An animal yowl shocked him so badly he almost let go entirely, but as he flailed in alarm he realised the agonised sob came from Isak. The white-eye’s huge bulk had risen to the surface too, and like Mihn he was gripping the side of the boat for all he was worth. His cries were shaking the entire boat.
‘What happened to Xeliath?’ demanded the witch of Llehden, standing in the prow of the boat, a rare look of concern on her face.
Mihn was summoning the strength to reply when he saw Xeliath slumped in the bottom of the boat, still and apparently unbreathing.
‘How — ?’ he began, as Xeliath gave a sudden, violent jerk, but his immense relief was short-lived as the girl lifted her shoulders and coughed up gouts of blood over her stomach. She started to convulse and her eyes opened, reflecting not victory but agony.
He threw himself into the boat to hold her, but she twisted out of his grip and screamed in pain before vomiting more blood.
‘Mihn, see to Isak,’ the witch commanded, though there was little he could do for the white-eye, who remained clinging to the side of the boat with all his Gods-granted strength, keening piteously.
‘No!’ shouted the witch, who lifted the girl’s head as Xeliath’s struggles lessened. She held Xeliath close and began to mutter an invocation, but as far as Mihn could see the only effect she was having was to make the blood flow faster.
Xeliath twisted her head towards Isak and at last she seemed to focus, the pain receding in her eyes for a moment. Her damaged features twisted into a small smile.
‘Free,’ she whispered, almost too feebly for Mihn to hear. She coughed again and the smile vanished, followed a moment later by the bright spark in her white eyes,
‘Xeliath,’ the witch cried, but quietly now, the voice of mourning. Mihn felt a familiar presence suddenly descend, shrouding the boat to darken the night even further. Something hard clattered on the bottom of the boat and Mihn’s heart sank. The cold of the lake filled his bones as Mihn watched the Crystal Skull roll to a stop in front of him, freed at last from her grip.
CHAPTER 4
The biting wind gusted through Byora’s streets. The sky had been a uniform grey for days now, but there had been little more than a smattering of rain this morning and as midday approached Luerce decided it would stay dry and settled down for the day on the cobbled ground. The disciple of Azaer arranged a white blanket around his shoulders like a tent, keeping out the chilly air, and set to playing the mystic.
He didn’t mind; it was easy enough to sit there motionless all day, watching his flock, though he saw no reason to endure a soaking too. From all around him came the keening of the faithful. The cant of liturgy had devolved into meaningless sounds, but interspersed within the drone were new prayers that Luerce had instilled in the minds of the weakest. It was a modest start, but fear would provide fertile soil, especially with him there to tend it and a dragon’s shadow cast over the quarter.
Luerce looked around. The crowd had grown again today; hundreds were clustered around the gates to the Ruby Tower compound. Many were beggars but already there were others, lurking on the fringes, seeking something, though they did not yet realise that. He saw grief in their eyes, and loneliness. Some were consumed by petty hatreds or avarice, and Luerce took especial note of those: the bullies and the cowards, those with a lifetime of identifying the vulnerable, they’d be ideal to swell the ranks of Ruhen’s preachers.
Luerce occupied an honoured position within the crowd of devotees, and even the newcomers could see he was special. Most of the disciples sat in tight circles of five or six, with Luerce alone in the middle of them all, with his back against the compound wall. From there the Litse could survey his small kingdom: the desperate and the mad, all huddled pathetically in the shadow of the Ruby Tower where Ruhen lived, hoping for salvation from the Circle City’s latest terror.
On Luerce’s left a craftsman, still wearing his tool-belt, approached the wall, a reverent look on his face. He picked his way carefully past the mumbling, white-swathed bundles, hunched over as though apologetic about being upright while everyone else was sitting. The man sank to his knees as soon as he was within reach of the wall and looked up at the fluttering strips of prayer-inscribed cloth adorning it.
He raised his own contribution, fixed to an iron nail like the others, and hammered it in. He was large and powerfully built, his brown hair tangled and his beard unkempt, giving him the appearance of a barbarian from the Waste, but the expression on his face was piteous. A muddy thumb-print adorned his cheek as though in mockery of a Harlequin’s bloody teardrop, and his face was streaked by tears that flowed once again as he prayed.
A child could look fiercer than this bear of a man
, Luerce thought as he gazed past him and noted with satisfaction that the guards on the gate were paying no attention. The watchful gaze of a Harlequin ensured that: while the storyteller had not spoken one word except in song, its demeanour was unmistakable, even to the witless thugs who comprised the duchess’ personal regiments. It stood over the crowds day and night, a sentinel for the faithful as they awaited Ruhen’s benediction.
Slowly we go, oh so slowly
. Luerce’s attention drifted from the motionless Harlequin to a white-clad disciple who was handing out black-crusted bread to the crowd. The man was speaking urgently as they jammed the bread into their mouths, bending right over them as he whispered.
Keep on with the good works, my friend, but any more of your religious nonsense and you’ll find an accident coming your way. We cannot bully the people into following Ruhen; they must beg it of him
. He rubbed his thin fingers over his bald head, feeling the unfamiliar shape of his skull once covered by luxuriant blond hair. The beggar beside him looked up at the movement, awaiting his next command. He could see in her hollow eyes the awe she still felt, the otherworldly image he now presented to the Land. Once she had been beautiful, but hunger had taken its toll - for which Luerce was profoundly thankful. He had no wish to discover how his master would react if he discovered Luerce submitting to temptation whilst playing the holy man - and Ruhen
would
find out, no matter how he tried to cover his tracks. He had no doubt of that.
‘Go and read the latest prayer,’ he said softly. She scrambled to obey, almost barging the bear-like man out of the way in her haste.
‘A prayer for salvation,’ she announced with what she clearly thought was grandeur, ‘salvation from the dragon that killed his family yesterday.’
The wordless prayers increased in volume at her words, and drained what was left of the man’s remaining strength. He huddled over his knees, doubled up by the pain inside.
Luerce smiled inwardly.
About bloody time. I was wondering if I was going to have to do it myself.
He looked around, searching for a picture of misery amidst a sea of it. The mercenary Grisat was difficult to pick out now that he’d shed his penitent’s uniform, but Bolla, Grisat’s brother-in-arms, was far easier to spot. The tall shaven-headed man sat bolt-upright, staring into nothing as he chewed numbroot day and night.
Ah, numbroot addicts, the most amenable of fools
. Luerce smiled inwardly, remember his former life of petty theft and fraud. Numbroot was as benign a drug as one could find, and it took real commitment to wind up an addict, as Bolla clearly was. Aracnan, the Demi-God who served Azaer, had used Grisat to engineer a campaign of resistance after the failure of the clerics’ rebellion. Bolla had played his part in that without questioning his orders, using numbroot to dull the pain of his injuries along with his ability to care about the rest of the Land.
‘Our brother asks for salvation,’ Luerce called out, causing a small commotion as the huddled mass turned to look at him. ‘Byora’s children cry out for salvation! Pray, pray with me for intercession!’
As he finished his eyes came to rest on Bolla and Grisat. More voices joined in the chant, the volume increased and Bolla began to sway in an unconscious response to the sound. Grisat, a solid-looking man, contrived to look even more miserable. Though he looked as if he had entirely gone to seed, the mercenary was still strong, well worth his pay - but Luerce only had one use for him. Finally, reluctantly, Grisat lifted his grey eyes to meet the Litse’s. The order was understood.
The mercenary flinched and tugged his filthy coat tighter around his body, but he wasted no time in using the magical link Aracnan had created between them to contact the Demi-God. In a few moments Luerce saw Grisat shudder and knew the mercenary had found Aracnan. The Demi-God had been wounded as he went to join the battle against the Farlan, shot with a poisoned crossbow bolt by a Narkang agent. It was taking all of Aracnan’s considerable skill just to stay alive, and the pain had left him unhinged. This would not be a comfortable experience for Grisat.
Satisfied the bond was active, Luerce bowed his head and added his own voice to the wordless anthem ringing out down the street. The beggars squatting in the street as though protesting the state of the Land were the broken and the lost; their mournful song was almost primal, and their many hurts the most basic a human could feel. Luerce felt himself enveloped in the building dirge. Swept up by the fervour, by the desperation of those around him who had lost everything, he found tears spilling down his cheek as his voice rose above the rest.
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.