The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (196 page)

‘I do not question their piety, Chalat,’ Torl said in a strained voice, ‘which cannot be said for some of those who follow you like carrion crows.’

The crows behind fluttered their feathers angrily, but Chalat stilled them with a raised finger. His face showed no emotion - he was at peace with the Land and secure in his purpose. For Suzerain Torl, father to a white-eye and Lord Bahl’s confidant for many years, it was a worrying sight. No white-eye at the centre of an army should look that way; it went against everything that drove them.

‘They are moths, not crows, and they are flocking to my light,’ Chalat intoned solemnly. On his back he still wore the great broadsword he had been given when he became the Fire God’s Chosen all those years ago. The Bloodrose amulet that had accompanied it, however, he had given away before leaving Lomin. Torl had laughed when he first heard that, refusing to believe any white-eye would give away an artefact of such power, but Chalat really had: he had been irrevocably changed.

‘A white-eye no more,’ Torl remembered Chalat saying the day he joined them, ‘a lord no more, but envoy of the Gods.’

That’s too close to ‘prophet’ for my liking, and everyone knows they’re all mad. Do you think faith will turn spears? he wondered to himself.

‘Moths are brainless creatures, soon consumed by the flame,’ Torl responded.

Chalat nodded slowly, clearly interested only in the glory itself and not the effect it might have. ‘The army must perform the devotionals each morning, the officers alongside their men. The priests shall oversee them and instruct them in the ways of the Gods. There is talk of the godless among us, of creatures that sleep during the day and stalk the camp at night.’

Instruct them in the ways of the Gods? I can just imagine what that will mean. Do they really think men will stand by and watch their friends be dragged off?

Torl looked at the priests lingering in the Chetse’s shadow, seeing if he recognised any - they changed regularly, which pointed to a savage struggle for supremacy within the clerics of the crusade. Two were priests of Tsatach, still of fighting age, who Chalat had taken as his disciples. The rest were predominantly a mixture from the temples of Nartis and Death, although today there were representatives of Belarannar, Vrest and Vasle in attendance.

‘To make the men perform the devotionals en masse would delay us by an hour each day,’ Torl protested, ‘and that gives the enemy greater time to detect us and prepare.’

‘You claim your mages and scryers hide us from his sight. Is this not true?’

‘I make no promises; the Chosen of Larat may prove too strong for our mages.’ Now you have a use for them? Yesterday you wanted me to hang the lot as heretics, even as they told us where the Menin were!

‘In that case they are of no use to us,’ Chalat replied simply. ‘They shall stand before a Morality Tribunal and account for themselves.’

Torl bowed in what he hoped would look a conciliatory manner. ‘I’m afraid they cannot. Lord Isak has already ordered all mages to his army. After the deaths two nights past, he recalled all those with college contracts.’

‘They are under my command,’ Chalat said, for the first time actually focusing properly on Torl. A spark of the white-eye he had once been flickered in his eyes. ‘They are tools of the Gods, to do with as I see fit. Tell the boy to send them back.’

‘As you wish,’ Torl said, amazed at Chalat’s behaviour. The white-eye could not conceive that his order would be refused. Presumably he expected Lord Isak would meekly comply.

The Morality Tribunals were becoming increasingly violent; men were being flogged, sometimes to death, before the sitting priests to obtain confessions, but it was those who survived that Torl felt sorry for. Forced to admit their guilt, denounce their friends and punish their comrades, then ordered to receive ‘correction’ - Torl wasn’t sure those sentenced to death weren’t luckier. He had found himself ordering Tiniq to kill to save men from this madness, which was being repeated day after day.

‘We are close to the enemy; I can smell their heresy on the wind,’ Chalat said, interrupting Torl’s grim thoughts.

‘We will ride in battle-order this morning,’ Torl agreed. ‘In four days’ hard ride we should have sight of Blackfang. My latest reports have Lord Styrax’s forces to be encamped outside Akell’

‘I must lead the army.’ Chalat looked over towards the other army, seeing the movement there as General Lahk was no doubt urging them to break camp first. ‘We will leave before Lord Isak; you may join me, Suzerain Torl.’ With that, he turned and left.

Torl watched the priests part to allow him through before neatly peeling around to follow him. Only one remained, a tall man of about thirty summers with a flattened nose, wearing the robes of Nartis. He appeared oblivious to the fact his comrades had already crossed the hurscal line, so intently was he observing Suzerain Torl. The older man didn’t recognise him at all, but he guessed he was one of those with magical ability. From what Torl could fathom of the shifting alliances and allegiances within the cults, the prospect of battle had propelled the mages to the fore.

‘The envoy of the Gods commands you. You will not need your hurscals. Leave them here.’ The priest gave Torl a crooked smile and pointed the way, intending Torl to follow Chalat. ‘It is felt you are in need of additional religious instruction.’

‘Fuck you and the rest of your zealot cronies!’

Torl blinked. For a moment he thought the words had come from his own mouth until he realised Tiniq had stepped forward, a look of undisguised loathing on his face.

The priest did not appear in the least intimidated. ‘Godless scum,’ he snarled. ‘For that insult to the cults you will face a tribunal, of that I assure you.’

‘Go ahead,’ Tiniq replied. ‘My name is Tiniq; I am brother to General Lahk and a sworn sword of Isak Stormcaller. If you think you can drag me before a tribunal, you are welcome to try.’

The priest’s head flicked around back to Torl. ‘You keep the company of heretics,’ he hissed. ‘Your education is in greater need than we had realised. Leave your weapons and follow me.’

First he checked that the Lord Chalat had kept moving and was not there to witness, then he responded with a small hand gesture. At his signal every soldier watching - a full regiment of hurscals and sworn soldiers - drew his weapon.

‘As a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings for my entire adult life,’ he said softly, ‘I would love to come and be lectured by a man half my age on piety, but unfortunately I am bound by Special Order Seven and to contravene that would be treason.’

‘The Special Order does not overrule the word of the Gods!’

‘Certainly not,’ Torl said, adding contemptuously, ‘but you are no God, you are a stupid little man drunk on power. Tell every other idiot sitting on your so-called “Morality Tribunals” that I have been instructed to carry out the details of Special Order Seven to the letter, and that means no military officer may be tried by any court but a military one, and no court-ranked man or commanding officer may travel unarmed or without the company of his hurscals. If you wish to educate me, you must first present your petition to the relevant Farlan military authority.’ He pointed in the direction of the other army, then at the head of his hurscals. ‘That would be Lord Isak, or, at a pinch, myself. Sir Dahten here is in charge of preliminary requests.’

He turned away, signalling the end to the conversation. Behind him the priest spluttered with fury before Sir Dahten clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. The knight had a special knack; nine times out of ten he could get a finger in the soft hollow on top of a shoulder, hitting the sweet spot without trying. As he heard the soft thud of a man sinking to his knees, Torl knew Dahten had got it right again.

‘Preliminary requests,’ Dahten began, a menacing tone to his voice. ‘They’re not really of a discourse form, not at this stage of the proceedings. Now, hold your arms out wide - I’m sure your God will give you strength in this hour of need.’

How long can we continue like this? Torl wondered, closing his eyes and listening to the squawk as a sword was placed in each of the priest’s outstretched hands. Five days until we reach the Circle City. Will we have torn each other apart by then?

The following morning saw a storm break over the Circle City. The warning horn had sounded at the break of dawn, and its call had still been rolling over the city when the deluge came. In Burn, the scar surrounding the fissure they called Cambrey’s Tongue was hidden by a thick cloud of stinking grey smoke.

Ruhen stood in his high room in the Ruby Tower and looked out over a city washed clean by floodwater. He was staring into the murky distance, a faint trace of worry in his ever-serious expression. In his hands was the slim book that had been his mother’s only possession, one she no longer remembered; the journal of Vorizh Vukotic she had pulled from the ashes of Scree. It amused him to have something so valuable, the contents of which would determine the course of the next year of war, as a child’s plaything.

‘Come away from the window, my dear,’ called the duchess, reaching a hand out towards him. ‘Come, Ruhen, sit with me.’ She massaged her temple, as she did almost constantly now, trying to rub away the dull ache from her head. The bags under her eyes indicated how badly she had been sleeping of late - Ruhen disliked sleeping in her room, preferring access to the tower’s dark corridors whenever he wished, and without him the duchess found no rest. Each morning she looked a little more ragged, a little more nervous; and wary of shadows.

‘They are coming, lord,’ came a voice on the wind that no one but Ruhen heard, though Haipar flinched. The skeletal woman hunched a little lower and chewed harder at her lip, sensing Aracnan’s presence in the room even if she couldn’t hear him. Ilumene, nursing a hangover, was oblivious. He stared disconsolately down at the floor, occasionally swigging at a lukewarm jug of coffee.

‘How long?’

‘Perhaps four days if they leave the slowest behind; the whole army is made up of cavalry aside from a ragged swarm of peasants trailing after them. Five days if they wish to be in any shape to fight.’ Aracnan’s voice was little more than a distant echo in Ruhen’s head. The mercenary was somewhere in Wheel, hunting for the Farlan woman who had eluded him. His frustration at being unable to sniff her out was palpable. The mercenary’s position in events had now changed. His allegiance was no longer secret, and so his usefulness was diminished.

‘Ruhen, please, come and hold my hand, whisper my headache away,’ the duchess pleaded.

The little boy turned and offered her a smile, which was enough to smooth the cares from her face, at least until he returned to the window.

‘The boy seeks to kill me. A strange choice to make - he knows the risk.’

‘One half is led by a Chetse white-eye.’

‘Lord Chalat? Excellent. Send dreams of daemons to him, fuel his fanaticism. He will bring this crusade racing on and give Lord Isak no time to treat with the Menin, nor to attack Byora. He cannot abandon the crusade.’

‘You will bargain with Lord Styrax?’

‘He must not know me, not yet. Ilumene will offer him the duchess’s army.’

‘You intend to wipe out the Farlan?’

‘No, only to have both sides bloodied. Tell the jesters to ensure Lord Isak can escape - this war must see no decisive action, but after the battle you must find a way to kill Kohrad Styrax.’

‘It will be done.’

The contact broken, Ruhen stepped back from the window and turned to his adopted mother. She reached out again and he toddled over to her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. A few kisses, a brush of her fingers through his soft brown hair, and Natai Escral, the Duchess of Byora, was soothed again.

‘Ah, you’re playing with your book again,’ she cooed at him. ‘Almost as much of a puzzle as my beautiful little boy! And what did you see out the window, little Ruhen?’

‘Soldiers, Mother,’ Ruhen replied in a voice full of innocence.

His words caused a beaming smile to spread over her face, then she glanced over at Haipar - but the tribeswoman from the Waste appeared not to have noticed that her position had been usurped.

Haipar would not have cared, even if she had realised; she was barely aware of anyone, for she was lost in her own sickness and misery, forever twitching and peering into corners. When she did notice Ruhen’s presence, she always looked like a mouse startled by a cat.

‘Yes, my sweet, the city is full of soldiers, but they are all under control. We would never let any of them hurt you.’

‘Not here, out there.’ He pointed towards the horizon and at last he felt the duchess tense. ‘Horsemen,’ he added, just to make sure.

She carried him to the window, but could see nothing beyond the city. Ruhen pointed northwest, but all she could see was mist and smoke. ‘They frighten me,’ he added for sport.

She put a protective arm around his shoulders. ‘No one could possibly hurt you,’ she said before turning to Ilumene. ‘Sergeant, have a servant run to the Vier Tower - Tell Mage Peness I wish him to scry to the northwest.’

Ilumene grimaced and managed to heave himself to his feet.

The duchess smiled down at Ruhen. ‘Perhaps our prince is even more special than we had already thought?’

Ruhen returned to the window, his back to the duchess so she could not see the shadows dance in his eyes. Down below, a crowd was gathering - beggars and other vagrants mainly. They had been encamped outside the gates for a few hours now, fleeing briefly when Kiyer of the Deluge swept the streets clean, creeping back when the water cleared. As he watched, more joined the throng, loitering in the shadow of the Ruby Tower.

Word was spreading, helped by Luerce and his little troupe of disciples. Empty temples and fighting on the streets meant many were searching for something - anything - to believe in. Only the most desperate were waiting outside the compound gate, hoping for a glimpse of Ruhen, but it was a start. Ruhen’s patience was vast, and once word spread beyond the Circle City, it would meet those lost folk who had heard some new stories from the Harlequins.