The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  After she fell silent, the litany kept drifting in his head. She was merely five years older than him, and for the first time in more than a decade he felt the emptiness of his exile. A wife lost to estrangement, a family to dishonor—none of them deigning to respond to his letters, though he still sent them faithfully each month. No children. No one he could properly call friend.

  They were the just consequences of his behavior, he knew, and he did not regret his service to the Light. Nor did he expect the war to end in his lifetime. There were vast empires of enemies still to fight, and he had been raised—bred—for military service. It was his purpose. What did civilians even do with their time?

  Why would he ever want to step beyond the bounds of the army?

  He tried hard to leave those thoughts outside the gate. The streets of Bahlaer were quiet, the shadows long between the buildings, and the few carters and vendors he spotted averted their eyes from the Crimson troop. Shutters snapped together in upstairs windows, and curtains drew tight over balcony archways.

  It had not been this way last time. He remembered a great bustle of citizenry in the streets, especially near the gates, but now the visible populace was thin and moved under cover as soon as they saw the riders. He frowned, gaze flicking from window to window as his horse slowed to a trot on the cobbles. His nerves expected crossbow fire, but as they passed through the streets, there were no shots.

  Still, he twitched when something crackled in his ear. He recognized it as the silver earhook reconnecting with its fellows a moment after his hand clenched on his sword’s hilt.

  Ammala’s hand touched his, like a warning.

  He glanced back, eyes narrowed, thinking this an ideal time for her to shank him: surrounded by her own hidden people, within the walls of their heretic city. But she simply shook her head, dark eyes sober and unapologetic. He glimpsed several lancers reach for their own swords and held up his hand to halt them.

  Triggering the earhook with a thought, he said, “Shield-Lieutenant Gellart, are you there?”

  ‘Yes sir. Welcome back, sir,’ said the lieutenant, his voice crackly in the arcane distance. ‘We’re at the city garrison right now, unpacking the wagons and getting the injured checked. The Field Marshal had us send the prisoners straight to the Palace—he has a whole pack of mages—so it’s just us now, sir.’

  “There are sufficient accommodations?”

  ‘Seems like it’ll work well enough, sir. Better than tents around Miirut.’

  “We’ll come straight in, then. Tell the Field Marshal—“

  ‘Uh, sorry to interrupt, sir, but the Field Marshal isn’t here. He said you’re to go to him at the ‘Merry Tom’. Some sort of tavern in the Shadowland. Said you’d know it. Already took the Specialist platoon there, minus Sergeant Presh and Specialist Weshker.’

  “Just the Specialists?” said Sarovy, frowning.

  ‘Uh, and the two ‘special’ sergeants, sir.’

  “And my prisoners, the Crays?”

  ‘He said to bring them with you, sir.’

  That was strange, but Sarovy saw no reason to argue with it. “Very well. Make sure the stablemaster knows to expect us soon.”

  ‘Yessir.’

  Releasing his concentration from the hook, Sarovy wheeled his horse about and motioned for the lancers to follow. He had no desire to reenter the Shadowland, especially not with his recent forays against the smugglers, but orders were orders, and he remembered the way.

  Ammala’s arms wrapped tighter around his waist as they crossed a bridge to the east side of the city, the river rafted with ice below. The barge paths were empty, the warehouses ahead as unwelcoming as the homes and businesses behind them, and as they passed the mill-yards and started up the steep ridge that separated the Shadowland from the river district, he felt the tension rise in the rest of his troop. They intersected the Ridge Road and turned north on it, the painted brick buildings to either side seeming to overhang them like threats. No windows here, just wide alleys and turnabouts, loading yards, wagon shelters. Dark places to hide.

  When the crests of guilds and merchant houses disappeared, when the painted figures on the brick façades became black instead of blue and green and orange, he knew they were closing in. The earhook hissed as it left the range of Gellart’s, then again as it drew in range of Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek’s.

  Sarovy did not cue it. He had replayed the route in more than one nightmare and needed no guide, and in a short time the lancers emerged from a side-street to see the ill-omened tavern and the forces arrayed before it.

  Few wore crimson, which worried him. An easy score of them stood in the middle of the street, parade-stiff, their white platemail matte and ungleaming. Red sashes crossed their chests but seemed more like adornment than affiliation, and as their heads turned toward him, he saw their helms were featureless. No visor, no eye-slit, just matte white metal.

  His breath caught in his throat, and it took him a mental effort to tap his heels to his horse’s flanks and draw closer. He knew the armor well. The White Flame: the Imperial City’s own enforcement squad, where the most fanatically loyal soldiers were assigned. They were said to be arcanely augmented and perhaps even physically bonded to their armor, and were monstrous in battle. To have so many here—and even more, he realized as he looked past the main cluster to see others positioned down the block in pairs, apparently guarding equal pairs of robed mages—

  To have so many here in the west was unprecedented.

  “Captain Sarovy!” boomed a voice from among the main mass of White Flame, and Sarovy spotted an unhelmed man at its center, silver-flecked black hair slicked back and thick beard bristling around a broad white grin. Field Marshal Rackmar. He was massively built, broad-shouldered and barrel-shaped, and wore ornate armor in thick plates with a blood-colored cloak unfurling down his back. Not White Flame armor, but the flame insignia stood out plainly on his cloak-clasp.

  Sarovy drew up in salute and halted his horse before the crowd. Scattered around the White Flames, he spotted his own men—the Blaze Company specialists, out of formation like loiterers. A quick scan showed Sarovy the Houndmaster-Lieutenant, the senvraka and lagalaina, and most of the ruengriin. The scouts somehow evaded his eyes.

  “Field Marshal, sir,” he said stiffly, holding the salute as the Field Marshal waded through the honor-guard to peer up at him. His face was wide and weathered, eyes crinkled at the edges as if filled with good nature, but there was something hard within them, almost reptilian.

  After a moment, he raised two knuckles to his own brow to return the salute. “At ease, Captain,” he said, a wealth of amusement in his deep voice. “Dismount and show me what you’ve brought.”

  “Yes, Field Marshal,” said Sarovy, immediately sliding from the saddle. Behind him, the others dismounted, and he assisted Ammala in her own awkward descent; without his readiness and firm stance, she would have plummeted into the dirt.

  As he steadied her, she shot him a look that was neither thanks nor anger but some form of cold pity. It puzzled him, and he took her firmly by the arm to lead her before the Field Marshal as his men brought the rest of the family around.

  “Ladies,” the Field Marshal boomed, and the three Blaze Company lagalaina—Specialists Ilia, Sindel and Carver—scurried to attend him. With them at his sides, the Field Marshal eyed the five prisoners up and down. “Not much of use here,” he murmured to himself.

  Sarovy frowned. That had been his thought—that this family could have no value to the Empire—and though he hated to speak so bluntly so soon after meeting his new commander, he could not help but comment, “Yes, sir. They are just civilians.”

  The Field Marshal looked to him with brows raised in a mild expression that to Sarovy seemed calculated. “They are the ones who sheltered our escapee though, yes? KRD1184? The one you failed to catch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well then, certainly of interest. The Emperor is not pleased with your failure, but I�
�m willing to forgive it in light of the others—and there have been many. I don’t know if you’ve heard.”

  “No, sir,” said Sarovy, puzzled.

  “Your former General, our illustrious Crown Prince, has been keeping secrets. We found your reports sealed away in a trunk, purposefully forgotten. Purposefully withheld from the larger Imperial community, so that when KRD1184 broke loose in Wyndon and started rampaging through Amandon, no one knew what he was or who his allies might be. Your General sat on that knowledge, which is a shame, for your reports could have saved many lives.”

  Sarovy said nothing, not sure what to think. He was not proud of his mistakes, but a cover-up was unwarranted. Why the General would do that, he could not begin to guess.

  “We’ve found many interesting reports among his papers,” the Field Marshal continued slyly, “as well as in the withheld-correspondence piles.”

  Again, Sarovy did not know what to say. He was aware of the Army’s need to read any outgoing or incoming mail to be sure that no Imperial secrets were being spilled, but what the Field Marshal expected—or why he would mention that in such a tone—escaped him.

  For a moment there was only silence, the Field Marshal’s bearded joviality matched against Sarovy’s blank incomprehension. Then the Field Marshal’s smile withered, and he turned his gaze to Ammala, who stiffened beneath it. Reaching out with a gauntleted hand, he gripped her by the chin and turned her face this way and that. Though rigid, the woman did not resist.

  “So this is the one who sheltered the escapee?” he said. “A brave soul. Perhaps that will be good enough. You see, captain, we have found that fielding a conventional force against the Dark entity is counterproductive. Our common soldiers never get close to him, and our specialists are actively harmed by his presence. Even our mages seem to have little effect on the power he wields.

  “However, he is not without weaknesses. Nostalgia might be one; it permitted a specialist to get close enough to injure him, mark him, and so I have decided to gather up what playing pieces I can find to hold against him. In addition to more traditional tactics.”

  “Hostages, sir?” said Sarovy, eyeing the family. He did not know how long KRD1184 had hidden with them, but certainly he had not stayed to defend them.

  “Not exactly. But a type of leverage, yes.”

  “Sir, can’t you simply set the White Flame on his trail?”

  Field Marshal Rackmar arched a salt-and-pepper brow. “I did say ‘traditional tactics’, captain. Or do you have some vested interest in keeping these heretics from being made useful to the Empire and the Light?”

  “Of course not, sir—“

  “I have decided to alter our glorious Crown Prince’s policies,” said the Field Marshal conversationally as he released Ammala and turned to stroll down the line of captives. “He was too lenient on this wretched place and its heretical people. Had I been in command, I would have seen these cities razed as I passed, their populace given the choice of the altar or the sword. But as they have been conquered, I suppose I can not simply have them torched—no matter the example it would set to our enemies as to their fate for reviling the true Light.

  “Instead,” he said as he reached the end of the line and looked down at the little girl, a fatherly smile curling beneath his beard, “we will educate them. Instill in them a proper faith. Return the priests to the army and the streets, scour out their Dark temples and fill them with radiance, let them understand the truth of the Imperial Light. The children in particular must be taught so that they know how foolish their ancestors have been. So that they, the new generation, can be raised properly into the glory of our faith, our god and our emperor.

  “This one—ladies,” the Field Marshal snapped, gesturing to the little girl, and the lagalaina stepped forward to separate her from Sergeant Benson. The sergeant’s face was stiff, but his eyes sought Sarovy’s, full of questions.

  “This one is young enough to be taught,” the Field Marshal said as if in answer, “and so she will stay here in our care. The others, as with all the deluded souls you have harvested from those Dark dens, will be sent to the Palace to see the error of their ways. They will aid us in destroying that malicious Dark spirit and thus redeem themselves. You should be proud of yourself, captain, for sending so many of these misguided wretches to the Light.”

  “Yes sir,” said Sarovy automatically. It felt nostalgic to hear such fervent ranting after so many years in the near-secular Crimson, but at this moment he could not call it a good nostalgia. Ammala trembled under his hands, and in the periphery of his vision he saw the little boy clench his fists, saw the elder girl’s face streaked with tears. The old lady struggled in Lieutenant Linciard’s grip, hissing foul things under her breath, but the big Wynd kept her under control even though his expression showed unease.

  Too much of it. The White Flames watched them all, eyeless helms turning slowly to take in even the men by the horses, and though Sarovy was not happy with this—with turning over a grieving mother, a citizen through her dead son, to the authority determined to punish her for aiding his slayer—his first duty was to his men.

  By the Field Marshal’s words, a purge was imminent within the army as well as outside it.

  “Your task here is complete,” said the Field Marshal, and gestured his White Flames forward. “Discharge your prisoners to us and we shall continue.”

  “There was one more thing, sir.”

  The Field Marshal regarded him, and he took pains to sound neutral, dispassionate. “The elder daughter. My Scryer informs me that she has a latent mentalist talent. By the agreement we have with the Silent Circle, that means she should be handed over to—“

  “That will not be necessary, captain.”

  “Sir?”

  A smile creased the Field Marshal’s features, bereft of humor or warmth. “The Silent Circle collects mentalists because they are naturally-occurring and would be a danger if left untrained. But there is no chance of such danger with my plan. Therefore I deny your petition. Give them over.”

  Sarovy could almost feel Scryer Mako's glare, but there was nothing to be done about it. Orders were orders.

  All eyes on him, he said, “Yes sir,” and gestured his men to surrender their captives.

  Ammala glanced back at him once before she was led away, and that look struck him profoundly: no accusation, no pleading, only deep yet unsurprised disappointment. It was hard to admit that he felt it too.

  “Come along, captain. We should speak,” said the Field Marshal as the White Flames took custody of the others. He turned toward the tavern and Sarovy signaled his men to return to their horses before moving to shadow the commander, behind and to one side.

  “Now, I have heard interesting things about you and your new Blaze Company, captain,” said the Field Marshal as he strode a course parallel to the tavern’s porch. Sarovy noted again the White Flame guards and the mages stationed at intervals along the street, almost as far as the eye could see. More White Flames fell into step around him and the commander as they moved. “You have been assigned to integrating the ‘specialist’ troops with the common men, yes?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And has that gone well?”

  “Yes sir. We have had minimal internal disputes and are becoming more effective as I learn what we can and cannot do.”

  “You are in exile from the Sapphire Eye, is that correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Why do you think the former Crimson General chose you for this command?”

  “Sir, I do not know,” said Sarovy honestly. “He gave me no reason and little choice.”

  “Yet you enjoy this command?”

  “It is an interesting puzzle, sir. Trying to discern where each piece will fit best.”

  “Ah, I see. A puzzle-solver.” The Field Marshal’s voice went flat. “I hope you’ve managed to fit them, then, because I will not accept a failure like the one you experienced here.” He gestured to the tavern.


  Sarovy grimaced, remembering the shadow-monsters and metal statues below. “I will not fail you, sir.”

  “Good. Because you can be easily replaced, captain, by men far more suited to the post. Men with a firm grip on my plans for the Heretic West. I will give you an example of them now, Captain Sarovy, so that you might understand my expectations for you and your company, and for the Crimson Claw as a whole.”

  With that, the Field Marshal raised his gauntleted hand and made a fist. All along the block, the White Flame soldiers did the same, and the mages at their positions began weaving a spell.

  Sarovy scanned the shop-fronts and upper apartments of this part of the Shadowland, remembering coming here under Magus Voorkei’s invisibility-veil. The street had been quiet with evening drawing down, but then as now, he saw shutters cracked and knew that many eyes watched them—the same eyes that had watched from porches and balconies after the tumult of the tavern raid. The same people who had shouted obscenities and thrown rocks only to skitter away when the Crimsons turned toward them.

  The people of Bahlaer were both warier and less unruly than those of Fellen. What could have become a riot had instead remained an ugly murmur in the dark. But from that encounter, he knew that families dwelled in the apartments, not just Shadow Cult goons. Old people with black-streaked faces did not seem much different from old people anywhere; small children with too-dark eyes were nevertheless small children.

  So when a fissure of red light formed near the curb in front of the tavern and began to reach out in both directions, an awful feeling uncoiled in his chest.

  It spread swiftly, a border being drawn by a massive invisible pen. The shaping hands of the mages guided it along the street and to the corners, and he saw it turn sharply in the distance and realized that there were mages and White Flame guards on the side-streets—and perhaps down the backside of the block. As he watched, the nearer parts gaped wider, etching the cobbled streets as if trying to sever this part of the Shadowland from the rest.