Blood and Bone (38 page)

Close to the border of the camp he found an Isturé. The man wore heavy armour of plates at chest and shoulders over a mail coat, and a full helm. All had once been blackened, but was now scraped and worn through heavy use to an iron-grey shine. He was leaning on a tall rectangular shield and waving a gauntleted hand before the visor of his helm as if the attack were nothing more than a show put on for his amusement.

‘Where are your mages, Isturé?’ Golan demanded.

‘The name is Black the Lesser,’ came a sullen rumble from within the helm.

‘Mages, Black. Where are your vaunted Isturé mages?’

‘Not our battle.’

‘Not your—Why else are you here, ancients take you?’

‘We watch for these monsters you’re so fearful of. Lizard-cats, lion-men and other bugaboos.’

‘I demand you take action! At once! Or I will leave you behind as useless!’

Heaving a loud sigh, the big man threw his shield on to his back and waved for Golan to follow. He led him to an old man sitting cross-legged on the ground. His greying hair stood in all directions and a great baggy set of robes enveloped him like a tattered shapeless bag. Black stopped in front of him and tilted his helm to indicate Golan. The old man cocked a sallow rheumy eye to Golan. ‘What is it?’

‘What is it?
What is it?
’

Golan thrust out his hand only to realize that he’d left the Rod
of
Execution in the tent. He waved around instead. ‘Can’t you do something about this!’

The old man gave a shrug that was smothered within the bag. ‘I could. Why don’t you?’

Golan drew himself up straight, offended, then was forced to wave a hand before his face where scores of alarmingly huge flying cockroaches now fluttered their stiff brown wings and bumped at every one of his orifices. ‘The time has not yet come for me to announce myself,’ he said between clenched teeth.

‘She knows you’re here.’

‘She does not know a master of the Inner Circle has been sent!’

The old man snorted a loud laugh as if what Golan had said was immensely amusing. His arched brow climbed even higher. ‘Do you really think that matters one damned bit?’

Golan decided to dismiss the man’s words as empty bluster.
What would this foreigner know anyway?
Then he noted how of the swarms of insects seething over the ground not one touched the man’s robes and this settled the matter for him. ‘Do something about this plague or I shall reconsider our agreement, Isturé. What would your Skinner think of that? He would not take it well, I think.’

The old man’s gimlet eye shifted to Black. The two appeared to share some sort of unspoken communication and then it was the old man’s turn to heave a sigh. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, began rooting through what appeared to be innumerable pockets lining his loose robes.

Meanwhile the swarming continued. Solid flights of tiny midges or flies completely enmeshed their victims, who quickly fell, becoming nothing more than twitching heaps of glittering black multitudes. ‘Do something,’ Golan snarled, his hands impotent fists at his sides.

The old man produced a feather from his robes. It was grimed and plain, perhaps taken from some seabird. Golan sensed the blossoming of the man’s power – a far different flavour from the foreign ‘Warrens’. More chthonic, seething wild and feral. The old man blew upon the feather and it shot straight up into the fat scudding clouds above. Then he sat once more and pulled his robes higher about his pale neck.

‘That’s it?’ Golan demanded.

‘Done.’ He sniffed, coughed, then hawked something up that he spat aside. ‘All this damp,’ he complained to Black. ‘Bad for the lungs.’

‘Wouldn’t know,’ Black rumbled. ‘I’m still a young shoot.’ And he laughed while the old man cackled harshly.

What strange people, these foreigners. Was that a reference to this Vow of theirs?

Something was coming. Golan could feel it in the air now brushing past him. In the distance, the dark canopy of the jungle writhed as if in the fists of giants. A great boom crashed overhead like a burst of thunder. Black, he noted, had braced himself, hunching and digging in his rear foot. Golan had opened his mouth to ask what was happening when a wall of air punched into him and sent him flying backwards, his feet swinging up violently. He landed on the back of his neck, stunned; fortunately the muddy ground was soft beneath him.

After the stars cleared from his vision the Thaumaturg found himself peering upwards at shattered branches whipping overhead, along with great wads of detritus dug up by the hurricane winds that now scoured the encampment like a rough sweeping hand. The noise was tremendous, deafening, a thundering storm howl that eliminated any possibility of communication. Not that he could move in any case.

The front, or blast-wave, now diminished, roiling onwards. Golan could push himself up on to his elbows. Of the thick black swarms of insects there remained no sign. He stood, his yakshaka bodyguards rising with him, and headed for the main staging area. Here the troops and labourers were slowly straightening, stunned amazement clear upon their features. He found that the plague of insects was not the only thing missing: the tents had been swept clean from the field. Wagons lay overturned, their contents scattered across the mud and mire. His own tent was completely absent; his servants crawled through his strewn possessions lying in a trail of wreckage that disappeared among the trees.

A yakshaka soldier approached and respectfully proffered the Rod of Execution in both armoured hands. Golan took it absently while he continued to scan the wide field of scattered stores and tossed debris. The baton was muddy and he used the edge of his robes to wipe it clean.

A second boom crashed down upon them, making the troops flinch, and it was as if the clouds were overturned as a great downpour struck, hammering everything further into the muck. Golan stood quite still in the torrent, drops falling from his chin and his fingertips, watching reams of pressed plant fibre papers dissolving in the rain and filth.

Funny. The bastard probably thinks this is all so very funny
.

* * *

They established their headquarters in the valley just before the one occupied by the southern capital of the Thaumaturgs, Isana Pura. Dismounting from an inspection of the pickets and the deployment of his lancers, Prince Jatal straightened the white cotton robes he wore over his armour and tucked his gauntlets into his belt. That he was not looking forward to this strategy council was something of an understatement. The head of every family would have a place at the table and there would be as many opinions as mouths flapping. Yet attend he must. It was required. As the head of one of the two largest factions his was a position of leadership among this temporary coalition. Not that said position carried any attendant authority whatsoever.

He drew off his helmet and tucked it under an arm. Its bright chain camail rattled and hissed as he walked. The Warleader’s guards at the entrance nodded their acknowledgement – the deepest gesture of respect any of the Adwami could expect from these foreign mercenaries, who reserved their salutes for the Warleader himself.

He pushed aside the cloth hangings and entered into a yelling match. His fellow representatives lay on pillows and carpets about the tent shouting and cursing one another. Across the way, the Warleader sat accoutred as was his habit in his long mail coat, cross-legged, chin in one fist, his face flushed and rigid with control. The ligaments of his neck stood out as taut as bowstrings. Jatal found Princess Andanii sitting back on a pillow, idly stroking a jewelled dagger at her hip. She offered him a quick veiled glance.

Now aware of Jatal’s entrance, several of the minor families most closely allied with the Hafinaj sought to enlist him in support of their cause. He raised his hands, helpless. ‘Please! Jher-ef, Waress! Not all at once, if you would be so kind.’ He sat, sweeping out his robes, and extended a hand to the Warleader. ‘Let us hear the opinion of our hired expert.’

‘Bah!’ scoffed Ganell from where he sat. ‘That one is only interested in seizing all the best spoils for himself.’

Jatal arched a brow, inviting the Warleader to respond.

The man drew a heavy grating breath. ‘It only makes sense, my prince,’ he began, his voice almost fracturing in the effort to remain civil. ‘My troops should storm the Thaumaturgs’ precincts while your lancers patrol the streets to control the city and outlying grounds.’

Jatal swung his gaze to Ganell. ‘Sounds reasonable to me.’

The big man waved his arms. ‘The real treasure will be with the damned Thaumaturgs!’

Jatal made a show of considering this. ‘Yet … are we not agreed to share all spoils?’

‘What little will be left of it,’ Ganell grumbled darkly, shifting uncomfortably.

Jatal pursed his lips. He turned to the Warleader. ‘Perhaps a force of Adwami men-at-arms may accompany you, Warleader? Some thousand soldiers, perhaps? Drawn from a number of the families?’

The Warleader’s severe lined face, held as immobile as a stone mask, gave no hint of what he thought of the suggestion, but he did finally incline his head in assent. His ropy iron-grey hair fell forward, hanging as long as his wiry beard. ‘I have no objection, my lords.’

‘And who is to command this force?’ Sher’ Tal, Horsemaster of the Saar, called out. He thrust a finger at Ganell. ‘Not
him
!’

‘Buffalo …’ Ganell murmured, baring his teeth at the man.

Jatal raised a hand to quiet the rising tension. ‘I admit to some curiosity regarding the practices of these infernal Thaumaturgs. Perhaps I may command this force – with the permission of the council.’

‘I too wish to witness the evils of these magi!’ Princess Andanii announced quickly. ‘Perhaps command should be shared.’

Jher-ef, elderly head of the Fal’esh, waved a curt dismissal. ‘Such distasteful sights should not be for your eyes, my princess.’

Her mouth hardening, Andanii eased herself upright. ‘Perhaps we should face one another at a hundred paces armed with bows – then we shall see who comes away with eyes to see.’

The old man’s jowls reddened behind his grey beard. He glared about, puffing. ‘Unheard-of insolence … it was agreed … no challenges during the concord!’

‘And be thankful for it, Jher-ef,’ Jatal murmured to his old family ally, aside. Then, to the room as a whole, he said: ‘I propose we now vote upon it …’

But Jatal’s motion for a vote had to wait. Further counter-proposals were introduced. Alternative strategies were thrown up at the last moment and the entire process of whittling down had to begin again. It was close to dawn before consensus was reached; and that, Jatal imagined, only out of pure exhaustion.

So it was reluctantly granted that the Warleader would rush straight for the Thaumaturgs’ main ritual centre and residences to secure them, while the lancers and other Adwami mounted troops would control and pacify the city proper. Accompanying the Warleader would be an Adwami force co-commanded by Prince Jatal and
Princess
Andanii. The impatient Warleader was loudly reminded that as a mere hireling, he, too, would be under their joint command.

This the Warleader took with his long lined face held as rigid as a stone sculpture close to fracturing. His lieutenant however, reclining at his side, chuckled silently at the man’s mortification, all the while wolfing down a giant’s share of the roast goat and lamb. As it was already dawn, the attack was scheduled for that night.

After the council was formally dismissed most of the family heads mumbled their bleary farewells and headed to their own tents to sleep. Jatal remained. He had a few questions for the Warleader. As the man rose, rather stiff-legged, he asked, ‘What of intelligence? You seem remarkably unconcerned regarding troop numbers and such.’

The Warleader adjusted the old leather belt about his mail coat and peered down at Jatal with his flinty grey eyes.
Dead flat eyes – the most dismissive eyes I have ever encountered
.

‘I have sent agents ahead into the city. They have long been reporting back.’

Jatal nodded his agreement with such precautions. ‘I even considered slipping into the city myself, disguised as a pilgrim or a penitent.’

‘My prince – had you attempted such a thing I would have ordered Scarza here to knock you on the head and drag you back.’

The sting of such audacious disrespect was muted by the broad comical wink sent from the man in question, who was still reclining at the Warleader’s feet. Jatal bit back his outrage and shook his head instead, either in admiration or astonishment, he wasn’t sure which. ‘Well … you sent him after me already, didn’t you?’

‘Indeed I did, Prince. Such heroic adventures may be standard fare among bards and storytellers, but a prince should hardly be sent straight into an enemy stronghold. That is what expendable personnel are for – yes?’

Expendable personnel
. The man had an unsettling ability to cut through all the mush and romanticism that surrounded raiding and warfare. Yes, expendable. That was what it all came down to, wasn’t it? No matter how distasteful the sentiment may be.

Jatal motioned to a servant for tea. His discomfort – had he just been slapped down? – drove him to ask, ‘Yet you agreed to myself and the princess commanding the force that would strike for the Thaumaturg premises.’