The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (68 page)

‘I wished to discover whether this deadened field had been created by magic in the first place - field rigidity and period petrification are ways to determine this, even when all trace evidence has long since disappeared.’ Styrax gestured to the page again. ‘So now we have an idea of what it might be talking about, and the hypothesis that this message is intended to be read by those with the right skills.’

‘Crossed pentameters,’ Amber said suddenly, remembering his lord’s earlier words.

‘Cross-pentameter,’ the white-eye agreed, ‘an obscure style, but one that has been revived by different generations of Elven poets. Deverk Grast was no poet himself, but his father was an academic and I would bet the man tried to instil an education in his son.’

‘So he recognised the style in this puzzle!’

‘He did, although either my understanding of the style is flawed or the puzzle is.’

‘In what way?’

‘The style dictates a certain rhythm to the lines, repeated in a pattern of fives, but here the pattern is not adhered to in every line.’

Amber thought for a moment, but his expression of confusion only lifted when Lord Styrax reminded him gently, ‘Remember, the message is intended to be read.’

‘The mistakes are intentional?’

Styrax nodded and pointed to the first line. ‘The first mistake is an obvious one. The sentence is a mess structurally, but to read it in Menin would give you “In combat a mirror to the heavens is raised, in struggle life flourishes.” ’

‘That sounds familiar,’ Amber mused. ‘Oh - it’s an adapted version of the first line of
Principles of Warfare
.’ His eyes lit up. ‘The message uses a reference code! I know about those, where two men have identical copies of a book and then can use numbers to refer to pages and words. Even if the coded message is intercepted, it’s useless without knowing what book is to be used.’

‘Exactly, and this message is written in reference to a work that was originally a collection of fifty-five scrolls - and that is exactly the number of lines written in correct cross-pentameter. But it’s not a scholarly work,
Principles of Warfare
, not in the usual sense. The author wants a warrior to recognise Eraliave’s great work, and a scholar to know how to use cross-pentameter.’

‘And the incorrect lines?’

‘Dummies to throw off those who might guess the source work but do not understand cross-pentameter.’

‘Oh,’ Amber said, feeling a little deflated. ‘I’d have expected more to it than that. Whoever devised this was a genius and clearly wanted everyone to know it. I wouldn’t expect them to be wasteful.’

Styrax frowned down at the poem for a moment, then reached for one of the pieces of parchment he had been working on. It was covered in tiny rows of precise handwriting. ‘Perhaps . . .’ he said softly, failing to finish the sentence. ‘ “The longest reach requires a second step.” Could it—?’

‘Is there a problem?’

Styrax looked up distractedly. ‘Problem? No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: I think you might have saved me from making a complete fool of myself.’

Amber was too astonished even to look pleased. He had never in his life expected to hear those words from the Lord of the Menin. Styrax had returned to his page by the time Amber remembered to shut his mouth again.

‘Ah, glad to have helped then, sir,’ he muttered in a daze, getting no response. ‘I’ll go back to my book, shall I?’

 

Darkness fell and Byora was quiet. A lingering fear haunted its streets, keeping most people inside. Word of the Farlan Army’s approach had spread through the city like a plague; those praying it was nothing more than fancy saw their hopes disappear as every soldier in the city was called to readiness. Companies of Byoran Guard stomped their way through every district, a warning to troublemakers, while mercenaries and household guards from Coin were drafted into the regiments. Any remaining penitents in Hale were disarmed on sight.

‘Do you really think he’s come for Ilumene?’ Sebe whispered. He and Doranei were lurking in the deep portico of the Derager Wine Store, making sure the street beyond was clear before they risked leaving.

Doranei shrugged and continued squinting through the slit-window. ‘What else? Can’t say whether he’s sent an envoy on ahead to deal with Lord Styrax, but his timing’s good. Whoever’s calling the shots at the Ruby Tower, they can’t afford to flee right now, it’ll all go to shit so fast . . .’ Doranei tailed off for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was harder, fiercer. ‘The game’s too far advanced now, there’s nothing more they can do about it, and I hope it’s eating them up inside. They have to wait and watch how it plays out, or tear up their plan.’

‘What can we do, then?’

‘Shame that demagogue Parim isn’t here,’ Doranei said. ‘I’d get the bastard to start the whisper that Sergeant Kayel is the reason the Farlan are here - that he’s the one who killed Lord Bahl, or something. You never know, people might hang him for us.’

‘So what’s Plan B then?’ Sebe muttered, trying to conceal as much as possible of his weaponry, including the crossbows hanging under each arm.

‘That
was
Plan B,’ Doranei said sourly. ‘Plan A was asking Zhia to help us get in and kill them ourselves, but she’s dropped out of sight and that scares me all by itself. Nothing we can do about it now, though, so we’re down to second-guessing what might happen next.’

‘So if the Farlan attack?’

Doranei shrugged. ‘They defend the wall. Ilumene knows what he’s about; it’s got to be worth trying to keep what they’ve got, especially with Aracnan to back you up and no reason to give a damn about your losses. You’d hold as long as you could.’

‘That Harlequin in the deck has already been uncovered,’ Sebe pointed out. ‘Legana’s still alive, so they’ve got to assume Lord Isak knows all about Aracnan by now.’

‘Don’t matter, the bastard’s had too long to practise his art - as long as he avoids a direct confrontation, he’ll survive the battle.’

‘So what’re we about then?’

‘We fall back on what we are,’ Doranei said. ‘We revert to type. First duty of a King’s Man is to poke a stick in the spokes every chance we get, whatever the risk.’

Sebe nodded, fully aware that any action they took would effectively make them hostiles in a besieged city. ‘Stories about Aracnan often have him turning up in the hour of need, so it’s fair to assume he’ll stick with his usual routine.’

‘Exactly, so when the Farlan attack the city there’s a good chance we’ll end up recognising someone heading for the outer wall - either Aracnan or Ilumene.’ He paused. ‘We’ll be noticed in Eight Towers, though, so we can’t risk going in there, and once you’re out the gate there’s a couple of roads you could take.’

‘I reckon we spread our bets and take a fork each, find a room we can each hole up in. First target is Aracnan, next best is Ilumene, but chances are you only get one shot so take whichever looks best.’

‘See you when the killing’s done,’ Sebe said in a gruff voice. Sir Creyl, the commander of the Brotherhood, had come up with the phrase; now it was their standard sign-off.

The Brothers looked grim as they set off in silence through the streets, their minds fixed on the task ahead. When the time came to part, they embraced tightly before going their separate ways. Above them, the clouds rumbled with the distant promise of violence.

He felt the darkness all around him, crawling over his skin, choking every breath he took. The air tasted of hot ash and tears. Every droplet of stinking, greasy sweat seemed to be scalding hot on his skin, but he could not move to wipe them away. His strength had been sapped by the heat radiating out from the rock and the searing chains that bound him. The pitted, ancient iron cut grooves in his flesh, tracing a pattern of bondage across his arms, neck and waist.

In the distance there was sound. He tried to concentrate on the noise to block out the pain, but it was not enough. Sometimes he could hear faint screams, sometimes laughter. Often there was only the slither of scales and skin over stone, or a distant booming that he felt through the rock more than heard. Whatever the sound, it was always dull and indistinct, even when the claws clicked close enough to touch his body. Hot huffs of foetid breath came accompanied by guttural snorts. Their whispers produced images in his mind, horrors he had no name for, and the words themselves were unintelligible.

It was too dark to see, but on occasion flashes of vermilion-tinted light burst in his eyes. His prison was a forgotten fissure. His blood was a feast for his monstrous attendants who crawled up walls and along the roof; sometimes they fought desperate battles, tearing shreds from their enemies; greedily gulping down chunks of hard-won flesh before the battle was even over, or they got cast into the jagged pits and yawning chasms below.

His head sagged and he stared down into the emptiness beneath his feet, mindless of the cruelties inflicted upon him. His tongue was a lead weight that filled his mouth; he could no more gag than scream. For a moment he thought perhaps he had succeeded in howling, until the stench of putrefaction and heavy rasp of limbs told him there had been another victory on the walls around him. In the prison of his mind, his screams were deafening.

 

Isak wrenched himself awake with such force he fell from his camp-bed. He moaned and dry-retched at the memory of the dream, shudders rattling down his spine. After a few moments he forced his head up and saw the grey light of dawn creeping through the entrance of his tent. He’d managed no more than two hours of sleep and his mouth felt like it was filled with sulphurous ash.

‘No good reason it’s today,’ he said hoarsely, and reached for the wineskin hanging from the ridgepole. ‘Could be nothing but some damn shadow messing with my mind, or the Reapers giving Aryn Bwr a reminder of what’s waiting for him.’

The wine was sour and weak, but it took away the foul taste from his mouth. His tent was simple, barely long enough to fit the whole of his oversized body, and far from the luxury some dukes went to war in. Isak was beginning to regret his decision to set an example. The fact that Chalat had burned or redistributed the finery some clerics had brought with them was small consolation on a cold, grey morning.

The bowl of water beside his bed was far from clean, but it was good enough. Isak plunged his hands in and started scrubbing roughly at his face, desperate to get rid of the hot, greasy feel of his dream that lingered still.

Afterwards, feeling a little refreshed, he struggled into his armour. The cold in his bones began to ease once Siulents touched his skin, and he felt almost human again by the time he buckled Eolis around his waist and stepped out into the dawn light.

Two men were waiting for him under a sky of heavy black clouds: the implacable white-eye and the flamboyant hero. Count Vesna was resplendent in his legendary black-and-gold plate, while General Lahk wore the austere black-and-white livery of Lord Bahl over the lighter half-armour of the Ghosts. The sight of Lahk reminded Isak that one cleric had even gone so far as to demand command of the Ghosts be given over to the cult of Death, since they wore the livery of a dead man.

‘Where the buggery is Torl?’ Isak snapped.

‘He presents his apologies,’ General Lahk replied in his usual flat voice, sounding almost disinterested. ‘Suzerain Torl says he cannot leave Chalat’s army; that he must finish what he started.’

‘He does remember he started it because I ordered him to?’

‘Isak, he’s a proud man; a man of honour,’ Vesna said.

The hero of the Farlan Army somehow contrived to look fresh and awake, despite the fact dawn had not fully broken yet. His golden earrings of rank gleamed in his left ear and his shining hair was neatly tied back; he looked ready to attend a parade in his honour. The scattering of grey hairs among the black contrived only to add a certain sage dignity to his ever-handsome features. Isak glowered at him.

‘He will not leave them now, not after he has force-marched them here.’

‘He’ll bloody die!’ Isak protested as loudly as he dared; he did not want to attract the attention of the entire legion of Ghosts surrounding them.

‘I’m sure he understands that,’ Vesna hissed fiercely, ‘but it is his choice. Torl is not a man who walks away. He’s sent Tiniq back, and all those seconded to him from your personal guard, but that’s as far as he’s going.’

Isak scowled as a woman in the quartermaster’s livery ran up to him with a steaming clay pot and a large hunk of bread. He accepted both with a grunt, and when the woman looked worried, fearing she’d offended him, he managed a small smile of thanks.

‘What do the scryers say?’ he asked through a mouthful of bread.

‘The enemy have held their position. There were a few probes in the night, but nothing serious, just scouts trying to draw us after them.’

‘And the reinforcements?’

‘Theirs or ours?’ Lahk asked.

Isak shook his head in irritation. ‘Theirs, of course - ours are so far behind we might as well have not even bothered calling them up. I doubt they’ll be here in time to bury the dead!’

‘Fifteen legions, no more than two days away. We could sacrifice our light cavalry to at least slow them down, but only if we could get Chalat to hold off his assault long enough for us to outflank them.’

‘So he didn’t bother bringing his full army to conquer the Circle City?’

‘You are right to be suspicious, my Lord, but where the remaining troops are I cannot say. The scryers cannot find them anywhere.’

‘Let’s count what blessings we do have,’ Vesna said firmly. ‘Chalat is determined to march straight into Styrax’s men, making himself a damn big target for whatever Styrax intends. That saves our troops from the worse of their surprises, and gives us a chance to watch out for the rest of the Menin, whether they’re behind the walls of Byora or elsewhere.’