The Grave thief

CHAPTER 30

The Scholars' Palace, more than fifty yards wide and eight storeys high, got even more impressive the closer Amber got. It was built of white limestone set against the black rock of Blackfang's cliffs. The upper six levels had open walkways at each end, connected by a communal balcony from which Amber could see more than a dozen men and women from different nations watching them approach. Dark-haired Farlan in traditional wide-sleeved shirts stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Chetse scholars wrapped in furs, but he couldn't identify more than half of those watching him. The few that were blond didn't look like Litse bloodstock; western states most likely. It appeared the tribe charged with protecting the library didn't much value its knowledge.

He walked in silence with Lord Styrax, their winged escorts trailing along behind. Other than the cries of birds high in the air above there were no sounds of life here. Looking around, Amber saw white specks, sheep or goats, maybe, in the furthest corner of the valley, and a double bank of what he guessed were chicken coops tucked into an overhang of the rock. With a few acres of land penned with lines of stone where crops would be grown, the Library of Seasons was more self-sufficient than he had expected.

Or perhaps they can't rely on Ismess to keep them fed.

The living quarters for guests of the library were in the upper six levels of the Scholars' Palace. Doors placed at short intervals opened onto each storey's balcony, indicating small, austere rooms for each visitor. The ground floor looked to be given over to kitchens; it was more than double the depth of the other floors and supported an enormous terrace which had been decked out in all the colours of those who would he attending the strange luncheon Lord Styrax had announced.

Surrounding the terrace was a balustrade made entirely of white stone, the pillars of which were all human or animal figures in a variety of actions. Death and Hit were at the corners, their outstretched hands holding up a fat rail beneath which the mortals lived and died. Unlike most statues of the God, which were either painted or carved from black rock, the cowled figure of Death was as white as the rest, something that looked oddly disconcerting to Amber.

The Fanged Skull of Lord Styrax presided over the centre of the balcony, facing into the valley, flanked on the left by Lord Celao's Bundled Arrows and on the right by the Ruby Tower that was Natai Escral's family crest. Opposite the Fanged Skull was the Runesword of the Knights of the Temples, unadorned by any personal symbols. Amber frowned when he saw that: did the Knights of the Temples not use personal crests, or had Cardinal Sourl's position changed recently?

Below each crest was a long table, forming a square that did not meet at the corners. Litse servants busied themselves setting the tables for a formal meal, and Amber's heart sank when he counted the number of places laid at Lord Styrax's. Unless Lord Larim joined them, something he doubted a mage would willingly do, Amber thought he knew who would be filling that seat.

As though reading the soldier's mind, Lord Styrax pointed towards the nearest of the open stairs, where a servant was watching them, long golden hair tied neatly back and a set expression of welcome on his face.

'Your clothes have been taken to a room; go and make yourself presentable for lunch. I don't believe Cardinal Sourl has arrived yet, so you have a little time.'

'Yes, my Lord,' Amber said. He looked up at the sky, trying to discern the position of the sun.

'It is time, yes,' Lord Styrax confirmed. 'The army will have arrived by now.'

Amber nodded. 'Doesn't do a man's appetite much good,' he muttered with a sour expression before bowing and trudging off.

'These are the sacrifices we make,' Lord Styrax called after him. Amber didn't dare turn and show his expression to the lord he worshipped.

Put it out of your mind, he thought to himself, there's a job to be done.

A deep bellowing voice echoed through Fist, causing Major Teral to jump with alarm. He looked up from his soup, for a moment not hearing the words, as more voices took up the cry, confusing the message even further, but the urgency was unmistakable. Teral was on his feet and reaching for his swordbelt before he translated the words in his head. 'To arms, to arms!'

Major Teral was Farlan by birth, and had only just arrived in Akell two weeks ago with his legion — this was his first day as duty-commander. Once in the corridor he had to pause and wait for the calls to come again, panic clouding his memory as he tried to remember which way led to the upper station. Already he'd got lost three times in the rabbit-warren of corridors filling the Fist, the enormous fortress that was Akell's forward defence.

'Major!' yelled a voice behind him. Teral whirled around to see Sergeant Jackler barrelling towards him. The bearded old sergeant had adopted him years ago as an officer in need of a guiding hand, to the profit of them both, and it had since grown into an unshakable loyalty. 'Bloody Menin Army at the gates, sir!'

Jackler turned back the way he had come, Teral close on his heels as they headed for the upper station where they would be able to get a good view of them.

'Are they attacking?' he yelled as Jackler battered soldiers out of the way, clearing a path for Teral.

'No, bastards just sauntered into view!' Jackler called back. 'Tells us why those scouts were late reporting back.' He added with a pitiless laugh, 'won't bother putting them on report now!'

Teral didn't reply as he followed up the stair and out onto the upper station. The highest part of the Fist was half-full of soldiers already and he had to fight his way forward to get a decent view.

'Jackler, get the enlisted to their stations,' he shouted, roughly elbowing past men there to get a look. Leaving Jackler bellowing behind him, Teral reached the far edge and pushed his head cautiously through the crenellations.

'Piss and daemons,' he whispered, eyes widening at the sight before him.

'Cocky bastards, ain't they, sir.'' Jackler laughed behind him. 'No urgency, no assault squads formed. Looks like they're expecting us to just open the gates right up!'

The force with the Menin standard at the front wasn't the biggest Teral had ever seen, but as he looked at the three groups forming up outside bowshot range he realised it didn't need to be. There were at least two legions of heavy infantry standing in neat ranks, their long pikes waving in the air, with another two legions of lighter troops behind. The mass of cavalry on the left were led by the legendary Bloodsworn, all sporting the Fanged Skull of the lord they worshipped. But it was the right flank that frightened him most of all: a dark crowd of figures too large to be human lowed and roared, their noise louder than the hooves of the rest of the army combined, and beside them a regiment of heavy infantry screamed with manic delight, all the while waving enormous polished steel shields above their heads. Teral didn't have to be close enough to see the blades fixed on the edge of the shields, and he barely noticed the cadre of mages behind them.

'Oh Gods,' he breathed, 'the Reavers, and minotaurs too.'

'Good thing they ain't attacked yet, then!' Jackler said cheerfully. He pointed at the infantry with the massive Menin standard. 'Look, flags of parley. Probably come to surrender to us, sir!'

Three horsemen broke away and headed towards the Fist: two Bloodsworn, with the blood-red Fanged Skull painted onto their black breastplates and shields, and a nobleman between them, brandishing the white banner. He was taller than the knights escorting him.

Thank the Gods; someone I might actually be able to negotiate with, rather than that blasphemy of a creature that's Styrax's favourite general, he thought, thankful for small mercies.

'A white-eye?' Jackler asked, noticing the man in the middle was towering over his companions.

'That's ornate for a white-eye,' Teral remarked. The red, white and blue livery made a very obvious target, no matter who escorted him. He looked blurred, but Teral was Farlan and knew it wasn't his vision that was at fault. 'The man's wearing ribbons,' he exclaimed. 'If he is a white-eye he's enough of a peacock to rival Suzerain Saroc.'

'That'd be Duke Vrill then,' Jackler advised. 'They say he's Chief Steward to Lord Styrax.' He paused and with a laugh added,

'Imagine that: Chief Steward Lesarl with a white-eye's temper.'

'Lesarl's viciousness surpasses that of any white-eye,' Teral said sourly, 'but you're right, that must be Vrill. What does he expect us to say? He must realise there's no man here ranked above colonel; all the commanders are meeting his lord!' He pushed away from the wall and headed for the stair, Jackler on his heels. 'There's no one here authorised to negotiate surrender, and why else bring an army here?'

'Talking would be better than attacking the Fist,' Jackler pointed out.

He was right, Teral realised. Even with the terrifying troops the Menin had, the Fist was a hard place to take at the best of times — and reinforcements had just arrived for the Akellan defenders: four legions of Knights of the Temples from Canar Fell and Aroth, most of the Order living under Narkang's rule. The Order had considerable resources and much land at its disposal, and it ensured its troops were all well supplied and trained. Its armies were spread over a dozen or more city-states, in the charge of select generals, and they all maintained a reputation for martial excellence.

They had planned to re-supply at the Fist and continue on to Raland, a key city-state controlled by the Order, but Sourl could not have been more delighted to receive them. The politics of the Order were complicated, but it never boded well whenever a general welcomed troops under his superior's colours.

'What's he going to say to persuade us to give in?' Teral yelled over his shoulder as they reached the bottom of the stairs and made for the fortified gate-house, the only entrance on that side of the Fist.

An attack alarm was clanging above his head, and there was movement all around as men made for their battle stations. The Fist was a massive square building, the straight line of the walls broken only by a jutting gatehouse on the northern face. The outer wall was ten feet thick with defensive walkways built within that, and served as a massive outer shell to the inner building, itself five storeys high and a maze of kitchens, storerooms, barracks, foundries, halls, offices and stables.

The Fist would be hard to take. The outskirts of the city had crept ever closer, until now only five hundred paces separated the nearest dwellings from the massive walls but the ground had been carefully planned to hinder any attacker, with piled earthworks and deep ditches close to the fort and enough open ground to leave anyone trying to slip past the Fist exposed and vulnerable for far too long for comfort.

Teral looked up; the sky above him was grey, making even the scarlet of their uniforms look faded and dull.

'Is Colonal Dake not here?' he snapped, watching the ordered chaos around him.

'Back in the city,' Jackler replied. 'I'll send a rider.'

'Where in the name of the Dark Place is Major Sants, then?'

'I'm here, Teral,' called a laconic voice from the shadows of the gatehouse, 'just waiting for you to show your face.'

Teral bit down the curse that was on the tip of his tongue. Now was not the time to let Sants wind him up. 'It looks as if their general, the white-eye Vrill, wants to parley. I don't think we can afford to wait for Colonel Dake to arrive, so we should go and hear what he has to say immediately.'

As he took a step forward, Captain Shael and the rabid Chaplain Fell joined him. The chaplain was still wearing the bronze braiding on his half-black, half-red robe.

Gods, the Knight-Cardinal must have reversed his decision, all so a few chaplains can pretend they're Mystics of Karkarn, Teral thought, noting the chaplain's clothing.

Clerics had always been a driving force within the Knights of the Temples, but the recent fanaticism sweeping through the cults had taken that to an extreme. It might have been comical to watch formerly mild-mannered clerics assuming all the swagger and aggression of a Farlan regimental chaplain, if it hadn't been accompanied by savage fervour and increasingly brutal punishments for any man betraying the slightest disrespect towards a man of the cloth.

No doubt that priest of Belarannar whispered in the Knight'Cardinal's ear again; man's been closer than a flea and just as friendly. How long can I last without being assigned a 'spiritual advisor' of my own? he wondered.

Major Sants pointed past Teral at four horses being brought around from the stables. 'We were just waiting for you to catch up,' he said with an infuriating smile.

Teral whipped the reins of his own horse from the groom, not caring how ungracious he appeared. The man didn't bother to look aggrieved, nor did he react when Sants accepted the reins of his own warhorse with exaggerated courtesy. As soon as they were mounted, Sants gave a cough. 'Ahem, Major?'

The gates were shut; Teral was duty-commander, and only on his order would they be opened. The gates were twelve feet square, made of bog-oak from the marshes to the west, and reinforced with steel rods. Four men stared down at him from the gantry above the gate, waiting for his order.

He opened his mouth, about to speak, when a man stepped out in front of his horse and the creature shied. It took Teral a moment to regain control of the beast before he could look at the person blocking his path: a priest in black robes. The red stripe running down each voluminous sleeve and around his waist was unfamiliar to Teral, as was the small, curved dagger attached to his robe — clearly a ritual implement, though he couldn't place the cult that required such a thing.

'Major,' the man called out in a strange accent, 'Major, I must beg favour of you.' He spoke the Farlan dialect, although with a strong accent.

'Your Reverence, now is not the time,' Teral said, trying to keep his temper. 'Please, whatever it is, make your request later.'

'No, Major, it is time,' the man replied loudly, his high foreign voice making it sound like a rebuke. As though to support his point, a small group shuffled closer: four more dressed in black and five in novice grey, though the colour of the stripes was different. It was hard to make out in the weak light.

What sort of priests are these? Is that stripe yellow or white? Some instinct made him wheel his horse away from the men. Jackler, seeing the movement, stepped directly between Teral and the priest, his hand on his hilt.

'What God do you serve?' Teral asked as the gatehouse troops stepped out of their guardrooms and surrounded the priests. 'What could possibly be so important you need to speak to me now? You do realise there's a Menin army out there?'

'I hear alarm. Now is time,' the priest insisted. He pushed back the hood of his robe to reveal a face of indeterminate age, entirely hairless and frighteningly white.

Teral wondered if the man came from the Waste; he'd heard many of the tribes there had strange-coloured skin, ranging from as grey as a corpse to red like a birthmark.

'We are priests of Death. When there is battle, we must pray.'

'Pray then, dammit,' roared Chaplain Fell, a priest of Karkarn, 'but just get out of the damn way!'

Teral couldn't help but wince, fearing to find himself caught between feuding priests, but the strange man appeared to take no umbrage at Fell's belligerent tone.

'Well, Father?' he said. 'You don't need my permission to pray.'

'Apologies, we are…' The priest floundered for a moment, then turned to his colleagues for help.

'Aligned,' one of the novices said quietly. He wasn't as young as most novices; though he was also hairless, he had the weatherbeaten face of a penitent.

'Ah, yes.' The priest gave a small bow to the novice and turned back to Teral. 'We are aligned priests; we serve the Reapers.'

Teral blinked in surprise. Aligned to the Reapers? He'd never heard of such a thing before — though it did explain the colours on each man's robe.

But Gods, what sort of madman would be a priest to any of the Reapers?

'You serve the Reapers?' he said, stunned. 'What do you want with me?' Fear made his question harsh, but the priest didn't appear to notice.

Sweet Nartis, one of these men worships the Headsman?

The priest gave a bow. 'All priests of Death must pray before battle; we must pray on site of battle.'

'Out there?' Sants retorted, pointing towards the still-closed gate. 'You want to walk out there to pray?'

The priest nodded silently.

Teral hesitated, trying to work out what to do. The Order bowed to religious authority; that was inbred, and of late that had been even more evident, yet something here felt wrong. He looked at each of the priests: all in black, each with a similar ageless face.

Qods, are they mages? he wondered. 'Sergeant,' he shouted in the general direction of the guardroom, 'where's your witchfmder?'

'I'm here,' came a shout from above before the sergeant of the gate could answer, and a pale-haired man with long limbs waved from his seat on one of the wall's walkways. He dangled a leg over the edge. Teral couldn't tell whether it was just a trick of the light, or if it was a combination of age and grubbiness that made the man's white hair and tunic both look grey. The witchfinders were the only people within the Order to wear white and black.

The man didn't bother saluting, but that didn't surprise Teral; witchfinders were a law unto themselves, and even the best were half-mad. 'Name?'

'Islir,' came the reply, followed eventually by, 'sir.'

'You tested these priests?'

"Course I did,' floated down the mocking reply. 'My job, ain't it?'

'They're mages?'

'Bugger me, yes, and strong'uns too!' Islir said with a laugh.

Jackler half-drew his sword as Islir spoke, prompting the other soldiers to follow suit. Islir watched them with increasing amusement. 'Hah, bloody knitting circle, the lot of you! They're safe; dosed 'em meself. Not going to be casting anything for another few days at least — I gave 'em enough to stop bloody Aryn Bwr himself in 'is tracks.'

Teral winced at the mention of the great heretic's name, never spoken aloud within the Order.

'Get down here and check again,' he ordered. With a theatrical sigh, the witchfinder climbed to his feet and headed for the stair.

'What are you doing, Teral?' Sants said, the irritation plain in his voice.

'They're foreign priests, and mages,' he explained, 'and before I open the gate I want that lazy shit to double-check they're no threat, just as the Codex of Ordinance requires me to.' He gave what he hoped was a suitably respectful nod to the priest, who smiled and bowed again, making it clear he took no offence.

The Knights of the Temples did not use mages in battle, and despite their various factions, none disputed it was the province of the Gods alone. Mages were only accepted into their ranks if they foreswore use of their powers, except for witchfinders, whose meagre ability allowed them to do nothing more than sense power in others. Any mage not of the Order hut in their midst was required to drink a concoction that suppressed all magical abilities.

Teral wanted to ensure they had not found a way to negate the effects of the potion.

'This ain't necessary,' grumbled Islir as he appeared from the stairway.

'Indulge me,' Teral growled.

The witchfinder grabbed the first of the priests by the hand. He paused for a moment then moved closer to look the pale-skinned man in the eye. Teral could see his lips moving, probably chanting some sort of charm to Larat.

It would certainly explain the man's sense of humour, he thought darkly. Let us hope the priest's own weathers it, otherwise I'm in deep, deep shit.

'This one's fine,' Islir announced. 'I'm strong enough to sense power without needing to touch the rest of 'em — which is just as well, 'cause I'm not touching no bastard aligned to the Wither Queen. All their power's deep down and locked tight; they couldn't light a fire if their lives depended on it. The only magic they got is in those daggers, and that's latent.'

'What do you mean, "latent"?'

'Latent means it ain't doing nothing at the moment. It's a ritual weapon, so 'course there's going to be some trace o' power in it — but not enough to take on an army, so don't you worry 'bout that.'

'You're certain?'

Islir squinted up at Major Teral. 'Cardinal Sourl's orders are that any witchfinder who makes a mistake is to be executed as a traitor, no second chances. Believe me: I'm damn sure.'

'Satisfied, Major?' the priest asked. 'We are no threat. May we now go and pray, or must we dance for you next?'

There was an edge to the man's voice now, a note of warning that Teral had heard often enough over the last few months. Offending a priest with influence within the Order had become tantamount to heresy. Even this unknown wanderer could cause trouble for him.

Teral tried to look contrite. 'Of course, Father. I apologise, but our regulations are quite clear and I must fulfil my obligations, which I have now done. Your request is granted.' He looked up to the men hanging around on the gantry and shouted, 'Open the gate!'

'What is this?'

Lord Styrax turned to his right with an expression of excessive innocence. 'This, Lord Celao? It is called "food". I had not been aware that scarcity had turned to nonexistence so you no longer recognise it.'

The Chosen of Hit, unable to match Lord Styrax's gaze for long, scowled down at the bowl before him instead.

It took all Major Amber's efforts to not to stare at the white-eye. He had an enormous, spherical head, currently red with fury, and Amber thought he looked more than ever like a red melon wearing a wig of straw.

Celao was nearly as tall as Lord Styrax, and he was one of the few men in the entire Land to out-weigh the Menin lord. He was not just fat; he was a corpulent monstrosity who would not be able to walk were it not for his Gods-granted strength. The wings sprouting from his back were significantly larger than either Kiallas's or Gesh's, but there was no way they would lift Celao even an inch off the ground.

It would take a dragon to lift that body, Amber mused. He'd probably make quite a snack for one too. If I were him, that's what my nightmares would be about.

'Peasant food,' Celao declared petulantly, shoving the bowl of mushroom soup away, slopping it onto the table. The Lord's companions leaned back from the table, unable to eat what their lord had rejected.

'You could usefully miss-' Kohrad started, but was cut off short by his father.

'A little civility over lunch, if you please,' Lord Styrax said sharply before his belligerent son could say anything more. 'Lord Celao, I apologise for my son's demeanour, and also the food. I am a man of simple needs; I have no taste for such delicacies as swan's liver pate or white-thrush tongues.'

Amber noted the differences between Styrax's perfect calm and the boiling bag of emotion that was his white-eye son. Lord Celao was a huffing whale wrapped in what looked like a tent of cloth-of-gold, and he betrayed his discomfort by a host of fussy mannerisms, but he at least was touched by a God's strength. Kohrad had only the frustrations of young manhood in the presence of at least two men above him in the food chain.

Gesh and Kiallas sat at either end of Lord Celao's table. The lord himself sat between golden-haired noblemen with androgynous faces who looked near-identical, though their badges of nobility showed no family link. Both appeared unaware of either the Knights of the Temples or the Duchess of Byora; their attention was fixed on the Menin, their historical enemy.

Amber wondered what exactly they were expecting Lord Styrax to do, for they sat like rabbits just waiting for the dog to notice them and attack. Do you think him Deverk Grast reborn? Has the Land changed so little for the Litse!

'Your food and hospitality is ill-fitting to a man of my position,' Celao announced after a long moment.

Amber saw Kohrad's mouth open, the words 'ill-fitting' forming on his lips, but his father cut him off with a look.

'For my part, I am quite content,' announced the man sitting opposite Lord Styrax. 'I have spent too much of my life travelling to consider a fine soup anything less than a pleasure.'

All eyes turned to the man at the centre of the Devoted table. Except for the High Priest of Belarannar, the men were dressed almost identically: scale-mail hauberks of black-iron over red and blue tunics with red sashes bearing the white runesword of the Order. The speaker, who was half a hand taller than his companions, was clearly no local, his dark hair and elegant Farlan features marking him out from those around him. His expression was amiable and he ignored the scrutiny, supping a spoonful of soup, then helping himself to more bread as they stared.

'I am pleased we are of a similar mind,' Lord Styrax said, picking up his own spoon, which looked tiny and fragile in his hand. 'I hope that continues.'

'Perhaps,' the man said calmly. 'It rather depends on whether you revise yesterday's threat.' He gestured towards Messenger Karapin, who was standing stiffly at one side, a pair of Devoted officers on either side.

Amber had almost missed the man as the Devoted party approached the Scholars' Palace — until he realised Cardinal Sourl was walking half a pace behind him, not leading the group. When Lord Styrax had planned this meeting, he had not expected Knight-

Cardinal Certinse, Supreme Commander of the Knights of the Temples, to be anywhere within a hundred miles — and yet here he was, making quiet inroads into his lunch while everyone else waited for Lord Celao to begin. Amber wondered what this unexpected turn of events would mean for their plans.

'Message,' piped a child's voice. Amber looked past his lord to where Ruhen sat beside Natai Escral. The boy sat in the centre, between the big sergeant, Kayel, and the duchess, looking like a mismatched set of parents from some ridiculous romance story. Curiously enough, Sergeant Kayel — to whom Amber bore no similarity, now they were in the magic-deadened valley — was as attentive to the child's needs as the duchess. The man was a better actor than Amber would have given credit.

'Yes dear,' the duchess said in a soothing voice as she gave Knight-Cardinal Certinse a sharp look, 'the message. Lord Styrax, you wish our surrender. Now, while I may be a feeble woman, I cannot but remark that you are a long way from home. The dull little men I employ to pay attention to such matters, they tell me that in the business of war this is considered bad.'

'Yours will not be the first army to have marched from Tor Salan,' Lord Celao added bluntly.

'I have no desire to force anything on you, my honoured guests,' Styrax said smoothly. 'I wish only to present certain inescapable facts.'

Amber recognised his lord's tone of voice; when he spoke in that overly polite way, Lord Styrax was not bluffing a weak hand, but was confident he could back up his threats. There was no need to force the issue, so he could be reasonable. This lunch was so he could look each of the Circle City's rulers in the face and tell them the plain truth: that he could crush them utterly.

Their intelligence had led them to believe that the duchess, a ruthlessly pragmatic woman, would accept her vassal status easily enough. Lord Celao was a coward without an army. The only problem was in Cardinal Sourl's quarter, and that problem was worsened by the presence of Knight-Cardinal Certinse and his army.

Ego, Amber thought, that's what it'll come down to. They're too proud to accept the threat, and perhaps with good reason under normal circumstances our supplies are limited, and Roland and Embere are still Devoted city-States; they may be squabbling for primacy within the Order, but that isn't going to stop them realising who'd be next. They'll prefer to march to Akell's aid than fight us one by one.

'You have yet to present us with facts, my Lord,' the duchess commented, her hand resting on Ruhen's shoulder. Here, in the presence of her peers, she had found some of the poise that had been missing from Amber's first meeting with her. The little boy was obviously still distracting her, but there was nothing wrong with her political senses. She was watching everything that was going on closely.

Lord Styrax inclined his head to the duchess. 'The facts, your Grace, are that I will take the Circle City within the next few days. The only thing you can affect is the manner of that conquest.'

'You're bluffing,' snapped Celao. 'You don't have the troops.'

'I brought with me the tools I needed for the job,' Styrax said mildly. 'Why would I bluff on a poor hand when it would have been simple enough to bring the Second and Fourth Armies with me?'

'Because Tor Salan hasn't been the tea party you thought it would be,' Certinse said. The Knight-Cardinal mopped up the last of his soup and looked up, his mild smile unwavering. 'Without a strong garrison, you'll lose the city again. You need to recruit there before you can conquer the Circle City, and you've not had the time to build a force.'

He broke off when the man beside him, the High Priest of Belarannar, judging by his robe, tapped him on the arm.

Cardinal Sourl, sitting on Certinse's other side, glared at the priest. He was obviously not enjoying his newfound subordinate rank. The cardinal wore military uniform, as befitted his rank of general, but it didn't appear to fit him very well and he looked uncomfortable. He lacked the martial or political power to challenge the Knight-Cardinal's authority, but he had to be irked by the fact his counsel was not even sought, so deeply did the high priest have his claws into Knight-Cardinal Certinse.

And Sourl had lost weight too, since he last wore that uniform. The Menin still knew very little about whatever had enraged the Gods so, but following that event Sourl had apparently taken to preaching to his troops every day, dressed as a priest of Nartis — he had been ordained as such when he joined the Order. The once-noted soldier had been eating like a monk and acting like a zealot, and was no longer the well-built man in his fifth decade they had expected to find.

After a few moments of whispering, Certinse looked up again. 'My Brother-in-creed reminds me that you, Lord Styrax, have built monuments like shrines to your own glory, and you destroyed the Temple of the Sun in Thotel. Such desecration only clarifies our position: the Knights of the Temples cannot accept your rule.'

Lord Styrax leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. 'Indulge me and listen a little longer. I will explain this fully, for your further consideration.'

And all the while, Amber added to himself, while you turn to your priests for advice, we're exploiting that trust you place in them — give it an hour or so and you won't be smiling so easily.

The white-eye was looking pleased. Major Teral had always feared that.

'Gentlemen, greetings,' he began. 'My name is Anote, Duke Vrill, and in accordance with Menin tradition, I am here to offer you the chance to surrender.'

The Devoted officers exchanged looks of amusement. Major Sants might be an arrogant shit, willing to undermine Teral's authority at every opportunity, but he knew how to keep his place when the enemy were watching.

'And what exactly makes you think we would want to surrender?' Teral asked. 'The Fist has never been taken by enemy action, not once in three hundred years, and you've chosen a poor week to threaten us. Our reinforcements have made our biggest concern back there the lack of bunk space. So you are welcome to break your army on the Fist and distract the men for an hour or so.'

Vrill gave a menacing laugh. He had removed his helm to receive the Devoted men and Teral could see his long dark-red hair fell past his shoulder — it was dyed, presumably, since the Menin were supposed to be as dark as Teral's own tribe. The snarling head of an animal Teral didn't recognise topped his helm and his armour was painted white, adorned with red and blue ribbons, and imbued with some magic that made the duke blur slightly when he moved. Teral had seen something like this before and he recognised how difficult it would be to fight a man wearing armour like this.

He was escorted by Bloodsworn, who stared straight ahead. Their lances were stowed and their right hands rested lightly on their saddles, inches from the handles of their long-handled crescent axes.

'Haven't you heard?' Vrill asked, looking in turn at each of the men facing him. 'Lord Styrax took Tor Salan with ease, and their defences were greater than yours. My lord wishes the Circle City to accede to his rule without bloodshed.'

'Your lord,' spat Chaplain Fell, unable to contain himself any longer, 'has abandoned the Gods. He desecrated the Temple of Tsatach and turned away from his Patron God, the Lord of Battle.'

'My lord is fighting and winning battles,' Vrill replied, 'and what is that except serving Karkarn?'

'He shall burn in the black fires of Ghenna!' roared Fell, his hand instinctively going to his mace, but Sants anticipated it and grabbed the chaplain's arm. Fell struggled for a few moments, but he was a small man and couldn't break Sants's grip.

'Duke Vrill,' Teral said in a loud voice, T am the duty commander here, and I have neither the authority nor the desire to negotiate any surrender, unless I am receiving yours. You do not have the men to take us by force, so I am afraid you are wasting your breath.'

'On the contrary,' Vrill said, his smile widening, 'it was hardly a waste.'

'And why is that?' Teral asked, even as he finished the sentence in his mind: to distract us. He turned and looked back at the fortress. Nothing had changed, not yet.

I don't understand, he thought, puzzled. They couldn't have sneaked troops around us, it's not possible.

Even the five Reaper priests were doing nothing unusual, other than kneeling in the mud with their acolytes and praying — just as the priests of Death and Karkarn within the Fist would be doing.

'I wish to make it clear that any man who surrenders and throws down his weapon shall not be harmed,' said the Menin white-eye. He raised his left hand and a monstrous roar cut through the air.

Teral almost jumped in surprise. The minotaurs were bellowing up to the sky as they headed off to the open ground to the right of the Fist.

'Your Western gate would be a good place to march your troops out of, once you surrender,' the Menin general advised.

'Are you deaf, or just mad?' Major Sants demanded, though Teral knew Sants was just as worried as he. 'We're not going to surrender the damn Fist just because you asked us nicely!'

'Oratory is not enough of a reason?' Vrill shrugged. 'As you insist, I shall arrange a demonstration instead. Do not let me keep you, gentlemen.'

He offered them a crisp salute and sat there beaming as the Devoted soldiers turned their horses and galloped back towards the half-open gate of the Fist. All four were dreading what they would find.

'Enough!' Lord Celao shouted, cutting Styrax off in mid-sentence. 'Your administrative plans do not interest me, your trade strategies do not interest me, your political assessments do not interest me!' His face was red and his jowls were shaking with fury. 'You insult my tribe by your very presence; you insult us further by suggesting we could ever accept Menin rule! The descendents of Grast will never rule Ismess!'

'Indeed,' Certinse added levelly, 'and might I also suggest you get a new chef — the eel was woefully bland.' The Farlan powerbroker looked like he was enjoying himself, despite having listened to Lord Styrax talk for half an hour on matters they both knew were inconsequential. He knew this game, and was happy to listen to and watch the faces around at him, making occasional comments and allowing the nameless priest in brown to whisper in his ear every few minutes. They would reach the meat of the conversation in due course, and then the game would really start.

The Duchess of Byora drummed her fingers on the table impatiently. Ruhen was staring in rapt fascination at Lord Celao and would not be dissuaded, no matter what she did. The sergeant, on the other side of the child, was causing her almost as much irritation: Kayel ignored her silent reproaches and not only joined in a conversation above his station, but also encouraged the little hoy's interest in the winged white-eyes.

'Lord Celao, you are here because you are the Chosen of Hit and ruler of Ismess,' Styrax said finally, 'but you should not presume that means you can insult me any longer without Kohrad ripping your fat head from your body, Your army is a mockery; it befits

the slob who is the Messenger God's Chosen. The shame your existence does Hit must be testament to his diminished position.'

The Litse white-eye screeched in protest, but looked even more put out when neither Gesh nor Kiallas leapt immediately to his defence. Though the winged men tensed, neither made a move to demand Styrax retract his statement.

'You will accept Menin rule; you cannot do otherwise,' Lord Styrax continued gravely, placing a cautionary hand on Kohrad's arm, feeling his son quivering with aggression. 'Your presence here is a courtesy; the only people I care to hear from are the duchess and Knight'Cardinal Certinse.'

When he spoke again the hostility was gone. 'Natai, if you will forgive my presumption I suggest your position is this: you do not have the troops to fight a war alone, especially now, when your quarter is beset by religious violence. You will support and provide troops in defence of the city, but you will defer to Akell.

'Knight-Cardinal, Cardinal Sourl — you will together decide to fight or to capitulate; the likely response from a martial order will obviously be to fight.' He paused, making a show of looking at the sky, as if gauging the hour. The sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud, but it was enough for the Menin lord. He knew he could trust Vrill's sense of timing.

'Gentlemen, I have brought you here today to tell you that option is no longer open to you.'

Amber watched the smile waver on Certinse's face. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

Lord Styrax stood and beckoned Messenger Karapin, who hurried forward with three rolled scrolls in his hand. 'I mean, Knight-Cardinal, that I have just taken the Fist, your quarter's main defence. Unless you sign the peace treaty Messenger Karapin has here, I will not stop there.'

He turned to walk away from the table. 'You will be getting a runner from your city soon. Unless you wish my minotaurs to unleash havoc in your city, that would be a good time to kneel to me.'

Teral spurred on his horse, determined to be first to face whatever had happened in the Fist. He saw the Reaper priests looking up in surprise, their prayers disturbed, and as he reached them the novices sprang to their feet, sensing trouble. It confirmed his suspicion that they were former soldiers, for who else would be drawn to the service of the Reapers?

They were now less than fifty yards from the walls of the Fist, close enough to make it back before the Menin cavalry could run them down, but the priests were ignoring their novices. They stared at the racing horsemen, then at the Menin army behind them.

'Run, you fools!' Major Sants called, sparking the group into action.

They turned and started moving towards the Fist, the smallest, a woman, Teral realised, half-dragged by one of the novices. There was a sudden movement and the novice fell, sprawling on the ground.

'Gods, archers!' he shouted, and hunched low over his horse's neck, not slowing the beast until he was through the gate. He was sliding from his horse before a groom had even grabbed at the reins.

'Jackler!' he yelled, 'get a squad and sweep the Fist, and double the guard on every entrance.' He broke off as Major Sants and Captain Shael clattered in behind him, almost running him down in their haste.

'Sound the alarm!' Sants roared, 'and look lively, you bastards!'

'Where's Fell?' Teral asked, fearing the worst.

Sants shook his head, his cheek purple with anger. 'Idiot turned back to go after Vrill, I think.' He ran back to the gate to look out. 'Where are those-?' The major froze.

Before Teral could speak a howl cut the air, like nothing he had ever heard: high and piercing, a shriek not of pain, but hatred. It stopped abruptly as a squat figure bounded into view and, without breaking stride, pushed Major Sants off his feet. It happened in the blink of an eye; Teral caught only the glimpse of long, misshapen fangs before they were buried in Sants's body.

He felt the ground under his feet shake, like the heavy footfalls of a giant, and he drew his sword as three guardsmen, their pikes levelled, ran past him to Sants's aid, and straight into a second dark shape. The first soldier, smashed off his feet by an enormous arm, collided with his comrades, knocking them to the ground.

Teral ran forward but before he could reach them a third figure darted through the air and slabbed down. He raised his sword, acting instinctively now, and caught the flash of a blade as it slashed across his face and knocked the sword from his hand. He staggered aside as the figure, its arms whirling like an enraged Mystic of Karkarn, pushed past him to attack the next man. He felt the blood splatter across his face as another creature leapt in through the gate, its blades flashing. Teral blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The first creature turned towards him, its red eyes burning through the gloom. He fell back as the creature shook itself like a dog and released a cloud of foul black smoke from its matted coat.

He gagged at the sudden stench of decay that filled the air and fell to his knees, retching. The largest of the creatures roared again, louder than the minotaurs, but with a more human voice. The beast was a dirty grey colour, with ragged scraps of cloth, or maybe feathers, hanging from its body. Its huge arms were almost as large as the rest of its body, and they were covered with shards of chitinous armour. It gripped one of the open gates and twisted it, snapping the thick, metal-reinforced beams like kindling. It bellowed as it tossed the pieces at Teral and knocked the major onto his back, then redoubled its assault on the gates.

The smoke grew thicker. He could hear the sounds of fighting behind him as the two beasts used sword-like forearms to tear through the gatehouse troops. The first of the monsters — daemons, he realised at last — had not followed them but stood just inside the gate, exuding a growing cloud of choking foulness that was borne into the Fist's interior by the wind. Teral could see its eyes as it watched with what he thought looked like terrible anticipation the death going on behind it.

Now a fifth figure came into view. It was quite unlike the rest, and Teral scrabbled backwards in fear, ignoring the foul smoke that was filling his lungs and mouth. He was quite unable to face down the renewed fear he felt at the sight of the white-hot, raging figure of flame.

The Burning Man, he thought through the whimpering fear, before realising it was not a man alight, but a figure of fire, comprised entirely of dancing flames: a daemon like the others. Daemons, daemons all.

He tried to run, but now smoke had filled the Fist. Screams came from every direction, as did the ear-splitting roars of the largest daemon. All he could see were the burning red eyes and that terrible, shifting figure of fire. His eyes burned, his stomach heaved, his limbs were shaking uncontrollably as the infection of the smoke ran through his veins-

From nowhere a hand grabbed him and started dragging him away somewhere. He flailed at it, shrieking in fear, but in the next moment he felt himself being thrown. The sky lightened, the smoke receded and suddenly there was cold dirt underneath him and cool air on his face. Teral rolled once, twice, before hitting something and coming to a stop. More hands grabbed him and pulled him upright, holding him as his legs wobbled under his weight.

'Getting the idea?' shouted someone in his ear and he felt himself shaken like a rat in a terrier's mouth. His hazy vision began to clear as a bright yellow light in front of him drove the smoke from his eyes. He blinked hard and saw the main entrance of the Fist, the splintered, ruined gates on fire and the fire'daemon reaching out to engulf the entire fortress.

At the side stood the largest of the daemons, propped on its gigantic arms and watching them, its jaw hanging slack. A dagger hilt protruded from the centre of its chest. He couldn't remember seeing anyone getting a blow in — then he recognised the knife.

Gods, it was the priests! The grey rags hanging from the daemon's body looked as if they were growing out of its flesh. Their daggers turned their own novices into daemons!

The revelation drove the last of Major Teral's strength from his body and he sagged, not caring when the grip on his arms became too painful to bear. He was hauled up once more and Duke Vrill's face came into focus. The white-eye was peering down at him, savage delight on his face.

'Ready to surrender yet?' Vrill pointed at the gate. 'Or do you want the smoke and fire to take them all?'

Teral felt himself nodding as best he could, even as the tears streamed down his face. He was shoved forward and one of the men who had been holding him drove him on towards the burning, smoke-filled gateway.

'Go then,' Vrill roared after them as the flames parted, 'go and tell that to the rest of your soldiers!'