by Lloyd, Tom
Kayel watched Perforren shut the door behind himself before heading for the glasses on a side-table. He poured a large measure of brandy into each wide-bottomed glass and handed one to the Knight-Cardinal.
He raised his glass in a toast. ‘Ruhen stands for peace in this Land,’ Kayel said gravely. ‘Friends is all he’s looking for.’
‘Tell that to the priests plaguing me,’ Certinse muttered, showing the sergeant to one of the chairs at the far side of the room, set on either side of the empty fireplace. ‘I’m amazed some of those fools preaching in Akell got out again without being lynched. Ruhen may have his admirers here, but they’re keeping their heads down.’
‘Who can blame ’em? It’s better than getting ’em chopped off.’ Ilumene took a big gulp of brandy. ‘Speakin’ of your priests, I thought I’d come see how that situation was workin’ out.’
Certinse gave him a sour look. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘You see me laughin’? It’s my concern when Ruhen’s Children ain’t allowed to spread their beliefs, when they get strung up for the heresy of criticisin’ priests. An’ I b’lieve it’s your concern that you, as Knight-Cardinal, ain’t in command of your own Order — that you got to answer to a crowd o’ fanatics who’ve forced their way into power.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re saying here,’ Certinse said cautiously. ‘Are you asking whether I’m plotting against fellow members of the Knights of the Temples?’
Kayel laughed. ‘No! I’m sayin’ in your place, I’d likely gettin’ ready to murder the whole damn lot of ’em! And, I’m askin’ why you ain’t done so already - they’ve robbed you o’ your Order, and if you don’t take it back soon, it’s gone for good.’
The sergeant knocked back the last of his brandy and rose to fetch the bottle. As he turned his back, Certinse inspected the man. His high boots looked scuffed and dirty, dull black rather than polished to a shine, but they looked well-cared-for; Kayel was a man used to walking, he surmised; he obviously knew the value of good boots. He didn’t recognise the style of the lines of black stitching, but he did recognise the concealed pommel of a dagger when he saw it.
‘The Menin Army’s been gone a while now,’ Kayel said as he offered Certinse more, ‘long enough that the war’s likely to be done soon. Whichever way it goes, the Land’s goin’ to be a different place after.’
‘Undeniably,’ Certinse agreed, ‘but I can’t be sure there will be an Order of the Knights of the Temples left to see this new Land.’
‘So why ain’t you moved? You’ve hardly made much effort to help out Ruhen’s Children, and you know we’re happy for you to exploit us that way - don’t hurt our cause a shred.’
‘Unfortunately the matter is not so simple,’ Certinse said. ‘My Order is by definition composed of the pious. Our rank and file are all volunteers, and most joined for higher reasons than the stipend.’
‘So they’ll take their whippings like dogs?’ Kayel asked, momentarily surprised, ‘they’ll cower and whine, all the while shrinking from a raised hand? And never once thinking to bite back?’
‘The analogy is accurate,’ Certinse agreed. ‘They’re an army, and properly trained. I have been paying careful attention, as you might imagine, but there are simply not enough men willing to consider insurrection against a body of priests.’
‘But no one’s likely to complain if it’s done for them?’
The Knight-Cardinal smiled. Interesting, he thought suddenly, the man’s accent has softened now we’re at the meat of the conversation. He’s not playing the big simple soldier any more.
There was something more, something else at the back of his mind trying to grab his attention. Ah yes, he speaks Farlan well, very well. That’s not the casual familiarity of a mercenary. Certinse had spent more years than he cared to remember in exile, living under King Emin’s rule after Lord Bahl’s ban on the Knights of the Temples. Over that time he’d noticed a number of common errors in the way people there spoke the Farlan dialect; some were glaring, some subtle enough for most native speakers to not pick up on immediately. Sergeant Kayel had made none of those mistakes, none at all.
‘Obviously I couldn’t condone any such actions,’ he said carefully, mindful of being lured into speaking too openly, ‘and on a purely logistical note I would point out that only the Menin have the capability to do such a thing. A covert mission of the scale required would be near-impossible.’
Kayel didn’t blink. ‘It so happens,’ he said cagily, ‘that there might be some new arrivals in the Circle City very soon. The call of Ruhen’s message has reached further than many might believe, and a few remarkable followers have been attracted to him.’
‘Such as the Jesters?’
Kayel shook his head. ‘Their losses were considerable in the battle against the Farlan; only half a dozen acolytes remain.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ Certinse said, guessing he was going to be told no more. ‘If they are so remarkable it’s a shame I remain under house arrest, unable to receive visitors without the escort of Demi-Gods. ’
‘A shame indeed. If anything were to happen, however, you would have to step in quickly - no sense giving the opportunists a chance, is there? A symbolic figure would be useful in that instance, I think you’ll find; remind the Order of its founding principles.’ Kayel gave him a sly look and set aside his glass. As he was making ready to leave he added, ‘My view is it’d be sensible to prepare against all eventualities. Either King Emin wins this war and the Circle City’s in need of a leader again, or Lord Styrax wins, and he’ll be looking for a permanent ruler for each region of his empire. If that happens, I’m sure he’d be glad of strong allies before he heads towards Tirah - especially if one has connections in those parts already.’
Certinse smiled. ‘My first obligation must certainly be the stability of the Order, yes - my scholarship has perhaps been neglected in recent years, but it’s never too late to refresh one’s memory of the Order’s founding principles. This current fervour could be far better employed in the pursuit of the Order’s greater purpose, I suspect - and never let it be said I am closed to new ideas. Your little prince’s message, for example; even an old soldier such as I could be swayed. The Land will soon be tired of war - if it could be ended swiftly the Gods themselves would surely thank us.’
For a moment Doranei forgot himself and stopped, staring in wonder: far away over the moor a flock of birds were diving and wheeling in a great cloud against the sky, while closer at hand, swifts darted and swooped, feasting on the insects stirred up by the activity on the moor. He could hear the beating of thousands of wings in unison.
‘Not a sight you ever get bored of, eh?’ Veil commented from his right.
Doranei nodded dumbly as the flocks swept over a slight rise on the moor and flattened into a swirling cable of birds that arched up into the sky. Further east, orange-edge striations of cloud lay above the horizon and he felt a slight shadow fall over them as the flock veered past.
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ snapped the man standing between them. His left arm was resting lightly on Doranei’s shoulder.
‘What? Hah! No - not a joke,’ Veil said, a brief grin flashing across his face.
The third man in their group was a mage from Narkang called Tasseran Holtai, who was generally acknowledged to be the finest scryer in the kingdom. Unfortunately, his years of service had come at a price: he had been completely blind for almost a decade.
‘Aye, we only joke with men we like,’ Doranei growled while Veil looked skyward in exasperation.
‘You impudent peasant!’ Holtai spat, swinging his walking stick at Doranei’s shins.
The King’s Man hopped nimbly away from the blow and stifled a laugh as Veil was jabbed in the ribs with the stick in Doranei’s place.
‘I don’t care what favour the king has for you, I’ll have you flogged for your insolence!’ he snarled.
‘I’m afraid there’s already a queue for that pleasure,’
Veil said cheerfully, ‘so let’s get this done first.’
Mage Holtai turned in Veil’s direction, far from mollified, but aware the king was waiting. He was a sprightly man of more than seventy winters, his white moustache neatly trimmed and his clothing immaculate, as ever — today he wore a long purple robe edged in gold. His skills had brought him not only considerable personal wealth, but also great political power in Narkang; he was a poor enemy to make, even for the Brotherhood.
‘Shift yourself then, you wretch,’ the mage hissed, grabbing wildly for Doranei’s shoulder again.
The King’s Man raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes at Veil, who grinned back. He stepped closer and guided Holtai’s hand to his shoulder, but they had gone only a few steps before the old man grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him backwards with more strength than Doranei would have expected from a frail-looking old man.
‘Not so fast you damn fool!’ the mage snarled.
Doranei bit back his instinctive response and slowed his pace until they were shuffling through the flattened grass towards a raised mound of indeterminate purpose. It was five feet high, and it was encircled by a staked ditch twenty yards out, and a full company of soldiers - fifty men - looking extremely bored.
On the mound itself stood two unmistakable figures: Endine and Cetarn, King Emin’s most trusted mages. Tomal Endine, a wiry, rat-like man, sat cross-legged before one of a dozen wooden posts. One hand was pressed against it and trails of white light danced around him. His colleague and friend Shile Cetarn lounged nearby, resting part of his considerable weight on an enormous wooden mallet. As they neared, Doranei was amused to see Endine moving away from the post, then falling backwards in shock as Cetarn wasted no time in taking an almighty swing with the mallet to pound it into the ground.
Doranei grinned, he could just imagine the mage’s furious squawks of outrage - and Cetarn shared his sense of humour; before he could take a second swing the white-eye-sized mage had dropped the mallet and doubled over, his roaring bellows of laughter reaching the plodding trio a hundred yards off.
‘Doranei, my favourite drunkard!’ Cetarn yelled once the trio were within shouting distance. ‘Come to swing a hammer for me?’
‘Reckon you need the exercise more than me,’ Doranei shouted back. ‘We’re here to test out your work.’
At that Endine began to cough, until Cetarn slapped him hard on the back, laughing again. ‘Not that; the boy’s a drunk, not mad!’
Doranei and Veil exchanged confused looks, but Cetarn didn’t bother to explain himself as he hauled Endine back onto his feet again. ‘It’s not finished,’ Cetarn continued, his round head flushed pinker than normal, ‘but it’s good enough for your need, and I can always nudge things along.’
‘I can manage perfectly well without your help, Shile,’ the blind mage said primly. ‘I mastered my art long before you were born, young man.’
‘Indeed you did, sir,’ Cetarn agreed, ‘but you will be scrying up to a hundred miles while the adepts of the Hidden Tower attempt to stymie your efforts. The help is yours, whether you like it or not.’
Mage Holtai’s face soured as though he’d just swallowed a bug. ‘If I need your assistance I will request it,’ he said firmly. ‘Until that becomes the case your power will only make my efforts all the more noticeable.’
He started to walk a little faster, and tugged impatiently at Doranei’s shoulder for him to keep up. As they reached the mound Doranei saw an iron chain half-buried in the earth, running north from one of the posts along the ground. Whatever magic they had planned, Doranei knew he didn’t want to be anywhere near the results.
He helped Mage Holtai up onto the mound and looked around from his elevated position. A hundred and fifty yards off, almost half a mile from Moorview Castle itself, was a complicated forward defence post that a thousand men were still working on. Three square towers surrounded by twelve-foot-deep ditches were to be the heart of their defences — though by no means the only line of defence. Two longer ditches were being dug on each flank, forming two sides of a triangle, with the removed earth being used for ramparts behind. Fire-blackened stakes were being hammered into both ramparts and ditches.
The moor was covered with smaller ditches and treacherous holes, as much a way to keep the waiting army busy as to hinder the Menin’s advance to battle wherever possible. The battle-hardened Menin heavy infantry needed to close and bring the fight to the Narkang forces. The king intended to make that a costly process.
Doranei looked down at the soldiers all around them. The core of the Narkang army was the Kingsguard, but that was only five legions; five thousand men. There were a similar number of mercenaries from the north and western isles, but the bulk of their troops had been hastily raised and were being drilled right now: advance and retreat, form line, form square, right turn, set spears . . . To Doranei’s experienced eye, it was all painfully slow.
Unlike the Farlan they had no system of martial obligation among the nobility, and many of the ennobled veterans from King Emin’s wars of conquest had died since then. They might have gathered fifty thousand troops, but they amounted to little more than conscripts and volunteers, from all walks of life. More were arriving daily. What they didn’t have was the command structure required. Just getting the new men armed and sorted into legions was proving taxing enough, for all the king’s advance preparations.
‘What’re all these, symbols of the Gods?’ Veil asked Cetarn, pointing at the wooden posts as the blind mage made himself comfortable on a rug at the centre of the mound. He peered at the nearest. ‘Yes, the whole Upper Circle, it looks.’
‘One aspect of our preparations,’ Cetarn declared, ‘harnessing the energies of the Land - but if you think I’m going to waste my valuable time giving you two dullards an explanation you could never fully fathom, you’re more fools than I thought!’
‘Shile,’ Holtai said, arranging his robe around him, ‘if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course, Master Holtai, my apologies.’ Cetarn grinned at the King’s Men, grabbed his mallet and retreated off the mound with Endine. When Doranei started to follow, the big mage motioned for them to stay where they were, a little behind Mage Holtai, looking down at the old man’s thinning pate while he settled himself again and began to mumble arcane words.
Mage Holtai sat rigid and upright, facing west, with his eyes closed, chanting in an unintelligible monotone for ten minutes or more. Twice the mage’s tone altered abruptly, moving up the scale as he craned his scrawny neck high, before dropping back down the register again.
The two other mages were watching intently as the old man gave a sudden exhalation and ended his chant. Doranei and Veil both advanced and knelt at his side, ready to listen.
‘I see a cavalry force, several legions strong,’ the mage said in a strained whisper, ‘engaging the enemy.’
‘Green scarves?’ Doranei asked, and received a nod in reply. General Daken’s troops were obviously still harrying the enemy.
‘Smoke in the distance,’ he went on, ‘another town burns. I see standards, the Fanged Skull, and more: many states. Ismess, Fortinn, two Ruby Towers. The mosaic flag of Tor Salan, even Chetse - some of the Ten Thousand.’
‘No Devoted?’ Veil asked.
It took him a long time to answer, but when he did it was just to croak ‘no’.
‘How many Chetse?’ Doranei tried.
‘Many flags, many legions.’
He scowled. The rumours were true then, the core of the Chetse Army had voluntarily joined Lord Styrax - what was left of it after the slaughter outside the gates of Thotel, anyway. Styrax wouldn’t have allowed the Menin troops to be outnumbered if he didn’t trust the loyalty of the Chetse.
‘What about cavalry?’ Veil asked.
‘Three legions, not Menin.’
Doranei thought for a moment. ‘Can you tell which town it is?’
‘A stone bridge crosses the river; upstream is a small fort on an outcrop.’
‘Gives us a week?’ Veil hazarded.
‘Thereabouts.’
‘Find the other armies,’ he urged the old man.
As the mage recommenced his chant, Doranei rose and continued to survey the moor. It would be a desperate fight, though he still didn’t see how Isak could hope to turn the tide. They had picked as good a place to fight as any army could hope for, providing Lord Styrax with the choice of a long route round the forest with dwindling supplies and a hostile force behind, or battle on ground of their choosing. If they were going to win, it wouldn’t be because of some broken-down white-eye.
