Osserc called up the hall: ‘Something’s escaping. Or tried.’
Gothos approached. He peered out past Osserc’s shoulder. ‘Indeed?’
While they stood watching, the figure thrust out an arm ahead of itself to grasp a fistful of grass and dirt to pull, heaving itself one agonizing hand’s-breadth along. It looked like a man, but stick-thin, in rags and caked in dirt.
‘Know you it, or him?’
Gothos scratched his chin with a thick yellowed nail. His upthrusting Jaghut tusk-like teeth, so close now, appeared to bear the scars of once having been capped. ‘One of the more recently interred.’
‘How is it he’s got this far? Is the House weakening?’
Gothos shook his head. ‘No … Not in this case.’
The jangle of metal announced someone jogging down the street. He appeared from the mist as an iron-grey shape in heavy banded armour. A battered helmet boasting wide cheek-guards completely obscured his face. He looked quite formidable, barrel-chested, with a confident rolling bear-like gait. Osserc was mildly surprised to see such a martial figure here on this small backwater island. The soldier, or guard, took up a post near the low wall surrounding the House’s grounds – the point that the crawling escapee appeared to be making for.
Osserc and Gothos continued to watch while the escapee made his agonizingly slow way towards the wall. Osserc noted that although the many roots writhing like mats across the yard grasped at him they seemed unable to retain their grip as he slipped onward through their hold.
‘I admire his … persistence,’ Gothos murmured. ‘But he is called …’
‘Called?’ Osserc asked, but the Jaghut did not respond.
The wretched figure made the wall and, by scrabbling at the piled fieldstones, pulled himself upright. He was wearing tattered dirt-caked rich silks that might have once been black. Thin baldrics that might once have held weapons criss-crossed his back. His hair was black, touched by grey. He was a slim, aristocratic-looking fellow.
The moment he straightened the soldier ran him through. The broad heavy blade of the soldier’s longsword emerged from the man’s back then was withdrawn, scraping on bone.
The escapee did not so much as flinch. He remained standing. Shaking his head, he gave a long low chuckle that sounded quite crazed.
‘Let him go,’ Gothos called. ‘The House has no hold over him.’
‘How in the name o’ Togg could that be?’ the soldier answered in a rough, parade-ground bark.
The figure had thrown a leg over the wall; the soldier shield-bashed him to tumble back on to the ground where he lay laughing a high giggle as if the situation was hilarious.
‘Let him go, Temper,’ Gothos called once more, sounding bored. ‘You cannot stop him.’
‘Wait a damned minute,’ the soldier, Temper, growled. He pointed an armoured finger. ‘I know this bastard. It’s Cowl! There’s no way I’m lettin’ this ghoul free in my town!’
The figure, perhaps Cowl, grew quite still at that. Then he was up on his feet in an instant, crouched, a knife in each dirt-smeared hand. ‘Your town!’ he hissed. ‘Yours! You don’t actually think I want to spend more than one second in this pathetic shithole?’ He lifted his chin as if to gather his dignity, and brushed at his tattered shirt as if to smooth it. ‘Business elsewhere calls me. I have a message to deliver to my commander.’ Then he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh that almost doubled him over.
Temper set his fists on his waist. ‘Well – seems I can’t kill you, seeing as you’re already dead.’ He lifted his armoured head to Osserc and Gothos at the door. ‘What guarantee can you offer?’
Gothos snorted his disgust and walked away up the hall. Osserc remained. Crossing his arms, he called to Cowl, ‘You intend to leave?’
The figure offered a mocking courtier’s bow. Osserc had placed that name now: Cowl, chief assassin and High Mage of the mercenary army, the Crimson Guard. A powerful and dangerous entity to be allowed his freedom on any continent. Yet how could this one possess the strength to shrug off entombment by the Azath? He personally knew of several far more potent beings currently inhumed on these very grounds – some he had battled and was quite glad were now writhing, constrained, beneath his feet. Some who possessed the very blood of the Azathanai themselves. Why, even one of his own daughters had once been taken by a House … Well, that was between them.
And he had warned them.
‘The House cannot, or chooses not to, hold him,’ he called. ‘Let him go. I’ve no doubt he’ll flee.’
‘Flee!’ Cowl echoed, outraged.
Temper laughed his scorn – as Osserc hoped he would. ‘Yeah,’ the soldier scoffed, ‘run away, you pissant knifer. No-good backstabber.’ He backed up a step, inviting Cowl forward.
The assassin was hunched, as if suspicious. But he drew a hand across his mouth, the knife’s blued blade shimmering in the moonlight. In one quick fluid motion he was over the low wall. He tilted his head then, to the soldier, and disappeared in a flicker of shadows.
‘You take a lot upon yourself, soldier,’ Osserc called.
‘That?’ the soldier sneered. He hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat where the assassin had been standing. ‘That was nothin’. Come down here and take one step outside and I’ll run you through. ‘Bout time some someone took you down to size.’
Osserc raised a brow. He was half tempted to accept the challenge. But right now he had no intention of gaining D’rek’s ire. For he recognized her touch upon the man. And so he merely saluted the fellow and pulled the door shut.
He found Gothos reseated, as if nothing had happened, hands flat once more upon the slats of the table. He sat opposite. After a time he found that he could no longer contain his curiosity and so he said: ‘Very well. I must ask – why doesn’t the House have a hold on this man? Surely he is no more powerful than others of the interred.’
Gothos sighed his world-weariness. ‘Because,’ he murmured, completely disinterested, ‘he has already been claimed.’
Osserc grunted his understanding, or rather his complete lack of understanding. That was an answer – but at the same time it answered nothing. Claimed? Whatever did he mean? His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a loud scraping noise of metal over stone echoing from the hallway.
The Nacht creature appeared. It was muttering under its breath, perhaps even mouthing curses. It came dragging a long-handled shovel after it, up the hallway towards the front.
After a moment Osserc heard the front door open then slam shut.
CHAPTER XI
Ancient legend has it that within the central tower of the ceremonial complex dwells a goddess, or genie, formed in the shape of a giant serpent with nine heads. During certain propitious nights of the year this genie appears in the shape of a woman, with whom the god-king must couple. Should the king fail to keep his tryst, disaster is sure to follow.
Ular Takeq
Customs of Ancient Jakal-Uku
THE STRATEGY MEETING to consider the attack upon the Thaumaturg capital, Anditi Pura, was a much less contentious affair than the earlier one for Isana Pura. From his seat among the scattered cushions, Prince Jatal studied the reclining figures of the various family heads and could not believe what he was witnessing. In their ease and laughter, their self-assurance and certainty of the victory ahead, he read ignorance, over-confidence – even childish recklessness.
To his sustained astonishment, they merely accepted every assurance the foreign Warleader offered. All would be as at Isana Pura, the ancient promised them. The populace constituted no threat. The Thaumaturgs would be contained within their walled precincts, their Inner City, and the shaduwam, whom they had been waiting for, would deal with them. Throughout the man’s explanations the various chiefs had nodded their acceptance, including Princess Andanii.
‘What of the organized resistance we met upon the road?’ Jatal demanded. ‘Someone is obviously mustering their opposition.’
The Warleade
r turned his dead grey gaze upon him. He made a vague gesture of dismissal. ‘Yes, my prince. And it has been crushed. So much for it.’
The circle of family heads laughed at that, toasting the victory. It was all Jatal could do to stop himself from damning them as a carnival of fools – but that would win him no allies. Steadying himself with a deep breath, he tried again: ‘And these reports of barricades and roadblocks throughout the city?’
Another impatient flick of a veined hand from the old commander. ‘Yes. By now they understand that they face a mounted threat and some few efforts are being made to block the roads. However, they cannot stop up every entrance. The Adwami will win through, yes?’
The various chiefs and family heads cheered at that and pledged to win through no matter what.
It was precisely this ‘no matter what’ that worried Jatal. Who knew what faced them? Perhaps things would go as at Isana Pura. Perhaps not. To his mind it was too great a risk to blindly thrust one’s head into the leopard’s mouth trusting it to work a second time.
Yet, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, do not great gains demand great risks? Is this meekness speaking? Cowardice?
And so, seeing that the Warleader had won round Princess Andanii and all her Vehajarwi allies, Jatal said no more. Better not to alienate or sideline himself from the general council. ‘The Elites plus your mercenaries will secure the inner precincts then?’ he asked.
The Warleader inclined his head in agreement. ‘Of course. As before.’ The mercenary commander then swept the circle of reclining chiefs. ‘If there are no more questions – then we are decided. We ride before dawn.’
More cheering and toasting – completely idiotic in Jatal’s opinion – followed this pronouncement. Throughout, his gaze held upon Princess Andanii, who sat close to the Warleader. The entire time she refused to meet his eyes. How he wished to send her a yearning glance, a silent plea for a sign – any sign at all. But that would be weakness and so he kept his gaze hard and flat. He would not abase himself before anyone. He excused himself at the first opportunity.
In his tent, he dismissed his Horsemaster and aides and servants then threw himself down on his bedding of piled blankets and cushions. But sleep would not come. Instead he tossed and turned, sweating in the warm humid night. Finally, he sat up and pulled a night table close for a glass of cold tea. He considered his sleeplessness. He should be resting before the attack. Was this the base writhing of a coward before battle? No, let us say not. What, then? Reasonable and understandable nerves in the face of such profound unknowns? Perhaps. Yet it felt so much stronger, so much more visceral. He had it then. Dread. A presaging of doom. An absolute certainty of failure.
He peered round the murky tent walls. What to do? Flee? No. He knew he was without options. There was only one course available – to go through with it. He felt like a man on his way to his execution, his feet bringing him steadily closer to the headsman’s sword. The longing thought brushed through him then: would she come?
No. No more weakness. No more mewling or cringing. He must resign himself to his coming destruction. He remembered, then, what he as a prince of the Hafinaj ought to be doing in preparation for impending death.
He dug out his personal satchel of books and writing materials. He opened the wooden case holding the inkstone, spread a sheet of clean vellum.
He paused, holding himself still, sensing the moment, his mood, his churning spinning thoughts. Then he composed:
The wind blows across the sands
My steps ahead lie as unknown
As those behind
He set down the sharpened quill. There. Last duty done. He dusted the ink then folded up the sheet and tucked it into his shirt over his heart.
Now perhaps sleep would come.
Woken before dawn, Jatal found himself in a rare fey mood. His aides dressed and armoured him. He consumed a light breakfast of hot tea and fruit. Readying to go, he thrust two daggers through his belt, tested the weight of his sword, then tucked his helmet under an arm. At the tent flap he turned to the aides and tilted his head in salute. ‘Good hunting today, gentlemen.’
They bowed. ‘Victory, Prince.’ Jatal accepted this with a nod, let the flap fall. Yes, victory. But whose? He went in search of Pinal.
The Horsemaster found him first. Ash was ready, accoutred in his light armour bardings. Jatal stroked his neck and fed him an apple he’d kept from breakfast. ‘Good hunting today, friend,’ he murmured to the stallion who shook his head in answer, jesses jangling.
‘The Elites are mustering,’ Pinal said as he mounted.
‘You will ride with the regulars today, Pinal,’ he told the Horsemaster, whose brows rose in surprise. ‘Command in my name. And … take good care of them. Yes? That is your first duty.’
His old companion bowed silently, though wonder and hurt warred upon his face. Jatal kneed Ash onward.
The Elites were indeed gathering. Princess Andanii was already in attendance. An even stronger bodyguard of Vehajarwi captains surrounded her. Jatal bowed a greeting. ‘Princess.’
She too eyed him uncertainly, as if detecting something odd in his tone or manner. Jatal thought she looked flushed and wary. For an instant hope flared in his chest as he imagined that it was shame that brought such colour to her cheeks. Shame and regret. Then another voice sneered upon such hopes: She only now is touched by a true awareness of the enormity of what she attempts.
Yet to his admiring gaze she appeared an inspiringly warlike figure in her white robes, with her wind-whipped headscarf hanging dazzlingly bright over her bands of enamelled green and silver armour. Her great longbow stood tall at her back. Her peaked helmet sported its Vehajarwi crest of a stylized leaping horse.
‘Prince,’ she responded. ‘This day we may realize our ambitions.’
‘Indeed.’ But which ambitions might those be?
She reared tall in her saddle to peer back over the assembled Elites. A new fervour glowed in her brown eyes and she thrust up an arm, shouting: ‘Glory to the Adwami!’
A great roar answered her as two thousand throats echoed the shout. Jatal bowed his answer. Indeed, may this day bring glory to the Adwami. If only that. Andanii brought her arm down chopping forward and they surged ahead, charging for the road to the capital.
It was not yet dawn. A golden pink light suffused the flat eastern horizon. Behind, the night was purple and dark ocean-green with the clinging sullen glow of the Visitor. The air was crisp and cool. It dried Jatal’s sweaty face and neck. His hands upon the reins became numb. The road was empty – either word of their presence had spread, or traffic was always rather light. From what Jatal had seen so far of the lack of commerce for such a large population, he suspected the latter.
They did pass field after field, some fallow, most crowded with tall stands of rice. The food production at least was impressive. One could give the Thaumaturgs that: they were organized. What was lacking, however, was anything beyond a mere agrarian society. They rode past clutches of farmers’ hamlets, granaries, even corrals for livestock, but where were the merchant houses, the inns, the manufacturers or traders? These magus-scholar overlords seemed to encourage none of those. They were no doubt quite happy to keep their populace chained to the countryside.
As they drew nearer the capital, this populace revealed itself in greater numbers. Figures worked hunched in the fields, bent wretches in rags bowed to them from the sides of the road as they stormed past. No doubt they were required by law to move aside for anyone riding by – under the logic that anyone not busy working the land must be an official.
This lack of reliance on mechanisms and domesticated animals struck Jatal as further serving to subjugate the populace. The work they must do was simply all that much greater. They passed more of those Thaumaturg-altered oxen-like labourers: some toiled in the fields pulling simple wooden implements; others were strapped to irrigation water-wheels or pulling carts.
So far the Warleader’s predictions appe
ared borne out: this populace constituted no threat. So beaten down were they that anything beyond the limited horizons of their daily grinding round was as alien as travel to another land. Yet this very seeming lack of humanity profoundly disturbed Jatal. They seemed incapable of anything, yet at the same time chillingly capable of everything imaginable.
The outskirts of the capital hove into view. Like Isana Pura in the south, this urban centre lay as a huge rambling conglomeration of low, single- or double-storey brick and clay box-like buildings. Laundry hung drying from flat ceilings or on stands. Striped awnings stretched out over the narrow streets.
Crowds of pedestrians fled from them down side streets or into doorways. They encountered a few pathetic efforts to raise barricades. At their approach the city-dwellers manning these simply ran, abandoning the overturned carts and heaped barrels and wooden chests. These the Adwami jumped or quickly demolished. Their mounted scouts kept reappearing to urge the main column onward.
They reached the Inner City complex. A massive wall of rust-hued brick surrounded it and its main gate, a good two rods in height and sheathed in iron-studded bronze, remained sealed. A broad open marshalling field – or killing ground – surrounded the walls, complete with narrow stone ditches.
The scouts milled here, far back from the main gate. A scattering of dead men and horses littered the paved ground. Tall spears, or javelins, stood from their bodies. ‘What is this?’ Jatal demanded of the nearest rider. ‘Who is defending?’
‘Yakshaka on the walls,’ the Awamir rider answered.
‘Why is the way yet sealed?’
‘We are to await the Warleader’s mercenaries,’ Andanii called. ‘They will open the way.’
What was this? More secrets between them? Here was further evidence of their intimacy. And of his irrelevance. He did not know which writhed in his chest the worse. What more details might they have arranged behind his back? Perhaps this attack was intended to rid her and the Warleader of more than one obstacle to their supremacy. Perhaps he was riding to his death.
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