by Tom Lloyd
As the poacher’s moon appeared over the treetops and cicadas gave way to the dawn chorus, the group reached the first real sign of civilisation in Vanach. They had been travelling for six nights, and the only people they had encountered were Carastar mercenaries and companies of Black Swords from Ghale Outpost, to which Commissar Yokar had sent word of their arrival.
The outpost itself was little more than a hastily built army camp, protected by four wooden towers that looked down over a defensive wall and ditch. The outpost housed a good thousand troops, Vesna had estimated; it was the base for all the patrols in the region. In the feeble moonlight of the early hours it had looked a dismal place to be stationed, the stink of effluence carrying a long way on the wind.
They had been cordially escorted around the camp by a regiment of Black Swords under the command of two commissars, one of whom, a one-eyed woman with short hair and a white clasp to her scar, didn’t bother speaking as her colleague went through the formalities. Their captive had revealed that the white clasp indicated a specialised regiment within the Commissar Brigade. Once a secret within the ranks of the commissars, the Sentinels now wore their authority openly. The normal commissars enforced the law and monitored the Faithful, the common folk of Vanach, while the Sentinels oversaw the Blessed: the priests, commissars and Black Swords; as that gave them significantly more freedom and authority within Vanach’s borders, they were used by several councils of high-ranking commissars to enact their commands.
As the one-eyed woman was a Sentinel, it was almost cer tain she had known of the attack on them; she may even have ordered it herself. Leshi had been able to provide the name of one other faction within the Commissar Brigade; the Star Council was tasked with rooting out spies and revolutionaries. But that was only the largest and best-known of the factions; it was likely some operated as private fiefdoms or cult-aligned armies, and more than one of those would surely see any fulfilment of prophecies as a threat to their position.
Past Ghale Outpost and alone again, the party started to encounter enclosed monasteries and farming communities. Some of the latter looked like traditional villages; others under heavy guard were clearly labour camps. All had graves outside their perimeters, individual ones beyond the villages and pits outside the camps. None of these were hidden from the travellers. Life in Vanach was dangerous and the punishments were harsh, and so entrenched in public consciousness that the commissars and soldiers did not even consider how it might be viewed. Scavengers had dug in many of the pits, dragging out the bones of those deemed unworthy of proper burial; similarly, that didn’t appear to warrant action.
The Black Swords patrolling the camps were wary of newcomers and challenged them at every step of the way, but each time a commissar appeared and, with varying degrees of deference, waved them on their way. Taking too much interest in the camps themselves sparked angry shouts and drawn weapons from the guards, but Daken especially was happy to call their bluff and watch the feared soldiers back down at the order of their commanders.
They saw none of the inmates, though they could see easily enough past the corralling fence that surrounded each camp. In each one large, chimneyless buildings were positioned like spokes in a wheel around a mound bearing a square-towered temple, while low guard-towers manned by crossbowmen stood every thirty or forty yards around the fence. The fence itself could be easily scaled or kicked through, but the corpses impaled on high crosses by the gate were still wearing leg-irons that were not removed even after death.
On the sixth night they reached the gates of Toristern Settlement, the hub of all human life for fifty miles in any direction. Isak could see faces in the stone towers that flanked its main gate watching their approach. Compared to the great cities he’d visited, Toristern was an unimpressive, functional place. It was clear ostentation was not for the common man: grandeur in Vanach was reserved for religious structures, even more than in somewhere like Ismess. Anything approaching imposing displays were restricted to the great metal frameworks outside the walls, where several dozen naked or poorly clothed unfortunates slumped in confined cages, while corpses rotted beside them. The well-gnawed bones scattered around the base indicated scavengers were given free reign over the condemned.
The main gate of Toristern opened without any form of challenge; not even the cavalry stationed on the road to the settlement did anything more than watch them pass. Within, however, a reception committee stood to greet them with far greater ceremony than they had met with so far. A full regiment of Black Swords was formed up in the square beyond and ahead of them, and there were more than a dozen commissars wearing the formal uniforms of their brigade. Squat houses and larger wooden buildings were crammed together on each side of a large avenue; they appeared to have been built according to one template and with little skill.
‘Lord Sebe,’ called the leader of the group, the first portly figure they’d encountered in this starved nation. ‘You come under the blessing of the great Goddess Alterr and are welcome in our poor settlement.’
The commissar had the sloping forehead and wide nose that was so common in Vanach, but he still looked out of place, standing amongst a group of pallid, gaunt religious police. He spoke in the Narkang dialect, and Isak knew it well enough that he didn’t need Mihn to translate. He looked around at the small city they’d just ridden into. Unlike Tirah or Narkang, places that had evolved over the years, this had been built to a specific plan. It followed some strict pattern that he guessed would be echoed throughout Vanach.
‘I thank you for your welcome,’ Isak replied at last. Aside from the committee and the guards on the walls there were no signs of life on Toristern’s ordered streets, something he found disconcerting. ‘May I ask your name?’
The man bowed. ‘I am Commissar Kestis, of the Third Enlightenment. The Prefect of Toristern has instructed me to welcome you and escort your party to your allocated lodgings.’
Isak was about to reply when another commissar stepped forward and gestured to the soldiers behind them. ‘Lord Sebe, Brother-Under-Alterr Kestis — there is first the matter of the Ziggurat Mysteries. You come claiming the sanctuary of Alterr, but that is only the first of the signs that must be revealed.’
Isak peered at the man. This one was taller than Kestis, but skinny, and obviously lacking Kestis’ good nature. He also had a white band to his scarf, which made Isak’s fingers itch for his sword-grip.
Kestis turned in surprise, but checked himself before he said anything to admonish the man. Isak guessed he outranked the Sentinel, but they were challenged only cautiously when they policed their own.
‘It is necessary to demonstrate that immediately, Horshen?’ Kestis inquired.
‘So the Night Council has decreed, Brother-Under-Alterr,’ Horshen said haughtily. ‘Before the sanctuary of a settlement is granted the first two signs at least must be revealed.’
The soldiers Horshen had gestured to disappeared into a nearby building, fetching out a shackled man. The prisoner was painfully thin and almost naked, with crude tattoos on his hairless chest that were doubtlessly marks of slavery. On his arms and legs Isak could also see long bruises and red welts, the signs of regular, sustained beatings.
‘Very well,’ Kestis muttered. ‘I had been under the impression the Prefect intended for any such revelations to take place tomorrow, but if the Night Council prefer you to provide a first-hand report… The mysteries and signs are their purview.’ He glanced back at the troops and commissars behind him. ‘Commissar, dismiss the troops.’
The bulk of the Black Swords vanished quickly enough, until only ten remained in position. Three commissars also took their leave. At that distance Isak couldn’t see anything to mark them out on their uniforms, but clearly they were of the first rank only, and not privy to the mysteries of the second.
‘Horshen? Does the Night Council’s decree extend to soldiers witnessing the mysteries?’
The skinny man shot his superior a look of pure venom. ‘They are serva
nts of the Council, tested by the priests of Karkarn and Alterr and worthy to witness such signs as I deem necessary.’
‘So you want a demonstration?’ Isak said. ‘Something to report back?’
Horshen looked defiant, but he knew his role enough not to stray beyond the bounds of his orders. ‘It is the duty of the commissars to question; to test the faithful and ensure they walk with the blessing of the Gods.’ The commissar turned to his terrified prisoner, standing helpless in the hands of the two soldiers. ‘The second of the Ziggurat Mysteries speaks of the ability to kill with a single word.’
Isak grinned in his unsettling, lopsided way and shrugged.
‘Shinir.’
The prisoner whimpered and sagged in the restraining grip of his captors, but his captivity had left him so cowed and feeble he did not even try to fight them and the two had no effort in holding him steady. Shinir raised her bow and let fly in one swift movement.
At that distance the arrow tore right into Commissar Horsh en’s neck, passing a foot out the other side as it threw him to the ground. The man hit the ground, legs kicking in uncontrolled spasms, as the remaining Black Swords immediately drew their weapons.
‘Hold!’ Kestis croaked at them, visibly shocked at a spray of blood that pattered over his boots. He recoiled a pace even as he spoke, distancing himself from the dead body. ‘Sheathe your weapons!’
There was a moment of sullen silence before any complied, but even those under the authority of the Night Council were not willing to disobey the direct order of a commissar. Eventually the soldiers stepped back while one of the prisoner’s guards inspected Horshen, confirming what they all knew: the commissar was dead. The stand-off lasted only a few moments, then a second Sentinel pushed her way forward through the remaining commissars. Isak felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Just from the way she walked he could tell this was not some spiteful, low-ranked fanatic.
Though plain-faced and lacking Zhia’s dark presence, the commissar still reminded him of the vampire. This was someone who knew their own power all too well and had no need to adopt the sort of supercilious air Commissar Horshen had.
‘Clever,’ she commented in accented Farlan, which made Isak assume she was from the north, where the two nations met. She sounded disinterested rather than scornful, as though Isak had not yet merited anything further from her. ‘You kept to the letter of the mystery, at least. But a waste of a loyal servant of the Gods — and for what? A slave?’
She gestured towards the cowering man and one of his guards hauled on his arm to make him stand a little higher. The slave had taken one look at the newcomer and fear took hold of him; urine was trickling pathetically down his bare legs.
‘Sister?’ Kestis said hesitantly. He too recognised the woman’s bearing as that of a superior, but from the way he was peering at her it did not marry with the markings on her scarf band.
‘Sister-Sapesien Fesh,’ she supplied without bothering to look at him. ‘Secretary to the Night Council and here to observe on their express orders.’
Thanks to Zhia’s interrogation, they recognised the different ranks of commissar; Kestis was a Tarasien, the third rank. Sapesien was the fourth rank, but few ever got that high. The difference in power was clearly enormous.
Fesh approached the cringing slave and inspected him for a few moments before turning to Isak. ‘This man is a heretic, condemned to death.’
Without any further ceremony she whipped a thin stiletto from her belt and jammed it into the man’s belly. He wheezed in shock and clutched feebly at the dagger hilt, a tiny cry of fear escaping his lips.
Fesh swatted the man’s hands away from her knife and withdrew it again with deliberate slowness. ‘Now he will die more slowly.’
With a twitch of the fingers she ordered the guards to release the slave and he collapsed to his knees, mewling pathetically. Dark blood trickled out from between his fingers and mingled with the puddle of urine on the ground while his weak cries grew increasingly piteous.
‘You want to test my compassion too?’ Isak growled, his words thick with restrained anger. The white-eye leaned forward over his horse’s head and stared intently at Fesh, while trying not to glance back at Zhia. He could sense a build-up of magic from the vampire; no doubt her Gods-imposed curse was filling her with discomfort at the man’s suffering and hunger at the slowly spilling blood.
‘I do not test,’ Fesh declared, meeting his gaze, and apparently completely unafraid, despite the fact Isak was so much larger. ‘I serve the wishes of the Night Council.’
Isak made a dismissive sound and urged his horse towards where Commissar Kestis had earlier gestured they find their lodgings. He caught Zhia’s eye as he went and called back over his shoulder, ‘Goodbye, Commissar.’
A muted crack broke the hushed night air as Zhia invisibly hastened the slave’s inevitable death, then the rest of the party followed him at a slow pace. Kestis hurried to catch up with his guests and usher them down the wide avenue leading to the heart of the city.
Commissar Fesh did not speak.
They were guided into the centre of Toristern, down a road studded with blockish, functional shrines and onto a tree-lined strip of open ground that formed a ring around a central district. Silver birches had been carefully cultivated to form screens that abruptly hid the slumbering city from view. The ground was covered in some sort of limestone gravel; it was obviously kept scrupulously clear of weeds and it shone in the pre-dawn gloom.
‘This ground is restricted to the Blessed,’ Commissar Kestis announced as he directed the party to walk down the white avenue. ‘The entire inner circle of Toristern is sacred; you will be the first outsiders to ever view this ziggurat.’
‘I hadn’t realised there was more than one,’ Isak said.
Kestis inclined his head solemnly, then looked up at the yellowed bulge of Alterr, high above them. ‘Every core settlement has a ziggurat now — none as remarkable as the Grand Ziggurat of Vanach Settlement, of course, but fitting places of worship all the same.’ He turned, his eyes suddenly bright with fervour. ‘And now you are here, come to fulfil the signs and reveal mysteries beyond those inscribed on the walls of the Grand Ziggurat — perhaps every city in the Land will be blessed with a ziggurat to elevate their worship?’
‘Not sure that would be so popular right now,’ Isak murmured.
‘No doubt,’ Kestis agreed gravely. ‘The wider Land has been forsaken by the Gods for so many years. We of the Commissar Brigade understand the extent of the task ahead of us; unbelievers will not easily accept the embrace of the Gods again.’
‘Lucky you’ve got so many Black Swords, eh?’ Isak commented, noticing yet another troop of soldiers watching them silently from under the trees.
‘The enemies of the Gods are many and devious,’ Kestis replied, a sharpness entering his voice. ‘The faithful must be protected, and more so than ever since the recent rise in daemon attacks.’
‘Rise?’
Kestis blinked at him. ‘We have ever been plagued by daemons roaming the wild parts of our nation; it is our lot as most favoured of the Gods. They enter the minds of mages and weak men, sometimes manifesting in their hundreds and slaughtering entire villages.’ He frowned. ‘It has always been that way — that is why the Shield Council was forced to redistribute the population and ensure they could be protected as they worked for the glory of the Gods. Surely your own people have the same problems?’
‘Oh sure,’ Isak said quickly, ‘daemons with the faces of men: always been a problem where I come from. There’s one growing with power even now, one that wears the face of a child.’ His face became suddenly tight. ‘Don’t even ask me what’s living in the cottage I used to own.’
Kestis went as wide-eyed as a child as Isak confirmed everything he had been told about the Land beyond Vanach’s borders. ‘It is a fight we are ready for, my Lord. The people of Vanach are strong and unflinching; the Commissar Brigade has worked for years to prepare them for
what will be required.’
Isak said grimly, ‘It may be you’ll find that fight soon.’ He spoke in Farlan.
‘I’m sorry, Lord — I did not understand you. That was Farlan you spoke? Only very few here know that language, I’m afraid. Could you please repeat it?’
Isak waved it away as unimportant and turned to give Zhia a look instead. ‘Villages “disappearing” because of daemons? The entire population being “readied for war”? Remind me to kill your brother if I see him.’
The vampire indicated the soldiers they had just passed. ‘Have a care, my Lord — Commissar Fesh may have colleagues who speak Farlan.’
‘Oh, right, we wouldn’t want anyone to become suspicious of us,’ Isak snapped. ‘They might try to kill us if that happened.’
‘It was a limited effort,’ Zhia countered, ‘enough to test whether or not we were just some fools who’d chanced upon a way to travel unmolested in Vanach. I don’t doubt we’re in danger from this Night Council, but it doesn’t look like they are the dominant force in Vanach, so they will be cautious about acting publicly.’
Isak scowled and didn’t press the matter. He let Commissar Kestis guide them in silence around the outer ring to a second avenue leading into the heart of the city. As they turned onto it they were immediately confronted by a ceremonial procession of priests, looming like phantoms out of the darkness.
Dressed in white habits and shuffling along behind a circular silver standard, it was clear they were from the Cult of Alterr. Mindful of the position priests occupied in Vanach, Isak nudged his horse to one side and slipped respectfully from the saddle until they had passed.
Strangely, the priests paid him no attention at all. The hoods of their habits hung low over their face, but he knew the effect he had on passers by, so it came as a surprise when there was no apparent reaction at all.
Maybe the mysteries aren’t for the cults to know about, he mused. These commissars do seem to like keeping their power close.
He watched the procession as it shuffled away along the tree-line avenue, a hushed drone of prayer on the wind. The man at the rear swung a thurible on a long chain, but no smoke was emitted; there was only a deep thrum as air passed through its cut sides, a strange and haunting sound that lingered on the night air even as the priests moved away.
