The Right Hand of God (9 page)

The guards at the Longbridge Gate were in a panic, as were their Southbridge counterparts, and had been since mid-morning when word of the happenings in Instruere began to filter out.

An increasing stream of refugees from the City had, at first, been held at the northern end of the bridge, but as their numbers increased it became pointless to hold them back, despite the absence of instructions. So the gates opened and people allowed to leave, whether or not they carried a yellow identification card.

Night now lurked just below the horizon, their relief had not appeared and they had grown anxious, having been forced to watch the rising columns of smoke and gouts of flame rising from within their city's walls. Frightened people hurried across the bridge, adding further tales of fire and destruction to those the nervous soldiers had already been told. The Granaries were destroyed, they heard, and the Docks razed. Fighting in the streets. A rain of fire and death.

Escaigne had arisen at last to challenge the Council of Faltha. No one could escape south of the City, some claimed, because the Southbridge was burned to the waterline. Every boat in the City had either borne their owners far away or were making fortunes for those greedy enough to ferry others to shore for profit. No orders were forthcoming from the Council of Faltha, and the City lay open to its enemies.

And now someone approached from the north, a lone rider on a dusky mare. Hardly the threat to take advantage of a vulnerable City, but such a one might carry news of that vulnerability to its enemies. The rider reined in at the guardhouse, dismounted briskly and waited by his horse.

'No one's getting into the City today, card or no card,' he was told. The guard spoke in a nervous voice, tinged with worry. His house lay on the southern edge of town, perhaps half a mile from the Granaries.

The stranger pulled back the hood of his cloak. The face revealed was old, startlingly so given how he carried himself. Heavy brows and deep-set blue eyes were capped by a close-cropped shock of white hair. His mouth appeared little more than a slit in his face and his nose an eagle's beak. His stare was that of one used to mastery.

'I have no card,' the man said in an astonishingly deep voice.

'Card or no, you cannot cross. The City burns. Can you not see it?'

'I have been summoned by the Council of Faltha. I must cross.'

'Friend, no one may cross. None have gone into the City since the ninth hour. Perhaps in a few days.. .'

'I am the Sria Vazthan replacement on the Council of Faltha,' he said, holding up a piece of paper. 'I must cross today. If there is strife in the City, I should be there to assist.'

'You are not yet of Instruere, my lord,' the guard said respectfully but firmly, 'so I am not required to obey your commands. Once you have stepped foot in the City, thus confirming your commission, then I will be authorised to obey you and convey you to the City.' The guard crossed his arms on his chest, clearly pleased with himself. His fellows exchanged smiles behind him.

The Sna Vazthan pursed his lips, then without warning his hand flashed to his waist and a shining blade lay across the guard's throat. The movement was impossibly fast.

No one moved.

The stranger raised a questioning eyebrow. His captive signalled frantically with one hand and the other guards made way.

'You shall come with me to the City to verify my commission. I shall then return to this guardhouse and you shall issue me with a card. I would not wish to do anything illegal.' The words were all the more menacing for their gentleness.

'Actually, it seems that this may not be necessary after all—'

'No, it is necessary, I assure you. I want no one to claim I am here illegally.'

'They won't let you in at the gate.'

The stranger smiled then, the gap-toothed grin of an old man. 'That is another reason you are coming with me.'

So, much to the consternation and embarrassment of the guard, he was forced to lead the man and his horse first to the Inna Gate, through the guards' entrance and into the city proper, where by setting foot on Instruian soil he activated his commission, and back out across the bridge to the gatehouse. The procedure took half an hour, by which time dusk had descended.

'You have not yet checked my letter of appointment. It is signed by Her Majesty Ylisane, Queen of Sna Vaztha. See, here is her seal.' He handed the letter to the guards, who looked over it for what they guessed might be an appropriate time, then gave it respectfully back to him, along with a yellow card. He turned then, mounted his patient horse and trotted away across the bridge towards the gate.

'Will they let him in a second time?' one of the younger men asked.

'If they have any sense,' answered his captain, rubbing his throat.

The Company arrived at the Hall of Lore at a dead run, spurred on by the awful sounds growing clearer as they approached the open, grassy space. Leith held the Jugom Ark high, and his anger and shock at what he saw caused the Arrow to flame like the sun. The Arkhos of Nemohaim had been right. In the brightness they beheld a scene of terror. The guardsmen present that night were specially chosen for the task. Deorc knew many of the Guard would object to killing their own people, no matter how the command was phrased, so he had asked his newly-appointed captains to choose those whose lack of personal scruples would permit them to take part. The names of the others were recorded. Deorc had plans for them, plans involving placing them at the forefront of the next battle.

The guards rushed the stunned Ecclesia, ensuring panic. The first brutal wave felled perhaps a third of those gathered there, some of whom had not seen the transformed figure of Deorc emerge from the Hall of Lore and so died without understanding how they were betrayed. The screaming drowned out the shouts of those few who kept their heads, who tried to organise people into groups, the better to be protected by the few men and women who knew how to fight.

The glare of the Jugom Ark revealed three knots of people bravely, hopelessly resisting the guards. In the brightness of the moment, a tableau that branded itself on Leith's memory, he heard a woman cry: 'Please, not my child—' but the plea was ended mercilessly. A raw sound came from behind him, and he realised it came from Farr, from deep in his throat. It was the sound of purest anger. Then he realised the sound came from his own throat as well.

'They are skilled at killing the innocent,' said Wiusago. 'Let us see how skilled they are at facing real warriors! Come, my friends!' And with a cry, the Company pitched themselves into the battle.

Leith transferred the Arrow into his left hand and drew his sword with his right. Again for a moment he wondered about using the Jugom Ark as a weapon of war, but again he forbore, afraid of what might happen. Along with Wiusago, Te Tuahangata and Graig, the last of whom attached himself to Leith like a liegeman, he rushed towards a ring of guardsmen so busy harrying a knot of poorly weaponed people they did not see their doom approaching.

With a cry Leith

launched himself at them, aggression making up for lack of skill. Graig fought at his side, deflecting any well-aimed blows away from Leith. Swiftly they interposed themselves between the guardsmen and the Ecclesia, then turned and faced the ranks of the Instruian Guard.

The rest of the battle seemed to Leith a terrible dream. Some of the guards plainly recognised the Arrow for what it was, and abandoned the field in fear. Others fought halfheartedly. Few there were who could call upon more than their training; none had the recent battle experience of the Company. From time to time Leith held up the Jugom Ark. In its light he could see that though the guards were being turned from their purpose, the inroads the Company made were too slow. Too soon their captain would call for reinforcements, if he had not already. Leith could see no way for the Company to stand against the full Instruian Guard, and the remnants of the Ecclesia proved more of a hindrance than a help. At any moment one of the Company might fall, whatever charm that had protected them up to now having run out. He reached out in thought to the Arrow in his left hand, and again considered how it might be used as a weapon.

Then his eyes opened wide in disbelief as one of the slain Ecclesia lying in front of him rose to his feet and, with a shout, pulled a broadsword from thin air. To his left, a dead woman rose from the ground and joined him, her ghastly wounds gaping, her face bloodless. To his right, a third; then many more, even children, each the ghostly simulacrum of someone who lay dead on the grass. Joining them, flanking this army of the dead to left and right, stood Maendraga and Belladonna. The magician laughed, and then Leith understood. Illusion. The looks of concentration fled the faces of the guardsmen, replaced by superstitious fear.

'You have taken our lives without just cause!' boomed a voice, somehow amplified beyond normal human volume. 'So now we return to take yours!' To a man, the Guard turned and ran from the phantom army, many casting their weapons aside in their fright.

'It's an illusion, you cowardly fools! Return and fight!' The shout, equally loud, came from the sheltered entrance to the Hall of Lore, some distance across the open ground. A man stood there, a man dressed in black with his arms spread wide in frustration, or in a gesture that summoned a mighty power.

Maendraga's laughter changed to a grunt of effort, then he was on his knees, supported by his daughter. The phantom army flickered and disappeared. 'There is a magician here -very powerful—' He groaned, then fainted away. Leith's gaze fastened on the figure in the doorway, whose arms were now raised. Could this be the man the Arkhos of Nemohaim had told them about? The Keeper of Andratan?

Others in the Company asked themselves the same question. 'Achtal!' the Haufuth cried. 'That man, he is the magician pitted against us!' The Bhrudwan warrior already realised this, Leith saw, for even before the speaker finished Achtal turned from the opponent he faced, leaped lightly over the large mound of dead and dying guardsmen surrounding him, and began sprinting across the lawn towards the door.

Deorc could not believe what he witnessed. From the safety of the entrance to the Hall he directed the slaughter; in fact, early on he had snatched a spear from the hands of a reluctant Guard and thrust it through a small figure trying to flee. Within moments the attack seemed certain of success. He savoured the pleasure of watching the fool who, last night, offered a self-satisfied prophecy about an arrow approaching

Instruere, struck down by a double sword blow. So much for your God.

Then things changed for the worse. First, a great light turned night into day, then a new force charged into the battle. For a time he thought this might be some fighting brigade from Escaigne come to join the Ecclesia: if so, all the better. Deal with all the rats in one trap.

Soon, however, he was firmly disabused of this happy thought. The fighters were too fierce, too well trained, to be from that source. Some unknown enemy? Some rival for his place at the Council?

At that moment two things happened: the Arkhos of Nemohaim appeared in the midst of a group of fighters, and someone somewhere on the battlefield began to weave a powerful illusion. The explanation for the night's disaster suddenly became clear. The Arkhos has found powerful new allies. Someone in Bhrudwo plots to overthrow me as the Undying Man's right hand.

He watched as the shades of the dead chased his guardsmen from the field of battle, and cried out at their stupidity. He knew he wasted valuable time, but frustration overwhelmed him.

Getting control of himself, he probed the illusion which, for all its power, was diffuse, hastily constructed and lightly held; probed, and attacked it with a raw magic drawn from deep within himself. He could feel it draining him, knew he would pay the price, but he had no choice. Even as the wraiths disappeared, he looked on the ruin of his plans - the temporary ruin, he told himself firmly - and one thought burned itself into his brain.

Someone will pay for this. Someone will pay.

As he stood, indulging his anger, he caught a glimpse of a figure rushing towards him, sword held in a manner he

knew only too well. Tip forward, angled just so. Without conscious thought he leaped back through the open door and bolted it firmly shut. Then, just to be sure, and in spite of the extra strength it drew from him, he placed a sealing spell on the door.

Swords were held like that in only one place: at the cruel training grounds of the Maghdi Dasht. Impossible as it might seem, he had been about to confront one of the Lords of Fear.

How many others were out there, serving his enemy? And he was so weak, so recently drained!

This confirms my belief, he told himself. Someone high in the service of my master seeks to destroy me. But is it with or udthout His blessing? No matter, f will be just as dead either way if I make a mistake. He turned and made his way swiftly to the tower, resolving to think on this further when he was out of danger.

Out on the field the Company herded the shocked, terrified remnant of the Ecclesia away from the Hall of Lore and back towards the roads leading to the southern areas of the City.

Wiusago had fallen victim to a dreadful wound in his chest; he bled freely, and was ghostly pale. Te Tuahangata hovered over him, raising his head to call for help. Leith wondered, distraught, where Hal might be. The wound, though, looked beyond healing. Then he remembered the Arrow still alight in his left hand. He transferred it back to his right, stepped over a broken body and bent down to examine the stricken Deruvian.

'I told him not to be fancy,' Te Tuahangata growled. 'But no, he has seen the Bhrudwan fight, and suddenly the way he was trained is not good enough. He is lucky not to have been killed outright, but I think he is dying. Can anything be done?'

Leith desperately tried to remember how he did it before,

how Geinor's hand had been healed. He had used ointment, he remembered. Had it really been necessary? No time for ointment. Time to find out if the Arrow could work its magic without it.