The Grave thief tr-3, page 49
part #3 of Twilight Reign Series
To his left Torl could see the fires of Lord Isak's army. One of his aides had jokingly described it as the Farlan's Temporal Army. Crusade was not a word the clerics had liked; for all their venom and spite, they had insisted on more palatable terms: Soldiers of the Gods, Defenders of the Faith, even Spiritual Envoys; every cult and faction had a different name, and each had a different idea of their goal. It left as bitter a taste in Torl's mouth as their insistence on consultation in everything, even logistics.
'My Lord Suzerain,' called Lieutenant Zaler as he hurried over, 'good morning, sir.'
'Is it?' Torl growled. 'It's hard to tell.'
Zaler hesitated. 'Ah, which, my Lord?' He was a young man, the nephew of Torl's wife's cousin, and still oddly earnest despite having spent more than a year as Torl's aide. He was short and slim – he would never be much of a fighter – so Zaler tried to make up for it by being unfailingly helpful and efficient. Unfortunately, he lacked a soldier's common sense, and had not yet developed a soldier's cynicism.
'Good or morning?' Zaler repeated anxiously.
'Don't be bloody stupid, Lieutenant,' Torl said, exasperated.
'Sorry, sir. Shall I sound the reveille?'
Torl nodded, then realised from Zaler's expression he was once again screwing up his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He guessed he was looking as washed-out and old as he felt. A camp bed was no substitute for the huge feather mattress in the master bedroom of Koan Manor, his principal home. Though he was well used to campaigning, the years had suddenly caught up with him.
Zaler signalled the suzerain's bugler, who saluted sharply and raised his horn, producing a sharp flurry of notes that brought groans from all around even before the regimental buglers picked up the call and sounded it in all directions. Within seconds the notes echoed back from the other camp as General Lahk roused his own troops.
Torl looked down the rows of tents: his troops remained neat and disciplined, while the penitent legions were becoming increasingly ragged and disorganised. That meant the priests' men were not reaching camp before the light failed – but the only response the clerics had was to flog the slowest companies, which served only to make matters worse.
'Sir, should I fetch a healer? You look exhausted,' Zaler asked, sounding worried.
Torl shook his head. 'It's just fatigue. I can't have the men see the healer attend me two mornings in a row, it would send out the wrong message.'
'My Lord, are you sure? Your face is awfully pale.'
Torl saw the anxiety in Zaler's face and reconsidered for a moment; the young man was not one to push things unnecessarily, and in truth his hauberk felt as heavy as full armour this morning. 'Men won't fight for a cosseted fool, Zaler,' he said after a moment.
'Sir, no man in the army would ever think that way. The fact of the matter is that you're twenty summers older than most of us, and you've told me before that a general is more important than any of his troops. Your own words, sir; a general must look after himself. Illness or exhaustion means poor decisions and those cost lives.'
Torl scowled at his aide. Perhaps the boy's not entirely useless after all. 'This is the time you choose to demonstrate that you do listen? When you're contradicting a general in the field?'
Zaler winced, but he didn't back down. 'You were most specific on the duties of a general's aide.'
'If it means you leave me alone, fetch the damn healer-' Torl paused. 'No, first tell me if there was trouble last night.'
'I'm afraid so, but we appear to have come out on top again.'
'Gods, we march to war while fighting with ourselves,' Torl sighed, sinking down into his campaign chair and accepting a bowl of tea from his page. He cupped it in his hands and as he sipped the hot liquid, the furrows on his brow softened slightly. 'Takes longer each year to get the morning chill out of my bones,' he said to himself before looking up. 'Is Tiniq here?'
Zaler nodded and waved over General Lahk's twin brother. He was an Ascetite – a soldier whose latent magical abilities had never developed properly, but who was nevertheless gifted beyond normal standards. Lesarl had seconded him from Isak's personal guard to help Suzerain Torl deal with the more unfriendly clerics.
Thus far there had been two direct attempts on Torl's life, and most nights had seen violence of some sort, but the Chief Steward's agents were more than a match for the mercenaries trying to eliminate opposition to the cults' control. Tiniq himself now slept in the baggage carts during the day so he could be awake all night.
'Suzerain Torl,' Tiniq acknowledged, walking over briskly. His left arm was bandaged, but it didn't seem to be bothering him much.
For the twin of a white-eye – an impossible feat, so every doctor would claim- Tiniq was far from remarkable to behold. The former ranger was of average height and build, and his eyes were normal. The only apparent skill he had was that of fading into the background wherever he went. Other differences became clear when one found out he was only five years younger than Torl, and saw his speed when a priest of Nartis had tried to murder the suzerain.
'What happened to your arm?' Torl asked, grumpily noting that one of them wasn't feeling his age that morning. There was an unnerving gleam in Tiniq's eye. For a man uncomfortable with being the centre of attention, he was unusually energised by the night's excitement.
'Assassins tried to take us out,' he announced. 'Nothing like a bit of recognition, eh? We picked up a team heading for the Saroc section; assumed they were looking to kill Colonel Medah.'
'And they ambushed you?'
'Tried to, but they didn't notice Leshi and Shinir ghosting along behind us.'
'Prisoners?'
Tiniq shifted his feet. 'Ardela got a little over-excited.'
'Ardela? The shaven-headed hellcat?'
'That's the one,' Tiniq agreed, grinning wholeheartedly. 'It turns out she's got a real problem with anyone attached to Nartis. Once she saw they were penitents of Nartis she just went berserk.' He saw the expression on Suzerain Torl's face. 'My Lord, I'm sorry; I'd never met the woman until the day we left Tirah. I had no idea she was as mad as that.'
Raised voices not far off interrupted their conversation and they all turned to watch a party of men approach. Suzerain Torl's hurscals reached for their weapons.
Torl looked past his men and spotted the massive figure swathed in white at the centre of the group of priests. 'Gods, that's all I need,' he muttered before raising his voice. 'Sir Dahten, stand your men down.'
A grey-haired hurscal turned to the suzerain and gave him a pained expression. Torl ignored it, so Sir Dahten growled an order to the rest of the bodyguard. None of them dropped their weapons, but they stood less belligerently as the breaking of camp went on around them.
'Chalat, good morning,' Torl called out. The Chetse white-eye didn't immediately respond. His attention appeared to be focused on the other army's camp in the distance. Torl knelt and offered his sword hilt, the Farlan custom. He had not met the former ruler of the Chetse before this campaign, but there were stories aplenty. His appetites were legendary, as was his remarkable physical prowess, but it appeared some of the stories would have to be revised.
'Torl, your men are not performing the morning devotionals.' Chalat said at last, his gaze moving over the assembled hurscals before settling on the suzerain. 'Their lack of piety is a concern for us all. All success depends on the blessing of the Gods.'
Chalat was tall as General Lahk, but far more heavily built than any Farlan. His forearms were as thick as a man's thigh – his recent fasting had done little to reduce them – but where Chalat had once been famously barrel-shaped, now his belly had reduced and he tapered dramatically below his enormous rib-cage, the new shape highlighted by the robe he wore tied at the waist by a length of rope. His face was gaunt, and he had dark rings under his eyes. His hair was silvery grey, rare for a white-eye. Though Chalat had lived far longer than a normal human, until the summer it had been the normal Chetse light brown.
'I do not question their piety, Chalat,' Torl said in a strained voice, 'which cannot be said for some of those who follow you like carrion crows.'
The crows behind fluttered their feathers angrily, but Chalat stilled them with a raised finger. His face showed no emotion – he was at peace with the Land and secure in his purpose. For Suzerain Torl, father to a white-eye and Lord Bahl's confidant for many years, it was a worrying sight. No white-eye at the centre of an army should look that way; it went against everything that drove them.
'They are moths, not crows, and they are flocking to my light,' Chalat intoned solemnly. On his back he still wore the great broadsword he had been given when he became the Fire God's Chosen all those years ago. The Bloodrose amulet that had accompanied it, however, he had given away before leaving Lomin. Torl had laughed when he first heard that, refusing to believe any white-eye would give away an artefact of such power, but Chalat really had: he had been irrevocably changed.
'A white-eye no more,' Torl remembered Chalat saying the day he joined them, 'a lord no more, but envoy of the Qods.'
That's too close to 'prophet' for my liking, and everyone knows they're all mad. Do you think faith will turn spears? he wondered to himself.
'Moths are brainless creatures, soon consumed by the flame,' Torl responded.
Chalat nodded slowly, clearly interested only in the glory itself and not the effect it might have. 'The army must perform the devotionals each morning, the officers alongside their men. The priests shall oversee them and instruct them in the ways of the Gods. There is talk of the godless among us, of creatures that sleep during the day and stalk the camp at night.'
Instruct them in the ways of the Qods? 1 can just imagine what that will mean. Do they really think men will stand by and watch their friends be dragged off?
Torl looked at the priests lingering in the Chetse's shadow, seeing if he recognised any – they changed regularly, which pointed to a savage struggle for supremacy within the clerics of the crusade. Two were priests of Tsatach, still of fighting age, who Chalat had taken as his disciples. The rest were predominantly a mixture from the temples of Nartis and Death, although today there were representatives of Belarannar, Vrest and Vasle in attendance.
'To make the men perform the devotionals en masse would delay us by an hour each day,' Torl protested, 'and that gives the enemy greater time to detect us and prepare.'
'You claim your mages and scryers hide us from his sight. Is this not true?'
'I make no promises; the Chosen of Larat may prove too strong for our mages.' Now you have a use for them? Yesterday you wanted me to hang the lot as heretics, even as they told us where the Menin were!
'In that case they are of no use to us,' Chalat replied simply. 'They shall stand before a Morality Tribunal and account for themselves.'
Torl bowed in what he hoped would look a conciliatory manner. 'I'm afraid they cannot. Lord Isak has already ordered all mages to his army. After the deaths two nights past, he recalled all those with college contracts.'
'They are under my command,' Chalat said, for the first time actually focusing properly on Torl. A spark of the white-eye he had once been flickered in his eyes. 'They are tools of the Gods, to do with as I see fit. Tell the boy to send them back.'
'As you wish,' Torl said, amazed at Chalat's behaviour. The white-eye could not conceive that his order would be refused. Presumably he expected Lord Isak would meekly comply.
The Morality Tribunals were becoming increasingly violent; men were being flogged, sometimes to death, before the sitting priests to obtain confessions, but it was those who survived that Torl felt sorry for. Forced to admit their guilt, denounce their friends and punish their comrades, then ordered to receive 'correction' – Torl wasn't sure those sentenced to death weren't luckier. He had found himself ordering Tiniq to kill to save men from this madness, which was being repeated day after day.
'We are close to the enemy; I can smell their heresy on the wind,' Chalat said, interrupting Torl's grim thoughts.
'We will ride in battle-order this morning,' Torl agreed. 'In four days' hard ride we should have sight of Blackfang. My latest reports have Lord Styrax's forces to be encamped outside Akell'
'I must lead the army.' Chalat looked over towards the other army, seeing the movement there as General Lahk was no doubt urging them to break camp first. 'We will leave before Lord Isak; you may join me, Suzerain Torl.' With that, he turned and left.
Torl watched the priests part to allow him through before neatly peeling around to follow him. Only one remained, a tall man of about thirty summers with a flattened nose, wearing the robes of Nartis. He appeared oblivious to the fact his comrades had already crossed the hurscal line, so intently was he observing Suzerain Torl. The older man didn't recognise him at all, but he guessed he was one of those with magical ability. From what Torl could fathom of the shifting alliances and allegiances within the cults, the prospect of battle had propelled the mages to the fore.
'The envoy of the Gods commands you. You will not need your hurscals. Leave them here.' The priest gave Torl a crooked smile and pointed the way, intending Torl to follow Chalat. 'It is felt you are in need of additional religious instruction.'
'Fuck you and the rest of your zealot cronies!'
Torl blinked. For a moment he thought the words had come from his own mouth until he realised Tiniq had stepped forward, a look of undisguised loathing on his face.
The priest did not appear in the least intimidated. 'Godless scum,' he snarled. 'For that insult to the cults you will face a tribunal, of that I assure you.'
'Go ahead,' Tiniq replied. 'My name is Tiniq; I am brother to General Lahk and a sworn sword of Isak Stormcaller. If you think you can drag me before a tribunal, you are welcome to try.'
The priest's head flicked around back to Torl. 'You keep the company of heretics,' he hissed. 'Your education is in greater need than we had realised. Leave your weapons and follow me.'
First he checked that the Lord Chalat had kept moving and was not there to witness, then he responded with a small hand gesture. At his signal every soldier watching – a full regiment of hurscals and sworn soldiers – drew his weapon.
'As a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings for my entire adult life,' he said softly, 'I would love to come and be lectured by a man half my age on piety, but unfortunately I am bound by Special Order Seven and to contravene that would be treason.'
'The Special Order does not overrule the word of the Gods!'
'Certainly not,' Torl said, adding contemptuously, 'but you are no God, you are a stupid little man drunk on power. Tell every other idiot sitting on your so-called "Morality Tribunals" that I have been instructed to carry out the details of Special Order Seven to the letter, and that means no military officer may be tried by any
court but a military one, and no court-ranked man or commanding officer may travel unarmed or without the company of his hurscals. If you wish to educate me, you must first present your petition to the relevant Farlan military authority.' He pointed in the direction of the other army, then at the head of his hurscals. 'That would be Lord Isak, or, at a pinch, myself. Sir Dahten here is in charge of preliminary requests.'
He turned away, signalling the end to the conversation. Behind him the priest spluttered with fury before Sir Dahten clapped a hand on the man's shoulder. The knight had a special knack; nine times out of ten he could get a finger in the soft hollow on top of a shoulder, hitting the sweet spot without trying. As he heard the soft thud of a man sinking to his knees, Torl knew Dahten had got it right again.
'Preliminary requests,' Dahten began, a menacing tone to his voice. 'They're not really of a discourse form, not at this stage of the proceedings. Now, hold your arms out wide – I'm sure your God will give you strength in this hour of need.'
How long can we continue like this? Torl wondered, closing his eyes and listening to the squawk as a sword was placed in each of the priest's outstretched hands. Five days until we reach the Circle City. Will we have torn each other apart by then?
The following morning saw a storm break over the Circle City. The warning horn had sounded at the break of dawn, and its call had still been rolling over the city when the deluge came. In Burn, the scar surrounding the fissure they called Cambrey's Tongue was hidden by a thick cloud of stinking grey smoke.
Ruhen stood in his high room in the Ruby Tower and looked out over a city washed clean by floodwater. He was staring into the murky distance, a faint trace of worry in his ever-serious expression. In his hands was the slim book that had been his mother's only possession, one she no longer remembered; the journal of Vorizh Vukotic she had pulled from the ashes of Scree. It amused him to have something so valuable, the contents of which would determine the course of the next year of war, as a child's plaything.
'Come away from the window, my dear,' called the duchess, reaching a hand out towards him. 'Come, Ruhen, sit with me.' She massaged her temple, as she did almost constantly now, trying to rub away the dull ache from her head. The bags under her eyes indicated how badly she had been sleeping of late – Ruhen disliked sleeping in her room, preferring access to the tower's dark corridors whenever he wished, and without him the duchess found no rest. Each morning she looked a little more ragged, a little more nervous; and wary of shadows.
'They are coming, lord,' came a voice on the wind that no one but Ruhen heard, though Haipar flinched. The skeletal woman hunched a little lower and chewed harder at her lip, sensing Aracnan's presence in the room even if she couldn't hear him. Ilumene, nursing a hangover, was oblivious. He stared disconsolately down at the floor, occasionally swigging at a lukewarm jug of coffee.
'How long?'
'Perhaps four days if they leave the slowest behind; the whole army is made up of cavalry aside from a ragged swarm of peasants trailing after them. Five days if they wish to be in any shape to fight.' Aracnan's voice was little more than a distant echo in Ruhen's head. The mercenary was somewhere in Wheel, hunting for the Farlan woman who had eluded him. His frustration at being unable to sniff her out was palpable. The mercenary's position in events had now changed. His allegiance was no longer secret, and so his usefulness was diminished.
