The Arcanist (44 page)

“Artefacts? Ancient relics?”

“These are Cabal wizards remember. Ancient magic users and likely with ancient artefacts. My thought is that some of the artefacts that have been uncovered over the years are from their time. Left overs from the wars they created. And from them we can learn more about the machines they're creating and the devices they use to perform their tricks.”

“Does this help us?”

“Oh yes!” Edouard was unbelievably happy to be able to say that. “Already I know how to undo some of their machines. Most of their metal warriors. There is only one type that I could actually destroy myself. The fire dogs. I have only a spark of fire. But when they build their fire demon powered warriors I can simply disenchant them. I know the words, the shape of the magic and the bindings. Fergis can do it too.”

“And a spark of weather given this knowledge could undo the armoured wind demons just as easily.”

“Every device they can build can be undone in a heartbeat by a spark with the right gift. All we need to know is the shape of every device they can build and the way the magic is enchanted.” And then of course they needed to find enough sparks with the right affinities. But that wasn't his problem.

Silence returned to the library for a bit after that, until Janus broke it in the most unexpected way. He walked over to Edouard's desk, grabbed an armful of journals and then took a seat at another of the tables. That Edouard guessed, meant he agreed with him. Maybe. Kyriel on the other hand didn't look so convinced as she remained standing in the doorway. But Janus had an answer for that.

“Girl, go and wake Gwen and Fergis and bring them here. We will have breakfast in the library as we work.”

Girl?
Edouard almost choked as he heard the apothecary address her as that. And he couldn't imagine that Kyriel was impressed at being so addressed either. Or at being ordered around like a child. But she said nothing as she left them. Perhaps she knew it was pointless. Janus spoke to everyone the same way. And there wasn't much he could do about it anyway. Besides, she was happy enough when Janus ordered Edouard around in his own home.

So he carefully said nothing and vowed silently to himself to never mention it to her. The handmaiden might accept that sort of treatment from Janus, but never from him. Age and crankiness apparently had their advantages.

In any case he decided as he let his eyes return to the journal in front of him, he had work to do.

Chapter Forty Three

The room was poorly lit, the walls brown from years of grime that had covered the aged paper, and the bare floor boards were covered in dirt and scuff marks from the thousands of boots that had trod them over the years. It could have used a clean, but Marcus wasn't sure that there were enough servants in the land to make it look as it should again. And of course like everything else in the city it stank. The room was filled with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale and cider, and of course vomit. That was the natural odour of the alehouse.

At the very least someone could have washed the windows to let in some more light. But even that hadn't been done. Maybe it would have just shown up all the filth in the room. And the shocking state of disrepair of the furniture which consisted of worn out chairs and stools, many of which creaked alarmingly as people sat on them. As they said though – beggars couldn't be choosers – and at least they had a room to meet in.

A gold coin had emptied the back room of the Basilisk's Stool and even provided a little ale so that the lords of Therion could meet and discuss the war, such as it was. But Marcus was annoyed by that. Normally a few coppers should have been enough for a modest room with a worn out filth covered floor and ale stained walls, but the innkeeper was profiting at their expense. More than profiting. It was extortion. With what Marcus and his family had paid him over the previous months for accommodation he could surely have bought a whole new inn. And now he demanded a full gold coin just to let out a room for a few hours.

But as annoying as the innkeeper's larcenous ways were, they still annoyed him less than the meanderings of the nine assembled lords of Therion as they vacillated over their plans. To launch the war or not? To take back their homes? To attack or defend? And if they attacked, when? Back and forth their arguments ran without a decision ever being reached. It wasn't good enough. Marcus wanted to shout that at them. Shout it to the stars above. But as the heir to the House of Barris, he couldn't. It was bitterly unfair.

These nine lords – nine men all of advancing years, and all looking as though they had fallen on hard times – were all that remained of the Court, at least in Bitter Crest. As such they should have had only one thing on their mind. To take back Therion. To save the people and return to their home. But to listen to them you'd think that they didn't know what they should do. That there was actually some sort of choice to be made. But there simply wasn't. Not anymore. They were running out of time.

And yet they were content to ignore that and remain in Bitter Crest. To send out patrols, one after another into Therion, scouting the lay of the land, warning the people, rescuing a few, and skirmishing with whatever enemies they encountered but never really advancing towards the city. They seemed to think it was the wiser course of action as they strengthened their forces. And they didn't want to take risks. What they forgot of course was that war was always a risk. And that as they strengthened their forces so too did Vesar's armies grow. And Marcus had the horrible feeling that the Cabal wizard's army was growing faster than theirs.

Meanwhile, they faced another problem. That they would soon run out of coin to pay their soldiers. Most of them were in financial trouble. Their business concerns had been stolen from them. What they had left were only the remains of what they'd been able to bring with them as they fled Therion. And soldiers, even those with homes that had been stolen from them and dead loved ones to avenge, still needed to be paid. Even while they sat around and trained. Not to mention that they needed to be equipped and fed. Sooner or later they would end up without an army.

And all the while the progress on that accursed temple was advancing. What it would do when it was complete Marcus didn't truly know. He'd read the reports that Edouard and the others had prepared and they painted a stark picture of it being used to steal the life blood of those with magic and use it to build armies of those armoured wind demons instead of just the ones and twos of them their patrols had encountered so far. But deep in his marrow he had the fear that it would do more than that. That it was truly some terrible weapon. Edouard was right. No one would have launched a coup and killed thousands to build something good. And why else would Vesar's soldiers be so desperately rounding up the men from all the nearby towns and villages just so that they could work on it?

So far they had taken them in their thousands. It had to be important. Worse than that, though Simon had apparently all but destroyed it as he'd fled the city, with the numbers of workers now being used to rebuild it, he was sure its completion couldn't be that far away. They had to strike before that happened.

“Gentlemen, it's time!” Marcus raised his voice as he looked around the room and fixed each of them in turn with a determined stare. He was tired of all the excuses being made and the endless delays being foisted on them by reluctant lords. In any war there was a time for regrouping and licking one’s wounds and there was a time for striking back. After months in Bitter Crest he was fast coming to the conclusion that the time had come to strike. But the rest of the former lords of Therion seemed unable to accept the same understanding. “It's past time!”

“We're not ready.” Lord Aman was the first to say it, but only by a little. Others had the same thought and looked to want to give it voice.

“We're as ready as we will ever be.” Marcus wasn't about to listen to their doubts any longer. “Between us we can amass an army of thirty five hundred. That's more than enough to begin the attack. To liberate a dozen or more towns and villages as we head back into Therion. We can free the entire south west as far as Breakwater and cut off the enemy's resources.”

“Those in the cities of Farring Cross can amass a larger army still and strike from the north. And if we work together, striking both fronts at once, Vesar's forces will be divided. Vulnerable. Then, once we've taken the south west and they have the north it becomes a matter of simply taking the rest. And then when we're done we can lay siege to the city. A city with few defenders, limited supplies and broken walls.”

“We can do this. Now. But the longer we wait the harder it will become. And sooner or later it will become impossible.”

“Thirty five hundred is still only a small army,” said Lord Perrin-Wright, pointing out the obvious. It wasn't a force large enough to retake the realm. But a war was won in stages. By setting objectives and achieving them. And besides, he seemed to want to continue as they were, doing little and letting Vesar amass his forces and build his damned temple. Of course what he really wanted was someone he respected to tell him what to do. He wanted King Byron to be there and give him the command. Or the king's right hand Lord Julius. But both were dead and Marcus was what they had left.

“It's large enough for what we need. And if we do nothing, if we continue as we are, then sooner or later Vesar's army complete with those armoured wind demons will come here and Bitter Crest itself will be lost along with perhaps many more cities.”

“You don't know that!” Lord Perrin-Wright's tone rose a little as he tried to deny the obvious, and Marcus knew he was speaking from a place of fear. He wanted to believe – to hope – that one way or another the war was over. That things weren't going to get any worse. Even if it meant never reclaiming their home. But then he was an old man who had seen one of his sons killed and another badly injured. His family's farms had been burnt to the ground, and his home was gone. He was at the stage where he couldn't stand to lose anymore. That Marcus understood. But he also knew that they couldn't allow fear to dictate their actions.

“Yes I do!” He carefully emphasised every word so that they heard the certainty in his voice.

“You've seen the reports. You know the details. Vesar is building his accursed temple. He is desperate to have it completed as soon as possible. And we cannot let that happen. Both Ascorlexia and my brother Edouard agree; when it's built it will allow him to build not just a few of these armoured wind demons, but an army of them and others of those accursed machines. And there is only one reason he would want an army – to do exactly what the Cabal wizards of old tried to do. To build an empire from the destruction of our world.”

“If we do not act now we will lose. We will still all be sitting here arguing about when to strike against a city with no walls and few defenders when an army of those things arrives at our doorstep.”

“Your brother –.” Lord Perrin-Wright wasn't giving up.

“– Is right!” Marcus interrupted him. He would hear no more of their fears and doubts. “He has provided our soldiers with the musket balls we need to destroy those wind demons. He has given us the knowledge of the previous wars and the way they were fought. He has visited the powers and gained their knowledge as well. And he's told us what other demon machines we can expect and how to defeat them. And we now have a spark of weather who is willing to use that knowledge against them. That makes two sparks of fire, a spark of lightning and another of light.”

“We have the forces we need and all we are going to get. Over the coming months we may be able to increase our forces a little. But it will be at a cost that we cannot continue to pay. Vesar meanwhile is building his forces faster than us. And when that accursed temple is built and he can build all the foul demon creatures he wants, he will be unbeatable. From now on our chances of victory only roll down the hill, and soon we will have no chance left.”

“Then he will come for us. Those wind demon things will walk right through Bitter Crest, destroying everything. This city has no walls to stop them. The fire dog demons will kill everyone that stands against them and chase down the survivors.”

“So today we have to make a choice. Standing our ground is no longer an option. We advance or retreat. We either use our army, or we run away.”

“My lords I call for a vote. Take back Therion or flee and let our enemy have everything. Our estates. Our lands. Our businesses. And our pride.”

It was a gamble calling for the vote, but it had to be done. He had to force the issue. Otherwise they really would be sitting there dithering like a bunch of old women when the war was finally lost.

“Gentlemen raise your hands if you choose to fight.” Marcus called for the vote and then waited nervously as the old men dithered.

It was the longest wait of his life.