your demons. Yes: I know nothing o
f Salvation, but I come at your request—as does the Inquisitor—and we are, all of us, bound by our orders. I’d not usurp Major Spelt or you: I only obey.”
“And the Inquisitor?” Wyme asked.
Loyally, but doubting of his words, Var said, “Inquisitor Talle is servant of Evander—of the Autarchy. I doubt he wants your seat, only to rid you of your demons.”
It was poor excuse, but sufficient for a desperate man. Wyme clutched it to him and accepted it, and offered Var brandy—which was refused—and then took out all his maps, which Var perused at length. After a while, because some hook of memory tugged at his mind, he asked, “The branded man—Arcole Blayke?—is he still with you?”
Wyme shook his head. “Him? No, he ran away, God damn him! He murdered my majordomo then fled with his doxy.” He puffed harder on his pipe, expelling smoke in angry gusts at the memory. “Him and his doxy and a boy indentured to Trader Gahame. They fled when the demons attacked, and God willing, the demons slew them.”
Var nodded, memories flooding back: but old and of another time. Arcole Blayke and the woman—what was her name … Flysse? And the boy … Davyd? He shook his head, dismissing them. Had they escaped under such attack as Wyme and Spelt described then they were surely dead. He wondered why he regretted that.
He asked politely, “May I take these maps, Governor?”
Wyme nodded, and Var took the charts to his chamber and set to studying them: planning his line of march, where he should deposit recalcitrant farmers, where establish forts, what troops to leave there, and how many guns. And all the time, like a nagging bee buzzing remorseless around his head, he wondered if Arcole Blayke still lived; because he could not—somehow—believe the branded man had died. Somehow that seemed impossible, as if hope and belief were taken away.
