Dancer's Lament

Chapter 12

THE JOURNEY OUT of Li Heng proved uneventful. Silk sat on the lead wagon, next to a grey-haired veteran scout named Buell, who kept a wad of some gods-forsaken leaves and dark sticky resin tucked into one cheek. The habit had stained his teeth the colour of leather. The train of ten wagons was guarded by a column of twenty Hengan regulars commanded by a young lieutenant named Venaralan.

As representative of the Protectress, Silk was officially in charge of the expedition. But he did not participate in any of the organization or daily running of the train, leaving that to Buell, and sat instead wrapped in a cloak, with his legs extended straight, a wide-brimmed hat low over his face against the sun, and dozed.

He knew that, as lifelong Hengans, soldiers and scouts alike were profoundly uneasy to be leaving behind the walls of their city and venturing out northward across the plains. He also knew that despite the Protectress’s assurances that they were safe from the predations of the man-beast, not one person with him today believed that he could defend them from the creature should it attack. He did not blame them for this lack of confidence in his abilities – not even he believed he could defend the column against Ryllandaras. No, what he chose to put faith in was the beast’s self-proclaimed devotion to Shalmanat. After all, such dedication was something he understood quite well.

And so he affected complete indifference, and the implied – he hoped – self-confidence this projected to the men and women.

The wagon wheels screeched and creaked, the seat rocked beneath him, and the mules pulled with surprising eagerness, their eyes rolling all white and their ears laid back flat in terror of the lingering scent of the man-beast. Buell reclined lazily with Silk, only occasionally snapping the long-handled switch in his hand, now and then leaning over the side to eject a stream of the sticky brown fluid from his mouth, and keeping up a streaming conversation for both of them.

‘Cold winter this year, neh?’ he observed, then carried on without even waiting for a response: ‘Bad for us. There’s those in the city who say the Kanese mages whipped it up, hey? What say you? Don’t think so m’self. After all, them Kanese must be freezing their peckers off, hey? What do you think of our fair-haired lieutenant? Sweet-cheeks I call him! Ain’t even felt a razor yet I don’t doubt, let alone the cheeks of a woman. Not that it matters if he was Greymane hisself should the beast come for us. I mean, it’s not like we’re gonna jump on to the mules and race to safety, is it?’

Uncomfortable with this topic, Silk tilted his head to cast the man a glance from under his wide hat. ‘Don’t you think ten wagons is a bit optimistic?’

‘No sir. Them Kanese emptied the barns and lofts all right. But these villagers are under orders to keep hidden stocks – caches and cellars, ’n’ such. Long overdue supplies owed to the city, this is – plus extra fees for being late. Ha! My fear is the damned Kanese will burn it all around our ears before we make it back.’

Silk thought he had a far greater chance of defending the wagons from the Kanese cavalry than from Ryllandaras and so he said, ‘Don’t worry about them.’

Buell chortled a laugh and spat out a stream of the chew. ‘Ho! Rather take on them fancy lancers, hey?’ And he laughed on and off for the rest of the afternoon, much to Silk’s irritation.

The gathering proceeded much as Buell predicted, though after the first sad collection of farmers’ hovels Silk couldn’t call it gathering so much as outright raiding and pillaging. The Hengan soldiers, footsore and chilled to the bone, gladly ransacked the huts and barns, stripping them of all stores. Further, as a lesson to all those slow to respond to their demands, they set fire to one farmer’s house.

Silk sat on a wagon bench, one foot up on the brake, feeling rather like the odd man out. He watched while farmers were beaten to reveal any further secret caches or cellars and deals struck for favours among both sexes. His one contribution was, when the soldiers began drinking, to send a look to Venaralan, as if to ask Do we really have time for this?

The lieutenant, belatedly roused to assert his control over the men, set to shouting commands and beating the worst offenders with the flat of his blade. Order – if the word can be applied to wholesale stealing – was restored and the column rumbled off to the next hamlet.

One enraged peasant yelled after them: ‘We’d prefer a visit from the beast!’

The troops answered with rude gestures, heckling, and mocking laughter.

Once every hamlet and tiny clutch of farmers’ huts within two days’ travel had been visited, the column headed back towards Heng. Most of the wagons were full of barrels, crates and bales of staples such as barley, millet, preserves, and smoked or salted meat. The scouts had been out hunting as well; they trickled in through the day, in groups of three or four, carrying butchered haunches and sides wrapped in burlap that they heaved bodily on to the wagons.

Several of the scouts reported to Lieutenant Venaralan, who then ambled over to walk beside the lead wagon where Silk lounged. ‘We’re being shadowed,’ he said.

Silk raised his hat, sitting up, ‘Not . . .’

Venaralan shook his head. ‘No, not him. Riders. Crimson Guard. They’re hanging far back, but the scouts spotted them.’

‘Hunh. Why shadow us?’ Silk wondered aloud.

‘Can’t you guess?’ Buell answered, spitting. ‘They’re waitin’ for the beast to show, that’s what. Then they’ll pounce.’

Outraged, Silk sat up straighter, peering to the rear. ‘Burn-damned bastards . . .’

Buell chortled anew. ‘That’s the spirit! Why don’t you show ’em one of your fancy-pants tricks?’

Silk shot the fellow a glare. ‘In any case,’ Venaralan offered, ‘it’s nothing to us. All we can do is hope they’re disappointed, yes?’

Silk sat back, sighing and adjusting the brim of his hat against the lowering sun. He waved to the mules. ‘Can’t these things go any faster?’

‘Don’t see you pushin’,’ Buell answered.

They were still more than a day’s journey out when calls went up of glinting reflections to the east. Buell clambered up on to the tallest barrel and peered in that direction, shading his gaze. ‘Damn it to the Taker . . .’ he muttered.

‘What is it?’ Silk asked.

‘Armoured cavalry. Looks like them Kanese lancers.’

Silk couldn’t believe it. ‘Here in the north?’

Buell thumped down and snapped his switch over the mules. ‘East. Must be pickets guarding the trader road. Caught sight of us.’ He flicked the switch furiously; the mules brayed their complaints, but Silk detected no increase in their speed – not that it would make any difference.

‘No point in that,’ he commented.

Buell spat, growling his frustration. Venaralan jogged up to their side. ‘Circle the carts and wagons,’ he ordered.

Watching the column of cavalry approaching, their bright mail winking and glittering in the sun, their long green pennants flying, Silk had an idea. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Stay in line.’

The young lieutenant gaped at him. ‘That’s suicide! We must defend.’

‘I want them coming at us straight in a charge.’

‘They’ll slaughter us!’ Venaralan waved a negative. ‘With all respect, you’re not the military commander here.’

Silk stood up on the wagon, squinted out over the man to the closing column. ‘With all respect, I speak for the Protectress – so do as I command!’

‘Let the man shoot his bolt,’ Buell drawled. ‘I got ten Hengan rounds says he’ll do them dirty.’

The young lieutenant regarded the wagon-master darkly. ‘None of us will live to collect,’ he said, and dashed off, shouting to his troop, ‘Ready crossbows!’

Silk steadied his footing as the wagon bucked and rocked across the grassland. He threw off his wide hat and set to summoning his Warren. ‘Do you really have ten rounds on me?’ he asked Buell.

The old scout pushed more leaves into his cheek, grinning. ‘Naw. I’m just sicka all your boasting an’ big talk.’

‘Thanks for your support.’

‘No problem at all.’ Buell drew a short hunting bow from under the seat and readied a bag of arrows.

Silk reached within, but not for the familiar and ready entry of his Thyr paths. He reached far beyond his usual territory, and searched out instead that glimpse he’d been granted of the far heights of Liosan, or Thyrllan, as some sources name it. There, if he could but tap into it, resided far more potency than he would need. If he didn’t destroy himself in the act of summoning it.

He kept an eye on the lancers; they were cantering now, closing, bringing their lances to bear. They’d swing past in line, he knew, each taking a thrust as they thundered past the train. He waited for the chance to catch them all in line, and as close as possible.

‘Mage . . .’ Buell warned, uneasy, ‘time’s a-wastin’ . . .’

‘Soon . . .’ he murmured, fingertips on his forehead. Gods! Dare I reach there? What will happen? Will I burn, as I’ve read of others foolish enough to push so far into the Warren? Well, dead is dead . . .

As the column of Kanese cavalry swung close, dirt now flying from the charging hooves, their lances couched and lowered, Silk reached deeply into the churning puissance of raw power that was Thyr itself, searching for that brightness he’d glimpsed in the Protectress, and he touched something there far upon its distant boundary, something utterly alien to his mind.

He screamed at the awful rushing potency of it even as there came, muted, the answering shrill screams of horses, the crashing of huge bodies slamming into the dirt as the animals fell and tumbled. The cries of the troopers could hardly be heard above the impacts of the bodies, while above all came the bellowing roar of flames. He fell without sensation, his consciousness, his very awareness, frayed to threads by the astounding energies coursing across his mind.

‘You broke ’em!’ Buell yelled, triumphant.

Someone bellowed ‘Rush ’em now!’ and then the wagon jerked and bounced as it hit a hole or a rock and he felt himself flying upended. He hardly felt the jolting blow that was his uncontrolled tumble among the tall razor-sharp grasses.

Noise roused him. That and the stink of thick smoke. Muted and blurred, as if through a tunnel. The clash of sword-strokes, the yells, curses and desperate panting of melee. He blinked, found he was sitting up, his once fine clothes torn and dirt-smeared, one arm useless across his lap. He was leaning up against the bed of an overturned wagon, surrounded by a mix of Hengan soldiers and scouts. Buell stood next to him, an arrow nocked, scanning the field.

The lieutenant appeared, sword bared, his brown Hengan surcoat slashed, blood smearing a mailed sleeve. ‘Guard the mage!’ he shouted and turned, readying. Buell loosed his arrow while the soldiers surged forward to meet an equal charge of Kanese, now dismounted, swinging slim sabres. Beyond the melee smoke churned over a prairie fire where shapes lay blackened.

The fighting surged back and forth; Buell nocked another arrow. A female scout now stood over Silk, deadly twinned gutting knives out, obviously ready to defend him against the Kanese troopers.

Utter madness! Groggy, Silk struggled to rise. Buell pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder. ‘You rest now, sir. Done for most, you did. Didn’t think ya had it in ya. Havin’ some trouble with the last of ’em, though,’ and he grinned then spat aside the entire wedge of sodden leaves from his mouth, and raised his short bow.

The Kanese were clearly the better swordsmen as they overpowered one Hengan soldier after another. Venaralan went down, slashed across the face. The remaining few scouts and Hengan troopers charged. The last crossbows fired; a few thrown knives found their targets. The two forces, lines no longer, met in individual and group duels, hacking and thrusting, seeking to push the other back as they shuffled and danced, raising clouds of dust and tumbling among the tall stands of stiff grass. Thick white smoke blew in banners over all, obscuring half Silk’s vision. Yet it appeared to him to be a close thing – and tragically unnecessary.

He struggled to rise once more. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Yield! We yield!’ But he was so very weak, his voice a hoarse croak.

A Kanese lancer broke through, rushing for Silk. Buell stood motionless, arrow tracking, as the man’s leap brought him within arm’s length. Buell’s shot took him in the chest even as the man’s sabre sliced down through shoulder and neck. Buell fell, his hot blood splashing across Silk’s front as he collapsed across his legs. The lancer fell as well, tumbling backwards; at such close range the arrow had penetrated his mail shirt.

The last of the defending Hengan soldiers fell in a gurgle of pain, clutching at his stomach; five Kanese now remained. These mercilessly slashed through the lightly armoured scouts – even those who now threw down their weapons and called for quarter. Two lancers closed on Silk. ‘Yield!’ Silk called, uselessly. The last scout, the girl, caught the first sabre cut on one short knife, and going to her knees slashed upwards through a high leather boot and leather trousers, and up under the hanging mail shirt, perhaps even to the groin, gutting the man, who sank in a waterfall of dark blood.

The second lancer took the girl’s scalp off in one swing, then raised the bloodied blade over Silk who peered up unblinking, thinking What a useless way to die . . .

Something struck the lancer and he peered down, surprised; the wet triangular head of a crossbow bolt jutted from his chest. He fell to his knees before Silk, then toppled. Astonished, Silk grasped hold of the wagon’s planking to pull himself erect. He peered about the field and saw it was strewn with fallen corpses, horses and men, all smoking. Beyond, a line of wildfire topped a distant hill sending a white band of smoke high into the clear blue sky.

More mounted troops now surrounded him. But these did not display the flowing verdant green of Itko Kan; they wore the deep red tabards of the Crimson Guard. One approached, a woman, her long flowing coat of scaled armour enamelled the same blood red. She held a crossbow negligently in one hand as she came. ‘City mage Silk, I presume?’ she offered, amusement on her wide, olive-hued features.

Silk ignored her; he peered about, watching stunned as those Hengan scouts and soldiers who could stand – a mere pitiful handful – began to labour to their feet, clutching their wounds.

‘My command . . .’ he breathed, horrified.

‘Congratulations,’ the woman said. ‘You won.’ And she hiked up the heavy weapon to rest it over her shoulder.

His appalled gaze swung to the callous mercenary. ‘You stood by . . .’ he breathed, almost choking, ‘while my men and women . . .’

‘We thought you had them after your display, mage.’ She prodded a fallen lancer with a boot. ‘But these Kan Elites fight like devils. And they wanted your wagons bad.’ She squatted next to a scout, pulled off a glove, and pressed a hand to his neck. ‘This one lives.’ She raised her chin, shouting: ‘Luthan!’

‘Kinda busy!’ a man yelled.

Cursing, the woman tucked her gloves up her sleeve and set to yanking the belt from the man’s waist. Silk staggered to stand over her. ‘You step in now? So late? After all this slaughter? You watched . . .’ He couldn’t continue. Horror and outrage choked him. Acid bile strove to push up past his dry throat and his heart hammered as if he were in the grip of some sort of terror. His gaze shied away from the slashed corpses, the exposed viscera – it was all so different up close.

‘We are not in the employ of the Protectress of Heng,’ the woman calmly informed him as she tied the belt in a tourniquet high on the man’s wounded leg.

‘Yet you act now? So late?’

‘Aye,’ the woman answered with her first hint of temper. She moved on to another wounded Hengan. ‘And be thankful we did. Else you’d be dead.’

Silk studied the field and his slaughtered command. ‘I wish I was,’ he murmured aloud, realizing that this was in fact true. These men and women had held little regard or respect for him, yet they died to protect him. That sacrifice was a burden he couldn’t even begin to face.

The woman was studying him with a new expression – if not quite compassion, then perhaps understanding. ‘We thought you’d hold,’ she offered by way of explanation.

Silk sensed that this was all he could expect from her, or any other of these hard-hearted mercenaries. ‘What is your name?’

‘Auralas.’

He eyed her more closely, her olive skin, dark brown eyes and mane of long black hair, at present plaited and tucked down under her mail coat. ‘You look Kanese yourself.’

She straightened. ‘I am.’

He was taken aback. ‘Yet you shoot down your own king’s Elites?’

Standing so close, he realized that he was looking up at the woman, and that the breadth of her shoulders far exceeded his own. ‘He’s not my king,’ she answered with something like disgust. Turning away, she called loudly: ‘Load the wounded! Let’s get these wagons moving.’

Silk stumbled after the officer as she moved about the battlefield, calling orders to the troop of Crimson Guard, checking dressings, and, oddly, casting quick worried glances to the horizon. He held his aching head with one hand, biting back groans; he was still mentally bludgeoned after reaching out beyond the limits of his Warren. He feared that he’d never again be able to muster the determination to risk raising Thyr – had he permanently damaged his mind?

Speaking very slowly, blinking back tears from the hammering in his skull, he managed, ‘These wagons are the property of the Protectress of Li Heng. They are not prizes of battle. You’ll not interfere in our journey to the city.’

‘You haven’t the personnel to make it,’ she answered, rather brutally.

He still held his head, grimacing in pain, his other arm numb and useless. ‘Then . . . we’ll come back for the rest.’

‘We’ll escort you,’ she said, moving on. ‘Fingers!’ she called, pointing to a youth lounging atop one wagon. ‘Watch the perimeter!’

The youth, skinny, pale, and freckled, his hair a wild shock of sandy brown, rolled his eyes and offered a mocking salute. Silk watched the lad, puzzled – this was a mercenary? He was suddenly aware of an active Warren. A mage?

Auralas had moved on; he tottered after her. She was now overseeing the stripping of all the corpses, Hengan and Kan alike, and he was suddenly outraged. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Your gear will be piled on the wagons,’ she answered, without even turning to acknowledge him. ‘Plus half the Kanese armour and weapons.’ She cast him a quick humourless smile. ‘You will have need of it, yes?’ She straightened and shouted to the youth: ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Fingers drawled.

Silk was still blinking. He felt as if he were moving through a dense fog. ‘More lancers?’ he asked.

Her answer was a grim ‘No’. She whistled then, piercingly, and raised an arm, signing something. ‘Let’s get moving!’ Silk stood motionless, at a loss. What was going on? It was all happening too quickly.

Auralas pointed him to a wagon – the one holding the lad, Fingers. As it passed he stumbled to it and climbed aboard. Over the barrels and sacks of provisions lay several of his surviving Hengans, their wounds staunched with rough field dressings. Four Crimson Guard sat in the bed also, crossbows cocked and readied, scanning the surrounding plains. The bench bounced and rocked beneath him, bringing dark spots to his vision and blasts of agony that threatened to crack open his skull.

‘Who is out there?’ he asked the lad. ‘Seti raiders?’

This youth cast him a contemptuous glance. ‘No. And you a Hengan. Hood’s mercy, man. All this spilt blood? Him. The beastie.’

Silk’s gaze snapped to the horizon and he immediately winced in the stabbing slanting sunlight. ‘I thought you lot were hunting him anyway.’

‘We are. But it takes all of us to hold him off.’

Silk straightened, peering about, then stood in the rocking vehicle. ‘This is not the way to Heng. We’re going west. Why?’

‘Someone wants to talk to you first,’ Fingers said, sounding exhausted by the effort of explaining.

‘Who?’

The lad cast him another look, studying him through half-closed eyes, as if he’d just said something incalculably stupid. ‘Orders from our glorious leader. He would like a word.’

Silk sat heavily. Oh. Courian D’Avore, whom some named the Red Duke, commander of the Crimson Guard – he was here? What could he want with . . . although, given what had just happened, Silk could guess why the man might want a word.

He sat back, broken arm across his lap, and despite his best efforts to remain awake the exhaustion and mental strain pulled upon him and he faded, his eyelids falling, his wrung-out and overwhelmed mind seeking the oblivion of rest.

*

Silk blinked to awareness and stared into the darkness of night. At first he panicked, believing that he was now blind, for he remembered only a dazzling shaft of brilliant light. A light like liquid fire; a fire that seared as it pierced him and he smelled the terrible stomach-turning stink of burned flesh, heard the hiss . . . Then a soft amber glow bloomed in the dark and he saw that he lay in a tent, a clay lamp stuttering on a nearby side table. He raised a hand and rubbed his eyes, groaning.

A chair creaked in the dark and someone said, ‘You are with us again, I see.’ The speaker moved the lamp closer and Silk blinked upwards at a Dal Hon male, his kinked hair going to grey at the temples, his eyes a mesmerizing black and his gaze sharp, though a welcoming smile softened his expression at the moment. ‘I am Cal-Brinn. And you, I understand, are the city mage Silk. We are honoured to host you.’

Silk cleared his throat and attempted to assemble his jumbled thoughts. Cal-Brinn, a mage of the Crimson Guard. And not just any mage, one of the premier adepts of Rashan, the Warren of Night. There could be no misunderstanding why he was here at his bedside. Not after the display earlier. Barely trusting himself to speak, Silk nodded and swung his feet over the side of the cot. He carefully raised himself to a sitting position, hands at his head as if to keep it from falling off. A memory came and he examined his right arm: healed. He flexed the arm and nodded once more to Cal-Brinn. ‘Thank you for the healing – and for seeing to my wounded,’ and his voice took on an edge, ‘even if you arrived belatedly.’

The mage lowered his gaze. ‘I am sorry. But we were . . . constrained.’

‘Constrained,’ Silk echoed, and left it at that – he had no wish to hang about debating: he had to get the wagons back to Heng. He rubbed his forehead, fully expecting to find great cracks in it, and drew a steadying breath. ‘Auralas promised that you would escort us back to the city.’

Cal-Brinn nodded. ‘Yes. We will honour that. But first the duke would like a word. If you would.’

Silk did not want to face the notoriously fierce and blunt Courian D’Avore, but knew that it would be both boorish and stupid of him to decline, given that he and his command were not only in the Guard’s debt but also at their mercy. So he gestured to the tent’s front. ‘Very well – let’s get this over with.’

Cal-Brinn’s tight smile told Silk that the man was fully aware of the calculation that went into his assent. He held out a beige stoneware mug. ‘Tea?’ he offered. ‘I find it very restorative, especially after particularly trying magery . . .?’

Rising, Silk accepted the mug, but declined to pursue the other invitation. Cal-Brinn rose also and led the way, pushing aside the heavy canvas tent flap. Silk saw that the man was fully armed and armoured, wearing an ankle-length mail coat, complete with hood, now thrown back, and a longsword sheathed on either hip. Over the mail coat he wore the requisite blood-red tabard of the Crimson Guard. Silk followed, feeling even more dishevelled and worn in the presence of the mage mercenary’s martial habit.

Without, it was the depth of night. The sky was clear, the moon a few finger-breadths above the horizon. Torches on poles lit the encampment of circled tents, with the horses staked in the centre of the ring. For an instant the idea of placing the horses in the protected middle puzzled Silk. Then he realized, of course: him. The man-beast, Ryllandaras. As he walked, Silk sipped the hot herbal tea and was surprised by just how immediately restorative it was. The after-taste was a pleasant hint of caramel. ‘Where do you get this?’ he asked.

‘My personal recipe, I’m afraid,’ the mage answered with a smile. He led the way to the largest of the field tents. Here two sentries guarded the half-open tent flap. Cal-Brinn nodded to them and held aside the flap for Silk, who stood blinking in the relatively bright glare of candles and lamps set about the wide open tent. It was also quite noisy, as the tables that stood all about the circumference were crowded with mercenaries.

‘It is our guest!’ a great voice boomed out, thunderous and welcoming, and Silk knew who the speaker must be. He started forward, Cal-Brinn at his side. The gathered soldiers, male and female, many of whom Silk knew by reputation, turned in their seats to watch.

The two mages passed a crackling fire-pit and stopped before a table of thick planks behind which sat the Crimson Guard commander, flanked by two youths.

The contrast between the older man and the two youngsters could not have been more complete. Courian D’Avore was a burly giant in a laced leather jerkin, his hair and beard a mass of tangled black curls going to grey, his hands and face burnished by wind and sun to the consistency of worn leather, one eye a dead white orb from a sword cut that left a scar from brow to cheek. He was digging at the dinner before him, a rack of fire-charred ribs, and waving Silk forward with one greasy paw. ‘Come, come.’

The youth on the man’s right Silk knew to be his son, K’azz D’Avore, whom some called the Red Prince, more because of his regal manner and bearing than a claim to any title. K’azz nodded him a greeting: thin, ascetic, he had the look of a scholar rather than a warrior. But Silk found the pale eyes, greyish in this light, calculating, their gaze piercing.

The other youth was pale, slim, all in black, his features long and somehow conveying a moroseness of character. He wore a thin gold band, like a circlet, over his straight sandy-brown hair, and with a start Silk realized that he was looking at Malkir Herengar, heir designate to the Grisian throne. He gave Malkir a bow that the youth answered with the faintest of nods.

‘You are Silk, city mage of Li Heng, and one of its rulers, yes?’ Courian said as he gnawed on a rib.

Silk grasped the mug behind his back in both hands and smiled modestly. ‘Shalmanat is the ruler of Li Heng.’

Courian’s gaze – the living eye and the dead – narrowed. He held the bone in his teeth and growled, ‘Do not dissemble with me, mage. You five are her voice, her hands. You rule the city as nothing more than a damned cabal of mages.’

Silk hadn’t thought of it in such a way before but couldn’t, on the spur of the moment, dispute the characterization. The youth K’azz spoke up, ‘Perhaps we should offer our guest a seat, Father. He has had a trying experience.’

Courian snorted harshly. ‘Listen to my son, mage. No doubt after a hot meal we’ll all be best of friends, hey? Perhaps we could all sing songs together.’

The youth’s features were strained as he lowered his voice. ‘I merely—’

‘That is your problem, son. You merely.’ Courian pointed the stripped rib at Silk as if it were a spear. ‘It is strange, the beast Ryllandaras malingering about Heng, yes?’

Silk brought the stoneware cup out from behind his back and blew upon it, sipping. ‘The beast does as it will.’

‘Indeed it does – to the Kanese mainly, these days. But they are gone now from these northern plains, yet it lingers.’ The one good eye examined Silk, gauging him up and down. ‘It is almost as if it were waiting for something.’

Silk sipped again, loudly. ‘The walls to fall, no doubt. You ought to try hunting it.’

The mercenary commander scowled, his jaws bunching in anger. He tapped the rib to the plank table. ‘It is fast, deadly, and cunning. A difficult quarry.’ He cocked his head, the dead eye now on Silk. ‘Some say the Protectress possesses some sort of hold over the beast. What say you to that, mage?’

Silk sipped the reviving tea, remembered Ryllandaras’s pledge of love and devotion to Shalmanat given in his own inhuman growling voice. He was sorely tempted, but could not bring himself to leap into that abyss. He said, ‘Is it so surprising that her beauty should conquer all?’

Courian snorted once more. Now he held the rib in both hands before his chin, his elbows on the table, and, almost smiling, asked, ‘What is going on in your fair city, mage?’

Uncertain of the man’s tack, Silk found that all he could do was banter, stalling: ‘We’re readying a victory banquet.’

The grizzled mercenary affected mock surprise. ‘Really? I find that difficult to believe.’ He pointed the rib to Cal-Brinn at Silk’s side. ‘My mages have been yowling like cats in a bag on fire. They say something very unusual is going on in Heng right now. We hear rumours of some sort of daemon stalking its streets.’

Silk glanced to Cal-Brinn, who raised his brows in a silent question. Now he understood. ‘Citizens hear a barking dog and this becomes the roar of Ryllandaras next door. Stories always grow in the telling. That is all.’

Courian’s answering smile was thin. ‘Of course.’ He flicked the rib aside. ‘Since you are done talking, have a seat. Eat. Tomorrow we will escort you back to Heng.’

Silk bowed. ‘You are most generous, m’lord Courian.’ Cal-Brinn guided him to a seat where he could eat without having to answer any further questions, and sat down next to him. He peered about, naturally curious about the Guard, but wary as well. He spotted the hulking Petra who fought with a two-handed mace, and scanning the crowd of mercenaries found the man he wanted: the tall, lean figure of Oberl, black-haired, his long legs stretched out before him. Champions all were these men and women, drawn from across the face of the continent and beyond, yet reigning over all was Oberl of Purge, champion of champions.

Perhaps the man felt Silk’s gaze upon him, for he rose and crossed to their table. He sat opposite and regarded Silk, his gaze lazy. Cal-Brinn waved a hand in introduction. ‘Oberl of Purge . . . Silk of Heng.’

Silk offered a nod. ‘I have heard much of you, of course.’

The man’s answering nod seemed to say Of course you have. He leaned forward over the table and said, his voice soft, ‘I’ve heard that the Sword of Hood is in Heng. Do you know of this?’

Silk nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve met the man. Young. Seemed . . . competent.’

A drawing down of the man’s lips expressed what he thought of Silk’s evaluation of any fighter’s competence. But he did nod in thanks for the intelligence, and pushed away from the table. ‘I would break into your damned city just to test the fellow’s claim . . . but I am sworn to my duke.’

Silk resisted commenting and nodded instead, in farewell. ‘Perhaps sometime . . .’ he offered, to be diplomatic.

The man gave a tight hungry grin and walked away.

Silk found Cal-Brinn eyeing him and raised an eyebrow in question. The older mage cleared his throat. ‘You’ve met him? Is he really— that is, what do you think of his claim?’

Silk gnawed on the rib of roasted pig that had been set down before him and considered that dawn visit. In truth, he thought the claim wildly unrealistic. Mortal swords of the gods were few and far between. Those of Fener and Togg and such – the beast gods and war gods – were the most common. But for the hoary Elder hoarder of souls to grant such a dispensation . . . well, that was another thing entirely.

And yet. That morning, within that old neglected mausoleum, he’d felt something. They hadn’t been alone. He was no priest, but he’d heard talk that the Elder Realms such as those of the Andii and others were no more than older versions of the Warrens, and that even Hood’s own path was one such. It was quite esoteric research. Yet he’d felt something.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I consider it unlikely but not impossible.’

Cal-Brinn nodded at that. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned his attention to his meal.

Silk sipped his watered wine and tried to relax as the evening lengthened. His exhaustion and the lingering ache in his arm pulled at him. He understood now that the older mage was here beside him less as his minder than for companionship. For the broad tent was crammed with martial figures – among them some of the most storied in the lands – and Cal-Brinn was very much the odd man out. Yet the Guard possessed a cadre of mages second to none. He knew of Gwyn of Lammath, Petal and Red just to name a few. Even – and he searched the tent to find that skinny spotty youth – Fingers, Auralas had called him. The lad was sitting at a table laughing and joking, surrounded by armoured mercenaries yet wearing no more than a leather jerkin and buff trousers.

The Guard welcomed mages, he knew. And he felt the pull of it; of belonging, of the respect of one’s companions. But, somehow, he couldn’t imagine himself joining for the pursuit of money, or fame, or honour. No, it would take something more than that to win him over. Something larger. He couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it was there. In this company he felt it pulling at him.

He shook his head again, blinking, and set down his wine. He felt a hand on his shoulder – Cal-Brinn.

‘You should sleep,’ the mage was saying, and Silk nodded. Yes, it has been quite the eventful journey.

In the morning the Guard was good to its word. They supplied drivers and an escort of twenty cavalry. Cal-Brinn sat with Silk in the lead wagon, while a surviving Hengan muleteer handled the team. The elder mage was quiet, clearly willing to allow Silk all the time he needed to think.

As the wagon rocked and bucked along a track that was nothing more than twin overgrown depressions across the rolling hillsides and shallow valleys, Silk considered the mercenary company’s interest in the ongoing siege. They were here for the beast, of course, but clearly their formidable mage cadre was also aware of the strange happenings within the walls. Were they angling for some sort of advantage?

In time, he cleared his throat and shot a sidelong glance to the man beside him who sat at ease, a hand resting on the thick iron pommel of one of his swords. ‘You intervened because you think there is something going on in Heng, and you are curious.’

The mage turned to regard him. His age was hard to tell. Older, yes, but by how much was impossible to know. The scars and roughened features told of a long hard life. And he was, after all, an adept of Rashan, and had perhaps followed – or been allowed to follow – one of the rituals of High Denul that rejuvenated the body and forestalled its ageing. ‘You may avoid the subject with Courian,’ he said, ‘but you cannot hide the truth from me. Four Guard mages are here, and we all felt the shudder in our Warrens. It was as plain as an earthquake. Yes?’

Silk nodded, uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’

‘I am most interested in the thoughts of Hothalar on the matter. What is his opinion?’

Silk was quite surprised. ‘Ho? You know of him? Why would you care what he thinks?’

Now Cal-Brinn’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Hothalar is one of the foremost scholars of thaumaturgy and the manipulation of the Warrens. His experimentation is unequalled.’

Silk’s astonishment must have shown on his face, for the mage of Rashan went on, ‘But I see that that is not your area of interest.’

Silk looked away, his face heating. Damn Ho for leaving him in the dark! He must look like an utter fool. ‘No,’ he managed, holding his voice flat, ‘it is not.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, I am no scholar of the arts. I am more practical.’

‘From what was reported of the engagement, indeed so,’ Cal-Brinn said, and Silk chose to take that as an offering of peace.

They rode in silence for a time. Silk was now thinking of the other issue Courian raised, the matter of Ryllandaras; here was something he could address. The beast had done its job. The north was clear and winter was now with them. Any further Kanese incursion was unlikely. Surely Shalmanat had no further need for the vicious creature.

He turned to the wagon driver and motioned for the reins. ‘I’ll take over – get some rest.’ The man nodded and clambered over to the rear. Cal-Brinn cocked an eyebrow in silent question. Lowering his voice, Silk began, ‘As to Ryllandaras . . . if there were a way to trap him, how might I reach you?’

Cal-Brinn nodded long and slowly in consideration. At last: ‘If that were found to be so . . . I could leave myself open to contact from the Warren of Thyr . . .’

* * *

On the wall of a choked-off, dust-filled subterranean chamber ice crystals came into being in a latticework of diamond glimmer. They met, coalesced into a solid layer that crackled and hissed, sending wisps of mist into the dusty air. Sister Night emerged from the wall of latticed ice. Frost limned her short dark hair. Her flat features held her usual severe frown, and she wore her customary old worn travelling leathers. She raised a hand and a glowing ball of illumination materialized to float in the air.

She turned about, examining the chamber. It was squat; a mass of fallen earth choked off its one exit. From this heap, close to its leading edge, a pale hand could just be seen, reaching, nails broken where it had clutched desperately at the stone flags. Fat brick pillars cluttered the room; evidently these restrained the arched roof from total collapse.

She turned to the nearest wall and her breath caught. She approached, one hand outstretched, reaching out to crude sketches that cluttered the dressed stone walls. As her hand brushed close to one drawing she yanked it away, her breath hissing. She brought the globe of cold white light nearer.

It was a landscape done in charcoal, flat and desolate, bearing one central figure: the crudely traced outline of a structure, a brooding squat thing, almost a tomb, perhaps built of stone monoliths.

The woman flinched back as if struck. Amazement suffused her harsh features. ‘By the Elder Powers,’ she breathed. ‘How . . . how did he . . .’

Her dark gaze narrowed now on the tomb-like structure and she brought a finger to her lips. ‘Greetings, cousins,’ she murmured aloud. ‘After all this time. What have you been up to?’