The Right Hand of God (61 page)

It was that moment, witnessing two strong and proud people so swiftly obedient to the wishes of their enemy, that finally convinced the Dhaurian that Faltha had been defeated.

On they marched, and the Maghdi Dasht began to sing. The words were indecipherable -

undoubtedly in a Bhrudwan ceremonial tongue of some kind, the scholar Phemanderac reasoned - but the sentiment was plain. This was a song of victory, and it swelled on the breeze that bore it south towards the largest city in Faltha.

The procession clattered across Longbridge, and the people gathered there gasped as they realised that the supposedly victorious Falthan army was being led by a figure the like of whom they had never seen. A few dived into the river to escape the whips that were already being plied about, clearing the environs of those who might interfere with the vanguard of the Destroyer's triumphal entry.

The grey-robed figure halted at the southern end of the bridge. A deep silence fell. He stands only a few paces from where Parlevaag fell, Phemanderac realised, and the anger he held back fought to escape him. Careful . . . one foolish action and many others might pay the cost of it.

Then the silence was ripped apart by the sounding of brazen trumpets, and the Gate began slowly to open.

In through the Inna Gate rode the Destroyer to shouts of acclamation, and he stood up in his stirrups, raised his sword and cried a word of victory. Answering cries came from the Maghdi Dasht following in behind him. Banners waved, pieces

of cloth floated across the road in front of him, and for a few moments the City of Instruere celebrated the return of their conquering heroes.

This is carefully orchestrated acclamation from well-coached sections of the crowd, Phemanderac told himself. Most of the people here don't yet realise they have been tricked, that they are welcoming the one who will make their lives miserable and short. They just don't realise. His rationalising, however, could not temper the depression swamping his normally indomitable soul.

Soon the thousands of people gathered on either side of the road began to realise something was wrong. 'Where is the Arrow?' some asked. 'Who is the man in grey?' Then, as the gate closed far too soon behind the last of the Falthan captives and their attendant Maghdi Dasht, they asked: 'Where is the army we sent?' The cheering died away into an uneasy, murmuring quietness.

'Render praise to the Lord of Faltha and Bhrudwo!' cried the Destroyer, and one hundred and sixty-nine throats echoed: 'Praise him!' Their combined words, laced with a powerful Wordweave, placed hooks in the watching crowd, pulling them to their feet, prising open their mouths, dragging their reluctant voices up from their throats: 'Praise him!' cried the crowd, all the while struggling against a power they never thought would touch them. Some among them resisted the Wordweave; those strong or gifted people sprang to their feet and ran for any hiding place that might offer them shelter. A few others were completely overcome by the power and fell to the ground clutching their heads as though taken by madness or death.

'I am the new Lord of Instruere!' cried the grey figure on the white horse, and the crowd groaned. 'After an absence of a thousand years I return to take up my rightful lordship!'

There was now little doubt who addressed them, and many began to weep for how they had been deceived, what they had lost, and for what would soon happen to them. 'You are my subjects!' he continued. 'You will show me absolute loyalty, or you will die - like this one here!' He pointed his sword to one part of the crowd, and a woman who somehow had contrived to find a bow and a few arrows found herself lifted in the air, higher and higher, screaming, to the height of the tallest tenement on the street. . . and then, released by the Destroyer, she fell. As she hit the ground a gasp of fear rippled through the watchers, and many cried in dismay and terror, turning away from what they saw; but none could leave.

'My servants can sense rebellion as clearly as I, and will deal with it as ruthlessly. Obey my every wish and you will live. Withhold anything from me, baulk me at any moment, and you will know death. And know this: it will not be as quick as the death you have just witnessed.'

Stunned silence fell, save for the cries of frightened children, who knew only that the celebrations had gone wrong.

'Now, come with me to the Hall of Meeting and witness the moment when the documents of surrender are signed, and I claim this place in law as well as in fact!'

The Undying Man shucked the reins of his horse, which stepped forward slowly in response.

Now the crowd could see the captives, and some recognised the northerners who had been so kind to them after the fires; many more saw the face of the Bearer of the Arrow and knew him. All these people realised that the Jugom Ark had somehow failed them, and the mutterings started.

Let this charade be over, Phemanderac thought bitterly. Why did he not sign this document back at Vulture's Crawl And his knowledge of the Fuirfad answered him: the efficacy of the Truthspell that bound them all to him will be greatly increased if he signs the document here.

Further, he didn't need to be a loremaster to know that this march through Instruere had been uppermost in the Destroyer's thoughts for a thousand years. It would be signed here, and then

.. .

... would they be permitted to live? Sooner or later the Maghdi Dasht would interrogate them all, all the Falthan leaders, to prise out anything of use. They would discover they had a Dhaurian in their hands, one of those whom the Destroyer hated with a passion far in excess even of that he felt for the Falthans. He would be confined, then tortured and stripped of everything: his knowledge, his memories, his identity. He would be killed, and by then he would be begging for death.

Would any of those walking behind him survive? Leith -his heart contracted in fear - might be kept as a servant to the Destroyer's court, but would probably be put to death eventually. The Undying Man had already hinted at the dire fate in store for Indrett. As for the others, few of the Company would survive. Few of them would want to.

The awful truth was that few of the captives and fewer of the crowd yet realised how bad things would get.

The reluctant Instruians followed the Destroyer along the wide street. In the distance, drawing ever closer, stood the Hall of Meeting. The Lords of Fear began to sing again, and this time their Wordweave was designed to drain the City of its will to resist.

Phemanderac narrowed his eyes, peering into the distance, trying to guess the identities of the three figures who waited by the door to the Hall of Meeting, ready to greet their new master.

A huge man in red, a tall, blond-haired man in a blue robe, and a thin, balding man in a brown cloak. The three names of their latest betrayers assembled themselves in his mind: the Presiding Elder of Escaigne, the Hermit of the Ecclesia, and the Arkhos of Nemohaim.

The Destroyer halted, and dismounted from his horse. 'My lord,' the Arkhos of Nemohaim wheezed. 'I give the City into your hands, and await your instructions as your ever-faithful servant.' He bowed, an impressive feat for one of his bulk.

'Ever-faithful?' mused the Undying Man. 'Ever-faithful? You might have chosen better words to describe yourself in the hour when a Truthspell is about to be sealed!'

'My lord? How have I displeased you?' A note of fear edged the big man's voice.

The Destroyer turned to his servants and the crowds who spilled out behind them. 'Here stands a man who sought to overthrow my appointed servant, Deorc of Andratan,' he said, his voice menacing.

Nemohaim took an unwise step forward. 'But Deorc was an incompetent—'

'He was a renegade, ultimately playing me false, but you still should have served him with all your heart. Would you also betray me, looking for a way to reclaim this City for yourself, if you found my orders disagreeable?' The fingers of his one hand extended, then closed into a fist, and the terrified Arkhos felt the net of truth burn into his skin. He opened his mouth to deny the accusation . . .

'Yes I would,' his voice said. 'I want dominion over Instruere, then all of Faltha.' His black voice had betrayed him at last, and it howled for death. 'I want dominion over you and all your followers! 1 want to swallow the world!'

As his voice condemned him, the Arkhos's boots began to smoke. 'A laudable ambition,' the Destroyer laughed, as flames played up and down the obese man's legs. 'But if one does not have the ability to bring the vision to pass, then one must suffer the consequences.'

Now blue fire wrapped itself around the figure, who bellowed his rage and torment as his body began to melt.

But deep inside him, unheard by anyone watching the grotesque scene, the black voice cried out in final triumph.

'Does anybody else wish to profess their faithfulness?' the grey-cloaked figure asked them. He waited, though he and everyone else there knew no one would respond. One look at the smoking ruin that had been the Arkhos of Nemohaim was enough.

Finally, after a thousand years of patience, the Lord of Bhrudwo faced the Iron Door of the Outer Chamber. It had obviously met with some mishap, or perhaps had simply decayed in the same fashion as this backward land. For a few short years a millennia ago he had ruled this City when it had been at the zenith of its power and glory. Now, like the door in front of him, Instruere seemed on the verge of falling apart. How could his victory be properly savoured when the once-proud City was reduced to this?

No matter. The Iron Door was a powerful symbol yet, and it was important to bring it down so there could be no doubt among the Falthans that he would destroy any barrier in his way.

He raised his hand, the open palm facing the indomitable door, then spoke a single word.

Instantly the huge iron mass jerked left and right, again and again, until somewhere deep inside the wall a mechanism groaned, then snapped. The great slab came rushing down, slamming into the floor, bursting through the containing wall; then it fell forward with a crash, bringing with it the accumulated dust of a thousand years and more.

The Destroyer stepped on to the metal ruin and turned to face the Falthan captives.

'And so falls your last defence against me,' he intoned, and his voice scoured away their remaining hope. Gathering up his cloak he turned and strode across the door and into the Outer Chamber. The hollow echo of his boots rang in the Falthans' ears.

Leith followed the Destroyer into the Outer Chamber. Behind him came his fellow Falthans, first the commanders, then the citizens. Those unfortunate enough to have found themselves at the head of the crowd were shepherded into the building, and after a period of shuffling they sat on the benches, rows and rows of round-eyed faces staring at the empty platform, the smell of fear thickening the air, mouths firmly closed lest any undue attention be drawn to their owners who clearly wished to be anywhere other than where they were. The Destroyer waited until they were all seated, then set out for the platform. The click-click-click of the steel-shod boots pulled Leith onwards past the white faces, up the steps and on to the platform. His minder indicated curtly where he should sit.

Time seemed to fold back in on itself. Here he was on the platform with members of the Company, in the presence of Instruians, just as he had been a few months earlier when, against all expectations, he had been acclaimed Lord of Instruere. On top of this image lay the present reality, where in a few moments the Destroyer would take that title from him. Why not? He's taken everything else: the Arrow, my brother. Stella .. . The hollow place inside him seemed to grow every time he thought about them. He had not realised - had never considered the possibility - that he loved Hal until he was taken from them. No! Don't think about him!

He looked out over the crowd, and a thousand Hals stared back at him. I loved you! I killed you!

Mercifully, his thoughts were cut short by the Destroyer, who stood beside the table. 'Bring forth the Declaration!' he cried, and the crippled servant-girl, whom Leith had not seen since the day everything had fallen apart, stepped forward from the shadows and slowly, achingly slowly, fought her way up the stairs.

Every vestige of breath in his body disappeared as he watched her. A slow scream began to build up inside him, gathering up everything he had.

He knew who she was.

Step, drag. He could hear her breathing, panting like a cornered animal, wounded and suffering. Step, drag. He remembered her face in the moonlight, as it had been on Lake Cotyledon. Step, drag. Her face had been twisted by some awful torture and now one side hung slack, drool running unchecked from the corner of her mouth. Still beautiful! Step, drag.

Her eyes were wells of sorrow, and as she raised them to meet his, the scream built until he thought he would not be able to contain it. Stella, oh Stella! She knew him, he could see it, and her eyes roamed across the platform, finding the others: registering those present and those absent. Step, drag. She reached the top of the stairs and rested there a moment, fighting to regain her breath. What has he done to you? The Destroyer beckoned to her and she stumbled forward, clearly exhausted but unable to resist the spell he held her under.

An age to walk the ten paces to the table, then her eyes closed as she held out the parchment.

His foul hand touched hers, and she shuddered. He took the Declaration and placed it on the table. Stella collapsed in a heap, unregarded by any of the Bhrudwans. Beside Leith, Indrett wept openly, and

there was not a member of the Company present who did not have red eyes and a heavy heart.

'The so-called Commander of the Falthan army will stand and sign the document,' announced the chief of the IsAaghdi Dasht. Leith could feel the power in the command - but, amazingly, his mother fought it. Slowly she rose, shaking with effort, the power of magic gradually overcoming her sheer stubbornness. In a series of jerks Indrett moved across the stage to the table, fighting all the way. Leith's heart filled with pride: he had felt the bludgeoning force of their magic, and knew he could not have resisted as she did.