Authors: Paul Kearney
“As I said, I have begun to unlock his powers. It is a painful procedure—such things have never been easy—but in the end he will thank me for it.”
“So he is still alive, somewhere out in the west. Are the myths true then? There is actually a Western Continent?”
“The myths are true. I had a hand in creating some of them. Golophin, in the west we have an entire world of our own, a society founded on the Dweomer. There is something back there in the very air we breathe—”
“There are more of you then?”
“I am the only one of the original founders who survived thus far. But there are others who came later. We are few, growing fewer. That is why I have returned to the Old World. We need new blood, new ideas. And we intend to bring with us a few ideas of our own.”
“Bring with you? So you mages from the west are intent upon returning to Normannia!”
“One day, yes. That is our hope. My work at present is the preparation of the world for our coming. You see now why I am here? We will need friendly voices raised on our behalf in every kingdom, else our arrivall might result in panic, even violence. All we wish, brother mage, is to come home.”
A sudden thought shook Golophin. “One moment—the wolf image. That was a simulacrum, yes?”
Aruan grinned. “I wondered when that question would come up. No, it was not. I am a shifter, a sufferer of the black disease, though I no longer see it as an affliction.”
“That is impossible. A mage cannot also be a lycanthrope.”
“Bardolin thought so also. He knows better now. I am a master of all Seven Disciplines, and I am busy creating more. What I am here tonight to ask, Golophin, is whether you will join us.”
“Join you? I’m not sure I understand.”
“I think you do. Soon I will no longer be a furtive night visitor, but a power in the world. I want you to be my colleague. I can raise you very high, Golophin. You would no longer be the servant of a king, but a veritable king yourself.”
“Some might think your ambitions a little too wide-ranging. How are you going to manage this?”
“Time will tell. But it is going to happen. The lines are being drawn all over the continent, though not many are aware of them yet. Will you join us, Golophin? I would consider it an honour to have a man such as you in our camp. Not merely a powerful mage, but a keen mind used to the intricacies and intrigues of power. What do you say?”
“You are very eloquent, Aruan, but vague. Do you fear to tell me too much?”
Aruan shrugged. “You must take some things on trust, that is true. But I cannot relate to you the details of a plan which is still incomplete. For now, it would be enough if you could at least consider yourself our friend.”
The lean old wizard stared at his visitor. Aruan’s face was angular and autocratic, and there was a cruelty lurking there in the eyes. Not a kindly, nor yet a generous countenance. But Golophin sensed that in this, at least, he was speaking the truth. Imagine: an entirely new world out there beyond the endless ocean, a society of mages living without fear of the pyre. It was a staggering concept, one that sent a whole golden series of speculations racing through Golophin’s mind. And they wanted to come back here, to the Old World. What could be wrong with finding a home for such… such castaways? The knowledge they must have gathered through the centuries, working in peace and without fear! The ancient wizard had a point: how many more decades or centuries of persecution could the Dweomer-folk take before they were wiped out altogether? At some point they had to stand together and halt it, turn around the prejudices of men and demand acceptance for themselves. It was a glittering idea, one which for a second made Golophin’s heart soar with hope. If it were only possible!
And yet, and yet—there was something deeply disturbing here. This Aruan, for all his surface charm, had a beast inside him. Golophin could not forget that one, desperate mind-scream he had heard Bardolin give thousands of leagues away.
Golophin! Help me in the name of God
—
The terror in that cry. What had engendered it?
“Well?” Aruan asked. “What do you say?”
“All right. Consider me friendly to your cause. But I will not divulge any of the secrets or strategies of the Hebrian crown. I have other loyalties too.”
“That is enough for me. I thank you, Golophin.” And Aruan held out a hand.
But Golophin refused to shake it. Instead he turned and refilled his glass. “I suggest you leave now. I have to be on my way back to the city very soon. But”—he paused—“I wish to speak with you again. I possess an inquisitive mind, and there is so much I would know.”
“By all means. I look forward to it. But before I go, I will show my goodwill with a gift…”
Before Golophin could move, Aruan had swooped forward like a huge dark raptor. His hand came down upon Golophin’s forehead and seemed fixed there, as though the fingers had been driven like nails through the skull. Golophin’s glass dropped out of his hand and shattered on the stone floor. His eyes rolled up to show the whites and he bared his teeth in a helpless snarl.
Moisture beaded Aruan’s face in a cold sheen. “This is a great gift,” he said in a low voice. “And a genuine one. You have a subtle mind, my friend. I want it intact. I want loyalty freely given. There.” He stepped back. Golophin fell to his knees, the breath a harsh gargle in his throat.
“You will have to experiment a little before you can use it properly,” Aruan told him. “But that inquisitive mind of yours will find it a fascinating tool. Just do not try to cross the ocean with it in search of your friend Bardolin. I cannot allow that yet. Fare thee well, Golophin. For now.” And he was gone.
Panting, Golophin laboured to his feet. His head was ringing as though someone had been tolling a bell in his ears for hours. He felt drunk, clumsy, but there was a weird sense of well-being burning through him.
And there—the knowledge was there, accessible. It opened out before him in a blaze of newfound power and possibilities.
Aruan had given him the Discipline of Translocation.
NINE
W ILD-EYED, filthy and exhausted, the prisoners were herded in by Marsch’s patrol like so many cattle. There were perhaps a dozen of them. Corfe was called to the van of the army by a beaming Cathedraller to inspect them. He halted the long column and cantered forward. Marsch greeted him with a nod.
The prisoners sank to the cold ground. Their arms had been bound to their sides and some of them had blood on their faces. Marsch’s troopers were all leading extra horses with Merduk harness: compact, fine-boned beasts with the small ears and large eyes of the eastern breeds.
“Where did you find them?” Corfe asked the big tribesman.
“Five leagues north of here. They are stragglers from a larger force of maybe a thousand cavalry. They had been in a town.” Here Marsch’s voice grew savage. “They had burnt the town. The main body had waggons full of women amongst them, and herds of sheep and cattle. These”—he jerked his head towards the gasping, prostrate Merduks—“were busy when we caught them.”
“Busy?”
Again, the savagery in Marsch’s voice. “They had a woman. She was dead before we moved in. They were taking turns.”
The Merduks cowered on the ground as the Torunnans and tribesmen, glaring, gathered about them.
“Kill the fuckers,” Andruw said in a hiss which was wholly unlike him.
“No,” Corfe said. “We interrogate them first.”
“Kill them now,” another soldier said. One of Ranafast’s Torunnans.
“Get back in ranks!” Corfe roared. “By God, you’ll obey orders or you’ll leave this army and I’ll have you march back to Torunn on your own. Get back there!”
The muttering knot of men moved apart.
“There were over a score of them,” Marsch went on as though nothing had happened. “We slew eight or nine and took these men as they were pulling on their breeches. I thought it would be useful to have them alive.”
“You did right,” Corfe told him. “Marsch, you will escort them down the column to Formio. Have the Fimbrians take charge of them.”
“Yes, General.”
“You saw only this one body of the enemy?”
“No. There were others—raiding parties, maybe two or three hundred each. They swarm over the land like locusts.”
“You weren’t seen?”
“No. We were careful. And our armour is Merduk. We smeared it with mud to hide the colour and rode up to them like friends. That is why we caught them all. None escaped.”
“It was well done. These raiding bands, are they all cavalry?”
“Most of them. Some are infantry like those in the big camp at the King’s Battle. All have arquebuses or pistols, though.”
“I see. Now take them down to Formio. When we halt for the night I want them brought to me—in one piece, you understand?” This was for the benefit of the glowering Torunnans who were standing in perfect rank but whose knuckles were white on their weapons.
“It shall be so.” Then Marsch displayed a rare jet of anger and outrage.
“They are not soldiers, these things. They are animals. They are brave only when they attack women or unarmed men. When we charged them some threw down their weapons and cried like children. They are of no account.” Contempt dripped from his voice. But then he rode close to Corfe and spoke quietly to his general so that none of the other soldiers overheard.
“And some of them are not Merduk. They look like men of the west, like us. Or like Torunnans.”
Corfe nodded. “I know. Take them away now, Marsch.”
A LL the rest of the day, as the army continued its slow march north, the prisoners were cowering in Corfe’s mind. Andruw was grim and silent at his side. They had passed half a dozen hamlets in the course of the past two days. Some had been burnt to the ground, others seemed eerily untouched. All were deserted but for a few decaying corpses, so maimed by the weather and the animals that it was impossible to tell even what sex they were. The land around them seemed ransacked and desolate, and the mood of the entire army was turning ugly. They had fought Merduks before, met them in open battle and striven against them face to face. But it was a different thing to see one’s own country laid waste out of sheer wanton brutality. Corfe had seen it before, around Aekir, but it was new to most of the others.
Andruw, who knew this part of the world only too well, was directing the course of their march. The plan was to circle around in a great horseshoe until they were trekking back south again. The Cathedrallers would provide a mobile screen to hide their movements and keep them informed as to the proximity of the enemy. When they encountered any sizeable force the main body of the army would be brought up, put into battle-line, and hurled forward. But so far they had not encountered any enemy formation of a size which warranted the deployment of the entire army, and the men were becoming frustrated and angry. It was four days since they had left the boats behind, and while the Cathedrallers had been skirmishing constantly, the infantry had yet to even see a live Merduk—apart from these prisoners Marsch had just brought in. Corfe felt as though he were striving to manage a huge pack of slavering hounds eager to slip the leash and run wild. The Torunnans especially were determined to exact some payment for the despoliation of their country.
They camped that night in the lee of a large pine wood. The horses and mules were hobbled on its edge and the men were able to trudge inside and light their first campfires in two days, the flames hidden by the thick depths of the trees. Eight thousand men required a large campsite, some twelve acres or more, but the wood was able to accommodate them all with ease.
Once the fires were lit, rations handed out and the sentries posted, Formio and four sombre Fimbrians brought the Merduk prisoners to Corfe’s fire. The Merduks were shoved into line with the dark trees towering around them like watchful giants. All about them, the quiet talk and rustling of men setting out their bedrolls ceased, and hundreds of Corfe’s troopers edged closer to listen. Andruw was there, and Ranafast and Marsch and Ebro—all the senior officers of the army. They had not been summoned, but Corfe could not turn them away. He realised suddenly that if it came down to it, he trusted the discipline of his own Cathedrallers and the Fimbrians more than he did that of his fellow countrymen. This night they were not Torunnan professional soldiers, but angry, outraged men who needed something to vent their rage upon. He wondered, if it came to it, whether he would be able to stop them degenerating into some kind of lynch mob.
He walked up and down the line of prisoners in silence. Some met his eyes, some stared at the ground. Yes, Marsch had been right: at least four of them had the fair skin and blue eyes of westerners. They were no doubt part of the
Minhraib
of Ostrabar, the peasant levy. Ostrabar had once been Ostiber, a Ramusian kingdom. The grandfathers of these soldiers had fought the Merduks as Corfe’s Torunnans were fighting them now, but these men had been born subjects of the Sultan, worshippers of the Prophet, their Ramusian heritage forgotten. Or almost forgotten.
“Who amongst you speaks Normannic?” Corfe snapped.
A short man raised his head. “I do, your honour. Felipio of Artakhan.”
Felipio—even the name was Ramusian. Corfe tried to stop his own anger and hatred from clouding his thinking. He fought to keep his voice reasonable.
“Very well, Felipio. The name of your regiment, if you please, and your mission here in the north-west of my country.”
Felipio licked dry lips, looking around at the hate-filled faces which surrounded him. “We are from the sixty-eighth regiment of pistoleers, your honour,” he said. “We were infantry, part of the levy before the fall of the dyke. Then they gave us horses and matchlocks and sent us out to scout to the north up to the Torrin Gap.”
“Scouting, is it?” a voice snarled from the blackness under the trees, and there was a general murmur.
“Be silent!” Corfe cried. “By God, you men will hold your tongues this night. Colonel Cear-Adurhal, you will take ten men and secure this area from further interruption. This is not a God-damned court-martial, nor yet a debating chamber.”