by Simon Brown
I have become a hollow man, he thought. And then: No, not completely hollow.
Deep within he could feel a bright, terrible canker. He would live long enough to bring about the fall and destruction of those who had slain his beloved Sendarus.
Marin sat alone at the great table in the great stone hall of his palace at Pila. Servants hovered nearby, but never within range of the candlelight. They were like grey ghosts among the tapestries and doorways.
It was a cold night. Summer sometimes forgot to visit Pila high up in its mountainous roost. Marin thought cold lent a great clarity to the world: frost limned stonework and blade, snow revealed landscape, clouds of breath marked life. And cold suited sorrow, he thought; it matched the hard mind lost in grief.
He sneered at the invisible servants. They thought he was indulging himself. After a lifetime striving to improve the lot of his people and Kingdom, they could not stand the thought of him doing something for himself, even if it was self-pity.
He banged his goblet on the table. A servant scurried into view with a jug and poured him more wine, then scurried away again. Marin raised the goblet and silently toasted his dead son. He took a gulp, held the goblet up again and toasted his brother, Orkid, who was so far away. Another gulp, and one more toast. To Amemun, wherever he may be.
The night was four hours old when the column halted. Amemun sunk to the ground in relief, but a warrior found him and told him Dekelon wanted to see him immediately. He followed the warrior back to the van where Dekelon waited with a scout who was panting with exertion.
'You should hear this,' Dekelon said, and nodded to the scout.
'Outriders,' the scout gasped. 'About three leagues distant.'
'How can you see so far in the night?' Amemun asked skeptically.
'I can smell them,' the scout replied in a tone that suggested the answer should have been obvious.
'Which direction are they heading?' Dekelon asked.
'Northwest.'
'Any sign of a herd?'
'Droppings. It is not as large as the last clan's herd.'
Dekelon glanced at Amemun. 'It will be a hard run to catch up with them tonight. We follow them until daylight, rest up, then finish the pursuit tomorrow night.'
Amemun shook his head. 'We will run hard,' he said urgently. 'We will destroy this new clan tonight, and maybe tomorrow night we will find another one to take.'
Dekelon gazed steadily at Amemun, but in the dark he could not read the Amanite's expression. After a moment he grunted his agreement, and signed for the scout to lead them to their prey.
It was a wild run. Amemun, charged with a fierce anger, kept up with the Saranah column as it made its way across the Oceans of Grass. Their feet made a strange and muffled tattoo on the ground, one some of the enemy would hear but only wonder at. Scouts ranging ahead located the nearest outriders and killed them, then ran on until they found the main encampment. When the column caught up with them, the scouts spread out to locate the remaining outriders while Dekelon deployed his force. By the time everyone was in position the eastern sky was just starting to lighten. Dekelon stood and waved his javelin. As one, the Saranah stood, screamed their war cry and charged down on the camp.
Instead of waiting on the fringe of the group, this time Amemun charged with Dekelon. The first enemy he saw was a woman stumbling from the back of a wagon. He slashed at her midriff with his dagger and ran on. He stabbed a face that suddenly loomed before him, tripped over the body, smelled the blood that spurted over him. He scrabbled to his feet, ran around a whinnying horse with a dead rider slumped over its back and straight into a knot of men fighting with javelins and sabres; he drove the point of his dagger into the back of one of the fighters wearing a poncho, and as the Chett dropped grasped the sabre from his hand and used it to swipe at heads and limbs. In the darkness he could not be sure how many he injured, but the Chetts fell back in disorder from the sheer ferocity of his attack and were picked off one by one by pursuing Saranah.
All around him, shouts and screams rang out. He ran on, found himself in the middle of a corral formed by a circle of huts on wagons. In the middle was a large fire, its flames shooting into the sky from the fat it was eating off a body that had been thrown on it. He cut a square of hide from one of the huts and wrapped it around the sabre, dipped it into the fire and used the flaming brand to light all the other huts. A mad Chett woman charged him, swinging a sword over her head. He barely deflected the blow, the force of it making him fall back. He stumbled and fell but managed to hold up his sabre, catching the woman in the flank. She shrieked and ran off.
Winded, Amemun used his sabre as a prop to stand up. By the time he got his breath back the entire ring of huts was ablaze, sparks spinning in the air, creamy smoke curling into the sky. Shielding his face from the heat he broke through the ring. Shouts and screams were more distant now. He turned to follow them, but he had no more strength and his legs would not obey him. His arms slumped to his side and the sword slipped out of his grasp. The heat from the burning huts battered the skin on his face. He searched inside himself for the loss he felt at the death of Sendarus, and was dismayed to find it still there and just as strong.
When the sun rose Dekelon found the Amanite in the same spot. 'Are you alright?' he asked.
Amemun stared at him for a moment as if he did not know where he was. 'Yes,' he said eventually. 'Do you think we will find another clan tonight?'
Dekelon shrugged. 'I do not think so. They are rarely so close together.'
'The night after?'
'It is possible.'
'Good.' He bent over to pick up the sabre, admired its long, steel hardness. The body of a Chett warrior lay a few paces from him and he went over to it. An old man's face stared up into his own, blood caked around his eyes and mouth. For a second Amemun thought he was looking in a mirror. The thought seemed funny to him and he laughed as he undid the dead man's sword belt and sheath and strapped it around himself.
'I like this sabre,' he told Dekelon, and sheathed the sabre.
'You'll have a great need of it in the weeks to come.'
'Did any of the enemy escape?'
'I don't think so.'
Amemun nodded. He looked inside himself again. The pain was a little less, but it would need a great deal more blood before it went altogether.
CHAPTER 12
Ager was dreaming about the sea. After the Slaver War and before meeting Lynan he had worked on merchant ships as a supply clerk and purser. There was a great deal about ship life he did not miss—the food and drink, the storms and smell of bilge water—but there were some things he missed a great deal. In his dream he was lying on the aft deck of a small trader sailing a calm sea under a brilliant night sky. He could hear the sail flap gently with each caught breeze, the creak of the mast and yardarm, the tugging of the sheets. He could smell the ocean, the salty tang of life in the deep, and warm tar. He could see so many stars he knew he could not count them all in a lifetime. He felt each gust as it caressed his skin, stroking him to sleep, and his own breathing slowly timed itself with the gentle movement of the ship as it rocked with the swell. And then he opened his eyes and it was all changed. He was lying at the top of a small rise on the Oceans of Grass, and above him was the clearest blue sky he had ever seen. He could smell the musty earth, still damp with rain, and the clean scent of wild horses. He could see tall grass waving with each movement in the air, and high above a single eagle soaring and sliding, using its wing tips like rudders. He felt his body fold along the ground, and from deep in the earth the gentle rumble of a herd moving far away.
Part of him was wondering where he would be taken next when he was shaken awake. He sat up and turned to Morfast to ask what she thought she was doing, but she was still fast asleep. He looked the other way and saw Lynan's face staring at him in the darkness. It had a strange luminous quality, and in that place between dream and reality it seemed oddly appropriate.
'I'm sorry for waki
ng you,' Lynan said.
'What's wrong?'
'I need you to come with me. There is no need to disturb Morfast.'
Ager dressed quickly and followed Lynan out of the tent. It was still dark. 'What time is it?'
'It will be dawn soon. I want you to see something.'
Lynan mounted his horse and held out to Ager the reins of his own mount, already saddled. Together they rode east then south to the Barda River. 'I was here earlier this evening,' Lynan told him. 'I thought I saw something in the walls, but I need you to tell me whether or not it is important.'
'You need a sapper,' Ager said.
'You were involved in sieges in the Slaver War.'
'One or two, but you still need a sapper.'
'You know how to set a siege?'
'I've taken part in sieges, Lynan, not directed them.'
'But you know the basics,' Lynan insisted. 'You saw others do it.'
'I suppose so.'
'I need someone to direct the sappers and infantry we brought with us from Haxus.'
Ager grinned. 'I wondered when you'd be getting around to that. You don't trust the Haxan officers?'
'Not yet,' Lynan admitted.
They were near the river now. They could hear water lap against the banks.
'And I will need to know how it is done,' Lynan continued. 'There may be many more cities to besiege.'
A terrible vision flashed in Ager's mind of burning cities dotting the continent of Theare like the stars in the night sky in his dream of the sea. A shiver passed down his spine.
A tip of light showed on the eastern horizon.
'Now!' Lynan warned. 'Watch the line of the north wall!'
Ager peered with his one eye along the wall, and as the sun rose it cast long shadows along its length. But not all the shadows were straight.
'God, it's uneven!' Ager cried.
'That's what I thought,' Lynan said excitedly. 'They must have hurried to repair damage done by Salokan. Part of the wall carries too much weight.'
Ager looked crossly at Lynan. 'If you know so much about it, why don't you personally command the engineers?'
'Last night when I was here I saw you had set archers along the bank to intercept any river traffic. I know I should have thought of that, but I did not. I don't have your experience. What I know about besieging walled cities I gleaned from books. What you know about besieging cities you've gained from experience. I know the difference.'
Ager grunted but did not disagree. He felt foolish for questioning Lynan. He always seemed to have an answer ready these days. Once, of course, he did not, and he had relied on Kumul and Ager for advice; to Ager that time seemed an aeon ago, now.
But that is what he is doing now, he reminded himself, and felt doubly foolish.
'Of course, the north wall is the one with the main gate in it,' Ager said. 'That means it will have the heaviest defences.'
'We will have to think of ways to weaken them.'
'They will have to be very convincing ways to fool Charion, I think.'
'You mean costly,' Lynan said.
Ager nodded. 'That's the problem with diversionary assaults. They have to have a genuine chance of breaking through to get an enemy to take them seriously.'
Half the sun was over the horizon and the shadows along the north wall were beginning to distort.
'It is time we returned,' Lynan said. They started riding back to camp. 'Eynon feels he has a great deal to prove.'
'Yes, he feels he missed out on…' Ager's voice dropped and he reined back, but Lynan let his horse walk on. 'You're going to give him command of the diversionary attack, aren't you?'
'I have to show my trust in him,' Lynan said over his shoulder.
Ager spurred his horse and caught up with the prince, 'The fact that he is Korigan's main rival has nothing to do with it, of course.'
'Of course,' Lynan replied. Before Ager could say anything more, he added: 'Someone has to command it. Someone's followers have to make the sacrifice.'
'I understand,' Ager said sarcastically.
'No, Ager, you do not understand,' Lynan said, looking at him. Ager could not meet that gaze. 'You not understand at all.'
Lasthear threw a handful of powder onto a small fire. Brightly coloured sparks flew into the air. Jenrosa surprised herself by laughing.
'What magik is this?' she asked.
Lasthear laughed with her. 'No magik.' She opened her palm, and Jenrosa saw small particles of glittering powder caught between the folds of her skin. 'These are metal scrapings. Copper, tin, that sort of thing. It amuses children.' She produced a small pouch and tipped some of the contents into Jenrosa's hand. Jenrosa threw it onto the fire, and more sparks whooshed up between them.
Jenrosa laughed even harder. 'The lesson being that I am a child?'
'In some ways,' Lasthear said. 'You have great courage. I have heard how you joined your companions when you could have fled from the mercenaries hunting you down at the Strangers' Sooq, and how you were wounded defending Lynan. But I also see how you are afraid of things which only children are truly afraid of—things inside yourself.'
'I know many adults who are afraid of themselves.'
'That does not mean it is not childish,' Lasthear observed.
'You are beginning to sound like a priest,' chided Jenrosa.
'You are afraid of being a Truespeaker.'
Jenrosa bowed her head. 'Yes.'
'Why?'
'I don't know.'
Lasthear shook her head in disappointment. 'I think you do.'
'Why did you ask me here?'Jenrosa asked irritably.
Lasthear sighed and pointed to the fire. 'I have shown you how to do magik with the earth and with the air.
You showed yourself how to do magik with water. Now you must learn how to do magik with fire, the hardest of all elements to work with.'
Jenrosa looked up excitedly. 'I first met you when you were doing fire magik at the furnaces at the High Sooq.'
'Yes, a kind of fire magik called shaping. I was helping the molten metal find its true shape and hold to it.'
'Its true shape?'
'All people who possess special ability with a craft—weavers, potters, metalworkers, tanners, cooks, storytellers—have the talent to take something raw and unused and give it a true shape, something it was always called to be. Metalworkers take copper or iron or gold and let it become a shape, an object, true to its nature. The metalworker, the weaver and potter and all who work a craft are magikers in their way. My job was to help the metalworkers with the shaping; they can do it without me, but my singing made the job easier for them.'
'This is what you are going to show me now?'
'No.' Lasthear held out one hand and Jenrosa took it. 'Now close your eyes and hear in your mind the incantation I make.'
Jenrosa closed her eyes. At first, faintly, at the edge of her consciousness, Lasthear's words were nothing but a whisper, but as she listened with her mind they became louder. She made out individual words that then flowed into sentences, and sentences that flowed into greater meanings. She understood and started adding her own power to the incantation. Suddenly Lasthear broke contact and Jenrosa opened her eyes.
'The fire is out!' she said, surprised.
'Not quite,' Lasthear said, her voice subdued. She seemed tired.
Jenrosa looked again. Not only had the fire gone out, but none of the embers were aglow either. And yet… She put out her hand and yelped in surprise as she yanked it back. She blew on her palm. 'It's blazing hot!'
Lasthear said nothing but bent over the fireplace and studied the dark embers carefully. She said, 'Show me not burn me' and picked out a piece of charcoaled wood. It sat in the middle of her palm without burning her.
'Souls are like flames,' Lasthear told Jenrosa. 'Let us see whose soul the flames wish to show us.' She placed her other hand over the first and slowly raised it. As she did a flame appeared from the ember and grew as it had more space. At first it s
eemed to Jenrosa to be just a flame, but soon she started seeing more detail in its flickering existence—at first the suggestion of a body, then definite limbs, and finally a head. 'Lynan,' she whispered.
Lasthear nodded to the fireplace. 'Now it is your turn.'
Jenrosa bent over the fireplace. The invisible heat felt as though it was scorching her skin. Then she noticed that the heat was coming from one particular part, and then one particular piece of half-burnt wood. 'Show me not burn me,' she said and picked it up, placing it in the palm of her left hand. Even though she could still feel the heat coming from it, the skin of her palm was undamaged. She cupped her hand with the other and slowly raised it. A flame appeared instantly. As with the first, she studied it intently, and as she did a figure started taking shape. When it was fully revealed she gasped and almost dropped the charcoal, but Lasthear shouted at her to hold steady.
'Who is it?' Lasthear asked.
The diminutive figure disappeared to be replaced by something that looked like a tree, then a moment later switched back again.
'What is it?' Lasthear asked.
'Silona,' Jenrosa said hoarsely.
'Gods!' Lasthear cursed.
'Does the real Silona know we are doing this?'
Lasthear shook her head. 'No, but it proves vampires still have souls.' Jenrosa could hear the wonder in her voice. 'That is something I would never have believed.'
There was a scuffling noise behind her. She saw Lasthear look up in surprise and drop her own ember. In that moment the flaming figure in her own hand changed. She gasped a second time and this time did drop the ember. She glanced up to see if Lasthear had noticed the change, but her teacher was still looking at the intruder.
'Jenrosa,' Lynan said. 'I am sorry to interrupt your lesson.'
