Lords of the Sky

Does she permit it, I’ll saddle Deburah one last time and fly her to that valley where the bones are, and does the Pale Friend meet me there, I’ll take her hand and go with her. That shall be a great journey, no?

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Lords of the Sky is not entirely my own work.

Originally, the book was a lot more words (wordier?), but my editor got to work and suggested where I might cut the manuscript, to tighten it up and keep the narrative flowing without excess verbiage. No less, she pointed out where the psychology of my characters went astray and how to bring them back in line. I believe she made the book better, and for that I owe her.

So-thank you, Janna E. Silverstein; long may you edit.

ANGUS WELLS

Nottingham, 1993.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angus Wells was born in a small village in Kent, England. He has worked as a publicist and as a science fiction and fantasy editor. He now writes full-time, and is the author of The Books of the Kingdoms

(Wrath of Ashar, The Usurper, The Way Beneath)

and The Godwars

(Forbidden Magic, Dark Magic, Wild Magic), Lords of the Sky,

his first stand-alone novel, debuted in trade paperback in October of 1994, and was followed by the two-book Exiles Saga:

Exile’s Children

and

Exile’s Challenge.

He lives in Nottingham with his two dogs, Elmore and Sam.

The Matawaye may have found a new land, one of peace and beauty. The dreaded Breakers may be worlds away, abandoned in Ket-Ta-Witko. Chakthi and his followers may have been exiled from Ket-Ta-Thanne. Davyd, Flysse, and Arcole may have found refuge behind the mountains.

But it is all very far from over….

Don’t miss the riveting conclusion

to

The Exiles Saga:

EXILE’S CHALLENGE

1: Another Time,

Another Place

THE savage roaring of the Breakers’ weirdling beasts echoed like frustrated thunder off the hills surrounding the Meeting Ground. Through that chorus, and rising higher-pitched above it, the dread riders sang their own blighted hymn, an ululation of thwarted bloodlust. From the trees surrounding the great expanse of meadow, birds frightened by the horrid threnody took flight, adding their own alarm-songs to the cacophony, and in the farther hills wolves howled, and coyotes. The night filled up with noise, rang in horrid lamentation, as the Breakers vented their disappointment on the bodies of the slain, mutilating the corpses of fallen warriors, or gifting them to their mounts like playthings to huge and vicious kittens.

It seemed, in that time the Breakers came down onto the grass of the Meeting Ground and found the People gone, that in all Ket-Ta-Witko only the Maker’s holy mountain and the full moon of the Turning Year stood serene, allied in their defiance of the invaders. The moon silvered the grass-where it was not stained dark with blood-and the holy mountain towered white and dispassionate over all. Where the great arch of light had stood, the Maker-given gateway through which the last of the People had escaped, there was now only trampled ground. Of the people, and their horses and their dogs and their lodges, of the Grannach and all their possessions, nothing remained: they had gone away to another place, another time. Morrhyn’s promise was fulfilled.

And the Breakers shrieked in dismay and frustration, their own promise of conquest and destruction denied them, their lust beaten like floodwater washed against immutable stone. Some, maddened by defeat, struck at one another; some turned their blades on themselves, drawing the blood they craved from their own bodies. They were not accustomed to defeat, these reivers of worlds; their habit was annihilation unthinking, massacre, and the overturning of everything stable; anything that was not them.

Then a clarion sounded, cutting like a knife through the tumult, and even before the echoes came back from the hills, silence fell. Riders fought their strange mounts to stillness; blades were sheathed, and the self-mutilators wiped at their wounds and sat their beasts and waited.

From the northern perimeter, where the Commacht had held the cliffs and the fighting had been fiercest, a figure armored magnificently in gold rode down. Curved spikes thrust like defiant talons from the armor, the gauntlets ended in vicious claws, and sharp-edged wings extended batlike from the helmet that concealed the rider’s face. A great sword hung on chains from the waist, its bloodred scabbard rattling against the skulls that decorated the saddle, which in turn sat upon a mount no human creature had ever ridden. It was unlike the other Breakers’ beasts, for it wore the delineaments of a horse, only larger, and with a hide of midnight blue. Horns sprouted from its red-eyed skull and about its flaring nostrils, and its snarling mouth exposed fangs no mortal horse had ever owned. Its muscular form was somewhat disguised by the plates-gold, like its rider’s armor-that decorated the chest and neck and cruppers, and as its clawed hooves pranced across the grass, they seemed to leave imprints of flame that matched the exhalations of its breath. It was not so large as the lion-mounts, but as it drew near they pawed the ravaged ground and bowed their heads and mewled acknowledgment of this beast’s superiority.

Nor less their riders of the golden-armored figure. They parted silently, shaping a pathway down which the two came as if in bitter triumph to where the arch of light had stood. None spoke as the rider halted the obscene, horned horse and the helmeted head bowed in slow contemplation of the ground, all tracked and trampled on one side and on the other nothing, save where Breakers had been.

The helmet rose, turning in the direction of the Maker’s Mountain. The same moon that lit the great peak bathed the armor in its bright light, but the golden plates appeared to absorb that radiance and dull it and change it, so that the armor, instead of shining, seemed to throb with a fiery life, as if its wearer stood before a blaze, or the metal ran with blood beneath its surface. It was as if the figure defied all natural laws, defied even the Maker.

Slowly, the wickedly clawed gauntlets lifted to the helmet’s latchings and raised the pot. The rider shook his head, flinging loose a great spill of long, darkly golden hair. It seemed to glow redly, as if fire danced about the handsome face. And was it fire, then it was matched and met by the glow of his eyes, which burned bright and savage as his steed’s, as if blasphemous furnaces burned inside his skull, fueled by the blood of all his slaughtered victims. He cradled the helm against his armored thigh and tugged the horned horse’s reins so that the creature danced and snorted.

“They have denied us our prize.”

His voice was deep, a musical bass that carried over the Meeting Ground almost as if he sang the words. In the hills, the wolves ceased their howling; the coyotes ended their calling; all the birds fell still. It was as if his voice imposed some dreadful and obscene order.

Into that silence he said, “They have escaped us.”

He spun his mount around, clawed hooves scratching up great sprays of dirt, the beast snarling.

“None have escaped us before. None!”

He slowed his mount’s circling, lowered his head a moment, then raised it up to fix the waiting horde with a smoldering gaze that only a few dared meet.

“This is not the way. We are the Breakers, we are the un-makers of worlds. We are the dark side of light, the shadows that haunt men’s dreams when they think of betrayal and dishonour. We are created to punish sin: we destroy. But …” He shook his head and it seemed that tears the color of blood escaped his eyes. “We have failed our duty here. These cringing things escaped us. How could that be?”

Armor rattled, paws scraped; all nervously: no answer came.

“Will none answer me?”

He turned his awful horse around its slowly prancing circle again, red eyes like torches on the horde.

And one replied: “They owned magic, Akratil. Great magic.”

“Ah!” He halted the horned horse, facing the speaker, wide mouth parting in a smile. “Bemnida alone has the courage to say it. Come forward, Bemnida.”

The speaker hesitated and Akratil nodded encouragingly, beckoning, still smiling. A lionbeast pushed from the throng. Its rider wore armor the colour of a summer sky, her hair the pale gold of the summer sun. Her lovely face was delicately beautiful, marred only by the cuts she had carved across her cheeks and nose. Blood still oozed from those, and her pale grey eyes were stormy with frustration. She halted her mount before Akratil and urged the beast to kneel, her own head bowed.

Akratil said, “Rise up, Bemnida. It seems that only you of all my followers have the courage to speak the truth.”

Bemnida raised her head and obeyed, urging her mount on until it stood alongside his.

“So, Bemnida,” he said gently, “tell me of this magic.”

Bemnida looked a moment confused. Akratil smiled at her, and motioned that she speak.

She licked a thread of blood from her lips and said, “It was as if they knew of our coming and rallied against us.” Then paused, nervous under that red-eyed contemplation. “As if they owned such magic as warned them. And showed them how to escape.” She gestured at where the gate had stood.

“Some did know of us. Those who’d hear us and take our way, whose ambition chooses the dark path.” Akratil’s smile was feral, like a wolverine savoring a kill. “Some I … spoke with.”

“Yes.” Bemnida ducked her head in agreement. “But the others, those we fought here … They knew. Why else did they gather here?”

“Perhaps those little dwarvish folk warned them.”

“How?” she asked. “What few we left alive were surely trapped in their tunnels, in the hills. How could they have brought word? They used no riding animals and this is a wide world-how could they have traveled so far in time?”

Akratil nodded. “Indeed. So, how did the others know? Save they do own some scrying.”

Bemnida, encouraged, said, “And more. Such magic as enabled them to fashion that gate and flee our wrath.”

“And that,” Akratil said. “Which was surely great magic.”

Bemnida nodded.

“Great as mine?” asked Akratil.

“No!” Bemnida shook her head vigorously, soft golden hair flying in a cloud about her bloodied face.

Akratil spoke as if she had voiced no denial. “Great as that Power we serve?”

Again Bemnida shook her head, her denial louder now. “How could that be? Is the day mightier than night? I say, no-that the darkness conquers light, and that we are the darkness of all the worlds’ light, and the Power we serve is surely the greatest of all.”

“But they escaped us.” Akratil’s voice softened, a vocal caress, as if he whispered endearments to a lover. “We came to this world and have conquered all until now. Until we came through those hills and fought these folk. None others have stood against us, none others have escaped us.”

Bemnida said nothing.

Akratil said, “Think you some other Power aided them, Bemnida?”

“It is not my place to say.” She bowed her head.

Akratil reached out, setting a talon to her chin, raising her head until she looked into his eyes again. A droplet of bright blood welled from his touch, trickled unnoticed down her slender throat. “It would seem that you alone own the courage to speak, to think. And now that you have begun, I’d hear the rest.

Bemnida’s eyes flickered around. The surrounding horde stood silent, attentive as a wolf pack awaiting the kill. The moon was westered past the Maker’s Mountain now and shadows flung from the hills, the serried peaks bathed in patterns of silver and jet. Into the silence an owl hooted three times. Bemnida said slowly, “Perhaps there was a Power; perhaps they called on it.”

“Perhaps.” Akratil chuckled softly. “After all, is there that Power we serve, why not another?”

“Yes.” Bemnida essayed a smile that failed to reach her troubled eyes.

“And that Power effected their escape?” Akratil said. Bemnida said, “I suppose it was so. How else could they flee?”

“Save aided by a Power great as ours.” Akratil nodded thoughtfully. “Save aided by magic great as mine.”

Bemnida sat her strange mount in silence.

Akratil said, “Which cannot be. There cannot be a Power greater than that we serve, nor magic greater than mine. Are we not that dark side of all beliefs-counterpoint to the feeble imaginings of the creatures we destroy-were we not created to reive worlds in dark judgment of betrayal and dishonor? Was it not dishonor and betrayal called us here?”

“So it is,” Bemnida agreed, lowering her head. “It is as you say.

“Even so, they did escape us!” A man, torn-faced and bloody, urged his mount from the throng. He wore armor dented in battle, carmine in color. “And to me that suggests such a Power as Bemnida speaks of. Think on it, Akratil: are they protected by some Power equal to our own, then surely it were better we leave them go. We were never defeated before-only now-and we’ve not the means to chase them. I say we let them go.”

Akratil said, softly, “Is that your true thought, Yuell? That we leave off our duty, forsake our honor?”

Yuell shifted nervously in his saddle. His mount pawed the trampled ground. He said, “It is. You saw the gate they made, and you know we cannot follow them. Whatever Power guards them must surely be great as ours, and has closed that pathway.”

Akratil said, “Perhaps,” and looked to Bemnida. “What think you?”

“That we have a duty,” she said, “and can we pursue them, then we must.”

“We lost many here!” Yuell gestured about the Meeting Ground. “Too many! I say we look to other worlds.”

“I’d have these folk,” Akratil said, a gauntleted hand closing as if it crushed some soft thing. “I’d not so easily admit defeat, nor betray our cause.”

“They’re gone!” Yuell argued. “We know not where-only that they are gone beyond our taking.”

“How say you?” Akratil asked Bemnida.

And she answered: “That you are our leader, and I shall follow you down all the roads of time and space, to all the worlds.”

“Then kill me this upstart.”

Bemnida’s blade swung clear of the scabbard in a fluid motion that delivered the edge to Yuell’s neck in a swift, sweeping arc that severed the skull from the body and sent it rolling across the grass.

From the arteries of Yuell’s throat thick columns of blood fountained high, black in the moon’s light, lesser spoutings from the veins. His body jerked, dead hands tightening on his beast’s mane, so that the creature roared and bucked, tossing the corpse clear of the saddle. It landed heavy and still, the carmine armor all streaked with gore. The head came to rest against a tussock that held it staring sightlessly at Akratil, the blank, dead eyes fixed on his. The mouth was stretched wide in a rictal smile that seemed adoring.

Akratil, too, smiled, and touched Bemnida fondly. “That was well done.”

“Thank you.” Bemnida sheathed her blade, and gestured at the snarling lion thing: “Calm it.”

A Breaker whose armor was all jet black save for the crimson sigils on chest and back ran forwards, bearing a long pike. He prodded the animal, shouting, and it ceased its rumblings and retreated slowly.

“Take that away.” Akratil pointed at the corpse, the head. “Feed it to the animals.”

He waited until that task was done, then faced the horde again and said, “There was magic employed here, that these folk escaped us. But there exists no magic greater than mine. Nor any Power greater than that we serve.”

He danced his weird horse around, and from the horde came a great shout of agreement. He let it ring awhile, then raised a gauntlet, motioning his followers silent.

“These folk have escaped us-for now! But amongst them are some I’ve spoken with in dreams, some who take our way. Some, I know, have chosen our path. They’re mine: I’ve their scent in my nostrils, and I can find them. I can find them in the night, when they sleep; and when they dream of conquest and vengeance, they leave their spoor on the shadow trails, along all the roads of blood and darkness. They shall show us where they are, and bring us to them.”

He smiled a horrid smile, his face still handsome but also torn and burning, as if the malign purpose that made him what he was shone through, the skull beneath the skin exposing its deformity.

Bemnida stared at him, adoringly.

“We shall leave this world, to find the other where our prey had gone. They shall not escape us! Set up the pavilions here, and feed the beasts on the fallen. We wait here until I find the way. But know this-I shall find it! It matters not where they are, or when. We shall find them and destroy them. We shall reive them and their new world; we shall give it all to death, that they know the price of betrayal and dishonor.”

Tomas Var had not thought to see Salvation again.

On his return to Evander he had delivered Andru Wyme’s messages to his commanding officer and given his own report, then gone about his duties thinking he had seen the last of the New World. Grostheim and its occupants held no great attraction for him, and did he occasionally wonder what fate befell Arcole Blayke, he surely felt no desire to again cross the Sea of Sorrows. He had found himself posted to garrison duty in the Levan and assumed, with the countries conquered in the War of Restitution now pacific, that he might look forward to a slow rise through the ranks. He found himself thinking, for the first time in his life, of settling into some permanent posting. He had met a woman, Krystine d’Lavall, and contemplated engagement. Consequently, he had been surprised to find himself recalled to Bantar, where he must reiterate all he had observed in Grostheim to a committee of senior officers, Inquisitors, and officials of the Autarchy. They plied him with questions and then-to his far greater surprise-announced his immediate promotion to the rank of major. And his new commission.

An expeditionary force of two hundred and fifty marines accompanied by infantry, artillerymen, and engineers was to set sail for Salvation under the command of the Inquisitor Jared Talle. The newly appointed major was to be Talk’s second-in-command. Their immediate task was to secure the city of Grostheim, after which they would exterminate all hostiles and see a chain of forts established along the perimeter of the explored territory. Salvation then pacified, the full force would scour the wilderness and, should Inquisitor Talle deem it beneficial, extend by main force the boundaries of the known country.

It was elevation undreamed of for Var, but for all he was delighted with his promotion, still he could not deny he felt some reservations. For one thing, he doubted Krystine d’Lavall would wait for him-after all, he had no idea when he might return. But he was an officer in the God’s Militia and did not question the orders of the Autarchy, so he penned a swift letter to Krystine and prepared to leave. It occurred to him as he wrote that he might never return, and thought abruptly of Arcole-perhaps now they shared the bond of exile. For another, he realized that he was second in a line of command that effectively replaced both Governor Wyme and Major Alyx Spelt, thereby rendering him one of the most powerful men in all the New World. He felt somewhat uncomfortable with such abrupt elevation over older men: he wondered how Spelt and Wyme should take it. That they would accept, he did not doubt-neither provincial governors or military officers argued with Inquisitors-but he anticipated resentment, such as might well brook problems affecting his designated tasks.

He had said as much-cautiously-to Talle as the Wrath of God sailed westward. And Talle had coughed out his whispery laugh and dismissed Var’s reservations. Was the major not his second-in-command, he asked, and was he not an Inquisitor? Therefore who would dare argue? And did any colonials resent this imposition of Evander’s authority, then they would answer to him; so Var need not worry-only obey his orders.

So far as Talle was concerned that resolved and ended the problem; Var was less sure. There would not be open disagreement, but it should be mightily difficult to execute his orders without the full cooperation of Wyme and Spelt, or the wholehearted support of Grostheim’s garrison. And he was loath to impose his authority by recourse to the Inquisitor. Were Governor Wyme’s worst fears realized, he must fight a campaign in unfamiliar territory and knew that victory would depend on concerted effort, shared purpose rather than enforced obedience.

Worse, he could not like Jared Talle, nor respect the man. The Inquisitor enjoyed the exercise of his power too much, relished his position too much. He seemed to gloat on the prospect of usurping Andru Wyme, and seemed to expect Var to enjoy the same pleasure at thought of Spelt’s demotion; nor less at thought of exterminating whatever hostile forces existed in Salvation. Var wondered-traitorous thought-if power corrupted Talle. Also, he smelled. Which was a small thing-God knew, Var himself had often enough gone stinking into battle-but still there hung about him a sour odor of musth and sweat, as if he lived in a state of perpetual excitement, galvanized by that talent that made him an Inquisitor. He bathed seldom, and for all the long crossing had not, as best Var could tell, changed his clothes. It was not easy to sit with him in the small cabin, the air heated fetid, the windows never opened, as if Talle enjoyed the inhalation of his own body odors. Var preferred to spend his time on deck, or on the other ships, which bore the infantry and the light cannon of the artillerymen, or even with the engineers. That was to him an escape-from Talle’s acrid excretions and the Inquisitor’s oppressive presence, both.

Sometimes, as the Flotilla proceeded westward, Var wondered if he was a fit officer for such an enterprise.

But still it was advancement beyond his dreams, and he was ordered to the conquest of a world by an authority he had never doubted. Were they successful, he and Talle, then he knew he might well find himself promoted colonel, or even marshal-military commander of all the New World. So he hid his dubiety and played the diplomat as he smiled at Talle and endeavored not to choke on the man’s sourness, which seemed as much spiritual as physical.

He smelled it now, as squadrons of gulls mewed raucous welcome and he leaned against the forrard rail, staring into the hazy blending of summer sky and lapping sea that rendered Salvation’s coast a misty line across the horizon.

He turned as Talle approached, thankful for the breeze that did a little to subdue the man’s foetor.

“Ere noon, eh?”

Talle took station at the rail alongside Var. His long black hair seemed too weighted by oil for the breeze to shift from his sallow face, and Var could not help the impression of a carrion crow dressed in frock coat and breeches that sprang to mind. He nodded and said, “Soon after noon, I think. We’ve Deliverance Bay to cross yet.”

The Inquisitor grunted and fixed bright black eyes on Var. “You seem none too happy at the prospect, Major.”

“I’ve my orders.” Var met his stare expressionless. “My happiness is surely of no account.”

“No.” Talle smiled, exposing yellow teeth. “But better that you enjoy your work, eh?”

Var said stiffly, “I serve the Autarchy, Inquisitor. Now-with your permission-I’d see my men ready to disembark.”

“Yes, of course.” Talle waved a languid dismissal and Var turned away. As he went across the deck he felt the Inquisitor’s eyes on him, as if an overheated sun burned against his back. None of this, he thought, should be easy, and likely none too pleasant. He resisted the urge to glance back and went to his officers.

The Wrath of God reefed sail, slowing that the three accompanying vessels might take station astern. It had been Talk’s suggestion that they approach Grostheim in formal array, so as to impress those waiting ashore, and Var must admit they did make a gallant sight. He wondered what reception they should receive, and how Grostheim fared. Wyme’s reports had spoken only of hostile attacks on inland farms, and the governor’s fear that the demons grew stronger. Might they have grown strong enough to attack the city itself?

Var saw his men readied for landfall then went forrard again, arming himself with a spyglass.

At least the city stood, but not without damage. The glass showed him the signs of burning, blackened wood about the walls, and watchtowers contrasting darkly with the pale scars of fresh timber where repairs had been effected. Folk came from the seaward gate: he picked out Wyme’s sedan chair surrounded by the scarlet coats of Spelt’s soldiers. He passed the glass to Talle, who surveyed their destination, grunted, and returned the device without further comment.

The Wrath of God came alongside the wharf and Var accompanied Talle down the gangplank. The Lord’s Pilgrim, the God’s Vengeance, and the Fist of God stood to offshore, awaiting the disembarkation of Var’s marines before disgorging their own military cargoes. The sun stood high overhead and the air was warm: summer came earlier to this western land than to Var’s home. He adjusted his tricorne and saluted as he halted before Wyme’s chair. Alyx Spelt stood beside the governor, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Var and saw the insignia of his new rank. Wyme commenced an unctuous speech of welcome, and Talle raised a hand, less in greeting than to halt the governor’s rhetoric.

“I am the Inquisitor Jared Talle.” He spoke as Wyme’s effusive litany spluttered into silence. “I am come to rectify your … problems. You already know Major Var, I believe. He is my aide, answerable to me alone.”

His tone brooked no argument, nor left room for discussion. Var saw Wyme’s florid features darken to a purplish hue, Spelt’s lips purse tight as his eyes narrowed. The practice of diplomacy seemed not to occur to Talle, nor did he appear to notice the resentment his abrupt declaration produced.

“Later, you will apprise me of the situation,” Talle continued curtly, “and I shall decide what measures I must take. Meanwhile, I’d find my quarters.”

Wyme seemed a moment lost for words; Var doubted he had anticipated this when he requested Evander send him an Inquisitor. Then he cleared his throat, struggling to retain some semblance of dignity. “Yes, of course, Inquisitor Talle. A room’s prepared for you in my mansion-if you and the major will accompany me?”

Var said quickly, “By your leave, Inquisitor, I’d see my men billeted, and the other vessels off-loaded.”

“Very well.” Talle nodded in agreement. “That done, join me in the governor’s mansion.”

Like Major Spelt, Grostheim itself exuded an air of tension, as if the city existed solely to anticipate further attack. Folk met the long column of blue and red-coated soldiery with cheers, as if rescue were come, but Var saw hollowed eyes and thinned cheeks, as if sleep and food were both in short supply. No less could he help noticing the signs of damage, where roofs or whole buildings had burned down, the charred remains often as not inhabited by people who appeared to live under the canvas pitched there. Also, the place seemed more crowded than he remembered, the sunny afternoon more redolent of Bantar’s poorer quarters than this airy western clime. He inquired of Spelt just what had happened, but the older man was again become taciturn, waving a stained hand and suggesting Var wait until they gained the privacy of Wyme’s mansion, where a full account might be delivered.

After a few moments of silence, Var complied.

Wyme sat behind his ornate desk, a decanter at his elbow, a brandy glass clutched in his right hand. Sunlight fell slanting across his round face, and Var saw he sweated. The brandy rippled as Wyme’s hand shook; Var wondered if that was the product of fear or Talk’s presence. Perhaps for Wyme there was no difference-surely the Inquisitor was an ominous figure, settled like a black crow in an armchair, his eyes sharp, darting from Wyme’s face to the two officers as if he accused them all of some unadmitted sin.

“The troops are settled?”

Var nodded. “And Major Spelt has arranged for provender.”

He glanced at Spelt, seeking again to establish some communication between them, but Spelt’s gaze was shifting nervously from Wyme to Talle.

“Then do we begin.” The Inquisitor gestured at chairs as if it were his study, not the governor’s, they occupied. “Sit.”

“You’ll take brandy?” Wyme indicated the decanter.

Before Var had chance to reply, Spelt nodded and found himself a glass. He filled it close to the brim, brows raised in inquiry as he looked to Talle and Var.

Talle only shook his head, fingers drumming impatiently on the chair’s arm. Var said, “A measure, if you please.” Did Talle disapprove, then damn him-surely they could retain some degree of civility. He smiled his thanks as Spelt passed him the glass.

“Now that we all gathered, Governor,” Talk’s voice was soft, “do you advise us of the situation. Commence with events after Major Var’s departure.”

“Attacks. More attacks.” Wyme’s eyes shifted from the Inquisitor’s penetrating stare as if he sought some avenue of escape. “Refugees began to come to Grostheim, quitting their farms.”

“And you did not order them to return?” Talk’s voice was cold with disapproval. “How shall this land be settled if every farmer comes running into Grostheim at the first hint of trouble?”

“No. I … How could I?” Wyme shook his head helplessly, his cheeks glowing. Sweat ran into his eyes like tears and he produced a kerchief, dabbing at his face. “They were free folk.”

“And you were the governor.” Talle made the past tense sound permanent.

Wyme’s flush deepened. “Save I ordered Major Spelt to force them back at bayonet’s point, they’d not have gone.”

“As well I’m here.” Talle spoke softly, no louder than a murmur. “Things appear in a sorry state.”

Wyme swallowed; Spelt emptied his glass and rose to fill it.

“Patrols were sent out,” the governor declared hurriedly. “They found the signs of attack, but not the attackers. Only one man was left alive. The demons sent him back, that he bring a message.”

He broke off, filling his glass. Talle said, sharply, “They spoke to him?”

Wyme looked to Spelt for support, but the Militiaman only sat slumped, staring ahead. “They did, Inquisitor. They told him they planned to come against Grostheim; that this land is theirs.”

“They spoke our tongue?”

“Yes.”

“The man’s name?”

Wyme looked again to Spelt, who said, “Captain Danyael Corm, Inquisitor.”

“I’ll speak with him later.” Talle scratched his narrow nose, his expression thoughtful. Var was reminded of a carrion bird studying a carcass. “Go on.”

“They made good their promise.” Wyme’s eyes met Talk’s at last, almost defiant. “More holdings were destroyed and folk flooded into the city. Food grew scarce. I must find quarters for them all …”

“Or send them back.” Talk’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “At bayonet’s point, if necessary.”

Wyme flushed. “They’d have fought,” he protested. “God knows, but there’d have been rioting. And had they gone back, surely the demons would have slain them.”

“And where was Major Spelt all the while?” The Inquisitor’s bird-bright eyes swung to the officer. “Why was no punitive expedition mounted?”

Wyme appeared grateful that attention was focused on Spelt, who shrugged uncomfortably and said, “It was discussed, Inquisitor. But I’ve only so many men-and enough lost already. You must understand … It was the governor’s decision-” He avoided Wyme’s angry glance.”-that it were best we hold Grostheim secure against the threatened attack. These demons are not such creatures as I’ve ever fought. They come out of nowhere and disappear like shadows…. They’re savage beyond belief. Had I taken my full force out-or even sufficient men to scour the land-I should have left Grostheim undefended.”

“We believed ourselves alone in Salvation,” Wyme added desperately. “We’ve never had more than a garrison here-not enough men to fight a war! And so many folk had come refugee, we deemed it best to hold the city secure. And as well we did!”

He paused, topping his glass as if the memory required the fortification of alcohol. Var studied his face, and Spelt’s, and thought two very nervous men sat here. Doubtless both feared for their positions-nor did Talle’s interrogation reassure them-but there was more. He wondered what these demons were, that they induced such unease.

Talk grunted and gestured that Wyme continue.

“They came in the night, with fire.” Wyme shuddered at the recollection. “They burned those buildings outside the walls-the warehouses and the docks, all the boats there. Worse, they sent fire-arrows over the walls. In God’s name, it was chaos!”

“I sallied against them,” Spelt took up the narration as Wyme fell silent, “but I was beaten back. God knows, but it was all we could do to hold the walls.”

“What of your hexes?” Talle locked eyes with Wyme.

“Not strong enough. It requires one of your strength to fix those secure.”

He essayed a nervous smile that Talle ignored. “They breached the walls?” It was the first time Var had seen the Inquisitor disconcerted.

“They did,” Wyme said. “We held them off for seven days, but then they entered. God, it was terrible!”

“It was a hard fight.” Spelt looked to regain some measure of authority, of respect. “We fought them through the streets, and finally drove them back. But there were losses. …”

“Yes, yes.” Talle was unconcerned with the fallen. “And then?”

“They sieged us,” Spelt said.

“A month,” Wyme added. “Then they quit. Between the sun’s setting and the next day’s dawn, they were gone-praise God!” “And then?” Talle prompted.

“We set to repairing the damage as best we could.” Wyme dabbed anew at his face. “There’s not so much timber left in the vicinity, so we sent armed expeditions south to the Hope River.”

“South? Why south?”

“The demons would seem to inhabit the north and west,” Wyme explained. “The attacks began there, along the wilderness edge.”

“And did you find sign of them to the south?”

“None.” Wyme shook his head. “Indeed, I was able to persuade a good number of the refugees to return in that direstion.”

Had he hoped this news would please the Inquisitor, he was disappointed: Talle only nodded, his face expressionless, and asked, “And those with holdings to the west and north?”

“Some have gone back. Under armed escort. Mostly those closest to the city. The rest-those with holdings closer to the forest rim-are afraid. They believe the wilderness spawns the demons.”

“They’ll return.” Talle glanced at Var. “When the major goes out, he shall escort them home.”

“They’ll likely argue.”

Talle frowned, his angry eyes prompting the governor to retreat back into his chair. “This land belongs to Evander,” he snapped. “To the Autarchy! We shall not give it up.”

“No, of course not.” Wyme hastened to agree.

And since this … siege … what further attacks?” the Inquisitor continued.

“None,” Wyme said. “We’ve seen no sign of them.”

“Save, of course, you do not venture very far.” Talle pursed his narrow lips, staring at nothing, and for a while silence descended. It was clear who commanded here. Wyme and Spelt, for all their faces were dark with anger and indignation, made no sound, only waited on the Inquisitor as if fearful of disturbing his silent contemplation. Var sipped the last of his brandy, thinking that he should welcome venturing inland. Grostheim, he felt, would not be a pleasant place while Talle remained.

Finally Talle broke the uncomfortable silence: “I’d speak with the officer, Danyael Corm.”

“Now, Inquisitor?” Wyme snapped a fob watch open. “My wife prepares dinner in your honor. She looks forward to meeting you.”

Var doubted that anticipation should last long. From his recollection of Celinda, he suspected she and Talle were likely to find one another mutually distasteful. He thought that dinner should be a strained occasion.

But that dinner was, in any event, postponed. Talle looked at Wyme and said, “Now,” and the governor swallowed nervously and motioned at Spelt, who rose as if grateful to escape.

No, there was no doubt who commanded Grostheim now.