by Tom Lloyd
‘And it is how you will continue. You already know that a witch should never reveal her name to anyone.’
‘Can you not give me some other name to use?’ Isak said in his mind.
She advanced towards him, her face catching the moonlight. She looked more tired and worn than she had been in his dreams, as if the journey to Scree had aged her. Perhaps it was the effort of leaving Llehden?
‘Call me Ehla, then; it is the Elvish rune for “light”.’
‘Well, Ehla, now you’re here do you think you’ll be able to stop the spell?’
‘Unfortunately not; it will soon be completed. Events are out of our control, I saw armies marching on the city as I crossed the wall.’
‘You crossed the wall tonight?’
‘I would be a poor witch if I could not fool a few city guards,’ Ehla scoffed before gesturing towards the theatre. ‘You were watching the audience?’
‘It seems safer than watching the play itself.’
‘Shall we, then?’ She pointed up the stairs where Mayel was watching them. He misinterpreted her intent and shrank back, but Isak ignored him as he led the way back up to their vantage point, the witch close behind.
‘Who can you see?’ she asked as she sat on the low wall the men had been crouching behind, her back resting against the wooden roof support.
Isak pointed towards a group of women surrounded by city militia and said, ‘Over there is Mistress Ostia, with her various agents and mercenaries.’ He said the words aloud, realising that his men would be more confused by no conversation than half of one, but he wasn’t sure he wanted Mayel to know about the vampire, so in the privacy of his mind, he added, ‘Ostia’s the name Zhia Vukotic has taken within the White Circle.’ He continued, ‘One of them is also my agent. By the theatre’s gate, Mistress Siala is doing the same as us, except I’m told she’s more interested in the members of the White Circle, reasserting her control over them.’
‘Who is it you’re watching for?’
‘The powerful. I think Siala is deluded, thinking that the White Circle remains a power in the Land. Scree is tearing itself apart, and the people here believe there are six armies outside the walls, all waiting to pick their bones. I’m looking to see who Mistress Ostia has with her, who King Emin has brought with him, and what Raylin are walking the streets of Scree.’
‘And what good will that do you?’
‘You said yourself events are out of our control,’ Isak said, struggling to keep his temper in check when the very air he was breathing felt hot and agitated. He could feel the stifling waves of magic being exuded from somewhere around the theatre, like a scent of rotting flesh, and he could almost feel the pervading miasma of effluent stink, the result of the unnatural heat and the riots, that crawled like a pestilence on his skin. The combination of the two had him constantly on the verge of gagging.
‘I just want to know who’s going to cause me a problem if I have to fight my way out of here. Why did you come over the wall if you don’t believe you can do anything?’
‘That we may not win here is no reason to simply submit. Scree is an unimportant city; none of the great powers control it, so there must be another reason why this is happening. There must be more to this spell than what we can see.’
Isak paused. ‘Legana said the Menin were searching for a Crystal Skull. Could this be a way to find it?’
‘You with your two Skulls have been lured here; why go to so much effort to find only one?’ The witch hesitated, a flash of doubt in her eyes. ‘I could only see that being worthwhile if it were the Skull of Ruling, the most powerful of them all, so the legend goes.’
Isak nodded, that made sense. Ruling, the last of the Skulls to be forged by Aryn Bwr, had been given to his eldest son and heir, Velere Nostil, to help him rule after the Great War - Velere’s mother, Valije, had foreseen Aryn Bwr’s death at the Last Battle. He knew that rebuilding after the destruction of the Great War would require genius, and his heir would need help. Neither Valije nor Aryn Bwr had foreseen their son’s assassination by Aracnan two years into the war, and no one knew what had happened to the Skull until it reappeared during the Age of Darkness, in the hands of a Litse warlord.
‘Mistress Ostia has one also,’ Isak added, ‘and Legana tells me her brother has arrived in the city, so he will no doubt be carrying his own.’
‘There are at least five Crystal Skulls in the city?’ The witch sounded aghast. ‘That does not bode well. Power attracts power. What do you plan to do?’
‘Now? Watch the faces, and once the crowds have left the theatre, burn it down.’ Isak broke off and peered at the people waiting outside the theatre. ‘What’s happening now?’ He pointed towards Mistress Ostia’s group. Some soldiers had joined her and they could hear urgent voices arguing, some calling over to Mistress Siala’s troops. As they watched, a nearby company of Fysthrall soldiers hefted their weapons and started at a trot down a side street. After a little more discussion, Ostia’s group followed them, weapons drawn.
‘It looks like one of those armies outside has lost patience and attacked the city.’
‘It must be the Greengate that’s been attacked if it’s Ostia who’s going to deal with it,’ Isak reasoned aloud, ‘but who’s doing it? The Farlan wouldn’t, and I doubt the Knights of the Temples are so driven by their dogma that they’ve abandoned all reason and attacked when they’re so outnumbered by the White Circle armies.’
‘The spell on this city promotes chaos and madness; most likely the mercenary armies and Raylin have decided they no longer need to take orders from the White Circle.’
‘Then we’re in more danger than ever before.’ He turned to his men. ‘Tiniq, can you contact your brother? We need to send a message to General Lahk.’
The ranger shook his head as the witch interrupted Isak. ‘My companion can do that. What message shall I give him?’
Isak turned to the witch. ‘Will your companion make it through the picket lines alive?’
Ehla smiled. ‘I should hope so; he is a Demi-God, a son of Nartis.’
‘Well then, tell them to dig in and hold their position. They are not to attack the city until your companion passes on my particular order. When I am ready to break our way out, we will head for Autumn’s Arch -Mayel, that’s the gate, right?’
The young man flinched at being addressed unexpectedly and nodded hard.
‘Good,’ Isak continued, ‘Autumn’s Arch is the least defended, and we’ll take them by surprise while Lahk marches in. If the Greengate’s being attacked, Autumn’s Arch is their only option -the New Barbican in the north is the best defended, the Princess Gate to the east is closest to Siala’s palace and has the Dawn Barracks nearby, and going for the Foxport in the south would leave them far too exposed to the mercenary armies stationed there.’ ‘And how will these orders be believed? Fernal is not Farlan; your general may think him nothing but a Raylin employed by the Fysthrall.’
‘Tiniq, how do we get your brother to believe the messenger?’ Isak asked.
The ranger looked bemused for a moment. ‘I suppose, ah, something about our childhood? He has a scar on his knee from stabbing himself, the first time we went hunting.’
Isak couldn’t help laughing, remembering when he’d done something similarly stupid and Carel’s expression when he’d had to admit it. He repeated it for the witch’s benefit, and she gave a curt nod.
‘My Lord,’ Jeil interrupted. Blood was seeping through the bandage Tiniq had wrapped around his forearm. ‘If there is fighting at the Greengate, should we not retreat to the house?’
‘No,’ Isak said firmly, ‘I’m sure Zhia will be able to handle them. We’re in no greater danger yet. I want this theatre destroyed before the night is out, then we’ll make our way back and work out how to avenge Lord Bahl.’
‘You’re here for vengeance?’ the witch asked in a disapproving tone.
‘No,’ Isak replied grimly, ‘but vengeance I’ll have all the same.’
<
br /> The witch gave him a stony look and Isak could feel the reproach in it. ‘There’s an old saying in Llehden: your greatest desires are always accompanied by your worst fears. What is it you fear, my Lord?’
Isak looked away, unable to answer.
CHAPTER 23
The light of dawn was no more than an icy gleam beneath the receding clouds when four groups of men appeared at the head of the huge ancient steps leading down to Thotel’s Temple Plain. The ground was still soaked after the night’s deluge and all around was the rush and clatter of falling water, pouring down from rocky clefts in the cliff, feeding the lake at its southern end where most of the city’s water came from.
The two oldest men embraced and shared a questioning look, but the remainder were careful not to catch each other’s attention as they assembled at the top of the massive stairway and waited as the western horizon brightened and the clouds parted before the light.
General Dev breathed in the damp scent of the plain. He remembered the last time he’d gone there, the night Lord Chalat had abandoned them -or been murdered, he still wasn’t entirely sure. Dev had had his skull cracked that night, leaving him bedridden and unable to oppose Lord Charr’s insanity which had ensured the Menin victory over them. Whether he would have been able to stop Charr was open for debate, but as Commander of the Ten Thousand, he would have been the only one in a position to try. The enormous guilt he felt was only compounded by his current collaboration with the Menin and, until he found a way out of this impossible position, it would continue to gnaw at his insides.
The fading gloom unveiled an ochre landscape streaked with long trails of rusty red clay and sandy seams. The cliffs surrounding the plain were dotted with straggly plants that clung to tiny ledges, and bats and flying lizards filled the air, returning to the caves in which they roosted. The heart of the plain was dominated by the gigantic pyramidal shape of the Temple of the Sun, where their patron God Tsatach heard the prayers of thousands around the Eternal Flame. Its copper peak was as bright and gleaming as the day the temple had been raised.
A sound came from their right. The general turned to see a man standing before the Temple of Nartis, one of three temples not standing on the plain itself. Dev, peering through the pillars, could see it was empty.
Odd, he thought, shouldn’t the priests of Nartis be performing the final ritual of the night?
The man walked towards them and offered a respectful bow that was not returned. General Dev glanced at his companions. Each group consisted of a tachrenn, commander of a thousand axemen, and a few of their command staff - like General Dev, they had been instructed to bring only their closest advisors, and no guards. No doubt they feared they were to be slaughtered before the city awakened, but General Dev suspected something else. Killing them quietly, even in guarded stoneduns, was easy enough to arrange. They wouldn’t have been invited to the Temple Plain if Lord Styrax wanted them all dead. To bring together the commanders of the legions that comprised the Ten Thousand - or at least, those who remained after the Menin’s comprehensive victory -with neither ceremony nor great secrecy: that spoke of respect, rather than a knife in the back.
The man, a Menin servant, he assumed, wore a nondescript grey robe tied at the waist, and loose grey trousers. He beamed at the eight groups of men. ‘Good morning, General Dev, and Tachrenn of the Ten Thousand; my Lord requests your presence for a small Menin tradition down on the Temple Plain.’
‘Do we look like we care about Menin traditions?’ spat Tachrenn Lecha, a tall Chetse with his arm still in a sling from a spear-wound he’d received in the battle.
‘Lecha,’ General Dev rumbled, unwilling to let the younger tachrenn stir trouble already, ‘it’s a little early for incivility.’
‘Incivility? General, you do recall that they have occupied our capital city -or has your new creature-friend made you forget that?’ said Lecha, appalled at what he viewed as his commander’s collaboration. Tachrenn Lecha had organised much of the city’s resistance; General Gaur had said as much in his last meeting with Dev, and he had made it clear they were losing patience with the man. Dev was far from happy with the situation himself; he was getting pressure from both sides, and life grew more complicated with every day. Very few Chetse approved of his current understanding with Lord Styrax and he had yet to decide himself whether he’d done the right thing.
‘I remember,’ Dev said, ignoring the tachrenn’s disrespectful tone, ‘and I also remember that our legions lack the weapons to stop Lord Styrax slaughtering any part of the population he pleases -and I also remember that most conquering armies would have executed us all after our city fell. I remember hearing only yesterday that a Chetse army marching to our aid from Cholos was crushed. So until the time has come when we are in a position to throw off our oppressors, please try not to antagonise the white-eye currently ruling us.’
Not waiting for a response, the ageing Chetse started off down the massive stair. He could feel the resentment behind him, but he knew there was nothing to do other than ignore it. Beside him hovered his nephew, a young infantryman acting as his aide since he was still none too steady on his feet after the recent injury. As he neared the Temple of the Sun and once again saw a white-eye waiting for him, General Dev felt his head start to throb again. His vision swam for a moment, causing him to hesitate enough for his nephew to notice and take his arm.
‘Gods,’ Dev muttered, loud enough only for his nephew to hear, ‘I was too old for this even before I got my skull cracked.’
After more than two hundred steps, set in a zigzag of three straight sections, he found himself on the plain, approaching the looming bulk of the Temple of the Sun, which was lit faintly from within by the eternal flame. The white shaft of light that ran from altar to apex shone only inside the temple’s boundary line. The pale stone of the temple glowed, and grew even larger in the dim of dawning morn.
Once they reached the temple, Dev realised that none of the figures waiting for them beside the small fire was in fact Lord Styrax, though the lord’s son, Kohrad, was there, slumped in a campaign chair and wrapped in what looked like white ceremonial robes. He looked drawn and sickly still, and the skin of his face and hands was blistered and scarred.
Curious: removing that burning armour from his body weakened the boy more than anyone could have expected, Dev thought. The man hovering at Kohrad’s elbow looked like a doctor -he didn’t envy the man if his charge died.
Predictably, General Gaur was amongst those awaiting them. The bestial warrior nodded to the group, but had the good sense not to greet Dev personally. The apparent leader was Duke Vrill. He was the exception to the white-eye rule, for not only was he smaller than most of his kind, he was little more than half-decent as a warrior. Even stranger, he made up for that in other ways, for he was renowned as a cunning and patient strategist.
Dev guessed the duke must have recently returned to the city. He had been overseeing the ongoing campaign against the last two Chetse cities defying the Menin. Tachrenn Lecha insisted the continuing resistance was a sign that they could still drive the Menin out of Thotel, but Dev knew he was not alone in believing the only reason Cholos and Lenei remained free was because neither city was important enough for Lord Styrax to bother with yet.
‘Honoured guests,’ Duke Vrill declared with a broad grin, his arms spread theatrically, ‘it is a Menin tradition to take tea at the breaking of dawn, in a place of quiet reflection. I do hope you will join us in saluting the day’s first light.’
One of the assorted soldiers gave a snort of amusement. Lecha voiced the collective thought. ‘What tradition is this?’ he asked. ‘Just to drink tea as dawn breaks?’ He didn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice, but Duke Vrill ignored it, as few white-eyes would have.
The Menin duke stepped forward, his eyes on the tachrenn, and said softly, ‘Just to drink tea, and to consider the beauty of the Land as it is revealed.’
‘No particular ceremony with the tea, then?�
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‘None; I’ve always thought that ritual tends to get in the way of enjoyment -but it is tea brought from our home in the Ring of Fire. You could consider it symbolic tea, if you like.’ Somehow, the duke managed to keep any mocking tone from his voice.
Dev stepped in before Lecha refused the tea on symbolic grounds -this was obviously a face-saving pretext so both sides could come together in relative peace. He could smell business needing to be discussed.
‘I would be glad for tea,’ he said loudly, ‘and like all old men, I have learned that one should take any opportunity to appreciate the beauty of our Land.’
‘One must always take the time to pay attention to what’s around,’ boomed a deep voice from the temple, and they turned to see Kastan Styrax step out from the lee of a pillar. The massive white-eye lord was swathed in a long grey cloak, but Dev’s schooled eye detected the full suit of armour underneath the enveloping material.
‘Strange, none of the others are dressed for battle,’ Dev muttered to himself, looking around discreetly. The two soldiers tending the fire had sheathed swords on their hips, of course, as did Kohrad Styrax and Duke Vrill, but no one else was armoured.
What is playing out here? Dev wondered. Styrax’s helm is lying on the temple floor, and he surely knows no crowd of old soldiers is going to miss his gear -he wants to make it very clear that he’s the only one ready for battle, but why? I really am too old for this.
Once the two soldiers had served tall cups of pale green tea to each man they retired to a respectful distance.
Dev realised Lord Styrax was watching him fixedly and with a curt nod, he ordered his aides to do likewise. One by one, the tachrenns copied him. Although some looked less than happy, it would have been a gross insult not to follow their commander’s lead. Even Tachrenn Lecha wouldn’t defy his general quite so openly.
