by Tom Lloyd
‘Troubling news,’ Aels said with less emotion than Isak would have expected, ‘but the faithful of Vanach are ready. We walk with the Gods. I pray you share our resolve for the third of the signs requires that be demonstrated unflinchingly.’
‘You think I lack resolve?’
Aels shook her head. ‘No, Lord, but I fear you must lose a powerful ally to fulfil the sign. The loss of a servant means little in the eyes of the Gods.’
‘Loss? I’ve no intention of losing anyone,’ Isak said. His fingers itched for the grip of Eolis, currently wrapped in cloth on his hip to avoid it being recognised as the weapon of the great heretic.
The woman looked genuinely apologetic, but there was no such emotion in her voice when she explained, ‘Lord Sebe, the third of the signs, as described in the Ziggurat Mysteries, is that the one sent by the Gods shall know the true meaning of sacrifice. This has been debated at length by the Councils of the Commissar Brigade, who believe it calls for the sacrifice of one of the twelve. I am here as a member of the Night Council to attest to your constancy.
‘The death of a servant cannot be of any true loss to one who will lead the faithful in battle, however, and now the sign is invoked it must be fulfilled properly and under Alterr’s watch this night.’
Isak nodded towards the Black Swords officer. ‘That why he’s here? To take the place of the one I kill?’
‘Your companions must number twelve still, so the mysteries say.’
He looked at Vesna and shrugged. The Mortal-Aspect said nothing.
Aels saw the spark in Isak’s eyes and drew back a touch as Isak growled, ‘And who are you, to make such demands of me?’ Anger smouldered in his belly. ‘You demand a sacrifice from me? You demand to see what I have lost — what I’m willing to lose in this war?’ He could feel his hand shaking; the weight on his shoulders building. On the distant breeze he could hear the groan and rumble of the Dark Place, voices raised in unholy cries. His nostrils filled with the sulphurous stink of Ghenna’s tunnels and something deep inside him began to scream for what he had lost, for the pain he remembered in his bones.
An image of Tila’s face flashed before his eyes, her elegant features contorted in death, and looming behind her was the dark shadow of a man whose face he could no longer see. Carel.
The word meant little to him, but it sparked a pain like no other and the loss tore through his gut: the nameless, unspeakable pain of a part of him that was gone for ever: his childhood, the foundations of his life, vanished into a murky void. With it mingled the death-scream of Xeliath, and the feel of huge claws tearing through the rune burned onto Isak’s chest.
‘Pray,’ Isak ordered, voice tight and rasping with rage, ‘pray you never understand what I have sacrificed.’
He took a step towards her without even realising and found himself looming over the woman, his hands clawed and apparently ready to grab her by the throat. Aels was plainly terrified, and frozen to the spot, staring up at the tortured vision now standing before her.
Slowly, with great difficulty, he withdrew his hands, gasping for breath as he realised how close he had come to tearing out her throat with his twisted fingernails. His hands went to his head and he pushed the hood back off his battered scalp.
Mihn had cropped his hair close to the skin to highlight the indentations and claw-marks that defined his head. A lopsided widow’s peak indicated where part of his scalp had been torn away; a furrow ran from his ragged ear down to his throat, and it was there Aels’ eyes lingered: on the deep, dark regular curves of scarring from the chains that had bound him in Ghenna.
Isak opened his robe to reveal his bare torso. The patterns of scarring continued there, covering so much of his chest and arms that Aels gasped aloud in horror. Chain-marks looped over his shoulders and across his belly. The indentation where the Menin lord had opened his guts was only the largest of the injuries visited upon his body. Runes and daemon-script were carved into his skin: rough, uneven symbols inscribed with savagery, torture beyond anything that could have been inflicted on the living.
His left arm had been burned white by the touch of Nartis in Narkang, and in the fading light of dusk his skin now shone with terrible intensity. Haphazard loops and slashes of shadowy scarring seemed to rise and swarm like traces of dark magic before Aels’ eyes.
Eventually she turned away, unable to bear the look on his face as the memories of those injuries returned afresh in his mind. From across the city came the haunting sound of daemon-song, a terrible jubilation ringing across a land of weakened Gods, running its cold claws down the spine of all who heard it.
‘I know sacrifice only too well,’ Isak breathed, ‘for I am its favourite plaything.’
‘It was a mistake to try and kill them,’ said a figure in black, one slim shoulder visible against the open window behind.
Counsel Aels froze, halfway inside the door to her private office. Her hand went to her belt, but the knife wasn’t there now. She’d left it behind on her desk; there it was, just visible in the twilight of the darkened room.
‘You?’ she exclaimed, ‘how did you get in here?’
The man inclined his head to the open window by way of explanation.
Aels frowned as she pictured the wall outside: twenty feet at least of sheer stone, all while regular patrols walked the path underneath. Only an acrobat could climb that, or a Harlequin. ‘You take a great risk, invading the office of a member of the Night Council,’ she muttered as she shut the door behind her.
She jumped as she saw another figure shift slightly in the dark, this one wearing the familiar diamond-pattern clothes and white mask. ‘Still more so by dictating to us how we should respond to threats to the state.’
‘You showed him your hand by sending troops to kill him.’
She dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand. ‘An underling overreacted; the council did not sanction the action.’
‘That is no longer relevant,’ said the one who’d named himself Venn on his previous visit. He stood perfectly, unnaturally still as he watched her, unnerving her and making her wonder about this new ally of the Night Council, but she suppressed the question. This one claimed to be the enemy of their so-called saviour, the man who would tear down everything they had built here in Vanach. The Night Council’s decision was correct, and the price of Venn’s information modest.
‘There will be no further efforts.’
‘Good. Have you decided how you will proceed?’
Anger welled inside her. ‘Who are you to demand answers from me?’ Aels snapped. ‘I am a Sapesian of the Commissar Brigade and Second of Toristern Settlement, sitting member of the Night Council. Adopt a more respectful manner or my inquisitors will ensure you can never climb again.’
If there was any change in Venn’s expression it was too minute for Aels to discern. ‘My apologies, Sapesian Aels.’
Again, the man’s manner made her hesitate. His words sounded entirely sincere and cowed, but his poise indicated no such correction.
‘We will proceed as we see fit,’ she said at last. ‘The Night Council does not rule the Sanctum; other ranking councils must have a reason to follow our lead.’
‘Confirmation of your concerns?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Exactly. Why? Can you arrange this?’
Venn bowed and slipped out of the window. His mocking reply drifted through the night air. ‘All things are possible for those of faith.’
CHAPTER 15
Major Amber looked down the main street of Kamfer’s Ford in a daze, unable to quite believe this wasn’t a dream. From some of those passing, civilians and soldiers alike, came a few askance glances, but bizarrely, that was all: no shouts or curses, no drawn weapons… Were these people used to such strange sights that an armed enemy in their midst was barely noteworthy? In a Menin camp, a Narkang soldier would have been beaten into the ground or run through, not ignored.
The most suspicious looks came from the groups of women prowlin
g the town — priestesses, he guessed, escorted by armed, scowling women who looked like they had once been Hands of Fate, devotees of the Lady trained as killers. Most were wearing pendants of emerald or green glass, some new symbol of allegiance, most likely.
The early autumn sun casting a low yellow haze over the cloudless sky somehow added to Amber’s disjointed sense of bewilderment. The streets of this bustling town were similarly tinted, and even the gloomy mien of Camatayl Castle on the hill was diminished. A squad of troops in Kingsguard uniforms tramped past and Amber turned to watch them go, wondering why his hand was not automatically reaching for a scimitar.
The town was in a sorry state, he realised. The Menin Army had passed near here, destroying much of what was in its path. According to Nai, this town had been the heart of military operations in Narkang, and the people had fled before the Menin arrived.
‘They got off lightly,’ he said, frowning at his own lightheadedness. ‘I thought most towns were destroyed.’
‘Most were,’ the soldier behind him replied, his hand returning to his sword. He couldn’t have been more than a year or two in the army; he was too young to hide his fear of the big Menin officer he’d been assigned to guard. ‘The locals left enough supplies behind that your scouts were more interested in scavenging than burning. Bastards still managed to wreck it, though.’
Amber nodded distantly. He had nothing to add to that, and no reaction at all to the soldier’s belligerence.
In every direction he looked there were repairs taking place, and new construction too. Two large fields of tents flanked the town, and it looked as though they were planning on wintering here. The major looked back to the castle. His companions had gone there, Nai and Ardela both demanding to see King Emin as soon as they arrived here. He’d felt a jolt in his stomach at the prospect of meeting the man responsible for all that had befallen the Menin, only to be left empty when informed that the king was away.
A cool gust of wind, unexpectedly chilly in the bright sun, woke him from his reverie. Amber sighed and turned to the door nearby. There didn’t appear to be much else to do since the king wasn’t here, so he went in. Eyes watched warily as he stepped through the door and blinked at the dim interior. There was a fire ahead of him, dividing the room in two, and a bar extended the length of the wall on the right. Amber ignored the looks and not-so-subtle loosening of weapons and headed to the bar.
‘Beer,’ he said to the plump man behind it, a greasy, nervous specimen with a short, scraggly beard, but once Amber spoke, hatred won over fear on the barkeep’s face.
‘Not for you,’ the man said with a shake of the head. ‘Get out.’
‘Make me,’ Amber growled.
Aside from the handful of locals there were four soldiers in the tavern. He could feel their eyes on his back, Nai had insisted Amber be allowed to keep his scimitars for some reason, and he was big, even for a Menin. If they wanted him out they’d need to do more than throw punches. After what their king had done Amber didn’t have any fear left; pain was an old friend of his and there was nothing more they could take.
‘I don’t serve Menin here.’
‘I’ll fucking serve myself then.’
‘Not while I breathe.’ The barkeep pulled a shortsword from behind the bar, no doubt plundered from some battlefield. He didn’t look like he knew how to use it, but he pointed it defiantly enough at Amber. The Menin officer let his baldric slip off his shoulder and the grip of one scimitar fell into his hand. He didn’t yet draw it, but turned side-on so the soldiers behind him were in view.
‘Doesn’t strike me as a problem,’ Amber said as his left hand moved slowly to the hilt of his other sword.
‘Major!’ the young soldier called as he moved between the Menin and his comrades, his hand still on his sword. ‘You are paroled under honour — stow your weapons.’
‘The only word you’ve had,’ Amber said slowly, ‘is that of some fucking necromancer. I got no honour left.’
His escort hesitated; he hadn’t been part of the discussion Nai had had with his captain.
Amber began to slip one scimitar from its scabbard, planning his first strike and parry in his mind, when one of the locals at the bar spoke up.
‘Give him a damn beer.’ The speaker was a good decade or two older than Amber, and not from these parts, by his accent. The whole room stared at him in surprise until he lifted his head and looked back at them. Amber saw a weathered face and a white collar to his tunic; there was no fear in the man’s eyes, just irritation and weariness. He had his jacket draped over his shoulders and when he shifted round Amber saw the left sleeve of his tunic hung empty.
‘You hear me? Put your bloody swords away and give the man a drink. I’ll even pay if you children start playin’ nice.’
Amber glanced at the barkeep and saw him deflate. He lowered his sword and grabbed a mug instead. The Menin nodded and relaxed his own grip, slung the baldric back up on his shoulder and took the nearest stool. He grunted as a mug of beer was dumped in front of him and reached into his jacket, but the older man had already tossed a coin onto the bar.
‘I can pay.’
‘Said I was payin’, friend.’
Amber took a long drink and turned his head. ‘I ain’t your friend.’
The old man snorted. ‘Reckon I’m the best you got right now. Unless some necromancer counts.’
Amber tried to think of a real friend who might still be alive and felt a fresh ache blossom behind his eyes. He put his elbows on the bar and hunched over his beer, running a hand over his tangled hair to cover the pain on his face.
‘Aye, as I thought.’ The old man pulled out a tobacco pouch and set it on the bar, removed a battered wooden pipe from it and tried to fill it one-handed. The pipe slipped from under his hand and scattered shreds of tobacco over the sticky bar top.
‘Mind helping an old veteran?’ he said, waving the pipe at Amber, who scowled, but took it and quickly filled it. ‘Thanks, friend.’ The old man jammed it in the corner of his mouth and lit it with a taper.
‘I ain’t your friend.’ Amber finished the beer and gestured for another one. When the barkeep took the mug off him he glanced at his companion’s. It was nearly empty, so he pointed to that too.
‘I know you’re not,’ the old man said quietly. Amber felt a familiar flicker in his gut, but the old man did nothing more than take a swig of beer before continuing, ‘Truth be told, I hate you fucking Menin, and if I find my way t’Moorview I’ll piss on your lord’s grave there.’
Amber’s hand clenched. ‘One word more and you’ll never make the journey.’ There was murder in his voice.
The old man recognised it sure enough. He went still, but his demeanor was not that of a frightened man; Amber recognised it only too well: this was a man with nothing more to lose.
‘Reckon you’re right there,’ the old man said carefully. ‘Don’t expect me t’sing his praises, though. Man took my boy from me, sent him straight t’the Dark Place.’
There was something in the way he said it that made Amber hesitate. Veterans weren’t prone to theatricality, but it was a strange expression to use idly.
‘Your boy?’
‘Aye.’ The old man’s hand shook a little as he drew hard on his pipe, but the smoke seemed to help him recover. ‘Not by blood, but I raised him.’
‘White-eye?’
The old man nodded.
Amber shook his head in disbelief. ‘I heard about that — didn’t see it myself; I’d been knocked out by then. Way I heard it, he went defiant to the last, goaded my lord even when he was beaten.’
The old man smiled sadly. ‘Aye, that’d be just like the little bastard. As wilful as the storm he was sometimes, as great as any God at others.’
Amber was silent for a while, unable to think of what to say to the man who’d loved Isak Stormcaller as a son. He finished his drink and bought another round, feeling the tension in his head slowly start to ease as alcohol softened the jangle
of his thoughts.
‘What brings you this way then?’ he asked eventually. ‘I didn’t see a Farlan army out here and you’re no nobleman. Why’d you travel all the way out here?’
The old man gave a bitter laugh. ‘There’s nothing for me back home. My closest friends are out this way; joined up with King Emin, or dead. Those back home are only interested in keepin’ out of any war. I’ve seen too much to hold my tongue around cowards like that.’
‘So you’ve got nothing left,’ Amber said with empathy.
The old man snorted and raised his mug in mock salute. ‘Here’s to the broken, you and me both. Ain’t nothing can help us now, ’cept drinking our way to an early grave, mebbe.’
‘Aye. Strange that.’
‘Eh? What’s strange?
Amber rubbed a hand over his face, stubble rasping against his palm. ‘Me, all broken. There’s a man back home, got wounded in the head years back. Man was frightened o’ his own shadow before that day, but when he came round he was changed. Forgot who he was-’ He shuddered, and screwed his eyes up tight shut. It took a while to pass, but the old man waited it out patiently, and when Amber at last blinked away the stars he saw under standing in his eyes.
‘He forgot where he’d come from,’ Amber recommenced hoarsely, ‘forgot everything about his life ’cos of that injury, and he forgot how to be afraid too. He got called Frost after that — his hair had turned as white as snow. Every time he went to sleep he forgot everything that’d happened to him the previous day — he could remember places and things, but not who he’d met, where he’d been or what he’d done his whole life. He needed a protector, so he got assigned a veteran who’d seen one too many fights.
‘Turned out they helped each other, so when the veteran recovered, Frost got another broken protector assigned, and he helped him too. The man’s got a quiet way about him, they say. He’s almost a myth back home these days. Supposedly you can’t lie to Frost; he’s so innocent he walks with the blessing o’ the Gods.’
