The Right Hand of God (42 page)

The face turned to her. 'Do you hear that, Stella? Twenty thousand slain! We need hardly bother ourselves with Faltha at all. Our allies do the work for us!

'Well then, King of Favony: what do you claim as a reward?'

'A chance to serve you further,' said the voice promptly, and the fire burned with a red tinge.

'Your permission to send a force of men eastwards to Instruere, to finish the work your previous servants were unable to complete.'

The Undying Man stretched forth his one hand, and the

flame twisted as though in pain. 'Do you think to overreach yourself? Do you think to set yourself up as the ruler of Faltha?'

The voice that spoke was the same voice as before, but now it radiated waves of agony, as though caught in the grip of a huge fist. 'My lord, forgive me! I sought your favour so that I might rule under you!' The one hand opened wide, and the voice became a shriek, an unending shriek.

'That place is reserved for another,' announced the Destroyer, ignoring the suffering pouring from the flame and echoing through the oncoming darkness. 'You will content yourself with the lordship of Favony. I will soon walk beneath the Inna Gate in triumph. I have foreseen it.'

He withdrew his hand, and the fire shrank until it merely licked the embers. The screams stopped, and thick silence settled on the Bhrudwan camp.

'Do you see?' he said to Stella as he led her back to her litter. 'Do you finally understand? The army led by your villager friend is already decimated even before it meets mine. My plans are a thousand years in the making - and, thanks to you, I am aware of what my Enemy intends to do. His plans are set in motion. They are not easily changed, depending as they do on weak-willed mortals, whereas my plans are flexible. Now I have you here, I am ready to capture the Right Hand of the Most High for my own. I will have a hand in which to hold the Jugom Ark!

And you,' his voice lowered to an intimate murmur as he turned to her, 'I have foreseen that you are the one who will bring him to me.'

Leith's army crossed the Aleinus for the last time at Turtu Donija, the chief city of Piskasia.

The citizenry came out of their homes and down from the terraced fields to watch the soldiers make their way carefully over the narrow swingbridge.

The entertainment lasted all of the day, with the last of the wagons coaxed across the rickety structure just before true night settled on the wide valley.

The Falthan leaders did not make the journey across the bridge until early the next morning.

Forewarned by Mahnum's knowledge, they expected stern resistance, or at the very least some sort of deceit or delaying tactic, from the Piskasian monarch named as traitor by the Destroyer, but there had been no opposition thus far to their journey through the Fisher-country. As far as they could tell, they had been observed by no one other than a few farmers and fishermen. They experienced no opposition even in the sprawling town itself. With a desire to dispense some justice, to avenge the martyr's death of the Arkhos of Piskasia - who had remained true even when his king played his country false - Leith took the time to bring his leaders and a small troop of mounted Instruian Guard to the main palace. They found it empty, deserted with signs of haste. Good. The king had heard of their coming, it seemed, and fled.

They stayed in the castle that night, eating what remained in the king's larder, and sitting up late beside a warm fire. And early next morning they woke to the sound of a crowd.

Five thousand men filled the city square, armed with every conceivable kind of crude implement that might be considered a weapon, and they uttered a thin cheer as the Company filed out of the palace gate. An obviously reluctant man, spokesman for this impromptu army, shuffled forward to meet them. The Company remained alert in case this was some kind of trick, though they thought it unlikely.

The greasy-haired man cleared his throat, glancing nervously at the flickering Arrow and at the swords of the mounted guardsmen. 'We hear about your army,' he said awkwardly, as if unfamiliar with the common Falthan tongue. 'You go to fight the Bhrudwans, people say.

Well, we know about Bhrudwans here. They come through Piskasia on their way west to the slave-markets of Hamadabat. They lie, they steal, they treat us like dirt. Our king, he will not protect us, so we drive him away. Now we want to come with you and fight the Bhrudwans so they do not invade our lands.' Having said his piece, he stepped quickly back into the throng.

Leith turned to his generals. More soldiers would be a good thing - the number here in the square would come close to replacing the men lost in Vulture's Craw - but their attire and bearing did not inspire confidence. The Falthan leaders conferred and Jethart stepped forward.

He spoke quietly, but his voice carried all the way across the square. Someone must be enhancing. Automatically Leith searched behind him for Hal, but he had not accompanied them to the castle, and neither had his parents. He began to search his memory: when had he last seen any of them?

'If you go off to fight the Bhrudwans, one or two of you may be lucky enough to straggle back to your homes alive,' the old warrior said flatly. 'The rest won't. We would have to give you food and weapons, and spend much effort in trying to get you to the right place on the battlefield, yet you will still die.'

A few men in the crowd began to grumble angrily at these words.

'I do not doubt your courage. How could I? Here you are, ready to give your lives. But you would be far better remaining here, protecting your families, preparing your homes for winter, so that if a few Bhrudwans do eventually break through our lines, you will be ready for them.'

The muttering increased in volume, and it became apparent

the crowd had no mind to listen to craven, if sound, advice. Not wanting a conflict, and genuinely concerned about their ability to escape unscathed if they remained to debate the issue, the leaders of the Falthan army took to their horses and rode for the bridge.

A day north of Turtu Donija it became clear the Falthan army was being followed. A rag-tag collection of Piskasians, far more than had gathered in the square, pursued them on foot and by horse. 'We will have to feed them,' Leith was told; 'they will hold us up. This is a disaster.'

But there appeared to be no Piskasian leaders to talk with, and no time to stop and talk to each one of the Piskasians individually.

Twenty-three days to go. The land either side of the much narrower, swifter Aleinus River looked desolate, empty of habitation, with few trees save the occasional gnarled survivor of better times. It began to rain lightly on the second day out of Turtu Donija; just a drizzle, but driven by an insistent east wind. The rain tasted stale, as though the water had been locked up in the clouds for years. Twenty-two days to go. On either bank of the Aleinus could be seen evidence of a huge flood that, according to locals they met, had torn through the area the previous spring. Trunks of huge trees, bleached by the sun, were strewn about like kindling wood, and large areas of raw earth exposed many spans above the river's dull surface. Anxiety rose within the leadership as for days the soldiers were forced to pick their way through veritable forests of driftwood as the cold rains fell. Eighteen days to go. The rains ceased on the same day a small town came into view on the opposite bank: someone told Leith it went by the name of Saumon, but he was so tired he hardly took

it in. Up at dawn, pausing only for a hasty morning meal, riding from dawn to dusk, listening, consulting, counting and planning until his head swirled. Sixteen days to go. The informal Piskasian army had by now fallen some distance behind. On the advice of his generals Leith gave the order prohibiting the wagons from stopping for them. In this way, it was hoped, the Piskasians would be persuaded to return home. The snow-coated Wodranian Mountains that had overseen their progress all the way through the Fisher-lands now faded from view, drawing away leftwards from the river. Thirteen days to go. A small band of badly-equipped mercenaries came out of the Wodranian Mountains and offered their services to the Falthan army. Leith accepted despite the counsel of his generals: the Arrow had picked the Wodrani out, after all. Unity, he told his leaders. Finally they came to the end of the long Piskasian valley that ran south-west to north-east for nearly two hundred leagues. Nestled in a small hollow lay the tiny village of Adolina, a collection of low huts with tall chimneys, a league or so from the banks of the Aleinus. Leith's mighty army was exhausted, and there were still eleven days to go.

Wrapped in heavy robes to ward off the winter cold, the three conspirators met in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the Granary district. Part of the roof was open to the grey sky, and the cold flagstoned floor bore scorchmarks from burned beams fallen from the ceiling. They circled the small table in the centre of the room, as though they held swords in their hands and looked for a chance to strike. There were no chairs, and no one would have sat if there had been. 'You owe me your loyalty,' the fat man wheezed, pointing a pudgy finger at the older, thinner man. 'I rescued you from

that dungeon, where they left you to moulder. You are mine, and your people are mine.'

The bird-like man sputtered, the skin around his throat tightening as he tried to formulate a reply.

'Don't worry,' the big man laughed, the sound a rasp to their ears. 'My leadership will not be onerous. Your wants and my wants are the same, after all; to be rid of these cursed northerners, and to lead this addled City into a new Golden Age. Now the northerners are gone, the City is a ripe ear of wheat ready to be harvested.'

The third man, silent until now, raised his hand. Unlike his co-conspirators he had a fair face, a liquid voice and a serenity that lent his words extra power. Glimpses of his habitual blue robe could be seen underneath a nondescript brown cloak.

'We both acknowledge you as the leader here,' said the third man, his blond hair flicking across his forehead as he leaned forward. 'There is no issue about this. Neither the Escaignian nor I have the stomach for what must be done, and I do not want the guilt on my soul. The Most High has told me that the fire will come to Instruere; and although I have listened with all my might, cloistering myself so as to hear any whisper, He speaks to me no longer. This can only be because something has happened that does not meet with His approval, so He waits until the wrongs are put to rights. The northerners and that deceiver Tanghin are wrongs, and though Tanghin has burned, the northern peasants still survive. They also must burn.'

The circling around the table continued.

'And so they shall!' cried the huge man, his eyes black caverns into a realm of nothingness.

'And not them alone. All those who oppose our rule will pay.' His face hungered with a frightening intensity, like a starving man contemplating a banquet of the finest food.

'You will gather the remnants of your followers,' he said, stopping his circling long enough to fix each of them with his terrible eyes. 'We do not need many, so speak only to those whose loyalty is unquestionable. Bring them here: we will meet here two nights from now, and I will tell you what we must do.'

'And Instruere will be ours?' asked the thin man, his face full of hope.

'Not just Instruere.' The reply was breathy with desire. 'Who knows how much of Faltha will be given into our hands?'

Remembering her time of imprisonment by Deorc, and recognising that though the conditions were different, the power-lessness was much the same, Stella reinstituted her disciplines. She forced herself to take an interest in the lands they travelled through, in the people she could see, in those few she came in contact with; excepting the Destroyer, of course. She tried to glean any hints she could about the condition and location of the Falthan army. She stretched her muscles, aware her futile week on the run had revealed her lack of fitness. And she looked for any way to slow the progress of the Bhrudwans - not that she expected to get the opportunity.

Currently the eunuch shared her litter. He brought her some appalling gruel, salty and full of lumps. She had eaten as much as she could take, then offered the rest to her jailer, who ate eagerly. The plump man had said little since her recapture, but had obviously suffered some kind of punishment: his eyes had a haunted cast to them, and his cheeks were sunken in his sad face. Perhaps he accepted her scraps because he was being deprived of food.

'You won't talk about yourself,' she said to him, her voice coaxing. 'You are not just your master's tool. Where were you born?'

The unhappy cast to his face deepened. Stella sensed he both wanted and feared to speak. She watched while the warring within him went on. Finally he sighed, shrugged his shoulders and spoke.

'I may talk of nothing other than what is necessary to the execution of my duties,' he said in his singsong voice. 'I cannot talk to you of myself.' There was definite regret in his words.

'Telling me about yourself is part of your duty,' said Stella earnestly, searching her mind for any justification. 'I will be more likely to confide in your master if I have already confided in you.'

'You wish to confide in me?' The words were soft, human, underlined by need. What horrible things had been done to this man?

'I wish us to talk with each other. Was it beautiful, the place you were born?'

He nodded almost imperceptibly; then, as if emboldened by his own action, nodded again.

'Yes,' he whispered. 'It was beautiful.'

She watched his eyes, looking for any sign of the Destroyer's sudden possession, but there was none. 'How was it beautiful?'

'The sea there is a glorious eggshell blue, and the waters are warm. The sun plays on the sea like a happy child. If I could have any wish, I would return home to the sea just once before I die.'

'When were you last there?'

'Many years ago.' His eyes filmed over: for a moment Stella started in fright, but the eunuch merely shuffled through his

memories. 'Jena and I swam in the pools below her house. I remember laughing with her, I remember holding her. Later that summer I was chosen by the recruiters, and I travelled north with them to Malayu.' His eyes were now closed, and his face wore a look of pain, as though the memories troubled him.