"Commander Yarram regrets to inform you that Lord Tauric and his companions are trapped on the north bank. The Bridge of Spears and the Queens' Bridge are impassable, and he cannot spare men to hasten to the bridges in the east of the city – "
Mazaret fought down the twin tremors of anger and panic that shook him from within. "And he wants to know if I will send some of my own troops, am I right?" He leaned closer to the man. "But I wager that all the river's bridges will be ablaze very shortly. Thus, I want you and your brothers to find another way across the Olodar. The Lord Tauric must be found and brought back safely - any other outcome is unacceptable."
The scout met his gaze for an unwavering moment, then swallowed, averted his eyes and nodded. "It will be as you command, milor'. We shall bring the throne's heir back."
"I know you will," Mazaret said, putting as much confidence into his voice as he could. "We are all the Earthmother's sons, and as we fight for her, so she works her will for us."
There were unbidden cheers from the men in the yard, along with a shouting of Tauric's name, yet Mazaret kept his gaze on the scout. "Now go."
The scout whirled and was gone and as Mazaret went back inside, with tiredness tugging at his eyelids, he thought -
In the Mother's name, boy - what hazard are you courting now?
* * *
Tauric hurriedly pressed the moist cloth against his nose as the wind blew another tail of dense across their rooftop refuge. When the scout first brought them up here, after the Queen's Bridge was set afire, it seemed the perfect hiding place, a shelf concealed on three sides by peaked roofs with the fourth facing the river. Now it was starting to feel like a trap. Everyone's eyes were watering from the sting of the smoke and hair and garments were dusted with ash while uncovered skin bore red marks where embers had landed.
"How much longer is he going to be?" he muttered when the smoke cleared.
The Armourer gave him a withering look out of red-rimmed eyes. "As long as need be, so save your voice."
Tauric shrugged it off and stared morosely out at the city south of the river. There were a few street lanterns lit, but they were limited to the more prosperous districts on the hills and upper slopes. After dusk most of the houses and workshops of ordinary people dwellt in a gulf of shadows, broken by the bright little islands of alehouse lamps or the glow of a forge working through the night. By stark contrast, the Imperial palace was a monument to light; torches burned on every one of the four tiered walls and in every window of the High Spire. Once the abode of the Khatrimantine Emperors, it was now Yasgur's den and a lair for his creatures, and by night it resembled a vast ship riding over the crest of a dark, dark wave.
"The fire from one of the bridges is spreading," said Aygil.
The standard-bearer was lying full-length further up one of the sloping roofs, peering north over the peak. Ignoring the Armourer's disapproving frown, Tauric edged over and carefully climbed up to join. Aygil waited till he was settled before wordlessly pointing.
It was the northernmost bridge, the Bridge of Spears. It was a mass of flames spanning the river and buildings on either bank were now ablaze. By the fierce glow Tauric could see crowds of people trying to fight the fires, forming bucket lines that stretched down to the river's edge, and his heart went out to them.
These are the people I'm meant to deliver from injustice and pain. Yet we've brought them only suffering
...
Then another great curtain of smoke swept over them, obscuring everything. Beside him, Aygil was seized by a racking spasm of coughing and as Tauric held on to him, someone shouted his name. Glancing over his shoulder he could just see through the haze the Armourer, standing, beckoning.
"The scout has returned...we must leave now!"
Relieved, Tauric tried not to be hasty as he helped Aygil down from the roof and over to the open trapdoor. A few of the Companions had already descended and one stepped back to let Aygil go before him. Once all seventeen were down in the loft, coughing and murmuring among the crossbeams and crates, the Armourer turned to the scout, a short wiry man with a permanent sardonic smile.
"What's this way back to the south? - is one of the bridges still passable?"
"Heh...be as well to wish for a boat for there's not an unholed one on the northbank."
"We could swim," Tauric suggested.
The Armourer shook his head and the scout chuckled. "Wrong season, laddie. The waters're full of poison worms and ripperfins, and the currents are fast, deep and treacherous. There'll be no way across the river this night."
Dislike glittered in the Armourer's eyes as he gave the scout a poke in the shoulder with one gauntleted forefinger. "Stop these games and tell me how we can get back," he growled, then almost as an afterthought, "And what is your name?"
The scout stared at him with eyes hard as flint and for a moment Tauric expected some kind of cutting reply, but instead he just smiled. "I am known as Racho, o nameless one, and the only escape is through the Black Sluice."
To Tauric's surprise, the Armourer uttered a deep, throaty laugh. "I must speak to Kodel about you, little man. You have a talent for unpleasantness."
"What is the Black Sluice?" said Tauric.
"The main sewer for the north of the city," said Racho, visibly straining to keep from grinning. "It feeds into the Eshel, an offshoot of the Olodar, and thence into the bay."
"So we get to leave along with the shit and whatever else people throw out," added the Armourer.
There were suppressed groans from Tauric's Companions, at which the Armourer gazed about him unsympathetically. "Don't be complaining - I'm thinking of adding it to your training roster once this local disturbance is over." Then he turned back to the scout. "Are you certain about this? I don't want to find out later that there was another, quicker way."
"On my father's grave, ser, I swear. The sluice is the only sure way outside, and our people control the slurry house. They will provide you all with waxed canvas overclothes."
"Very well, then we shall go. Ser Scout - you may lead the way."
Racho smiled and bent to haul open a trapdoor in the floor.
The building was a thick-walled townhouse whose doors were locked and the windows bolted and shuttered inside and out. But the diminutive scout had a key for the back door which opened silently on well-oiled hinges to reveal a small, walled courtyard and three hooded figures, bows raised and aimed. Lightning fast, the Armourer snatched a dagger from his waist, then slowed as the archers lowered their weapons.
"Our own," Racho said levelly, but glanced at Tauric and rolled his eyes upward in mock exasperation. Tauric fought the urge to laugh out loud.
"Good," the Armourer said, sheathing his knife. "We will proceed in single file led by myself and this pair." He indicated two of the newcomers, then jabbed a finger at the third. "You will bring up the rear with good ser Racho."
All three scouts looked at Racho who just nodded, once. The Armourer, seeeing this, gave a thoughtful grunt and looked at Tauric. "Where will you walk, my lord?"
"Where...ah, at the rear, ser. Aygil still needs help."
"As you wish."
Tauric watched him lead the Companions quickly from the yard, privately astounded that the Armourer had actually asked him where he wanted to be. But why? It could not be because he was suddenly displaying the glowing talents of leadership - perhaps Kodel had a hand in this...
"An interesting man," said the scout Racho. "I never thought to find him here, playing such a part."
"You know him?" Tauric said as they helped Aygil out of the yard and down a smoke-wreathed back alley after the rest.
The scout was silent for a moment or two, which was filled by the sounds of the city around them, shouts, screams, running feet. Then finally he spoke.
"The last time I saw him was fifteen years ago. Our village owed fealty to a minor lord whose house was bound by marriage to the great sept of Ironkeel. Our dour comrade was the Ironkeels' forgemaster, and their mage. He was often seen in the hills near our village, prospecting for seams of ore."
"Where was this?"
"In the Islands of Mist, east of the Drowned Realms of Lelorandelas." The darkness of his hood could not entirely hide his sad smile. "Beyond the Wilderan Sea."
"You're from Keremenchool," Tauric said, surprised.
"As you call it."
Tauric let his voice drop to a murmur. "So...what is his name?"
Racho chuckled, shook his head. "That I would keep to myself. He may not thank me for being loose-tongued with it - " He stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed and staring over Tauric's shoulder. "Gods, is the whole city going to burn?"
Tauric followed his gaze and almost cried out. A gap between two buildings afforded a view which took in part of the river and the districts leading up to the Imperial palace. Tiny figures were rushing along the palace walls as black, spark-laden smoke roiled from windows at the top of the High Spire itself. As Tauric watched in horror, a sound came to his ears, a harsh inhuman moan carrying across the roofs from the palace. It rose in pitch to an agonised shriek, like a thousand swords given voice, and finally ended in a single, thunderous crack reverberating across the city. At the same time, great gouts of fire erupted from the High Spire's topmost windows. Indistinct fragments arced away in flames and showers of sparks, and a jagged section of wall fell, tumbling slowly to crash on the battlements below.
Tauric stared, aghast. Before leaving with Yarram's men, he had learned from Bardow that Alael was up in that tower, and that Bardow and Kodel would try to bring her out.
"Quick!" Racho said, grabbing his arm. "We must hurry - now!"
Alael
! he thought as he and Aygil stumbled after the scout.
In the Mother's name, live
!
* * *
A short time before, while Tauric and his companions were still languishing in their smoke-hazed refuge, Alael was standing on sore feet near the throne in the Hall of Audience and trying to shut out the sound of sorcery.
The Hall of Audience was a great oval chamber, its high roseate walls hung with many exquisite tapestries depicting the cities and regions of the vanquished Empire. Towering grey granite columns bore hooks where unknown objects had once been displayed, and the floor in front of the throne dais was a detailed map of the entire continent of Toluveraz, executed in a mosaic of gems and coloured marble.
Once, Alael was sure, it would have been polished and shining - now it was obscured by a huge pattern scribed upon the floor. Clusters of shallow grooves spread out from the foot of the throne dais, some coiling, or forming spikes or repetitive motifs, while others curved smoothly through the twisted intricacies towards five end points where the others converged. Pale green light glowed in every groove and at every intersection sat a small copper bowl. There were scores of the bowls, each full of the green glow and emanating a quiet ringing sound.
Alael, ankles aching, stood at the foot of the throne dais steps, within a small incised circle from which all the grooves originated. Next to her was a waist-high stand upon which lay a plain, curved dagger and strange, vaguely egg-shaped thing apparently crudely carved out of grey-brown wood. At first it was the dagger that scared her, but now the wooden egg caused a deeper, darker dread.
Behind her, holding her neck and wrist ropes, was the man called Dow Korren who had kidnapped her north of Oumetra and took her to Sejeend. Alael hated him more than the Acolytes or the Mogaun shamen, for he had carried out his treachery behind a mask. And it was a base treachery - more than once during the journey to Besh-Darok he had boasted of the kingdom that would be his when the Lord of Twilight at last trod the earth. Alael thought he was a self-deluding fool.
A yellow-shirted servant approached from the other end of the hall and muttered to Dow Korren for a moment or two. Korren cleared his throat discreetly then spoke:
"Brother Galred, the rebels have taken the Imperial and Riverside barracks, but Ironhall is still holding out. Those attacking the palace have reached the anterooms on the floor below where their advance has been halted. The captain of the guard, however, is begging for reinforcements."
Two black-robed Acolytes stood at the far side of the glowing floor pattern, shoulders hunched over, studying the lines. The elder of the two, his grey hair tied back in warrior style, glanced up from the bowls being carefully placed by his companion. Alael looked away from the white-eyed gaze.
"I care not," said Galred in a high, hoarse voice. "If that Bardow and his hedge wizards were at the doors to this hall, I could keep them out and not even raise a sweat. And I do not care for your presumption is naming me 'brother' - you are not a Nightson, nor have you any of the five stigmata. In future, you will address me as 'your serenity'. Is that clear?"
Alael heard Korren swallow before answering but could not tell if it was from fear or anger.
"Indeed, yes, your serenity."
"Excellent. Of such obedience are empires forged." The Acolyte Galred turned to his assistant. "Brother Miras, are we ready for the
Vraoleach Dor?
"
Miras, a black-haired youth with cadaverous features, bowed to Galred. "The last of the tethering bowls are in place and the five mouths have been well positioned."
Galred gave a satisfied nod. "Our brothers are with the Great Shadowkings, and the Weaving of Souls awaits death, agony and power." His white eyes regarded Alael and this time she could not look away. "Once, the Lord of Twilight was the All-Highest until his lesser siblings betrayed him. Soon he will assume his rightful dominion and all who oppose him shall be swept away. Miras, your duty awaits."
The younger Acolyte, his face expressionless, walked carefully across the pattern, robe lifted slightly to avoid touching any of the bowls. He knelt on the floor a few feet in front of Alael, facing away, robe wrapped tightly about him as he hunched forward over his hands. Alael saw no knife and discerned no movement, but suddenly a dark fluid was rilling along the grooves from in front of Miras, kneeling still and silent.