Orb Sceptre Throne (74 page)

Seris smiled behind her clasped hands. ‘This way, if you please.’ She led him across the wide assembly hall. The gang of mages followed. The one who gave his name as Bauchelain sauntered along last. Many of the others cast nervous glances back to the man.

A large scene of pastoral life decorated the polished floor they crossed. Hills, streams and mountains, all done in a mosaic of coloured stones. Antsy thought it odd that such a scene should be executed here within the heart of the Moon’s Spawn. It seemed all too … mundane.

Midway across they came to a large circular opening flush in the floor like a well or a pool. Antsy peered down only to throw himself backwards, his heart hammering. The opening sank bottomless into utter night and a cool breeze wafted up. The wind carried with it the distant lap and murmur of the sea.

They came to wide curving stairs cut from black glittering stone that led up to a tall set of double doors. The doors were cut from the same black stone, but set in panels of gold, bronze and silver. Similar vignettes of woods and fields decorated the panels. Scenes of some sort of homeland, Antsy wondered? Somehow it struck him as odd that the Tiste should possess any sort of homeland. They seemed to have simply appeared from the sky. But of course they had to have originated from
somewhere
.

‘These doors are barred to us,’ Seris announced, slapping a hand to a silver panel. ‘We cannot broach them. Do so, soldier, and you will save the lives of your fellows – plus many more.’

Antsy nodded towards the doors. ‘What’s inside?’

‘That is none of your business!’ Hesta snarled.

‘Indeed,’ Ogule agreed.

‘Something its master thought destroyed,’ said old Hemper, with a wheezing laugh.

‘The dream of night unending,’ Malakai provided as if quoting a line.

‘What lies within, soldier,’ said Bauchelain, drawn close now, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze in the distance over Antsy’s head, ‘is nothing less than the Throne of Night.’

Bendan forced down a leather-like string of old horsemeat and helped it along with another mouthful of water. At least they had that: all the drink they needed thanks to the well the saboteur lads and lasses had dug almost overnight. But that was all they had. Most of the biscuits and beans went up with the wagons during the fire attacks. There was no firewood left to cook with anyway. Just dried horse and bits and pieces left now. He wiped one soot-blackened hand on his thigh only for it to come away just as dirty as before.
Nothing to wash with neither
.

The gaminess of the cut almost made him throw it down. Almost. Growing up as he had, any meat was frankly a rare treat. One of the attractions of joining up was that the army ate a damned sight better than he ever did. Because of this he wasn’t feeling the pain that a lot of men and women around him were. Soft, those ones. Not used to punchin’ new holes in their belts. Or suckin’ on leather.

Looked to him like Hektar was wrong and these Rhivi were just gonna starve them out. It burned his butt and wasn’t what he thought soldiering was all about. But there you go. More and more he was coming round to the view that it really
was
all more about manoeuvring and positioning than any of this dirty hand-to-hand stuff.

He glanced aside to Corporal Little where she dozed, her shield angled over her face for shade from the low sun. He frankly could not figure her out; nor any of these damned soldiers. It was plain as day that she didn’t think much of him, yet time and again it was her shield that took an arrow meant for him; and time and again she offered advice and tricks on how to handle himself in the ranks. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever known before. He’d felt as if he was part of a family in his gang in their quarter of Maiten town – but that had been nothing like this. There, it had all been about clawing and snarling one’s way up to top dog. It was all about who could face down who. The top dogs swaggered it and did as they pleased to whoever they pleased. The little dogs got kicked. Or worse. That was life as he knew it. Abyss, life in the entire world for all he knew.

But not here. Here in the squads nobody seemed to be a big dog. There was no facing down. The nobodies, the new hands, once they got bloodied and proved their grit, people helped them out. For the first time in his life he didn’t know where he stood. He’d always had to know that.
Get your head bit off otherwise
.

Not like they was all holdin’ hands and slappin’ each other’s backs or shit like that neither. Not like family – or at least what he’d heard family was supposed to be like. In his case he was damned relieved this wasn’t like family. Worst beatings he ever got were from his da and older brothers. Till one day the old man staggered inside shit drunk and they all piled on with boards and sticks. Never was the same afterwards. Couldn’t move the one side of his mouth nor that arm. Lost all his fire that night and nobody paid him no attention after that. And his sister, she run off. Got tired of his older brothers selling her for drinks and hits of durhang. So, no, he was damned glad this was no Hood-taken family.

Murmuring brought Bendan’s attention to the camp. People were rousing themselves to join the posted squads on the walls. Something was up. He got to his feet and kicked Little then headed for the wall. Sergeant Hektar’s towering figure was easy to spot. He pushed his way to the man’s side. ‘What is it?’

The big Dal Hon looked even more pleased than usual. He raised his chin to the Rhivi encampment. ‘Look there. See those new boys an’ girls come to play?’

Bendan squinted. Luckily the day was waning and the sun was more or less behind them, descending now towards the uneven lines of the distant Moranth mountains. All he could see were crowds of Rhivi and horses. ‘No. I don’t really have good eyes, have to say.’ Then the milling mounts and crowding Rhivi parted for a moment and he caught a glimpse of slim figures, lightly armoured, their faces covered or hooded. ‘Who’s that?’

Hektar seemed to make a great show of smiling even more broadly. ‘Looks like you’re in luck, lad. Gonna have a lesson in butchery from the pros. Them’s Seguleh. And it looks like they’re workin’ with the Rhivi.’

Seguleh? He thought back to Tarat’s claim. Togg damn! In the flesh. But …
holy fuck!
‘Is it true that three of them beat the entire Pannion army?’

Hektar gave a farting noise. ‘Chasing off a scared-arsed peasant horde without training or spine is one thing. Facing a solid shield wall of iron veterans is another.’ Raising his voice he called: ‘Ain’t that right, lads and lasses?’

‘Aye!’ came answering shouts.

Hektar leaned his thick forearms on the blackened logs. ‘You just stay down behind your shield and use short quick thrusts and you’ll be right fine, lad. Keep your head low. Let ’em run around and jump up and down all they want.’ And he winked.

Despite the growing dread clawing at his stomach Bendan almost laughed aloud at the advice.

*

Tserig did not know what the new Warleader Jiwan meant when he’d hinted at promised aid from his ally, this so-called ‘Legate’. And so, even though pointedly no invitation had been extended to him, when the flurry of activity arose in camp he readied himself and strode out to join the reception. He knew his ears and eyes were not what they once had been (though bless the Great Mother not his prang!) but it seemed to him as he made his way through the press that all was not as expected. The young bloods were subdued, not joyous with anticipated victory. Emerging into the Circle of Welcoming he was surprised to find just three individuals facing the Warlord.

He squinted anew then rocked backwards on his staff.
Great Mother! Aid? This is the aid the creature parading as the Legate offers? No, not aid. This is the fist unveiled. The ancient curse. The Faceless Warriors. Fear them, Jiwan. Fear them!

There were two Seguleh in their leather armour. One’s mask was a kaleidoscope of colours all swirling in a complicated design; the other’s was all pale white, marred only by two dark smudges, one on each cheek, as if placed there by a swipe of a forefinger. Tserig’s hands grew sweaty upon his staff.
Burn look away! The Third. The Third of the Seguleh!

Yet the last of the group troubled Tserig even more. He knew what it was, that bent and broken being, twisted under harrowing punishments inflicted by his master. One of the Twelve. The demon slaves of the Tyrant Kings. Which of them it was made no difference. They were all the same in serving their masters’ will.

Jiwan was on his feet, his bearing far less certain than when he had faced Brood. But then he did not know all the old stories about Caladan. The most ancient tales. And Brood had been an ally of many years, seemingly harmless. Jiwan had grown up knowing him as if he were no more than an uncle. He did not seem to grasp the true danger he represented. Indeed, no one in this age seemed to understand that. Unlike himself, old Tserig, hoarder of the old knowledge.

‘The invaders will be dealt with, yes,’ the demon mage was saying. ‘They will be swept from the field. But first,’ and it raised a gnarled hand to Jiwan, ‘I need to know your answer to our offer.’

The Warleader of the Rhivi cocked his head, puzzled. ‘Offer? What offer is that?’

‘Why, the offer of his protection, of course! My master, the Legate of Darujhistan, has graciously extended to you the guarding hand of his shelter and countenance. You will be as safe as a child in the arms of its parent under his warding, I assure you of that.’

Jiwan drew himself up straighter. He was obviously attempting to keep his face neutral, but it betrayed too much of his distaste. ‘We Rhivi are a free people. This alliance is one of mutual defence. Nothing more. Thank the Legate for his concern. We have no need of his guardianship.’

The mage stroked his long chin as if puzzled. ‘Do you not wish to be safe and secure? To be strong? So many in these days of trouble argue for a strong hand guiding their community, their city, their lands, or province. Within the encircling arms of the Legate you will find that. It is easy. One merely need yield all troubling matters of governance to him. He will take care of you. As a father.’

The Warleader was now nodding. He appeared saddened. ‘Aman, I hear your words and I thank you. I believe you have just handed me a great lesson. For among us Rhivi there was one who could very easily have claimed such a role. But he possessed the wisdom, the true generosity of soul, to stand aside when we chafed under his hand. Sadly, I do not believe we will ever find another to match him. And were he here now I believe I would offer him my apology.’

The demon mage, Aman, dropped his hand from his chin. ‘You are right, Warleader. That is sad. For you have chosen defiance. And for that there can be only one answer.’ He looked to the Seguleh Third. The Third shifted forward, and as he did so something blurred between him and the Warleader and Jiwan’s face became confused, then emptied of all emotion as if drained. Then his head slid off his neck as his body toppled.

Screaming rent the air all around. Warriors lunged, drawing weapons. The Seguleh stood back to back, their swords a blur, as Rhivi warriors, men and women, tumbled aside missing hands, arms, throats and stomachs. Roaring with immense laughter, Aman ignored the many blades that rebounded from his form beneath his rags. He reached out to grasp wrists to snap them, clenched throats to squeeze pulping bursts of blood and flesh.

All this Tserig watched, motionless, horror-struck.
Ancient gods known and forgotten, deliver us. It has begun anew. The iron fist of the Tyrant reborn. Shall we be once more slave for a thousand years? No!

More warriors closed, meaning to bring down these three murderers, only to fall to the near-invisible blades or the gore-smeared hands of the mage. Tserig threw down his staff to raise his arms high. ‘Sons and daughters of the plains!’ he bellowed. ‘Flee! Now! Ignore this filth! Flee these lands now. An ancient curse has arisen!
North! Flee north!
’

Aman closed upon him. ‘Shut up, old man!’ He brought a fist smashing down, breaking Tserig’s skull and snapping the frail vertebrae of his neck. He fell instantly dead.

*

From the palisade wall of Fort Step, which for some reason unknown to Fist Steppen it had come to be named, she and Fist K’ess watched while the meeting of allies that promised to sweep them from the plain all went horribly wrong.

‘Looks like a falling out,’ Steppen said, her propensity for understatement intact.

‘Don’t it though,’ K’ess echoed. Then he gestured aside. ‘Look at that. An encirclement.’