The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (149 page)

But before Tor Salan’s mercenary captains could organise an official reception, the men in grey produced horns from under their cloaks and began to sound a crisp series of notes. Amber was too far away to hear the tune clearly, but he didn’t need to: he’d heard the same notes as they’d marched on Thotel: Chetse army orders, played on the long horns that curled around a man’s body.

The call to arms was played twice in quick succession, and in the silence that followed the men threw off their cloaks. For a moment nothing happened, then the horsemen turned and advanced on the nearest Hand. The Land held its breath with Amber, waiting for the tipping point - which came in the form of a sudden flurry of activity around the Giants’ Hands as the ranks of infantry defending the mages formed up in protective wedges.

‘You have agents in place?’ mused Emissary Jerrer, a look of dispassionate curiosity on his face. ‘But how to deal with so many mages? And what about the defending soldiers? You surely cannot have an army of agents.’

‘A handful, no more,’ Lord Styrax replied, never taking his eyes off the city. It was clear that there was fighting going on. In no more than a minute the main gate of Tor Salan was opening and more troops were flooding out.

‘I confess you have me perplexed, my Lord,’ the emissary said. Amber could hear a hint of admiration in Jerrer’s voice.

‘It’s simple, Emissary, the defenders of Tor Salan quite rightly considered their newly recruited Chetse mercenaries to be ideal for the job of defending their most important weapons.’

‘And they were wrong to do so?’

‘Under normal circumstances, no. However, these are not normal circumstances, are they? The advance group I sent were not messengers, Emissary, but the tachrenn of the Ten Thousand, led by General Dev himself.’

‘The Ten Thousand?’ gasped Jerrer, suddenly realising what was going on. ‘You allowed those Chetse soldiers to travel north to become mercenaries, ensuring enough of the Ten Thousand were among them to carry opinion? And once they see their generals under your banner, they will turn on the remaining troops, their erstwhile comrades, and slaughter the mages? But there are hundreds of mages out there! Lord Styrax, surely your losses will be vast?’

‘Captain Hain?’

Hain flinched; he hadn’t been expected to be called upon to explain the plan, but when all faces turned to him he rallied and took up the explanation.

‘Lord Styrax suggested to me that such an expenditure of energy as would be required for the Giants’ Hands would require many rituals, and a careful bonding of power. Investigations showed that the mages are linked to each other, and thus cannot break those links quickly or easily.’ He cleared his throat noisily, his discomfort evident.

Amber felt a certain sympathy for the man: he’d been trained to combat; he’d not been taught how to lecture an audience of dignitaries in front of the tribe’s heroes. No one was looking at him, so he gave his captain a thumb’s-up sign.

Hain nodded very slightly, gave himself a metaphorical shake and continued, ‘The magical energy is largely contained within the arm itself. It flows from the linked mages and is stored within the brass rods. With sufficient troops on the field the mages can be neutralised before they have started any significant defence.’

‘Neutralised.’ Jerrer looked startled by the word, as though ‘slaughtered’ would have sounded more acceptable.

‘This is war,’ said General Gaur in his deep, growling voice. ‘Unless the Patriarch of the Mosaic Council is more of a fool than our intelligence suggests, he will surrender the city and it will cost only a few hundred lives.’

‘But still, Tor Salan is a haven for mages - they are crucial to the city at all levels of society…’ Jerrer’s voice tailed off.

Mages were the backbone of many societies. The rest of the Land would take note of what happened in Tor Salan.

‘This will serve as a lesson,’ Gaur replied. ‘To oppose Lord Styrax is folly; the extent of damage done to any city-state will be dependent on how long it takes them to accept that.’

The beast-man was impassive as always. Amber had shared more than a few skins of wine with the general, but he had never been able to guess Gaur’s mood from his demeanour. You could tell when the half-human was thinking, because his jaw worked constantly, pushing his long lower canines through the tangled fur on his cheeks, but beyond that Gaur surpassed even the Dharai, the Menin warrior-monks, for impassiveness.

Looking back down to the action, Amber could see only a blurred mass of movement, presumably the Chetse mercenaries cutting down their former allies. Here and there flashes of light indicated at least a handful of mages had had the time to disengage and fight back, but the magical lights were only sporadic. One by one the Giants’ Hands wavered, then crashed to the ground.

The Menin cavalry had split in two, leaving a channel down the centre of the flood plain. Once they’d crippled the city’s principal defences, the Chetse would simply march away, with any pursuit held at bay by the Menin cavalry.

‘Captain,’ General Gaur called, ‘have our lord’s horse brought up.’

Hain saluted and signalled to someone, and in just a few moments horses for the whole group appeared, led by an enormous grey draped in Lord Styrax’s colours. The horse was fully nineteen hands, and bore a steel head-covering that had long fangs hanging on each side to mimic Styrax’s standard.

As they mounted up, Amber took the chance to whisper to Captain Hain, ‘Are you now going to tell me how you’re sure they’ll surrender so quickly?’

All ‘special duties’ carried an obligation of secrecy that transcended rank; Hain had been delighted to be forced to keep the details of his full operation a surprise for his superior. He grinned. ‘The Patriarch will give the order without consulting the entire council; he’ll be with his most important advisors already. Once he sees his six thousand Chetse kneel to Lord Styrax he’ll realise he has no choice.’

‘It will still be no simple task to take the city, even with this shifting of the balance.’

‘And so we don’t want to give him time to think too hard.’

‘Can we force it?’

‘Once we’re on the way, the message will be delivered. I hear the Raylin called Aracnan was in Scree, which is why we couldn’t find him for this task, but Lord Larim will manage just as well.’

‘Larim’s already in the city?’

‘The white-eye in him is looking forward to getting his hands dirty for a change!’

Amber pictured Lord Larim, the young Chosen of Larat, God of Magic, as they followed Lord Styrax out onto the plain. Larat’s devotees tended to leave the killing to others; no doubt Larim would consider this mission high entertainment.

‘What if the Patriarch doesn’t do as he’s told?’

Hain shrugged and Amber realised he’d asked a stupid question. ‘Then Larim will kill him and signal the attack. Wherever Lord Styrax intends to go next - west to Narkang or north to Tirah - we must control both of the great trading city-states, and if Tor Salan doesn’t surrender we’ll inflict such destruction upon it that the Circle City will not contemplate opposing us for even a minute.’

‘Sautin and Mustet won’t cause trouble unless we march to their doorsteps,’ said Amber, ‘and that leaves Embere and Raland, both controlled by the Devoted - and both no doubt already preparing for us.’

‘Exactly, sir,’ Hain said cheerfully, ‘so we’ll get a fight this year after all!’

And we will build another monument to our lord with their skulls, Amber added privately.

The sky was slate-grey, angry. A broken mountain burned in the distance, wreathed in black coils of smoke. The freezing wind pierced his ragged clothes as he struggled to find purchase in the churned mud underfoot. He staggered on over the ruined ground, exhausted, using his bloodstained sword for balance and fighting for every step, but it made no difference. The mountain came no closer, and the darkness behind advanced relentlessly.

Collapsing to his knees, he gasped for breath and looked around. The landscape was ruined; there were great furrows carved into the earth, and even the weeds were crushed and dead. Death was all around him, and despite an occasional discarded item - a helm here, a broken scabbard there - he saw no one else, neither alive, nor dead. The broken black tooth of the mountain seemed to loom over him, unreal and untouchable.

He dug his fingers into the mud and felt it suck them down. He wrenched his hand from the dead land’s grasp and tried to stand, but his legs rebelled as the darkness closed in on him. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t voice his terror. He tried to lift his sword with what feeble strength he had left, but to no avail. The darkness bent over him, as insubstantial as smoke, until cold fingers grabbed him by the throat. He fell back and the mud welcomed him, burning as it drew him in, the hand at his throat pushing him inexorably down and down into the cold of the grave.

‘Can I guess why you chose this place?’

Isak turned his head to where Mihn was sitting, a motionless figure silhouetted against the light creeping through the warped boards.

‘Couldn’t it be that I just wanted somewhere out of the way and one stable’s as good as another?’ Isak gestured around at the hay loft they were sitting in. Oxen shifted in the gloom below. ‘It’s warmer than standing about in an alley, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed it is, but I suspect this is one stable you’ve been in before.’

Isak shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Doesn’t mean it’s significant.’

Isak doubted Mihn would be fooled. The taciturn northerner never indulged in idle chatter; he rarely initiated conversations at all, even if several months in Morghien’s company had made him a little more open. Morghien had lingered in Tirah for a fortnight before the road called too loudly and he gave in to his itinerant nature. During that time Isak had seen the unspoken bond between them, similar to the one he himself had with Mihn. It was as if Mihn had forgotten what it was to have friends, but was slowly getting used to the notion again.

‘I do think it significant, my Lord. You are not much of a romantic, so I doubt nostalgia is why we’re here.’

‘Are you mocking me?’

‘No, Isak, I’m concerned. Scree has changed you, in more ways than one. The witch of Llehden agrees with me, and I’m not just talking about the appearance of the Reapers in Irienn Square.’

‘What are you talking about then?’ Isak snapped, barely remembering to keep his voice low.

The wind, a mournful moan overhead that rattled the roof of the stable, had been building throughout the day until now, past midnight, it was whipping at the city. There had been a light flurry of snow earlier that week, and Isak was sure he had felt the cold deepen as those first flakes fell.

‘I’m talking about you,’ Mihn said patiently. ‘You don’t joke as much as you used to. It’s almost as if you have forgotten that you once used laughter to draw others to you - ‘

‘I’m Lord of the Farlan,’ Isak broke in, ‘I shouldn’t need laughter to make them obey me.’

‘That’s not what I mean; you used to do it as naturally as breathing. Being Lord of the Farlan does not mean they will thoughtlessly follow you, only that they will obey your orders.’

‘Your point?’

‘That you appear haunted. I’ve seen you glance over your shoulder, even when you’re eating and your back is to the wall - and you move your chair further back than anyone else’s. Yes, I noticed.’

Isak looked down at the stable floor below. ‘What would you have me say?’

‘That I am your bondsman and you trust me with your secrets.’

‘Of course I trust you.’

‘Then let me help,’ Mihn said calmly. ‘I am yours to command, whether I know the purpose behind your order or not.’

‘And that’ll help, will it?’ Isak said sourly.

‘You’re a white-eye, my Lord. Your nature is not to accept things meekly. That you look so unsettled leads me to believe you have not yet found a way to fight it. When you do that, you’ll find purpose relieves much of your anxiety.’

Isak gave a soft, hollow laugh. ‘You could be right, but I have a few problems I can see no solutions to.’

‘Name them.’

He looked at Mihn, almost expecting the man to be joking, but he was deadly serious.

‘Okay, since you ask: first, this religious fervour that’s driving everyone to madness, demanding idiocy in the place of policy. Next, since the fall of Scree I have dreamt of nothing but death, and it grows insistent.’ He scowled and scratched his cheek. ‘And there are no traces of those of Azaer’s disciples who survived Scree, we still have little clue as to what the shadow’s motives are, and I’m at a loss where to even begin.

‘So do you have solutions for me now?’

‘No, my Lord,’ Mihn replied gravely, ‘but I have advice, whatever small use it might be. You must always play to your strengths. A blacksmith will lay out those tools he possesses before starting work, and so must you.’

‘Have all my suzerains stand in a line?’ Isak asked, a brief grin lightening his face.

‘No, Isak, the tools of the man, not the duke.’

‘They’re few enough,’ he said grimly, noting Mihn’s use of his first name, not something he did often. ‘I’m a white-eye, which means I’ve as many bad qualities as good.’

‘You’ve never hidden from those before,’ Mihn pointed out. ‘I’ve seen the look on your face whenever anyone mentions the battle on the Chir Plains - it’s one of determination rather than embarrassment.’

Isak raised a hand to stop him as they heard footsteps outside the stable door. There was a rattle as the door was pushed open and a face appeared in the gap. Vesna looked all around the stable before catching sight of Isak in the hay loft.

‘Go on, quickly,’ Isak said to Mihn, pushing himself to his feet.

‘Take the religious matter: this is an unsavoury element of society as a whole. Consider your temper, it remains volatile even now; what did you do about it?’

There was a frown on Isak’s face as he stood, towering over Mihn, then he said, ‘I accepted that it was part of me, it was never going to go away so it needed to be shackled.’ He started carefully down the creaking ladder.

‘Exactly; you brought it within and channelled it to a more useful end. It was either that or be eternally at war with yourself.’