The Ragged Man (61 page)
Authors: Tom Lloyd
Veil nodded. ‘Let’s hope you’ve given ’em cause not to.’
‘They’ll have to,’ Doranei said. ‘They can’t leave us sitting behind them while they chase those garrison troops - and they won’t turn tail and run.’
‘More’s the pity,’ Ebarn agreed. ‘Reckon we’ve got some time; they don’t look like men in a hurry.’
‘Waiting for nightfall?’ Veil wondered. ‘If we can’t see to shoot the ascent’s a damned sight easier.’ He pointed. ‘The slope there’d be easy enough.’
‘Means they can’t see what we’re up to, though. Once night falls we creep down the poorly defended side and cut throats on our way.’
‘It won’t get to that,’ Doranei pronounced. ‘They know we’ll fuck off soon as it gets dark, so they won’t wait.’
‘Aye,’ Veil agreed in a resigned voice, ‘they’re élite infantry; they know what they’re about. They’ve got all afternoon to advance behind shields up that slope. We either attack a greater number behind a shield wall or head down and find enough waiting to slow us up ’til we get it both ways. The garrison troops won’t get too close, in case they get pinned down by cavalry.’
‘So we let them come at us.’
‘You sure?’ Veil asked quietly.
‘Aye, no other choice. Archers and one squad stay here, deal with those coming up on our backs. The rest we string in a defensive line, hold ’em off as long as we can. The garrison can snipe at their backs. Maybe we can string it out ’til nightfall.’
‘That gives Daken a chance,’ Veil agreed, ‘but the king won’t want to pay the price of Ebarn for it.’
Only Veil and Ebarn knew Doranei’s full orders: to delay this legion long enough to give a mobile strike force time to slip in behind them. The five-thousand strong force commanded by Daken, the white-eye mercenary, comprised the finest troops King Emin could put together. Thus far his tactic had been one of steady retreat and ambush, using local knowledge to stay ahead of the Menin.
The invaders had had to break up their larger armies as they were forced to chase many smaller units. Now the pattern had been established, they were relying on the Menin not expecting a full-scale assault - and certainly not one with the ferocity the Mad Axe was likely to bring.
‘If that’s what it’ll cost, that’s what we pay,’ Doranei said after a while. He knew Ebarn was a superb military asset, and one the king would be loath to lose, but Emin Thonal would not shy from the deed if it dealt the enemy a grievous hurt.
‘The pair of you are too important,’ Veil insisted. ‘If we last ’til dusk, you must slip away.’
Doranei met his friend’s determined gaze. ‘And leave a Brother to die? Fuck you, not again.’
From the shade of the trees two figures in all-black armour watched the Menin regiments. They were alone in the forest except for their horses, tethered nearby.
‘These tactics are somewhat familiar,’ Koezh commented. ‘Perhaps someone should tell King Emin what happened last time.’
‘I suspect he is fully aware,’ his sister said. ‘No doubt it was part of the attraction.’
‘Ever contemptuous of men of war, dear sister - I thought you had a higher opinion of him than that.’
Zhia turned to look at her brother, but Koezh’s helm was down and she could discern little from the whorled black metal. ‘Genius has its own concerns. Would you wager King Emin has never refought Aryn Bwr’s wars in theory and wondered where he could surpass him?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Koezh admitted. Without taking his eyes off the soldiers ahead, he sat down on the raised root of the oak tree shading them from the afternoon sun. With fingers made clumsy by gauntlets Koezh unfastened the baldric holding his sword on his back and placed the weapon on his lap.
‘The birds are silent,’ he said after a long pause. He looked around at the trees. The forest was unnaturally quiet. ‘Do you think that’s our fault, or the soldiers?’
‘You know the answer,’ Zhia said sharply, ‘so save the banalities for your servants back home.’
‘Really, sister, it’s not like you to get so emotional over a pretty face.’ Koezh leaned forward to look at her face. ‘Do you intend to intervene?’
‘You would prefer me to leave him to his fate?’
Koezh made a noncommittal sound. ‘He was present at Aracnan’s death, a man I have known for a long time.’
‘A man who deceived you over his allegiances,’ Zhia pointed out, ‘and one I doubt you owed a debt of any significance.’
‘It sounds like you do intend to.’ When Zhia didn’t respond Koezh leaned back against the trunk of the oak. ‘I take it back; I have seen this sentimentality of yours before - once, at any rate.’
‘Careful, Koezh,’ Zhia warned, ‘let’s not discuss the past too deeply. Of those left to blame for my curse, you are principal among them.’
‘I do not deny it. I merely sought to remind you that sentimentality in war can only ever lead to hurt. I joined Aryn Bwr out of belief; you followed him out of love.’
Zhia touched her fingers to the Crystal Skull fused to her cuirass. The Skull was flattened to a disc on the metal’s surface, the round plate underneath it etched to show a death’s head when covered by a Crystal Skull. She had never been able to decide whether that was a joke of Aryn Bwr’s, or not. The last king had forged both, and each of the Vukotic suits of armour had a similar plate, but his humour had sometimes been alien and unknowable, even to the young woman who shared his bed for so many years.
‘Saving him does not mean I join a cause,’ she said, and Koezh tasted magic blossom on the air, ‘but nor will I stand by and watch him die.’
Koezh didn’t reply as he watched his sister deftly sculpt a spell. It was far beyond the skill of most mages: a complex, intricate blend of arcane words and shapes that he sensed hovering in the air like a cloud of moths drawn to her flame.
Indeed it does not
, he thought as Zhia drew the spell into the body of the Skull, placing one hand over it and crouching to place the other flat on the ground.
What will force you to choose, I wonder? Love brought you to ruin during the Great War; is that why you avoided Doranei before the Farlan arrived outside Byora? Do you fear making the same mistakes again, or are we beyond mistakes, just as we are beyond redemption?
, he thought as Zhia drew the spell into the body of the Skull, placing one hand over it and crouching to place the other flat on the ground.
What will force you to choose, I wonder? Love brought you to ruin during the Great War; is that why you avoided Doranei before the Farlan arrived outside Byora? Do you fear making the same mistakes again, or are we beyond mistakes, just as we are beyond redemption?
CHAPTER 26
Corl went to the window again and peered down at the street below. Sundown had come and gone without remark by those outside, only Corl and his two companions seemed to have noticed. Within their room all was calm, outside reigned chaos more frenzied and desperate than usual. Tirah was draped in the colours of high summer; a haphazard network of ropes linked the rooftops, from which trailed twists of ribbon and cloth - in bright greens and yellows, for the main. In the sky, long furrows of cloud whipped by overhead, swallowing starlight like ravening dragons.
From his narrow window Corl could see effigies of half a dozen Gods, hanging from the ropes and painted on walls. Nartis was present, of course, but this was one of the few days when he was outnumbered in the Farlan cities. Tsatach, Belarannar and Kitar were just as dominant, while the Goddesses of Love were cheered and toasted as a trio, even at this late hour when the thoughts of many had turned to worship Etesia, Goddess of Lust.
A statue of Vrest made of sticks and animal skins stood tall over long spits of pork that dripped into a makeshift fire-pit just off the main street. As Corl watched, the woman tending it cut the first choice slice and tossed to her drooling dog, an offering to the God of Beasts. Corl smiled, remembering the festivals of his childhood, how the wonder had filled his whole body. Fate had taken him on difficult paths since then, but the memories endured, and despite his chosen profession, Corl remembered the boy he had been with a light heart.
It was the Midsummer’s Day Festival, and throughout Tirah the drink had been flowing freely for hours. Corl leaned out of the window again to check on the old woman passed out below - she’d found herself a snug little nook in a stack of wooden pallets just as the sun had been falling; either she was so drunk she couldn’t remember the way home, or she had no home to return to and was taking advantage of the cheap festival beer to solve her problems for a night.
Corl hadn’t been the only one to spot her settling down to sleep it off; if he’d not whistled and wagged a warning finger at the pair of youths sidling up to her hiding spot, she’d probably have had those problems solved forever. As it was, they’d left her alone. He could make out the outline of her bundled shape well enough to see it hadn’t been disturbed since last he checked.
There would be rich pickings elsewhere for the youths, Corl had no illusions about that, but it wasn’t just the risk of their actions attracting the Palace Guard that prompted his intervention. It was Midsummer’s Day, and whatever he had planned for the dark hours of night, Corl was not a man angry at the Land, a detail that had served him well over the years. His childhood had been poor but loving, and Midsummer’s Day remained a fond memory for him. No one deserved to be robbed and murdered on this day if he could prevent it with a look.
Unless I’m being paid for it, o’ course
, Corl reminded himself. His scarred cheeks crinkled, distorting the tattoos and scars that had scared the boys off. Whether or not they understood the markings on his right cheek, few cutpurses would fail to recognise the mark of Kassalain on the other.
, Corl reminded himself. His scarred cheeks crinkled, distorting the tattoos and scars that had scared the boys off. Whether or not they understood the markings on his right cheek, few cutpurses would fail to recognise the mark of Kassalain on the other.
Those that don’t, don’t last too long.
The Goddess of Murder’s shrine might be hidden away in the cellar of a long-abandoned house well away from the Temple District, but her mark was well known, and always afforded respect. Corl was a short man who didn’t look that strong; without Kassalain’s sign on his face, he’d have provided his mistress with many more offerings over the years as men mistook him for an easy target. The irony was not lost on the Priestess of Kassalain, but she was as fickle as her Goddess, she found the irony amusing.
‘Not long now. Light the burner,’ Corl called softly over his shoulder.
He received no reply; neither of them liked following his orders much, but Corl was well aware anyone who ended up a blade for hire was bound to have a few flaws. He’d worked with this pair on and off for several years now, and they respected his skills, enough to do what he told them, at least. The younger of the two, who called himself Orolay, was keen to join Corl as a devotee of Kassalain, but the older - Isen, a sour-faced ex-soldier like Corl, didn’t care about anything beyond earning enough coin to survive.
In a city where the Hands of Fate, those devotees of the Lady trained as spies and assassins, had been numerous, there had been little work for the followers of the weaker Goddess of Murder. Corl was the best of those aligned to the hidden temple, but following the Lady’s death, the priestess had started receiving overtures, a few making attempts to court the Goddess’ favour. The most recent had provided them with a commission - some rat-faced foreigner needing a most unusual job done, and without the ability to do it himself. Whatever quarrel there might be was beyond Corl’s fathoming, but the coin offered was good.
Corl caught a sniff of the pungent, earthy smoke coming from the burner on the table behind him and he turned. As he approached the table he wafted some of the smoke towards him, filling his lungs with it. He muttered a mantra to Kassalain and drew his longknife, holding it edge-on to the burner so the smoke caressed it, then repeating the gesture and saying a second mantra. He did the same with each of his weapons - two longknives, two shorter blades, a stiletto and a blowpipe - and with each there was a growing awareness of the textures under his fingers, the hang of his clothes on his body, the clamour of merriment surrounding their room like a cocoon. He gave a slight shiver of pleasure as the drug raced through his body; he felt a heady jolt in his muscles.
Corl ignored Orolay as the young man copied him, doing his best to smother his coughs on the drug-smoke. Isen drew his own fat knife with a studded finger-guard and tapped it on the table, then, that small gesture of respect done, fetched his costume and pulled it on over his regular clothes. Orolay and Corl followed suit a short while later. Corl’s was the most dramatic - he’d found something approximating a Chetse’s desert robe, albeit one he suspected would make a Chetse burst out laughing, but it came with a headdress that would hide his tattoos as effectively as it would protect against a desert wind.
Corl felt the drug-smoke increase its grip on him. It started with a tingle in his head: a bright, sparkling warmth that flowed down his spine and into his limbs. Orolay now had a broad grin, exhilarated by the sharpening effect of the drug on his senses. Isen refused to allow himself to enjoy it, but still the man shook out his arms and shoulders, flexing muscles now brimming with renewed energy. Corl smiled himself and tasted the air, breathing in the musky odour of the room and the dusty pine scent of its walls. He remembered the clouds racing outside and for a moment felt his spirit move with them, surging on with swift, joyful purpose.
Kassalain’s Milk affected people differently. For Corl it heightened his senses - hyper-awareness of everything around him was her gift. As an assassin he valued that more than the sense of strength and invulnerability Isen got from the smoke.
Fast way to be killed, that
, he thought, watching the taciturn man suddenly become animated, like a restless wolf.
Orolay’s got it like me; maybe he’ll make a decent devotee after all.
, he thought, watching the taciturn man suddenly become animated, like a restless wolf.
Orolay’s got it like me; maybe he’ll make a decent devotee after all.
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