The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (54 page)

‘What do you call that?’ spat one member of the second group. The rest of them fell silent and looked at Amber.

‘I call her Horsemistress Kirl,’ Amber growled, ‘and I suggest you do too, or you might find yourself walking to the Circle City.’

The man took a step towards Amber, close enough for his expression to darken the soldier’s mood further. He was dressed in functional travelling robes of poorly cut hessian. ‘Just make sure she knows her place,’ he said, peering forward with unconcealed distaste at Kirl. His face was thin and pale, and there appeared to be no spare flesh on his body at all. As ordered, his hair and eyebrows had been shaved. The lack of hair made them look less Menin; it was as good as a disguise because they barely looked human without it. The man was probably younger than Amber, but there was an unnatural sense of age surrounding him that added to his otherworldly appearance.

‘My place,’ Kirl replied in a level voice, ‘is giving you orders when and as I feel like it.’ There was no hostility in her tone; the veteran horsemistress had had a lifetime of dealing with soldiers and knew not to let the man rile her.

Amber bit back the words on his lips; Kirl was perfectly capable of handling this herself.

‘You will find it different soon enough.’

‘No I won’t,’ she said, bored now. ‘You hold no military rank and this is a military exercise. My job is to escort you to the border, then return. If I return early because you’ve decided to play your games on the way, you’ll be jeopardising the operation.’

‘And then you’ll find out that your master’s position means nothing when it comes to punishing you,’ Amber added, turning to face the man head-on. He was big even for a Menin soldier, and powerfully built. Amber didn’t want to try his luck in a fight - even though the man looked like a wimp, he and his colleagues were adepts of Larat, mages one and all. He would be quick enough to take their leader down, but the rest would surely kill him for it.

‘Threatening a man of the cloth?’ the adept said with a cruel smile. ‘That is as foolish as trying to deny my master.’ To emphasise the point he raised one hand, showing the black sleeve and silver ring on his middle finger that indicated he was a priest of Death.

‘I know exactly what you are, and that you’re in costume doesn’t make any difference, mage.’ Amber leaned closer, using his bulk to force the man back. Adepts of Larat, the God of Magic, were not priests but mages, acolytes of the Chosen of Larat. Since Lord Larim had slaughtered his predecessor’s closest followers, he had wasted no time in building a coterie of his own mages to extend his power base, each one young and ambitious, and as keen as Larim for power. However, it looked like they lacked the white-eye’s sense of where to stop. They weren’t unusual in disapproving of a woman holding military rank, but it surprised Amber since magery had always been open to both sexes.

‘Keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told,’ Amber warned the adept, looking past him to take in the other four as well. If anything, the female of the group was giving Kirl a more poisonous look than her colleagues. ‘You’ve got ten days’ head start on us; once Horsemistress Kirl drops you off you’re on foot so I suggest you enjoy the use of her horses while you can. Whether you’re alone or have witnesses, make sure you act like the priests of Death you’re supposed to be - and that includes whatever drugs you might be carrying. Take only those necessary for the mission, understand me?’

The adept looked sullen, but he didn’t argue.

‘Good, now go and get mounted up,’ he snapped.

The five adepts went without a further word, though they all glared at Amber, but he was already beckoning forward the first group, who’d been watching the proceedings in silence.

‘Same goes for you lot,’ Amber started, ‘but you’re soldiers and I don’t expect you need telling.’

The men all nodded. They were dressed as novices of Death, and each was to act as servant to one of the adepts, or so they had been told. He didn’t know which legion they were from, just that they were loyal, and they had not been given the full details of their mission. Loyalty would go only so far, even in the Menin Army.

The five men saluted and followed the adepts, leaving Amber and Kirl alone in the street.

‘Poor bastards,’ he commented quietly as he watched them go.

‘I don’t want to know,’ Kirl said.

‘True,’ Amber agreed, ‘you really don’t. It’s for the best though; it will save lives in the end. We’ve just got to stomach it.’

She smiled that lovely lopsided smile again and saluted, already turning away from him. ‘See you at the border, my friend.’

 

They sat on horseback, no one speaking. The silence was unnerving. Somewhere in the distance behind them came the mournful call of a lone kestrel, but from the ruin ahead there was nothing. Stones blackened by flame littered the ground, and dark grass grew over their edges, as though the Land was attempting to conceal this terrible folly.

‘Not one building stands,’ Count Vesna breathed from Isak’s side. ‘It was still burning when we left; the walls remained at least.’

They were not far from what had once been the Autumn’s Arch gate of Scree, the very place where the Farlan had entered the stricken city only a few months before. Now . . . Now it was only the road that told Isak where the gate had been. The only other traces of human endeavour were shattered beyond recognition.

‘They kept the heat fierce,’ Isak said dully, as though repeating something learned long ago. ‘The walls stood until the fires went out, but as they cooled, so they weakened.’ He felt a stirring all around him, a rustle in the shadow of his cloak that had no natural origin. They were still with him, four of the Aspects he had somehow torn from their God’s grasp in the shadow of His temple. The Reapers recognised this place - they remembered the slaughter done not so long ago on those very streets.

Up above, the sky was dark and threatening. The morning had started brightly, but before long thick banks of cloud had rolled across the sky from the north and now the air was cold, promising imminent rain.

‘Now there is nothing,’ croaked High Cardinal Certinse. He was shocked by the sight of something that could never have been adequately described to him. He might be cold and calculating, but Certinse’s reaction showed he was no monster. His link to Nartis had been severed years ago, so Certinse had not felt the Gods’ savage backlash as they raged at having been rejected by the people of Scree. While the cadre of mage-priests included in his bodyguard still felt the echo of that fury in their bones, he felt only terror.

Certinse had stared at the devastation for almost an hour before he ordered a cairn be built in memory of the dead, ignoring the objections. Whatever their crimes, he knew the people of Scree had not been remarkable in their impiety. They had not deserved this.
No one
deserved this.

A city had been obliterated, and what few survivors there were had been slaughtered by the blood-crazed faithful. With the walls fallen, they could see into the ruined city itself: the piles of rubble devoid of life stretching into the distance. Not even Chief Steward Lesarl had anything more than a rough idea of how many had died there. Few cared to contemplate the toll.

‘Has anyone gone inside?’ Commander Jachen asked. He was lost in his own memories of that last night of fighting. Since that day he had withdrawn from Isak’s inner circle. He still commanded the Lord of the Farlan’s personal guard, but he had no interest in doing anything more than following orders. Isak didn’t much blame the man; his shadow was a crowded place and since that last night in Scree the company there was increasingly unsavoury. The memory of their last stand at the Temple of Death, when the Reapers slaughtered their attackers, was far from glorious.

‘Who would want to?’ Certinse said, and no one could manage a response. There was a murmur from the assorted clerics in Certinse’s retinue, none of whom Isak recognised. No one said anything loudly enough for Isak to catch, but he knew they were afraid of the ruined city. He guessed they did not feel the horror inflicted upon it had cleansed the heresy from its streets.

The High Cardinal had been accompanied by a retinue of clerics from a number of cults. They didn’t trust each other - they’d all provided minders to report back - but the commander of the troops was Certinse’s man. He had been introduced as Colonel Yeren, though there were only two regiments escorting Certinse rather than a full legion. Isak saw both Count Vesna and Commander Jachen stiffen at the man’s name, and Yeren appeared pleased that his reputation, whatever it was, had preceded him.

Behind them Isak heard the horses growing restless. He turned in his saddle and looked at the column of troops stretching back. With the full deployment of the Palace Guard and the army he had a total of seven thousand cavalry with him, and five thousand infantrymen, who were already trailing behind - most likely too far to be of any use when they encountered the enemy. An advance guard, a thousand light cavalry under General Lahk’s command, led the way ahead of the main group as they pushed hard to catch up with Suzerain Torl’s force.

Isak was accompanied by Suzerains Fordan, Selsetin, Foleh, Lehm and Nerlos, and Scions Tebran and Cormeh, while Saroc, Torl and the newly raised teenager Suzerain Tildek were with the lead army. Each of the suzerains and scions had brought their hurscals as ordered, and at least a division of standing troops. Isak had stopped counting at three dozen wagons just for the heavy cavalry’s armour.

Troops in red and yellow livery caught his eye: two regiments of light cavalry, flanking some two dozen mages from the College of Magic. Lesarl’s special order had invoked standing agreements with the college, which had provided four of its most able scryers, sixteen battle-mages of varying power and a pair of healers to aid the twenty-odd portly priests of Shotir riding at the back of the column.

And he was expecting more soldiers from Lomin, up to fifteen thousand men. They’d be coming through the only large pass through the mountains, on Lord Chalat’s heels, collecting scouts on the way. The band of mountains between Lomin and Scree were home to a mass of small goat-herding villages hidden away in narrow, twisting valleys. The isolation and the savage creatures that roamed the mountain wilderness had made the villagers a tough breed - and the best scouts in Farlan lands.

‘It’s a good force,’ Isak said to himself, shaking off the oppressive mood, ‘and I’ve urgent matters to deal with. Where is the lead army?’ he asked Certinse.

‘At the Twins, we estimate, if he hasn’t passed them by now,’ Certinse said, tearing his eyes away from the dead place ahead of them.

‘The Twins? Torl must have been pushing them hard.’ Isak pictured the dead river channel he’d once travelled down with the wagon-train. The two mountains were two-thirds of the way between Tirah and the Circle City, and no army from the south could stretch its supply lines further than that. There were only half a dozen towns of any significant size on the sparsely populated plains south of the Twins and north of the Circle City.

‘It’s the sensible thing to do,’ Vesna said. ‘Keep moving so fast the troops don’t have time to think - and it’ll allow the dross of peasants who’ve joined them to fall behind again. That sort of rabble of fanatics, madmen and bandits won’t stand in a fight, they’ll just get in the way of his cavalry when they try to hide behind them. He knows they’re not going to be attacked this side of the Twins, and a crusade runs on its own fire. If he’s lucky he can force thirty miles a day out of them - even if it does kill some of the horses.’

Isak nodded. The suzerain was a hard taskmaster, but every night he would walk the camp, talking to his men. A little consideration from the general went a long way in any army. While Suzerain Torl’s battered armour and whitening head were not easy to pick out as he prowled the lines of tents, his gold earrings of title gleaming in the firelight marked him as he shared a joke or a drink with the soldiery.

‘Every general has his way,’ Carel had told Isak. ‘You and General Lahk are the rocks they know they can depend on, powerful and unflinching. Vesna’s the hero they all wanted to be as boys, and Torl’s the father to every man-jack of them - and you better believe men will fight to the death for their father.’

Isak had immediately bristled at the comment and Carel had spent the next five minutes persuading his lord the comment hadn’t been a veiled rebuke. The memory of his frail ego almost put a smile on Isak’s face, in spite of the sight of Scree.

‘Might I ask why you summoned me back?’ Certinse asked, breaking his thoughts.

‘You may,’ Isak said slowly, dragging his thoughts to the present. ‘As you know, the situation has changed. I’ve decided to mobilise the army and—’

‘Against whom?’ one of Certinse’s attending clerics broke in. The priest of Vasle was the smallest of the lot, and had no sign of rank on his blue robes.

Isak had barely even registered the man’s existence - and he certainly hadn’t expected a lowly unmen to speak to him.

Commander Jachen gave a splutter at the interruption, but it was Suzerain Lehm who spoke first. ‘Who in Ghenna’s festering depths are you?’ he snarled, his hand automatically moving to his weapon and running his thumb along the curved spike on the reverse of his axe, shaped to resemble a thorn in deference to his rose petal crest.

‘I am Unmen Eso Kass,’ the priest said, hunching his shoulders as he peered up at the suzerain, ‘and my question remains; against whom is the army mobilised exactly? I have not yet heard anything regarding the heretic of the Menin.’ His thin lips were so bright against his skin they could have been painted.

‘Just an unmen?’ Lehm said, his anger momentarily blunted by surprise. ‘A damn parish priest, and you presume to question the Lord of the Farlan? Get out of my sight before I have you whipped.’

Isak kept silent, knowing he shouldn’t even acknowledge the insult, but he felt his hand tighten all the same.