Authors: Tom Lloyd
The Ragged Man (14 page)
Spurred on by the Litse’s fervour the howls increased until he was lost in a bubble of mourning, voicing their fears and their grief, their rage against the Land and the inaction of the Gods. Some were mad, driven by what they had seen. Some were ill. Some were sickened by the actions of priests and lords alike.
The great towers of Byora’s noble district echoed with their pain, pain that could not be exhausted even by hours of song, and as evening began to close in and the ghost-hour spread shadowy fingers over the streets, their prayer was answered.
The delegation was small, no more than fifty-strong, including the squads of Ruby Tower Guards ahead and behind. Natai Escral, Duchess of Byora, rode side-saddle at the head of the nobles, the child Ruhen perched in her lap and Hener Kayel, her bodyguard, riding alongside. The duchess was a middle-aged woman, though she looked older than her years, however immaculately turned out she was. She couldn’t hide the crow’s-feet or the shadows of broken sleep under her eyes, and she was stooped with fatigue, riding without her customary grace.
From time to time the duchess would shake herself, as though pushing herself to stay awake. When she turned her face to the cool breeze those around her would be afforded a glimpse of the proud elegance that had dominated the largest and most disparate quarter of the Circle City for so many years. Even in black mourning, with only her ruby circlet for adornment, she stood out from the Litse nobles and ministers following.
Every few minutes her thoughts would turn back to the child nestled in her lap: the little boy she called a prince as often as her son but who was, in truth, none of those things. Shadows danced in Ruhen’s eyes, and she hungered for the soothing sight of his face like an opium addict for the next fix. It was Sergeant Kayel who directed her horse then, when her attention wandered from real life.
Sergeant Kayel wore the uniform of a Ruby Tower officer, but the buttons were gold, the cloth finer and the tailoring far better than any normal soldier’s garb. A big man by Narkang standards, and massive next to the slender Litse locals, Sergeant Kayel - Ilumene, to give him his real name - remained unchallenged by other Ruby Tower men because of the fear he engendered. He had been first among King Emin’s élite troops as much because of his presence as his ability, and his regal demeanour remained a useful tool now.
Behind the duchess and her bodyguard rode an even stranger pair: a white-masked figure in black and a dark-haired Byoran noblewoman dressed sombrely but festooned with gems, quite unable to resist showing off her jewels to the city. The masked man, Koteer, had skin and long hair the colour of funeral ashes. He was as tall as a white-eye, and dressed like a wandering duellist. He paid his companion, Lady Kinna, no attention whatsoever. Koteer was the eldest of the Raylin sons of Death, known as the Jesters; he spoke for all four of them. The Demi-God had said nothing about why he had joined them that day; he had not needed to. Sergeant Kayel had appeared to be expecting the grey-skinned giant, and the duchess had been lost in Ruhen’s eyes, leaving only Lady Kinna in a position to challenge them - and in the end she had said nothing for fear of the Demi-God. That fear was echoed by the soldiers escorting them.
They rode past the crossroad where Aracnan had been nearly killed. One beam protruded up from the blackened mess that was all that remained of the shattered buildings, and people had braved the rickety remains to nail scraps of white cloth prayers to it.
As soon as they were out of the city all eyes turned to the churned ground where the Menin and Farlan armies had fought, where lords and commoners alike had fallen to Karkarn’s hands. The Menin had dug great pits and burned Farlan corpses in their hundreds, and even now the unmistakable smell lingered. As the delegation turned north, not even Kayel’s vicious reputation stopped most of the soldiers ignoring unit discipline and looking behind them at the battlefield, playground of the God of War, where one patch of ground remained burning hot, blistered and scourged of all life. Next to it stood the gruesome memorial to Scion Kohrad Styrax: thousands of skulls boiled clean and bound within a circle of spears. There were already rumours running wild throughout the city of a ghostly figure seen in the torchlight, and of people disappearing nearby.
Before long the group rounded the black spur of rock that marked the boundary between Akell quarter and Byora. Blackfang, the vast broken stub of a mountain onto which both cities backed, was wreathed in low, sullen clouds. The approach to Akell was uncomfortable as the road twisted past deep dykes intended to channel attackers down the single central road, allowing the defenders to take them out more easily.
At last they found themselves picking their way through the stinking army encampment that surrounded the Fist, Akell’s huge forward defence. The square fortress could house thousands of soldiers, and there were still three legion flags flying over the rows of tents outside it. Positioned on top of the Fist’s jutting gatehouse was Lord Styrax’s enormous personal standard: a stylised, blood-red fanged skull on a black field.
The Byoran delegation rode uneasily up to the gatehouse between rows of grim-faced Menin. Shaven-headed foot soldiers stood side-by-side with cavalrymen sporting wild black curls, and all stared with undisguised curiosity. No one moved, however, until they reached the gatehouse itself, when a grey-clad official emerged and bowed low to the duchess.
‘I beg an audience with Lord Styrax,’ the duchess announced loudly as Ruhen turned his hypnotic gaze on the Menin official.
‘I — Ah, your Grace,’ the man started in hesitant Byoran, trying not to be thrown by Ruhen’s stare, ‘your request is not possible. I apologise.’
Sergeant Kayel slipped from his horse and gave the man an inadvisable look, considering the watching soldiers. He lifted Ruhen gently from the duchess’ lap and dropped to one knee to allow the duchess to dismount easily.
The official, a rake-thin man of around sixty summers with the heavy brow and prominent jaw so common among the Menin, waited patiently while Natai Escral arranged her dress and took Ruhen’s hand. Then he said, ‘Your Grace, I apologise, but Lord Styrax is not receiving visitors and General Gaur is occupied in Fortinn quarter. If you have a written petition for him, you may give it to me - or I would be happy to summon a lord to hear you.’
‘I will speak to Lord Styrax,’ the duchess declared firmly.
The official frowned, his eyes flitting down to the little boy at her side. ‘Your Grace, he is not receiving visitors. My lord is in mourning; he is in no mood for civil affairs.’
‘Then we will talk of uncivil things,’ she insisted, ‘of the beloved lost and the dangers that remain in this Land.’
The official could not help but glance up into the sky, watching for the black shape that had been inflicting devastation on the Circle City ever since being awakened. ‘Your Grace, madam, I am sorry, but he will not see you.’
‘Then I will wait here until he changes his mind. If I am to be his vassal I must be permitted his audience.’ She turned to her bodyguard. ‘Kayel, perhaps you would fetch me a stool?’ She gestured at the ground where she stood, on the centre of the road leading out of the Fist’s main gate.
‘Your Grace,’ the official urged, a slight note of panic entering his voice, ‘my instructions were most specific: no one is to be permitted into Lord Styrax’s presence. I dare not disturb him.’
‘Have courage,’ came a small voice that sent an electric twitch down the official’s spine. Ruhen looked at him.
The man quivered a moment, then turned back to the gate.
Duchess Escral called out to him again, ‘Tell your lord I would speak to him of sons - of princes cherished.’
The man glanced back, an expression of horror on his face, but he bobbed his head again and disappeared behind the flame-scarred door.
The creak of the door opening was enough to jolt Amber from a confused dream, a chaotic memory of his childhood home that faded as he opened his eyes. In the doorway stood Horsemistress Kirl, looking concerned. It was dark in his room, and Amber guessed he’d slept past nightfall.
‘What’s happened?’ Amber croaked.
Kirl looked at him, then walked to his bedside. ‘I’m not really sure. I just heard that bloody Duchess Natai’s staging some sort of protest at the gate - says she isn’t moving until Lord Styrax grants her an audience.’
‘She wants to speak to a grieving white-eye?’ Amber sounded aghast.
Kirl gave a humourless snort. ‘I know - daft bitch! Colonel Uresh tried to speak to her and she just ignored him and kept repeating her demand.’
‘Where’s General Gaur?’
‘Fortinn; Uresh doesn’t want to send a rider though. Every time Gaur turns his back in Fortinn the gangs start fighting each other again. Duke Vrill’s scouting the northeast towards Raland and all the other nobles are just plain scared, I think.’
‘What about Gaur’s huntsmen?’
While General Gaur had never been ennobled, the beastman Lord Styrax had hauled from the fighting-pits was now a powerful landowner in his own right. Much of that land he kept for private hunting, and instead of hurscals he had a band of huntsmen as his staff. Like irregulars they occupied a position outside of the Menin Army structure, and Lord Styrax used them for a range of unorthodox activities. Amber guessed a few of Gaur’s commanders would be on first-name terms with the Lord of the Menin.
‘Probably in Fortinn,’ Kirl said, ‘with General Gaur - they are his bodyguards, after all, and it’s not a happy place at the moment.’
‘Let’s see how much my luck rides then,’ Amber muttered, raising his good left arm and beckoning Kirl over. ‘Help me up.’
‘Are you mad? You’re staying right there,’ she said sharply.
He gave her a level look. ‘No, I’m getting up and you’re going to help me. Look at my face and tell me whether you think I’m in the mood to argue.’
‘Are you pulling rank on me?’ Kirl asked after a moment’s hesitation.
‘Hoping I don’t have to.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Fine. Let’s get you sitting on the side of the bed. If you can do that without passing out, I’ll fetch some crutches and find out exactly what the duchess wants.’
Amber gritted his teeth. His right arm was wrapped in wooden splints and bandages, and in spite of the magical healing it wasn’t yet ready to take any weight. Kirl was tiny next to him and she needed to haul at his good arm with all her strength to help him raise his shoulders off the bed. Once he started to move, he found his left leg was similarly useless, and though Kirl was manoeuvring him as carefully as she could, he was biting down so hard he thought he was going to shatter his teeth.
After several excruciating minutes he opened his eyes and found himself perched on the side of the bed, his right foot pressed hard against the floor as he tried to balance.
‘Maybe with that crutch I’ll fetch a Priest of Shotir to take the edge off the pain?’ Kirl asked, watching his expression.
Amber nodded as gently as he could, not wanting to jerk anything else now he had been reminded of the joys of broken ribs.
‘Right, stay there and try not to cry,’ she said, heading back out. ‘You’re meant to be a hero, remember?’
Before long Amber was making slow and painful progress past two separate rings of security to Lord Styrax’s chambers. At both security checkpoints Amber was recognised, and admitted with a mixture of awe and pity, which bolstered his strength a little. Outside his lord’s door the adrenalin wore off and he started to waver. Kirl had to prompt him twice before he raised his hand to knock.
There was no response. Amber waited a long while before hesitantly knocking again, but when he was greeted with silence he turned the latch himself, his hand shaking with the strain, and eased the door open.
Still nothing.
He shuffled forward, Kirl taking as much of his weight as she could bear. Inside, a single lamp on the right-hand wall gave dim illumination, but as Amber looked around, two more lamps sputtered into life, then the fire ignited, apparently of its own volition.
‘Do you often walk into your commanding officer’s room uninvited? ’ asked a deep voice. Amber turned towards it and visibly winced at the jolt of pain from the brutalised muscles in his neck.
‘No, my Lord,’ he replied, shuffling around until he could face Lord Styrax. The huge white-eye wore a black tunic, uniform of the Bloodsworn cavalry, and boots to his knees, but for once the tunic was in disarray, the boots scuffed. He sat in a solid armchair backed up against the wall, supporting his great head in one hand.
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