The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (41 page)

‘Just you stay there,’ the young guard warned, setting his pike against one wall but patting the pommel of his currently sheathed short-sword as he gave Antil a meaningful look.

As the priest started to climb to his feet the guard kicked the door shut with his heel and shoved Legana back against the table. Legana gasped in shock as the guard ran his hand up her body and closed about her right breast. He hardly saw her left hand move as she grabbed his wrist between thumb and forefinger, twisting it away effortlessly. The guard gave a strangled yelp as something snapped, but his scream was cut off when Legana pulled her dagger from her sleeve and slammed it into the guard’s throat so hard she pinned him to the wall. She kept her hand on the blade for a moment before gripping his jaw and pulling the knife out again. The corpse fell to the floor and she bent over it to wipe her blade clean on his uniform.

Antil hadn’t had time to react at all, so fast had Legana moved. Now she turned to him, her eyes wide again and her hands reaching, hands out like those of a lost child. She opened her mouth wide enough to scream, but only a dry croak came. Antil looked down at the guard, then, his mouth too dry to speak, he gave a jerky wave to attract Legana’s attention. She fumbled for the slate hanging from her belt and wrote: -
Wine merchant. Beristole.

‘The Beristole?’ Antil wondered aloud. ‘I know where that is - off the main highway to Wheel - but I’m going to take you to a friend’s, where you’ll be safe.’

The smile fell from Legana’s face. -
Friend
, she added to the slate, rapping it with two quick taps to emphasise her point.

He didn’t bother arguing. Legana, even as near death as a person could be and still remain conscious, had proved to be as stubborn as a mule. ‘Very well, the Beristole it is.’

Her smile returned.

The streets in Breakale were narrower than in Hale, the buildings taller and more regular. They found a walking rhythm soon enough, shuffling along with their eyes fixed on the ground ahead. For the main part passers-by gave the pair pitying looks, but from time to time Antil found himself jostled; fear of being caught stopped him from commenting. The first woman to do it had continued without even a glance back as Antil stumbled, and only Legana’s strength had stopped him from falling in a sprawl into the street.

It didn’t take him long to realise that the anger emanating from the temples, both in sermons and proclamations, was reaping the only crop it deserved. The fact that he wore the yellow robes of Shotir, God of Healing and Forgiveness, seemed to make no difference.

Can I blame them?
Antil wondered as he was elbowed in the ribs by a man whose face was bruised yellow and purple all down one cheek.
Where were my exhortations for calm? When Death’s priests were baying for the blood of sinners, my objections were too softly spoken.

The wind picked up as the sun dropped to the horizon and light from windows started to glow into the street. When they paused at a crossroads for Antil to recall the way, he felt suddenly exposed. Since becoming high priest he had left Hale only rarely, and then usually for Eight Towers; calls for ministration from Wheel and Burn - the ramshackle shantytowns of workshops, tanneries and every other sort of physical labour - were attended by younger priests. Even before the recent tensions, these had not been safe places for a high priest to walk without escort.

He looked around, getting his bearings. Left would take him into the heart of Wheel, bisected by the two swift rivers that drove many of the district’s water-wheels. Beyond were the miles of cultivated fields running towards the treacherous fens. In the place of temples and statues the buildings in Wheel tended to be haylofts, water-wheels and warehouses.

Burn, to the right, was a cramped and squalid imitation of Breakale. It straddled a deep fissure in the ground from which, every year or so, a great gout of gas and flame would erupt, killing anyone up to a hundred yards downslope. The hot springs dotting the area meant folk had to pretty much ignore the danger.

Criminals ran both districts. Byora’s rulers had long ago realised that as long as poverty remained rife there, their control would only ever be tenuous. An unofficial but well-known accommodation had proved cheaper and easier for all involved.

Legana gave his arm a tug as he stood still, the urgency plain on her face.

There was a statue in the centre of the crossroads around which the crowds hurried, presumably representing a God or Aspect since its arms and head had been broken off and filth smeared down one side. That wasn’t why he’d stopped.

‘The sun’s going down,’ he explained. ‘I can’t remember exactly how far the Beristole is, but I know the Byoran Guard don’t go there after dark.’

She checked her dagger in the long sleeve of her robe before dragging him forward once more.

‘Yet here we go, perhaps to our deaths,’ Antil said under his breath before moving ahead of Legana to guide her to the safer part of the road, away from the carts and horses. As he did so he felt a body thump into his back and he crashed first to his knees, his hand slipping from Legana’s, then fell face-first onto the cobbled ground, too quickly to even cry out before his head struck the stones.

‘Whoa, sorry about that, Father,’ said a man behind him. Antil moaned as a jolt of pain ran up his arm from his already cold hand.

Before he knew what was happening a pair of hands had gripped him under the arms and lifted him upright. Antil winced, letting the man take most of his weight, his feet wobbling underneath him.

‘You hurt, Father?’ asked the man, a dark blur wavering in front of his face until Antil blinked and the details resolved into a youngish face, rounded features and tufts of black hair poking out from under the hood of his cape. He didn’t sound like a local, and from the scars on his face, Antil guessed he was a mercenary of some sort, but the man was grinning like a monkey and sounded genuinely apologetic.

‘I . . . No, I am fine, I think,’ he said, touching a finger to his temple and not finding anything hurting too badly there. ‘Thank you,’ he added, rather belatedly.

‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ the man said, making a show of dusting Antil down, though it was apparent from the smell that dust was the least of his problems. ‘Should’ve been watching where I was going.’

‘Death’s bony cock,’ growled a voice behind the man. The grin fell from the man’s face and he looked over his shoulder at the speaker.

‘Steady on, boyo, man’s a high priest,’ he remonstrated, but his companion paid no attention. He was staring at Legana. Her hood had slipped a little and she stood in the emerging moonlight like a ghost, her skin pale and her eyes unfocused.

The first man squinted at her for a moment. ‘Shitting fuck,’ he breathed, frozen with surprise. His companion shoved him out of the way and grabbed Antil by the collar, hard enough to make the priest cry out.

‘You better pray to Shotir that you weren’t the one to do that to her,’ he hissed, pushing his face into Antil’s. He was not as scarred, but he was more heavily-built and looked just as well-used to violence. Antil picked out a small tattoo, on his earlobe of all places. ‘If you were, you’re in more trouble than you could possibly imagine.’

‘Got some strange luck on you, Father,’ muttered the first man, ‘running into us like that. Pissed off the Lady recently?’

 

Fat Lonei did not like the Land outside Hale. Whenever he was asked to travel elsewhere in the city, he was obedient and mindful of his vows. He performed his task as best he could, then scampered back to Hale, his heart pounding nervously until he was once again in familiar streets. He was a foundling, and had been nicknamed Fat Lonei in his fourth year in the temple, less out of malice - he was an amiable child and hard to dislike - more a statement of fact. He had never given anyone the impression he was unhappy with the name; it was simply who he was. His was a life of humble wants. Had the Gods themselves offered to make his every dream come true, Fat Lonei would have wondered what they wanted to hear from him.

He had been watching High Priest Antil head off down the street with the strange blind woman on his arm when he was suddenly struck by the notion that events of importance were afoot. A braver man would have followed the high priest and his charge to ensure they reached their destination safely, but one moment of imagining himself doing that was enough to make him realise that would leave him, Fat Lonei, out in the open, all alone. The chaos and bustle of Breakale frightened him and even the image of people lurching and shouting and barging brought the prickle of sweat to his brow. He saw himself surrounded by darkness, looking big and bright and obvious in his yellow priestly robe, while the filthy masses edged closer, baying for the blood of priests. No, that he could not do, but there was another option and this he embraced with the relief of a man who’d found a way around his conscience.

Scuttling from shadow to shadow, hanging well back, Fat Lonei followed the column of soldiers through the streets of Hale. The locals, clerics and laymen alike, scattered like frightened rabbits in the face of their advance. He heard the authoritative voices of the sergeants breaking the evening quiet, calling pointless orders, keeping their lines in order - anything to impose their presence on the cowed district.

Only when a halt was called did Fat Lonei realise their destination was the black needle-tipped dome of the Temple of Death, but not even seeing the carts brought clattering to the head of the column made him guess their purpose. He crept closer, careful to ensure that there were others nearer than him to provide ready targets, should the soldiers turn.

He saw the troops fan out, their weapons at the ready. A band of men, Byoran Guard, jumped to work when a big sergeant with a cruel face shouted. Lonei saw he was dressed as a Ruby Tower Guard, though he was, unusually, a foreigner, set apart not just by his tanned face, but also by the strange elbow-length gauntlets he wore that seemed to wink slivers of bluish reflected light.

He heard cries of dismay emanate from inside the temple, swiftly echoed by many of those watching from a safe distance. Entreaties, angry shouts and the wail of young novices accompanied the bustle around the open entrances of Death’s temple, the traditional three arches leading into the main temple. When the big sergeant climbed to the top step and bellowed at his men to work harder, Lonei realised the Byoran Guards had been dragging their feet once they’d collected the wood from the carts. Perhaps they’d not properly understood the order correctly.

The sergeant struck someone about the ear and knocked him down: there was no mistake. Tools were produced, wood lifted up and the first of Death’s open gates was quickly blocked. Lonei felt his breath catch; he’d never seen or heard of such a thing before. Barring Death’s gates? That was such a blasphemy he could not even conceive of it . . . the priest of Shotir sank to his knees like a puppet with the strings cut. Those around him stared in disbelief and horror, as shocked as Fat Lonei.

‘By the order of the duchess,’ the sergeant bellowed at the top of his voice, waving a piece of parchment to the crowd assembled just out of reach of his cordon of Ruby Tower Guards, ‘the Temple of Death is closed until the traitors within the cults are brought to justice. Any violation of this decree will bring summary punishment.’

It was a ridiculous decree, most likely impossible to enforce without leaving a garrison, yet even Lonei realised its effectiveness as the strength drained from his limbs. The Temple of Death was the heart of Hale, the house of the Chief of the Gods - this was a punch to the gut for all of them and it drove the wind from all those witnessing it. An insult and injury: Death’s house defiled, Death’s honour spat upon by a handful of soldiers.

An old woman, a priestess of Death, mounted the steps howling with grief. The sergeant turned at her high shrieks but motioned his troops to stay back. Each step was leaden as the priestess wove a path towards the sergeant, screaming curses at him between her heaving sobs. The sergeant laughed and reached out one hand to hold her off as she tried in vain to claw out his eyes, her fury impotent against his size and strength.

Lonei bowed his head, praying for Death to answer the insult. He didn’t see the crossbow bolts flash towards the soldiers, but he looked up when the screams became more urgent and people started to flee in all directions. Through the scattering crowd he could see two of the Byoran Guard on the ground, one lying still, the other writhing and crying out. He looked around and caught sight of a handful of men with crossbows fleeing down the street, the brown robes of Ushull’s priests flapping wildly as they ran.

Angry yells came from the ring of soldiers and some men started off down the street before being called back. As they turned Lonei saw a man suddenly burst forward through the cordon, long scimitars in each hand. The man was wearing a bronze-edged robe of bright, bloody red. He was short but extremely wide, and his head was shaved. The angry shouts turned into cries of alarm as he cut across the nearest man’s face and spun gracefully away, slashing at the next as he moved in behind the troops.

Lonei gave a gasp: he was watching a Mystic of Karkarn. The God of War had always attracted penitents, and some of those found a deeper truth in the combat skills they had learned, honing their prowess with prayer and fanatical dedication.

The line of soldiers crumpled inward as the mystic’s long shining swords, flashing like bolts of lightning, tore through the unprepared men. The big sergeant gave a furious shout, drew his own weapon and jumped down the steps to the street. The mystic turned neatly away from a falling man to meet the new threat with a flurry of blows, but somehow the foreign soldier parried them all and managed to plant a heavy kick in the cleric’s side.

The shaven-headed priest reeled, riding a blow that would have knocked a weaker man flying, but he was given no time to recover. He twisted to deflect an outthrust pike behind him, then raised a leg clear of a blade sweeping towards his shin before driving the point of his curved weapon into his attacker’s throat.