The Right Hand of God (60 page)

'Who?'

'Have you forgotten the prophecy on the ceiling of the

Hall of Conal Greatheart?' He kept his voice low, knowing that the name of Conal might earn them a reprimand.

'Oh,' Leith responded, then turned his head away, clearly discomfited.

Phemanderac let the subject drop, but began again early the next morning. 'Sir Amasian saw truly, Leith. But his mind rebelled against what he saw. I have no doubt that in his vision he beheld the rainbow broken by the hand of the Destroyer. After all, the rainbow was the after-effect of the storm sung into being by the Maghdi Dasht. Amasian was unable to conceive of a prophecy of doom, so he turned defeat into victory by turning the two parts of the vision around.'

'He said something about the vision running backwards,' the youth acknowledged. 'But why was he granted a vision that predicted our defeat?'

'Perhaps it was a warning, or maybe we were supposed to accept it and not fight it.' The tall philosopher had no clear answers. So much of what had happened in the war against Bhrudwo was a mystery. For a long time they walked on, their grey shadows marching right behind them.

'My head is full of numbers,' Leith said suddenly, earning him a grunt from the powerful figure assigned to him. The youth repeated the words, this time in a much quieter voice, then added: 'Over seventy thousand Falthans dead. Thirty thousand Bhrudwans slain. One hundred thousand people gone, mostly good people, few who deserved to die. Perhaps three or four hundred thousand people who are grieving or who will grieve. Wiusago and Te Tuahangata slain. Jethart ambushed and tortured. Hundreds killed in Instruere as we fought over the city.

Wira killed! Stella gone! Hal dead! I have no more room in my mind! Thousands of feet walk through my head, their owners crying out for rest or revenge!

'Phemanderac, I have a question. To what extent am I responsible for the size of the numbers?

Would the numbers be much smaller if I had remained in Loulea?'

His friend looked with great pity on Leith's stricken face, and he shaped first one, then another answer in his mind. Rejecting them all, he gave the boy the truth, as far as he understood it.

'You are responsible for every one who died,' he said quietly, and winced at the youth's agonised indrawing of breath. 'But,' he added, 'the numbers would have been far greater had you remained in your village. Try to count the numbers you saved, not the numbers who died.

Promise me you will try!'

The boy nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he cried. Phemanderac gazed with love on the youth who had been destroyed by his willingness to follow the Most High, and found that he had a hitherto unacknowledged anger buried deep in his heart.

It ought not to have turned out like this, he thought.

He had occasion to repeat this thought during the weeks of their journey of disgrace, the long defeat, as they were marched towards Instruere and the sealing of their servitude to the Undying Man. Again the crowds came, and this time the Bhrudwans let their derision go unchecked. Even worse were the towns where the local burghers encouraged the citi' zens to cheer the Bhrudwan army, or to throw spring blossoms in front of their cruel feet. Men shouted their praise, and women offered their bodies.

It ought not to be like this.

The random punishments continued, and one afternoon, not long after they had crossed to the north bank of the Aleinus at Sivithar, the whole army halted to watch three executions. There had been a minor revolt within the volatile losian camp, and two Fodhram and a Widuz were burned at the stake. The Destroyer himself set the fire, and it burned blue, licking their struggling limbs with a hungry flame. One of the men looked like Shabby, the man introduced to Phemanderac as one of the Company's four companions during the southern run a year ago; but Leith watched the burnings along with all the others and did not seem to recognise any of the luckless men. Or, if he did, he did not acknowledge it.

Things should not have turned out this way.

Phemanderac was forced to admit that the life had gone from his friend. Where there had been inquisitiveness, a quick understanding and a naive, wholesome love, there was now only a void, a blankness slowly filling with guilt and self-recrimination. So much had been ripped from him: his brother, his arrow, his pride. And perhaps the boy imagined that he had lost much more. It might be that he thought he was despised, blamed for the failure of the Jugom Ark and the fact that the Destroyer stood less than a week's march east of Instruere.

Perhaps everybody does blame him, the philosopher admitted. Perhaps he is responsible.

Perhaps he was at fault.

It was all so terribly unfair. How could it have come to this?

The Destroyer would have come to claim a city set against him, had it not been for my intervention, the Arkhos of Nemohaim reflected as he busied himself with the buttons on his red robe. Larger than ever, he had been forced to obtain a new robe from one of the markets.

That and the unexplained loss of his favourite chair irritated him, though in truth very little could upset him in these exciting days. The Undying Man had been agreeably surprised to find his old ally in charge of Instruere, and had

agreed to the broad sweep of his plan for the City's defence against anyone looking to support the Falthans against Bhrudwo. It had been hinted that a great reward lay in store for him, and it was mentioned in passing that the Destroyer might leave a regent to rule in his stead.

Everything he had planned for. Deorc! The black voice inside him howled. Where are you now?

Correctly predicting that the callow, conservative southern kingdoms of Sarista, Tabul and Vertensia would offer their support to the Bearer of the Jugom Ark, the Arkhos of Nemohaim concentrated his defences on the place a few miles downstream where the great river divided into many navigable channels. Here he built two giant towers, from which arrows and rocks could be hurled at any ships foolish enough to brave the river. Just seaward of the towers he organised a blockade, hiring mercenaries and seamen skilled in ship-fighting, supplementing their numbers with those who had lost their source of income now that no trade came up the Aleinus.

And, as he had predicted, the allies of the Arrow-bearer had come. Where would the Destroyer's plans be if it hadn't been for me? First to attempt the blockade was a ragged collection of canoes bearing strange men from the outer islands, but they were beaten back.

More recently they had been joined by the tall ships of the south. 'I cannot destroy them, my lord,' the Arkhos reported through the blue fire. 'They are too many, and it would not be prudent to leave the walls of the City unmanned in order to grapple in earnest with them. But I can hold them where they are. Would this be in line with your will?'

Yes, the blue fire had replied. Hold them until 1 come, then together we will sweep them into the sea.

Together, the Arkhos remembered as he fastened the last button on his robe. He liked the sound of that.

* * *

The Hermit and the Presiding Elder waited nervously in the corridor, and both greeted him effusively when he finally emerged. 'Latest reports have them two hours' walk from Longbridge,' the thin-necked Presiding Elder informed him with all the officiousness of a secretary.

'Then we'd best make ourselves ready,' he snarled at them. 'I trust your followers are well presented and have been briefed on what is required?'

'Most certainly,' the Hermit replied. 'This day the Fire will finally fall on the city of iniquity, and all evil, all worldli-ness, will be purged away.' His words sounded reasonable, delivered in a level tone, but in his eyes madness burned. 'His chosen instrument will bring low the wise and elevate the humble. My prophetic vision will be confirmed when fire burns on the hand of the Servant of God!'

Something settled on the Arkhos as the words were spoken. He'd felt similarly uncomfortable on his last sojourn in Andratan, but he had expected magic there, and had not been disappointed. Just superstition, he told himself. This fool cannot know the secrets of the Wordweave.

'Yes, yes,' he said irritably, waving his hand to indicate that the others should follow him.

'We've heard it all before.' And soon we will have heard it for the last time.

The three men emerged from the Hall of Lore to the cheers of the gathered crowd. They think they come to see the triumphant return of their army, the Arkhos told himself, and suppressed a chuckle. They are in for a surprise.

Today was the day the great Army of Faltha returned to Instruere, the people had been told.

Eager to welcome their heroes home, citizens lined the Vitulian Way, dressed in their most colourful spring clothes. The rich rubbed shoulders with the poor; babies and their great-grandmothers, equally

unaware of the day's importance but keyed up by the general excitement, had been carried outdoors to various vantage points. Bright banners were readied, and those without banners brought strips of cloth in yellow and orange to honour the Bearer of the Arrow.

It had been an almost impossible task to keep the citizens of Instruere ignorant of the true result of the war between Faltha and Bhrudwo, but it had been achieved through a combination of control of the bridges and judicious misinformation fed at intervals to certain key people in Instruere. Once or twice someone slipped through the net, but the Arkhos knew where assassins could be hired. A rumour that the Arrow-bearer had been slain took hold in the poor district, so the Arkhos of Nemohaim put his second plan into action, and paid people to exaggerate the rumour until even the most credulous of citizens scoffed at it. Within days the rumour had disappeared, and eventually everyone believed a great victory had been won

'out east'. Not without cost, they were told, and many of those in the crowd waited with nervousness and fear lest their loved ones did not walk through the Inna Gate with the other conquering heroes. Mid-morning came and went, and the muttering increased, just before noon a shout went up: someone had seen a cloud of dust from the wall, and for a while it was thought the army was here at last; but it was soon pointed out that the man who had seen the dust was stationed on the west wall, and so could not have seen them.

Noon passed, and still the restive crowd waited.

The troops promised to the defenders of the Aleinus Delta by the Arkhos of Nemohaim had not come, and their latest rider had returned from Instruere with yet another refusal. Instead the southerners had renewed their attack, driving

through the blockade with their tall ships. They had still not found a way past the siege towers, but the remaining Instruian soldiers now knew they did not have long to live. Anger spread through the camp. Why should they lay down their lives in the service of one who refused to supply them with the arms and people they needed?

It did not take long for the Instruians to decide on surrender as their most prudent course. One by one they clambered down the long ladders and made their way along the reed-lined river bank, hands in the air, hoping for mercy. They halted by the blockade. A hundred fishing boats, half of which were now sunk, had been stretched across the only navigable river channel, so that the entrance to the Aleinus River could be held against the armies of the south. But now the boats were empty, the mercenaries hired to man them having been slain, taken captive or perhaps run off - the latter the most likely, the soldiers from the siege towers considered. There were no bodies visible, and little blood to be found on the boats or in the water.

No defenders, but neither were there attackers. No one remained to surrender to. The tall ships stood at anchor, and a number of small boats had been beached some distance downstream of the blockade. Had the southerners taken the risk of trying to find a way through the pathless swamps of the river delta? Or had they found a guide who, willing or unwilling, would lead them to dry ground and ultimately to Instruere?

'Well, boys, we could have stayed in our towers after all,' said the commander of the Arkhos's western force. 'It seems our southern friends have found another path to their goal. Any of you have kin in Instruere?' The majority of the Arkhos's recruits were from Mercium, but a very few men

put up nervous hands. 'Then you take the horses and ride,' the hoary old veteran told them.

'We will follow more discreetly.' It was not their city; the likelihood of anyone getting paid for this had just vanished; and so there appeared to be no compelling reason to rush east, particularly since they might overtake the army they had tried to delay. The men settled down for a good meal.

The thousands of captive Falthan soldiers were finally halted a league north of Longbridge and waited in trepidation as the Bhrudwans bound them hand and foot. The Instruians among them could see their city wall and, knowing that their families were within, wondered if they would ever see them. Some among them thought they were being bound in preparation for a slaughter, and their cries of fear were heard by their commanders, themselves captive.

The Destroyer mounted a tall white stallion, which tossed his head nervously and stamped at the ground, as if reluctant to have such a rider on his back. The Falthan commanders were forced to line up two abreast behind him, along with their Maghdi Dasht minders, and begin a slow procession southwards to the City.

Leith was placed at the head of the Falthans, with Phemanderac at his side. Directly behind him was his mother, and they embraced in the few moments they had together, both running their eyes over each other to check for mistreatment. Watching, Phemanderac shed a tear at their bitter loss, and noted that Indrett's face was marked by it as deeply as was his. She has both hands, at least, the philosopher saw, relieved. And she seems to be otherwise uninjured.

Then he laughed sourly at himself. How could she be without injury! She has seen her son struck down in a gamble she precipitated.

Two people destroyed by guilt, trying to gain comfort from each other. He was not close enough to hear the hurried words they exchanged before a barked reprimand from the Maghdi Dasht jerked them apart.