The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (62 page)

‘I wish to make it clear that any man who surrenders and throws down his weapon shall not be harmed,’ said the Menin white-eye. He raised his left hand and a monstrous roar cut through the air.

Teral almost jumped in surprise. The minotaurs were bellowing up to the sky as they headed off to the open ground to the right of the Fist.

‘Your Western gate would be a good place to march your troops out of, once you surrender,’ the Menin general advised.

‘Are you deaf, or just mad?’ Major Sants demanded, though Teral knew Sants was just as worried as he. ‘We’re not going to surrender the damn Fist just because you asked us nicely!’

‘Oratory is not enough of a reason?’ Vrill shrugged. ‘As you insist, I shall arrange a demonstration instead. Do not let me keep you, gentlemen.’

He offered them a crisp salute and sat there beaming as the Devoted soldiers turned their horses and galloped back towards the half-open gate of the Fist. All four were dreading what they would find.

 

‘Enough!’ Lord Celao shouted, cutting Styrax off in mid-sentence. ‘Your administrative plans do not interest me, your trade strategies do not interest me, your political assessments do not interest me!’ His face was red and his jowls were shaking with fury. ‘You insult my tribe by your very presence; you insult us further by suggesting we could ever accept Menin rule! The descendents of Grast will
never
rule Ismess!’

‘Indeed,’ Certinse added levelly, ‘and might I also suggest you get a new chef - the eel was woefully bland.’ The Farlan powerbroker looked like he was enjoying himself, despite having listened to Lord Styrax talk for half an hour on matters they both knew were inconsequential. He knew this game, and was happy to listen to and watch the faces around him, making occasional comments and allowing the nameless priest in brown to whisper in his ear every few minutes. They would reach the meat of the conversation in due course, and then the game would really start.

The Duchess of Byora drummed her fingers on the table impatiently. Ruhen was staring in rapt fascination at Lord Celao and would not be dissuaded, no matter what she did. The sergeant, on the other side of the child, was causing her almost as much irritation: Kayel ignored her silent reproaches and not only joined in a conversation above his station, but also encouraged the little boy’s interest in the winged white-eyes.

‘Lord Celao, you are here because you are the Chosen of Ilit and ruler of Ismess,’ Styrax said finally, ‘but you should not presume that means you can insult me any longer without Kohrad ripping your fat head from your body. Your army is a mockery; it befits the slob who is the Messenger God’s Chosen. The shame your existence does Ilit must be testament to his diminished position.’

The Litse white-eye screeched in protest, but looked even more put out when neither Gesh nor Kiallas leapt immediately to his defence. Though the winged men tensed, neither made a move to demand Styrax retract his statement.

‘You
will
accept Menin rule; you cannot do otherwise,’ Lord Styrax continued gravely, placing a cautionary hand on Kohrad’s arm, feeling his son quivering with aggression. ‘Your presence here is a courtesy; the only people I care to hear from are the duchess and Knight-Cardinal Certinse.’

When he spoke again the hostility was gone. ‘Natai, if you will forgive my presumption I suggest your position is this: you do not have the troops to fight a war alone, especially now, when your quarter is beset by religious violence. You will support and provide troops in defence of the city, but you will defer to Akell.

‘Knight-Cardinal, Cardinal Sourl - you will together decide to fight or to capitulate; the likely response from a martial order will obviously be to fight.’ He paused, making a show of looking at the sky, as if gauging the hour. The sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud, but it was enough for the Menin lord. He knew he could trust Vrill’s sense of timing.

‘Gentlemen, I have brought you here today to tell you that option is no longer open to you.’

Amber watched the smile waver on Certinse’s face. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

Lord Styrax stood and beckoned Messenger Karapin, who hurried forward with three rolled scrolls in his hand. ‘I mean, Knight-Cardinal, that I have just taken the Fist, your quarter’s main defence. Unless you sign the peace treaty Messenger Karapin has here, I will not stop there.’

He turned to walk away from the table. ‘You will be getting a runner from your city soon. Unless you wish my minotaurs to unleash havoc in your city, that would be a good time to kneel to me.’

 

Teral spurred on his horse, determined to be first to face whatever had happened in the Fist. He saw the Reaper priests looking up in surprise, their prayers disturbed, and as he reached them the novices sprang to their feet, sensing trouble. It confirmed his suspicion that they were former soldiers, for who else would be drawn to the service of the Reapers?

They were now less than fifty yards from the walls of the Fist, close enough to make it back before the Menin cavalry could run them down, but the priests were ignoring their novices. They stared at the racing horsemen, then at the Menin army behind them.

‘Run, you fools!’ Major Sants called, sparking the group into action.

They turned and started moving towards the Fist, the smallest, a woman, Teral realised, half-dragged by one of the novices. There was a sudden movement and the novice fell, sprawling on the ground.

‘Gods, archers!’ he shouted, and hunched low over his horse’s neck, not slowing the beast until he was through the gate. He was sliding from his horse before a groom had even grabbed at the reins.

‘Jackler!’ he yelled. ‘Get a squad and sweep the Fist, and double the guard on every entrance.’ He broke off as Major Sants and Captain Shael clattered in behind him, almost running him down in their haste.

‘Sound the alarm!’ Sants roared. ‘And look lively, you bastards!’

‘Where’s Fell?’ Teral asked, fearing the worst.

Sants shook his head, his cheek purple with anger. ‘Idiot turned back to go after Vrill, I think.’ He ran back to the gate to look out. ‘Where are those—?’ The major froze.

Before Teral could speak a howl cut the air, like nothing he had ever heard: high and piercing, a shriek not of pain, but hatred. It stopped abruptly as a squat figure bounded into view and, without breaking stride, pushed Major Sants off his feet. It happened in the blink of an eye; Teral caught only the glimpse of long, misshapen fangs before they were buried in Sants’s body.

He felt the ground under his feet shake, like the heavy footfalls of a giant, and he drew his sword as three guardsmen, their pikes levelled, ran past him to Sants’s aid, and straight into a second dark shape. The first soldier, smashed off his feet by an enormous arm, collided with his comrades, knocking them to the ground.

Teral ran forward but before he could reach them a third figure darted through the air and stabbed down. He raised his sword, acting instinctively now, and caught the flash of a blade as it slashed across his face and knocked the sword from his hand. He staggered aside as the figure, its arms whirling like an enraged Mystic of Karkarn, pushed past him to attack the next man. He felt the blood splatter across his face as another creature leapt in through the gate, its blades flashing. Teral blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The first creature turned towards him, its red eyes burning through the gloom. He fell back as the creature shook itself like a dog and released a cloud of foul black smoke from its matted coat.

He gagged at the sudden stench of decay that filled the air and fell to his knees, retching. The largest of the creatures roared again, louder than the minotaurs, but with a more human voice. The beast was a dirty grey colour, with ragged scraps of cloth, or maybe feathers, hanging from its body. Its huge arms were almost as large as the rest of its body, and they were covered with shards of chitinous armour. It gripped one of the open gates and twisted it, snapping the thick, metal-reinforced beams like kindling. It bellowed as it tossed the pieces at Teral and knocked the major onto his back, then redoubled its assault on the gates.

The smoke grew thicker. He could hear the sounds of fighting behind him as the two beasts used sword-like forearms to tear through the gatehouse troops. The first of the monsters - daemons, he realised at last - had not followed them but stood just inside the gate, exuding a growing cloud of choking foul-ness that was borne into the Fist’s interior by the wind. Teral could see its eyes as it watched with what he thought looked like terrible anticipation the death going on behind it.

Now a fifth figure came into view. It was quite unlike the rest, and Teral scrabbled backwards in fear, ignoring the foul smoke that was filling his lungs and mouth. He was quite unable to face down the renewed fear he felt at the sight of the white-hot, raging figure of flame.

The Burning Man
, he thought through the whimpering fear, before realising it was not a man alight, but a figure of fire, comprised entirely of dancing flames: a daemon like the others.
Daemons, daemons all.

He tried to run, but now smoke had filled the Fist. Screams came from every direction, as did the ear-splitting roars of the largest daemon. All he could see were the burning red eyes and that terrible, shifting figure of fire. His eyes burned, his stomach heaved, his limbs were shaking uncontrollably as the infection of the smoke ran through his veins—

From nowhere a hand grabbed him and started dragging him away somewhere. He flailed at it, shrieking in fear, but in the next moment he felt himself being thrown. The sky lightened, the smoke receded and suddenly there was cold dirt underneath him and cool air on his face. Teral rolled once, twice, before hitting something and coming to a stop. More hands grabbed him and pulled him upright, holding him as his legs wobbled under his weight.

‘Getting the idea?’ shouted someone in his ear and he felt himself shaken like a rat in a terrier’s mouth. His hazy vision began to clear as a bright yellow light in front of him drove the smoke from his eyes. He blinked hard and saw the main entrance of the Fist, the splintered, ruined gates on fire and the fire-daemon reaching out to engulf the entire fortress.

At the side stood the largest of the daemons, propped on its gigantic arms and watching them, its jaw hanging slack. A dagger hilt protruded from the centre of its chest. He couldn’t remember seeing anyone getting a blow in - then he recognised the knife.

Gods, it was the priests!
The grey rags hanging from the daemon’s body looked as if they were growing out of its flesh.
Their daggers turned their own novices into daemons!

The revelation drove the last of Major Teral’s strength from his body and he sagged, not caring when the grip on his arms became too painful to bear. He was hauled up once more and Duke Vrill’s face came into focus. The white-eye was peering down at him, savage delight on his face.

‘Ready to surrender yet?’ Vrill pointed at the gate. ‘Or do you want the smoke and fire to take them all?’

Teral felt himself nodding as best he could, even as the tears streamed down his face. He was shoved forward and one of the men who had been holding him drove him on towards the burning, smoke-filled gateway.

‘Go then,’ Vrill roared after them as the flames parted, ‘go and tell that to the rest of your soldiers!’

‘The great and good, squabbling like spoilt children,’ Ilumene said with contempt as he glared back at the Scholars’ Palace. At the duchess’s request he had taken Ruhen for a walk, leaving her at the table, arguing with Styrax.

He turned his head to look up at the child now perched on his shoulders. ‘If they keep on like that, Lord Styrax will strike them down like the God of Vain Men.’

His comment provoked no immediate response. Ilumene could feel the child watching the ongoing negotiations with his usual silent intensity. Evening had fallen with the stealth of a panther, suddenly sweeping down on the valley. When lanterns had been called for, the duchess had demanded a blanket for Ruhen as well.

Somewhat to Ilumene’s chagrin, none of the Litse attendants had followed him when he left the terrace. Only the powerful and the scholars merited watching; apparently Ilumene wasn’t considered either.

‘Tell me,’ Ruhen said. His voice was soft and elusive to the ear, like the susurration of autumn leaves in the breeze.

‘The story? Didn’t you write it?’ He chuckled and took the dirt path that followed the valley’s perimeter. ‘In that case, there’s a certain know-it-all king out west who owes me ten gold Emins!’ He headed towards the tunnel entrance that would take them back to Byora once they had all capitulated. The Devoted, especially the Knight-Cardinal, had been thrown by the news, but had yet to actually surrender. What they were arguing about now was anyone’s guess, but Ilumene didn’t care. The first time he’d met Knight-Cardinal Certinse he’d been one of King Emin’s faceless bodyguards; the intervening years had not diminished the Devoted leader’s ability to waffle on endlessly whilst smiling all the while - but Ilumene was grateful that his natural Farlan arrogance meant the man hadn’t bothered to remember the faces of the Narkang bodyguards.

He cleared his throat theatrically. ‘Right then, the story of the God of Vain Men - you’ll like this one. It’s heretical, for a few reasons, which is why I’d thought it one of yours. There once was a rich man in the kingdom of Pelesei who found an old shrine on his land—’

‘It’s a lie,’ Ruhen interrupted.

‘A lie? What’s a lie?’

‘Tell me about Pelesei.’

‘Pelesei?’ Ilumene was struggling to keep up. ‘Pelesei was the Kingdom of the Crescent Peninsula, far to the south. It was destroyed by plague two millennia ago; now it’s just a motley collection of fifteen-odd small city-states.’

‘Why’s it remembered?’ Ruhen asked.