The Right Hand of God (26 page)

For the sake of order, for the sake of the City, for the sake of Faltha, the boy with the Arrow must be protected.

The captain, an experienced campaigner, set a rearguard, a convex semicircle of swordsmen and pikemen arrayed against whatever the Arkhos decided to throw at them. It would not hold for long, he knew; perhaps only minutes. Forward he threw his remaining men with a roar, and set as a wedge they smashed into the nearest of their foes, who happened to be Escaigne -

and who now knew they had lost their leader inside the hall.

For the Escaignians the next few minutes were filled with confusion and fear. Three of the remaining elders came up with different battle plans. Two of them ended up screaming at each other in the middle of the battlefield, while all around them their friends, sons of the men they had grown up with, were dying on the ends of swords. In a matter of seconds ten, twenty, fifty or more fell like autumn leaves in a storm. Where was the Presiding Elder? Why was this so different to the years of careful planning? How could it all collapse so quickly?

The Ecclesia fared even worse. For all his vision, the Hermit realised he had relied heavily on the Presiding Elder to organise and execute the battle tactics, and the man had disappeared on an ill-advised foray into the hall. Crushed by the Iron Door, some said; captured by the northerners, said others. The plan of attack had been to take the Four Halls before anyone realised what was happening, but they had not bargained on the northerners getting there ahead of them. The Presiding Elder had tried to draw them out: the burning of the Arkhos raised a twinge of guilt in the Hermit's breast, but he consoled himself with the thought that sometimes the sacrifice of one man was necessary to save the lives of many others. So it would have been, if the northerners had only given themselves up.

But they did not, and he was left in charge of a confused and divided force suddenly trapped between the hall and the Instruian Guard. On came the Guard, forcing a passage directly towards him. He stood surrounded by a troop of the Ecclesia's supposedly best fighters, who began to melt away in front of him. The roar of battle resolved itself into shouts, curses and screams, death cries uttered by people he had met, spoken with, eaten with, laughed with.

Who now died before him. The guards were stern of face, laying about themselves with swift, economical strokes of their blades. One of them looked straight at him, surely the face of evil, less than ten paces away and closing; and suddenly the blue-robed Hermit remembered he was unarmed and unable to defend himself. From somewhere to his left he heard a hissing noise, and at the same instant felt a sharp pain in his left arm. He was knocked to the ground.

An arrow stuck out from the fleshy part of his forearm. The pain increased tenfold and he let out a howl. The shocking intrusion of sharp reality on his world of vision and prophecy was more than he could bear. He hitched up his robe and ran, ignoring the shouts of the followers he left to die on the field of battle.

The thing that turned Leith, watching all this helplessly from above, was the smell. Since he was very young he had played

at soldiers with his friends, usually on the receiving end, but always with his dreams of glory.

Cutting a swathe through the foemen, defeating the enemy champion, people shouting his name. But he had never imagined the dreadful odour of battle. Bodies should not smell like that, but they did. Broken, bleeding, leaking; moaning, screaming, dying, all the while giving off a reek that turned his stomach.

There is no glory in this.

He turned from the window without a word and strode down the long, winding passage to the small side door, opening it over the protestations of Kurr and the others who could do nothing to stop him. It was as though he did not hear them, did not see them, did not acknowledge their existence. Out into the sunlight he walked, out into the field of battle, out into the stench, out into the shouting and the screaming and the sobbing; and the Jugom Ark flamed until all eyes were filled with the brightness of it. Those there on the field that day, those that lived, told of a ghostly figure filled with light marching across the battlefield, as though the Gatherer had come to collect the souls of the dead for their journey to the afterlife. Past fleeing members of the Ecclesia he strode. They turned and beheld the Fire of God on the field of battle, and some remembered the first time they had seen it.

There were arrows on the battleground now, loosed by archers set by the Arkhos of Nemohaim against the superior forces of his former captain. Fighting men in light armour, such as those summoned in haste, could do little to defend themselves against such tactics, and the soldiers of the Captain of the Guard began to die. A hail of arrows overshot their mark and landed amongst the Ecclesia, felling at least three unlucky men. Eyes turned to this threat from the

sky. Fighters from all sides watched an arrow, shot with fatal aim, sail straight at the shining figure holding the Jugom Ark, and saw it consumed by the fire without touching him, the ftetch reduced to ash blown away by the breeze, the red-hot point falling harmlessly to the ground. One man scooped it up with his cloak, a holy relic to his awestruck eyes.

Through the battlefield Leith came, shining like an angel of vengeance, stepping over the slain, with no regard for the swords and spears flashing around him, until he found a slight rise; then stood there, feet wide apart, braced as though leaning into an invisible storm, and cried 'Halt!' in a loud voice, one that penetrated into the heart of battle. Throwing his arms wide, he cried again: 'HALT!'

All around him the battlefield fell silent.

Save one voice only. The Arkhos of Nemohaim knew this was his last chance, and so urged his men onwards. They were so close to breaking through the screen thrown against them!

But his soldiers, superstitious Instruian fools to a man, no longer listened to him. There on a low hill in the middle of the battle stood the hated, hated boy with his Arrow. His Arrow! The Jugom Ark, the heirloom of Nemohaim, rightfully the property of the descendants of Bewray.

Rightfully his!

With a cry of anguish and frustration, the Arkhos of Nemohaim fled the battle.

NEWS OF THE COUNCIL of Faltha being deposed swept through Instruere faster than the Granary fires. Even as the battle was being fought a crowd gathered, and there were hundreds of witnesses willing to swear they beheld the Jugom Ark appear from nowhere to bring the battle to a sudden, miraculous end. The story of the hail of arrows sent to strike down the Arrow-bearer, but instead being consumed by fire, spread quickly amongst the crowd.

Rumours added to stories, visions grafted to dreams; the Ecclesia emphasised the supernatural, Escaigne spoke of the heroic; all the citizens soon heard of the Jugom Ark, the Heirloom of the Ages, and came to see its glory.

Thus the whole City attended the Acclamation of the new Lords of Instruere, two weeks after the Battle of the Four Halls. The wide open space in front of the Hall of Meeting, which a fortnight before was the scene of slaughter, now held a hundred thousand cheering citizens decked out in bright colours, full of noise and exuberance, eager to acknowledge their new leaders. It mattered not at all to the crowd that these new leaders were self-appointed and not delegates from the far-flung Sixteen Kingdoms; they cheered just the same. More, in fact, and louder. The old Council had been hated for at least a generation. With high taxes that crippled trade and business expansion (according to the traders and businessmen, at least), with the gradual decay of basic services such as roads and the maintenance of the sewers, with the curfews and the beatings, with the evil reputation of The Pinion growing worse each year, and with the active persecution of the Watchers to the point where they were driven underground to become Escaigne, opposition to the Council of Faltha had fermented for at least a decade.

Given the ruthless methods the Council employed to suppress any opposition, such sentiment, though widespread, was muted, spoken behind closed doors and to trusted friends only. For many long-time residents of Instruere, the great City had gradually become a grey and dangerous place.

For all of these reasons the Acclamation took place in a festive atmosphere, like that of a gala or feast-day. People abandoned their sickbeds to catch a glimpse of the northern lords and ladies who had come to save Instruere from the Council. The elderly were carried on pallets, children held tight to their parents' hands, babies on their mother's backs, the injured in the Battle of the Four Halls accorded a special place at the forefront of the enormous crowd.

Impromptu markets sprang up at the four corners of the square, though all but the flower sellers and purveyors of authentic relics -arrowheads and the like - did a desultory trade, as they found it difficult to interest people in anything other than the Flaming Arrow. Hawkers moved hopefully through the crowd, supplying food and drink to those who had neglected to bring enough. And inside the hall itself stood a hastily-erected stage where city officials and business leaders sat nervously,

along with a thousand invited guests, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Leith, too, waited nervously, looking down on the staggering crowd from the annexe above the Hall of Meeting. Too much could still go wrong, even at this late stage. The last fortnight had been a blurred succession of events with little time to relax, and not everything had gone well. He remembered the evening, six days ago now, when the King of Straux himself held an acrimonious meeting with the Company. The king was angry at being forced to come from his seat in Mercium to attend on them like a supplicant seeking their favour; which, Leith supposed, is exactly what he was. He protested his undying loyalty to Faltha, and asked his advisers, against the Company's advice, to attempt to authenticate the Jugom Ark. That resulted in a number of burned hands which Leith healed - the Jugom Ark healed, he reminded himself- somewhat reluctantly. The King of Straux hurriedly declared himself satisfied, pledged his cooperation if not his allegiance to the Company, promised ten thousand men for the army Leith was raising, and submitted a list of names for their consideration, one of which was to be chosen for the new Council of Faltha. Why were kings so pig-headed?

Leith wondered.

'I don't trust the man,' the Haufuth had said.

'And well you might not,' Mahnum agreed. 'He was prominent on the Destroyer's list of traitorous kings. I told you so before he came to visit. Nothing he said convinced me otherwise.'

'But he has repented,' said Hal quietly. 'How long can we refuse forgiveness to those who ask for it?'

His brother's comment had outraged Leith. The King of Straux was a vain and proud man, with all the airs and graces

of an aristocrat, and made them all feel like peasants. Leith ignored the small voice that reminded him the description was accurate. The king had not apologised, had not admitted his betrayal of Faltha, and had not shown a shred of humility. How could Hal then call the man repentant?

This was so typical of Hal, and it angered Leith. He exercised a naive type of goodness; one which professed to see the best in everyone, and was prepared to believe that anyone could change their ways after having their errors explained to them. He'd behaved that way with the Arkhos of Nemohaim and now with the King of Straux, men obviously steeped in evil. He'd done the same with Achtal, in the days before the Bhrudwan had proved himself. Who next?

Was he willing to make an alliance even with the Destroyer?

Or perhaps he wasn't naive. Perhaps he was so self-righteous he needed to parade his goodness in front of everyone, at every available opportunity, whatever the cost. A kind of cynical behaviour not concerned with anything other than the recognition of its own goodness. Not caring about the effect too much trust might have on anyone else when people took advantage of it. Encouraging people to think positive thoughts even when the armies prowled around outside the gates. Admitting no guilt even when he was shown that his actions had led to those armies—

'It's time, boy,' said a gruff voice, and a gnarled hand clamped on to his shoulder, spinning him around and out of his train of thought. 'They're waiting.'

Leith drew a deep breath and adjusted his robes. He'd wanted to wear his old clothes, the ones given to them by Kroptur for the journey along the Westway, but they were too warm for the late autumn sun this far south. Anyway, his mother insisted on him wearing this finery.

He walked reluctantly across the stone floor of the annexe, through the door and down the stairs to the Outer Chamber. His long purple robe flared out behind, and his shiny black boots clacked unnervingly on the stairs, drawing the thousand or more pairs of eyes directly to him.

Or, in truth, not to him; rather, to the Arrow that flickered in his right hand. He brushed his grey waistcoat and fingered his neck, where a ridiculously large ruff scratched against his skin. He imagined missing a step, falling forwards and landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

The Company and their retainers, most of them servants of the former Council of Faltha, followed him across the marble floor of the huge hall. It made sense to use the servants, Hal had argued. While not all may be innocent, they knew much more than anyone else about the running of the City, of the protocols, of the taxation system, of how to deal with the merchants, the lords and the kings whom the new Council would have to deal with. Innocence or guilt could be determined later, when they all had more time, and the guilty could be offered a second chance.

Hal and his second chances!

Leith stumbled, tripping on the hem of his robe, and for an awful second thought he was going to fall. He recovered his balance without anyone noticing. Well, they probably all noticed, Leith admitted to himself, but no one said anything. As if they would! I've got this great big Arrow of Fire to curse them with!

Clack, clack, clack. No one else in the party wore big heavy boots. They all followed him silently. Oh yes, this had been carefully planned to focus everyone's attention on him. And it is working, he noted as he carefully climbed the steps to the wooden dais, nodding as instructed to the