The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) (3 page)

Breathless after several minutes of fear-filled flight, he stopped, leaning against an abandoned cart outside a provisions store. His pursuers had been outpaced for now, no doubt weighed down by their armour and weaponry. Behind, he saw an orange glow silhouetting the city’s skyline, and he strained his ears to hear massed cries in the distance. Smoke rose in columns from fires near the centre of Turnitia to lazily float in a growing cloud across the face of Kerberos, the massive sphere uncaring and unchanging in the face of human misery, even on this scale. The city, he saw, was descending into riotous chaos, and fellow members of the Brotherhood, people he knew, were the target of the mob, whipped into a frenzy by the Faith.

Slowly, his mind tried to come to terms with what was happening, but the implications of the city guard openly helping the Faith to track down their rivals – or dangerous heretics, as the Brotherhood was no doubt being described – filled him with a sick, creeping dread.

Had he been recognised at the Preacher’s house? Tabius thought not, his escape had been too quick, and there had been no time to see his face clearly. Then he thought of the Preacher, and what he might be forced to tell his captors. If, indeed, the man was still alive.

Though weary, he pulled himself up straight and, doing his best to ignore the riots claiming the roads, markets and homes of the city, he carried on up Meridian Street until the north gate came into view. Taking the road that ran behind the city’s fortified ramparts, he turned east until the tightly packed houses gave way to much larger dwellings, with their own gardens and protective walls hiding their grounds. This district was known intimately to Tabius. It was home.

Even through his fear, despair and fatigue, he possessed enough awareness to circle his own property twice, staring into the shadows for any sign of movement or presence of the guard. There was nothing, and he guessed the guard would not permit the riots to extend to this part of Turnitia, as there were too many men of power and money living here. Such men rarely entangled themselves in religious conflicts and, living here high on the hill on which Turnitia’s foundations were built, they demanded nothing less than a total separation from the common rabble.

Gingerly opening a small wooden gate in the side wall of his home’s compound, he silently slipped in and, closing it behind him, he breathed a heartfelt sigh of release. For the first time that night, he was truly safe. He opened his eyes and looked at his home, a large and finely built townhouse that took enough space to accommodate perhaps six or seven dwellings of the type the Preacher lived in. Light radiated from several of the downstairs rooms, and Tabius suddenly yearned to see his family, to make sure they were still safe, even though he knew no harm would reach them here.

His wife whirled round as he entered. Standing in front of the roaring fireplace in the drawing room, he guessed she had been pacing fretfully until he returned. With a cry of relief, she ran into his arms and, for a moment, they just held one another.

“Arthur came by earlier,” she said once tears had been choked back. “He said the whole city has turned against you.”

Tabius hushed her. “We will be safe. The mob won’t climb the hill. There are too many interests to protect here. For once Vos might actually help us, however unintentionally.”

“I hope you are right. Arthur said–”

Tabius held his wife at arm’s length and smiled reassuringly. “While I appreciate Arthur looking after my family while I am away, he is an old man, and I really must have a word to him about scaring you unnecessarily.”

“He said people were being killed in the streets. And the fires, I saw them from the landing. Half the city is aflame...”

“It is not as bad as all that. Where are the children?”

“Maggy is asleep. Lucius is pretending to be. He wanted to go down into the city to find his father.”

Tabius grinned at that. “Thank God you convinced him otherwise. Now, I have a great deal of work tomorrow. Let’s have supper and get some rest. Everything will seem better in the morning, I promise.”

She wiped away a tear and nodded. “I’ll rouse the kitchen.”

Leaving Tabius’ side, she walked proudly away, causing him to admire her fortitude, not for the first time. She paused at the door, then turned round. “Tabius... do you hear that?”

Straining his ears, he listened hard, not sure what his wife was getting at. Then it suddenly hit him – the mob was ascending the hill. He could hear their cries, muffled and distant now but slowly growing stronger.

“Impossible,” he muttered. “The guard would not dare let them loose. Not up here.”

His wife rested against the door for support. “Tabius,” she said, worry and strain evident in her voice. “Are you sure about that? Really sure?”

One glance at his wife, standing by the door, strong in her faith but unsure of what to do, convinced him.

“Get the children. Do it now!”

As his wife fled upstairs, Tabius crossed the hall to his study, striding to the unlit fireplace to unbuckle the sword that hung there. Though it had belonged to his father and the blade had not been drawn in anger in decades, the lessons hammered into him during adolescence began to flood back as he grasped the hilt and drew the weapon. He fervently hoped he would not have to use it, especially in front of his children, but he would not permit anyone to hurt his family.

Striding back into the hall, he saw his wife leading little Magallia down the stairs, still in her night clothes and rubbing sleep from her eyes. Behind them was Lucius, his pride, about to enter adulthood and take on the responsibilities of the family business. Spying the sword, Lucius had just one question.

“Are we fighting them, Father?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Tabius said, though he could not fully suppress a smile at his son’s spirit.

A rap at the main door of the house caused them to freeze before it was followed by several more. Three raps, then a pause, followed by two more.

Tabius looked at his wife as he went for the door. “Arthur.”

Unbolting the door, he opened it a crack at first, then threw it open when his suspicion was confirmed. Arthur, a stooped man in his seventies but with all the energy of someone far younger, shuffled in.

“You are preparing to leave?” he asked.

“Right now,” Tabius said. “I’m not taking any chances. Have you seen anything?”

Turning to gather his family, Tabius stopped when he realised Arthur had not answered. He looked at the old man, and saw tears in the familiar face.

“The guard are already outside,” Arthur said. “They are funnelling the mob straight here, avoiding everyone else. When they let me through their line, they said they were happy to let me burn with the rest of you.”

Tabius sagged against the door, furiously trying to think what to do. His first thought was for the children. He walked slowly to his wife and took her hand.

“Get the children into the cellar. They will be after the three of us, not the children. They may be... missed in the confusion.”

She put a hand to his cheek, and his heart broke at the look of anguish on her face.

“Tabius...” she said, searching for the words. He had nothing of comfort to tell her.

“It is too late.”

CHAPTER ONE

O
NCE AGAIN, HE
found himself waiting for his opponent’s decision. Leaning back on two legs of his chair, Lucius propped his feet up on the table and closed his eyes, knowing this could take a while. He held three cards to his chest, feeling the hard, rounded edges of mail beneath the hardened leather of his tunic. Two long, thin daggers were concealed in his boots and any member of the city guard shaking him down might quickly find the short sword strapped to his back, beneath his grey woollen cloak. The taverns on the Street of Dogs had not been noted as rough places when he was last in Turnitia, but too many changes had happened in the city during his long absence to take any chances.

The tavern was heaving and, judging by the other establishments he had visited earlier in the evening, business was good in the Street of Dogs. Whether it was the boost in the city’s economy by the occupying power or the result of a subjugated populace seeking to forget the realities of the day, he had yet to tell. Certainly some had profited from the occupation, but as he knew too well, others always had to suffer for it. Here, at least, there seemed little evidence of the long war, as the soft tones of flute and harp from somewhere near the back of the common room floated over the raucous cries, laughter and shouts of the patrons.

His eyes snapped open as his opponent, a luckless man in rough clothing and sporting a thick dark beard, grabbed the dice and took a breath. Lucius had taken him for one of the labourers that toiled in the city’s warehouse district, perhaps hoping to turn a week’s wages into a year’s salary in just one fortuitous night. This was not to be his night, Lucius knew, as he focussed his attention on the dice in the man’s hand.

“I’ll stay,” the man said confidently, ignoring Lucius’ provocative raised eyebrow. With another glance at his hand, the man shook the dice, blew on them, and then scattered them on the table.

Lucius narrowed his whole world to the tumbling dice. Under the table, the fingers of his free hand twitched as he sought the invisible threads that had become so familiar to him, and he felt the other-worldly power flow under his control. Tiny wisps of air streaked across the table to envelop the tumbling dice. As the dice bounced, Lucius lifted each one by the smallest fraction, buoying them up on a current, while spinning each slightly. When they landed and came to a rest, both cubes of carved bone presented the number four on their top face.

“At last!” the man cried, and his relief was palpable. Lucius had already seen that his belt pouch was getting light, but he had no desire to prolong his opponent’s pain. The man took a card from his hand and proudly laid it on the table.

“Eight Princes!” he declared. “Your luck has turned, my friend!”

“Alas, I think not,” said Lucius as he produced one of his own cards, also showing the number eight but with a smiling nubile woman seated on a golden throne. “The Queen trumps all but the Fool. I win again.”

So saying, Lucius swept the coins lying on the table into his own pouch before snatching another card from the face down deck between them. “Another round? I believe I’m getting the feel for this.”

The man, however, was not swayed by Lucius’ demeanour. “The ills of Kerberos be on you, no one is that lucky,” he spat. “How many times is that now? Eleven, twelve hands in a row? You’ve played me.”

Seeing the man begin to rise from his seat, Lucius swept his legs off the table and stood, reaching into one of his boots for a blade. It was done in one well-practised, fluid motion that caught the man completely off guard. He had no idea of the danger until Lucius was leaning over him, the dagger planted firmly in the wood of the table with a dull thud.

“I’m sorry,
friend
,” said Lucius. “But I have the idea that you were about to call me a cheat.”

Looking into the man’s eyes, Lucius could see what he was thinking. The man was no coward, and he likely had friends here that, in the very least, he would not want to see him backing down. On the other hand, Lucius’ weather-beaten face, out-of-town air, and readiness to display a weapon marked him as someone not to casually entangle with. An ear-beating from the wife for losing a week’s earnings was infinitely preferable to a knife in the belly.

The man spat again. “Your kind never last long around here, you know that? The guard will have you. Sooner or later, you’ll push your luck too hard, and then the guard will have you.”

Standing up to face Lucius briefly, the man then turned to grab the long coat thrown across the back of his chair before storming through the crowd of revellers to the door. Lucius glanced around to see if anyone had taken an undue interest in his naked blade – the man had not been wrong about the guard, after all – before sliding it back into his boot and gesturing a maid for an ale.

He slipped the maid a silver tenth with a wink when she returned, then settled down to sip his drink, searching for another mark. He caught men’s eyes several times with a pointed look at the dice and cards, but no one was biting. Either they had seen the outburst just now, or their female companions were of greater interest than a game of chance. Cursing his previous opponent for forcing him to draw a weapon, he quickly decided to move on. Downing the last remains of the ale, a Vos-brew he had little love for anyway, he surreptitiously checked his weapons and belt pouch and, finding them to be present and in order, slipped through the throng towards the door.