by Lloyd, Tom
‘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 him . . . 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 b
roadsword 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.
‘That went well, don’t you think?’ Yeren said quietly to Certinse. ‘Weren’t sure how quick Kerek was going to be there. Still, he were just a priest in the end, however much he liked his knife.’
All Certinse could manage was a small ‘gah’ of wordless pain, which served only to increase Yeren’s smile.
‘Aye, hurts like a bastard, don’t it? My advice is to try not to scream, not when you got a knife in yer lung. You’ll just make it worse, and you already pissed yerself, which ain’t fitting for a man o’ the cloth.’
Yeren peered over Certinse at Kerek’s corpse. ‘Good thing you lot ain’t priests of Death,’ he said brightly, ‘I hear some o’ them dabble in a bit of necromancy on the side. Wouldn’t want anyone callin’ up yer spirit and askin’ who did this.’
Certinse felt a chill start to seep into his legs. He tried to push Yeren away, but the slightest movement sent a spike of pain down his back and he could do nothing to fight the man.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Yeren continued in an almost sympathetic voice, ‘but I can’t be dealin’ with any o’ that “last dying breath” crap. We’ll stand here ’til you pass out, which shouldn’t be long now, and I’m sure yer beyond savin’ - better that than I stick you a dozen times to make sure.’
Certinse listened dumbly to the sequence of his death, unable to respond or even move. Suddenly words from his childhood appeared in his memory, prayers of repentance he hadn’t spoken in earnest for decades. Yeren watched his lips move fractionally and nodded, as though his concerns had been confirmed.
‘Close yer eyes now, Old Bones hisself won’t be long.’
CHAPTER 9
Ilumene couldn’t stop himself grinning. Despite the early hour and the dew seeping into his breeches, he found himself waiting with a handful of others to ambush a deranged dragon — it was so daft, it was hilarious. They lurked under a damaged roof in the ruined building nearest to the Byoran tunnel in the Library of Seasons. Next to him stood the immortal mercenary, Aracnan, who was by contrast, still and entirely emotionless. He looked asleep but Ilumene knew that sleep eluded him, no matter how tired or how hard he tried.
Aracnan was meditating as a way to deal with the pain the King’s Man had inflicted upon him, using his millennia of experience to block out the fire in his veins. His hairless skin looked different now, greying and stale where once it had been ivory and full of unnatural vitality. He had lost none of his bulk, but the toll of his shoulder injury was evident to all. Ilumene had fought with the King’s Men long enough to know the poison they had used — and the festering hole that would have opened up when Aracnan tried to heal himself with magic.
The stink of Aracnan’s flesh was revolting, but Ilumene had spent the summer months in Rojak’s company, while the minstrel decayed from the inside out as Scree slowly collapsed. After that he could endure any stink.
‘This is crazy,’ whispered one of the soldiers for the fourth time that morning. ‘Styrax has gone mad with grief.’
His taciturn companion, a white-eye with a mass of scars on his face and throat, grunted in agreement. It was the most noise the man made, and Ilumene was starting to wonder if that was all he could say.
Ilumene’s grin widened even more. ‘You think?’
He looked over at the valley wall, twenty yards to the left of the Akell tunnel entrance. Tethered to the rock was a thick-shouldered fighting dog. It had been unmuzzled ten minutes ago, but instead of barking to draw the dragon’s attention it had settled down and contentedly gone to sleep.
‘Foot-traps?’ the soldier hissed. ‘Ballistae to pin its wings? Soldiers on foot? That’s no way to hunt a fucking dragon!’
Ilumene shrugged and patted the crowbill axe he’d brought from the Ruby Tower’s armoury. There was a second strapped to his back and a normal axe on the ground behind him; the crowbills were the best thing a man on foot had to pierce a dragon’s scales, but if he did, the weapon would most likely lodge there and he’d best have a back-up ready.
‘Something of a speciality of yours, is it?’ Ilumene asked lightly.
Major Fenter Jarrage, of the Knights of the Temples, was in full battle armour, which told Ilumene that the man hadn’t thought too hard about what they were about to do. The white-eye was too, but he looked far stronger and quicker. Despite being the poorest fighter of the four Jarrage nodded emphatically, as though he were a veteran leading a squad of recruits. Just around the cover were four more noblemen from Akell and Fortinn — they were all past forty summers and they were dressed in gaudy hunting leathers, so Ilumene hadn’t bothered with their names.
‘Done a bit in my time,’ the Major went on, ‘not dragons, but sand wyverns are close enough, I reckon. Was stationed in Tserol for a time and they would come in from the desert.’
‘How would you do it then?’
Jarrage slapped the crossbow slung over his shoulder. ‘Bloody regiment with these would be a good start, lined up where we are. They punch through armour well enough; reckon they’ll manage dragon scales too, and they’re easier to aim than ballistae. Biggest problem is stopping it flying away, you put a hole in its wing, you ain’t stopping it, and if it can choose when and how it’s going to fight you’re lost.’
Ilumene didn’t bother to ask how one got a hundred crossbowmen out of those tunnels without making a sound, nor point out the bolts wouldn’t go deep enough to do much more than irritate a gigantic, deranged, fire-breathing dragon.
Nice to know someone’s probably going to die before me though. He was well aware that they were all most likely a distraction when it came to the actual killing. They might get a lucky blow in, but it would be someone rather more than human who did the real damage.
No, we’re not just a distraction, Ilumene reminded himself. Styrax is building himself a legend and he needs witnesses. They say he killed a daemon-prince in Thotel and won over the Tachrenn of the Ten Thousand — now he’s going to add a dragon to the tally of his kills.
Even Ilumene had to admit it was an impressive list; killing Lord Isak was nowhere near the greatest feat Styrax had achieved, notable though it was.
Show the priests you can face down and kill a daemon-prince. Show the commoners you’re a dragonslayer. Remind the soldiers like me you cut down Koezh Vukotic, one of the greatest swordsmen in history. If my loyalty were up for grabs I’d be persuaded.
‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers,’ Ilumene announced suddenly. ‘I’m bored now.’
He picked up a broken stone the length of his thumb and threw it with unerring accuracy at the dog. The stone thwacked into its flank, causing the dog to wake and yelp. It looked up and Ilumene waved to attract its attention, swearing at it under his breath. The fighting dog jumped to its feet and began barking as loudly as it could, straining at the chain tethering it to the cliff. The sound echoed around the still valley, strangely loud as it reverberated back off the cliffs.
‘Piss and daemons, Kayel!’ Jarrage exclaimed, hurriedly winding back the mechanism of his crossbow and slotting a bolt into place. He did have a halberd as back-up for the slow-loading crossbow and Ilumene was keen to see how that fared, albeit from a suitable distance.
‘I’ve got a busy afternoon planned,’ Ilumene said with a cruel grin and turned to Aracnan to attract the Demi-God’s attention. His eyes were open and Ilumene saw a moment’s confusion before Aracnan focused on the barking dog and remembered where he was.
�
��It is time,’ Aracnan said, and he rose to one knee with a wince.
His right arm was bound to his chest to keep the wound from working further open, but Ilumene knew he was as capable with his left arm. Aracnan drew his black sword and Ilumene saw the Crystal Skull he possessed moulded around the guard — the Skull called Knowledge that Aracnan had taken from the original owner, though he had claimed it had been destroyed. Although any use of magic would cause Aracnan unbelievable pain, the Skull’s power could still augment that of his sword. The blade’s surface was swirling and surging with pinpricks and trails of faint light, like a meteor shower in the sky.
Ilumene reminded himself of the plan, such as it was. Ballistae were hidden inside the two tunnels. Behind one were three Litse white-eyes, the Jesters and a Ruby Tower captain, while Lord Styrax, General Gaur and four more Menin were positioned behind the other.
The dragon would be attracted by the noisy snack, then snagged by the foot-traps that, with luck, would keep it distracted long enough for the ballistae to wound it and keep the beast on the ground. After that Ilumene had stopped listening to the briefing. He was confident Styrax would be the one to kill it; all he had to do was concentrate on staying alive.
