by Tom Lloyd
He looked east towards the Devoted army, many miles away now. His skin felt cold. Even the realisation that they would have to fight through Ruhen’s armies to find the way home did nothing for him. The first milestone on that journey had been crossing the border, such as it was. The second had been reaching Tor Salan and ridding it of Devoted troops.
Perhaps by the third, I’ll start to feel something again. He scowled and looked up at the sky. Crows wheeled high above.
Isak blinked and uneasily opened his eyes. Slowly his surroundings came into focus: curved wicker struts arched over his body. His feet pressed against wooden boards. Underneath him was a sticky bedroll; above him, a ripped canvas was lashed over the struts, admitting a little light through the various tears. He could just make out a pale grey sky through them, and dark patches on the canvas showed where spots of rain had fallen.
The bed rumbled and jolted beneath him; igniting a dull ache in his skull that made him groan and put his hands to his head—
—or one hand, at least. Isak blinked at his white palm in confusion until he realised his right arm had been loosely bound to the nearest strut. The dusty black palm was empty, as it usually was when he woke, but clearly someone had decided not to take the chance.
He fumbled with the leather ties, eventually getting free. He inspected himself, and discovered someone had changed his clothes, put him in breeches and left a shirt and boots to one side. The blanket had slipped off, and he stared down at his body. The indentation in his belly was most obvious: a wide mess of scarring the size of his flattened hand, followed by the raised circle of the rune burned into his chest. That seemed so long ago, his first night in Tirah Palace, but unlike his other injuries he remembered that searing pain with fondness.
‘Still not so pretty,’ Isak croaked and patted the cloth strip that bound the Skull of Ruling to his waist.
He’d not been without the Crystal Skull since taking Termin Mystt. Without it his mind, assailed by the raging power of Death’s black sword, would be torn apart completely.
The faint smell of mud drifted through the hanging canvas flaps at the rear of the wagon, evoking fragmented memories of his life with the wagon-train before the day he was Chosen by Nartis. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. ‘If that’s my father driving,’ he muttered, ‘I’m gonna punch the bastard.’
‘If I were your da,’ laughed Carel from the driver’s seat just behind Isak’s head, ‘I’d have whipped you out of that bed at dawn and told you to set the traces!’
Isak struggled around until he was kneeling on the grimy mattress. Bowing his head to avoid the struts above, he shoved the canvas open to see Carel’s grinning face looking back while another man held the reins. Carel held out a filled pipe to him while the hooded driver turned to acknowledge Isak: Tiniq, General Lahk’s brother. He was one of the few bodyguards who hadn’t been returned to the ranks of the Ghosts – as he disliked riding almost as much as horses hated to be ridden by him, he’d doubtless volunteered to drive the wagon.
‘Thought you’d lost that habit,’ Carel commented mildly. ‘Passing out like some girl on the battlefield? I dunno, smacks o’ cowardice to me.’ He laughed.
The white-eye tried to find the words to respond to Carel’s banter, but his mind was blank.
Carel thumped him on the shoulder and smiled fondly. ‘Don’t worry; I know what you’re like when you’re just woken up. Here, make yourself useful, lazy bugger.’
Isak frowned, but he took the pipe and pressed his thumb into the bowl, lighting it with a spark of magic before handing it back. ‘I thought for a moment I was back on the wagon-train,’ he said as Carel puffed away at the pipe.
‘Relieved, then?’
Isak sighed and scratched the patchy stubble on his cheek. ‘I
don’t know, to be honest.’
‘Fate’s eyes!’ Carel exclaimed, ‘I never thought you’d miss that lot! Don’t tell me you’re looking back fondly on life there?’
‘Nah – they’re still a bunch of bastards; the ones I can remember, at least,’ Isak said. ‘I think I’ve lost a few in my head; I can’t remember enough names and faces for all the caravans.’ He shrugged. ‘But life was simpler then. I might not have liked it much, but at least I wasn’t coming apart at the seams.’
‘Ah, well, life ain’t fair. At least people care about your opinion now, eh? All those wagon-folk would pretend you’d never even spoken; now a whole army’s marching on your word alone.’
‘Not my word, the king’s.’
‘Hah! Sure, he gave the order, but he’s following your lead – yours and Legana’s.’ Carel paused. ‘They’re an odd couple those two, but thick as thieves nowadays. You reckon they, ah—?’
‘Reckon what? That they’re—?’ Isak laughed. ‘Bloody soldiers, only one thing on your minds.’
‘Well, he’s a king, ain’t they expected to shag everything in sight? Anyone who gets married for political reasons won’t stay faithful.’
‘Any man tries that with Legana, he’ll find out the hard way how quick she can draw a knife. They’re friends, nothing more. They both – they can see each other as a person, not just a Goddess or king. Brings them close, means they can trust each other, and so can I.’
‘Plus Ardela looks the jealous type,’ Carel added.
Isak looked past the veteran at the column of men, horses and wagons and recognised the broad road they were slowly trundling down: the trader route to Tor Salan. ‘So how long was I asleep?’ he asked.
‘Passed out like a big girl, you mean?’ Tiniq quipped, attempting to join the banter.
‘Fuck off and drive the wagon,’ Isak snapped.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence Carel waved the pipe in Isak’s face and the white-eye took it, happy to have the distraction.
‘You were out three days,’ Carel said. ‘The king went after the Devoted troops when they retreated, but they were in better shape to march and they’re well ahead. He left you with a rearguard, but after a day I decided there was no telling when you were going to wake up, so we loaded you into this and went to catch ’em up. We reached the army mid-morning today – they keep having to stop and probe ahead because the Devoted have left divisions of troops staggered behind them – they’re not waiting for a fight, just looking to strafe any ragged edges, but it all needs a proper response.’
‘We’ll make good time on the road,’ Isak said after a moment. ‘Is anyone cutting cross-country?’
‘Aye, Vesna and Lahk have taken five divisions to harry their flanks, but given the ground this road’ll be the fastest route for as many infantry as we got.’
‘So now we chase them,’ Isak said wearily, ‘all the way to the Waste. Let’s hope the Chetse take exception to them, slow them up enough for us to force battle.’
‘Reckon they will? Where’s Ruhen going, anyway?’
‘Keriabral, Aryn Bwr’s fortress – where this all started, near enough.’
‘Why? What’s out there?’
Isak took a long draw on the pipe before replying, as though reluctant to voice the answer. ‘Why? Because I weakened the Gods, and now’s the time to challenge them, when they can’t defend themselves.’
‘And he can really do it?’
‘That and more,’ Isak said with a grim expression. ‘He’s got thousands of devoted worshippers, near-limitless power and half the opposition he expected.’
Carel fell silent.
‘And you can stop him?’ Tiniq asked in a quiet voice.
‘If I can catch him, I can kill him – not just his mortal body, Azaer too. And we still hold the majority of Crystal Skulls; without them he can’t make the Gods of the Upper Circle kneel, so he can’t avoid us forever.’ He sighed. ‘Unless he’s mad enough to kill them all. There’s always that.’
CHAPTER 34
Ilumene lit his cigar from a burning stick, puffed appreciatively at it and continued on. There were wary faces around the campfire; Devoted soldiers watching
him like mice watching the cat. He ignored them; he enjoyed their fear, but he had better things on his mind.
Venn walked silently ahead through the regimented rows of tents, the white leather grip of his sword almost the only thing visible in the dark. Ilumene caught him up again before they had reached their destination, the tents of the Jesters and their acolytes at the edge of the main army camp.
‘Any guesses what this’s about?’
Venn shook his head.
The former King’s Man blew a lungful of smoke across Venn’s face. ‘Not even a guess?’
‘I suspect they will offer us a drink,’ Venn said at last, realising Ilumene was going to keep talking until he got a response.
‘Well, I won’t complain there. Doesn’t sound like ’em though, unsociable lot, our Jesters.’
‘It is an unusual sort of drink.’
‘Seen it before, then?’
Venn nodded. ‘In my years of bondage,’ he said solemnly, ‘I travelled the Waste for a time. The Jester clans welcomed me as befitting one bearing a holy charge.’
‘Too bad most others thought of you as the entertainment, eh?’
Venn stopped and looked Ilumene in the face. ‘Our reasons for being here are not so different.’
‘Never said they were.’ Ilumene looked Venn up and down. ‘Someone’s got prickly now he ain’t the fighter he used to be.’
‘I remain skilled beyond most others in this camp.’
‘Never said you weren’t,’ Ilumene said with a grin. He puffed away at his cigar and then continued, ‘Come on. If it’s some quaint barbarian custom we’re invited to, Rojak will complain if he misses it. Won’t bother me o’ course, but I reckon he’d keep you up the rest of the night singing all manner o’ filth. Minstrels are all the same, after all, just entertainment for the low masses.’ If Rojak responded to that in the privacy of Venn’s mind, the former Harlequin made no sign; he gracefully matched the taller man’s pace without appearing to hurry. They were admitted to the Jesters’ camp without a word by the white-masked guards and escorted by curt hand gestures to the tall tents where their Demi-God lords awaited them.
The small camp was strangely silent, even quieter than the subdued Devoted on three sides of them. The warriors were all loitering on the edges of a central square around which were the Jesters’ own tents. Over the last few weeks he had discovered there was a clear division within their ranks, though little difference in the way they dressed. The Harlequins wore their porcelain faces to ensure all roles and moods were conveyed solely by gesture, but Venn had suggested it had started as an echo of the serene faces of the divine, unencumbered by emotion. What ever the truth, the only way to tell white masked Acolytes and Hearth-Spears apart were the weapons they carried. The Acolytes, the élite, carried long, two handed swords; they worked as mercenaries alongside their lords. The Hearth-Spears, the men and woman of the clans, defended their homes with javelins or spears and oval shields.
Ilumene looked around. Most of the hundred élite Acolytes were assembled here, so whatever was going on, it looked like they were involved.
‘Lord Koteer, Blessed Sons of Death,’ Venn called as he approached the seated Demi-Gods, ‘I thank you for your invitation to attend this ritual.’
Koteer, the eldest of the Jesters who spoke for them all, looked up. His grey skin faded into the night’s darkness, leaving his white mask even more stark and ghostly. ‘We intend to raid the enemy – with your permission, Ilumene, as the voice of the Child,’ he announced. His voice was accented with age, but his words remained precise and clear. ‘We invite the Harlequins to join us.’
‘Just the Harlequins?’ Ilumene asked. ‘What if the rest of us want to join in the fun?’
Koteer regarded him. ‘It will be a night raid, tomorrow, when the moon is darkest. The Harlequins can move silently at night. Any others will betray us.’
‘Your Acolytes can see in the dark?’
Koteer gestured and the two disciples of Ruhen edged forward to get a better view. Smoky braziers flanked the entrance of each large tent; the flavour of incense was heavy on the air. Ilumene could make out a blackened bowl, some dark liquid bubbling gently within it, sitting upon a small iron brazier. Koteer unbuckled the vambrace from his left arm and pushed up his sleeve. Accepting a knife from the nearest Acolyte, the Demi-God started intoning something, then slit open his wrist, letting a stream of darkly glowing blood pour down into the bowl. Then he stirred the contents with the blade of the knife and handed it back.
With blood still dribbling from his wrist, he ran his fingers over the wound and spoke more arcane words in Elvish, the language of magic, and the wound sealed. An Acolyte came forward with a fresh piece of linen to wrap around the wrist and Koteer held that in place while his vambrace was buckled back on.
Another Acolyte stepped forward with a silver jug, poured something that looked like water into the bowl and stirred it again with a naked blade, then small flasks were passed forward by all the watching Acolytes and carefully filled by Koteer’s attendants.
‘The clans share our blood, one and all; many of the Acolytes are our sons, but they remain human,’ Koteer said. ‘This ritual temporarily brings out the divine in their blood. Mortals cannot endure that too often, but in times of war, the risks are worth taking.’
Venn said, ‘I will send thirty Harlequins to join you – I can spare no more; the risk of assassins remains too great.’
‘Acceptable,’ Koteer confirmed. ‘We will double back while the army moves on; the enemy are close enough that we can cover the distance in the day and strike their camp in the darkest part of night.’
‘And when you reach them?’ Ilumene asked. ‘You’ll never get near Emin or the Farlan boy; they’re too well guarded.’
‘We go to kill their élite,’ Koteer said with a sudden hunger in his voice, ‘to prove ourselves the greater warriors and weaken them for the battle to come. We do not go to win the war.’
Ilumene nodded in approval. ‘It’ll slow their pursuit up; give us time to negotiate the Chetse border if they’re watching for ambushes every night. You have Ruhen’s permission, send them my best.’
‘I have seen your best,’ Koteer replied without humour, ‘and it is a savage thing. That is what we shall give them.’
As the last of the sky turned to black, Doranei and Fei Ebarn headed out into the hushed army camp, where quiet snores mingled with the song of cicadas on the cool night air. Both were armed in their own way: Doranei in blackened armour, Ebarn in silver chains and crystal shards attached to a snug coat. There was not a breath of wind, Doranei noticed; after the blustery morning where the wind had been at their backs like Ilit’s hand urging them on, it had steadily faded to nothing, the God’s strength spent. Now the hushed Land waited, adding to the tense quiet of the army camp.
‘So, you and Veil then,’ Doranei said at last, when they had moved beyond the last tent.
Ebarn gave him a suspicious look. ‘What about us?’ The battle-mage was a strong woman, and well able to use both the stave she carried and the long-knives on her belt. Magic might be her greatest weapon, but in a mêlée the stave was an effective way to keep soldiers at arm’s length until she could burn them.
‘Just making conversation.’ He stopped and turned to face her. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it – just that you seem good together.’
‘And there’s you, the expert in relationships?’
Doranei gave a wry smile. ‘Screwed up a few in my time, right enough. That must have taught me something!’
Ebarn nodded to acknowledge his point and they continued their patrol. King Emin’s more obvious élite now walked the camps at night, mostly just to be visible to the many untested soldiers. No amount of training could prepare a youth far from home for the true chaos of battle – or the sight of dragons being hauled out of the Dark Place, for that matter. Emin wanted his mages and skilled killers closer to his men in a way a king could not be.
‘So.
Me and Veil,’ Ebarn said after they had passed the first sentry post, seeing the soldiers stand a little taller in their presence, ‘you give your blessing then?’
‘I ain’t the boy’s father; he don’t need me to hold his hand.’ The mage smiled. ‘Just as well. He hasn’t got many to spare.’
‘Aye, so long as he takes off those damn spikes before he slips in your bed! Probably the first mistake I’d manage.’
‘Way I hear it, you’d have managed more’n a few by the time you get to the bed.’ Her eyes twinkled with amusement
‘Aye, could be true,’ he admitted.
‘How’s he dealing with it? Losing his hand, I mean.’
‘Like the rest of you would, I’d guess: he’s pretty pissed off – he’s always trying to scratch his little finger and he’s about ready to punch holes in the ground when he forgets and finds it gone all over again. Man’s about as hard to ruffle as any of you, though. He’ll be fine – he’s more worried about you!’
‘He’s in good company there,’ Doranei said darkly, ‘but I ain’t been drunk in days; that’s got to count for something, no?’
‘For you, aye – Veil told me you’d be good. I’ve got to admit I wasn’t so certain, but it looks like he knows you better.’
‘Simple and obvious, that’s one reason Zhia liked me in the first place,’ Doranei agreed. ‘When your days are full of lies and games, I guess not having to deal with that shit at night is a blessing. And yeah, Veil knows me well enough. I’m Brotherhood to the bone; ain’t one who’d survive retiring, not like him or Sebe. When duty’s all I got, it’s enough to keep me moving.’ He sighed. ‘It’s pathetic really. I’m like Isak’s dog Hulf, lost without a master.’
