The Heretic Kings

SEVEN

The barricades had gone up overnight.

When the deacon led his demi-troop out on their regular patrol of the city in the blue murk of the dawn, they found that the streets were occupied. Carts had been overturned, sacks and crates from the docks piled up and roped together. Even the narrowest of alleys had its obstacle, manned by citizens who had lit braziers against the cold and were standing round them rubbing their hands and chatting good-naturedly. Every street, roadway, avenue and alley which led down into the western half of the Lower City of Abrusio had been blocked off. The place had been sealed as tight as the neck of a stoppered bottle.

The deacon of the Knights Militant and his nine serving brethren sat their heavy horses and watched the Abrusian citizens and their makeshift fortifications with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. True, over the past weeks the Lower City had been an unfriendly place and any Knight who ventured down there was liable to have a chamber pot emptied over his head from an upper window. The Presbyter, Quirion, had ordered his men to stay away from the region whilst the delicate negotiations went on with the Abrusio garrison commanders. But this, this was different. This was open rebellion against the powers which had been ordained by the High Pontiff to rule the city.

The quiet horses with their heavy loads of steel and flesh stood their ground on the cobbles of the street, breathing out spumes of steam into the cold dawn air. It was a narrow place, the closely packed timber-framed houses of this part of the city leaning together overhead so that it seemed their terracotta tiles almost met to form an arch over the thoroughfare below. The citizens behind the barricade left their braziers to stare at the Knights. They were of both sexes, old and young. They carried makeshift weapons fashioned from agricultural implements, or simply hefted the tools of their trades: hammers and picks, scythes, pitchforks, butcher’s cleavers. A weaponry as diverse as the colourful citizenry of Abrusio.

The shape of the city was like a horseshoe, within which was the trefoil outline of a cloverleaf. The horseshoe represented the confining outer walls, curving round to end on the northern and southern shores of the Southern Gulf, or the Gulf of Hebrion as it was sometimes called. The cloverleaf represented the three harbours within the walls. The northernmost blade of the leaf was the Inner Roads which extended into the heart of the city, the wharves and docks lapping at the very foot of Abrusio Hill. To left and right of it, and not so far inland, were the Outer Roads, two later-built harbours which had been improved by the addition of man-made moles. The western Inner Roads housed the shipyards and dry docks of the Hebrian navy and were frowned over by the bulk of Admiral’s Tower. On a promontory to their north, another ageing fortress stood. This was the Arsenal, the barracks and magazines of Abrusio’s garrison. Both fleet and army were therefore quartered in the western arm of the Lower City, and it was this area which had been blocked off by the barricades of the citizens.

But the earnest young deacon was not deliberating on that as he sat his horse in the early morning and wondered what to do. He knew only that a group of rabble had seen fit to deny passage to a demi-troop of the Knights Militant, the secular defenders of the Church on earth. It was an insult to the authority of the Pontiff himself.

“Out swords!” he ordered his men. They obeyed at once. Their lances had been left in their billets as they were inconveniently long to carry when traversing the narrow, packed streets of Lower Abrusio.

“Charge!”

The ten horsemen burst into a trot, then worked into a canter, the shoes of their mounts striking sparks off the cobbles. Two abreast, they thundered down the narrow street like avenging angels, if angels might be so laden with iron and mounted on steaming, wide-nostrilled warhorses.

The citizens stared at the approaching apocalypse for one moment, and then scattered. The barricades were deserted as people took to their heels, fleeing down the street or shouldering in the closed doors of houses on either side.

The deacon’s mount struck the piled oddments which blocked the street and reared up, armour, rider and all, then scrambled over the barricade, tearing half of it down as it did so. The other Knights followed suit. The street became full of the din of nickering animals and the clang of steel. The up-ended cart fell back on to its wheels with a crash. They were through, urging their gasping mounts into a trot again, screaming “Ramusio!” at the top of their purpling lungs.

They clattered onwards. People were trying to dodge the heavy swords and the hooves of the destriers. The deacon clipped one fellow on the back of the head and took a chunk out of the base of his skull. When he went down, the horses trampled him into a steaming pulp.

Others too slow to hide or get away were smashed off their feet and suffered the same fate. There were no side alleyways, no way out. Several men and women were hacked as they thumped closed doors frantically with their fists, seeking sanctuary in the adjoining houses. The horses reared as they were trained to do, splintering bone and rending flesh with their iron-shod forehooves. The street became a charnel house.

But it opened out. The streams of survivors scattered as the street became one arm of a three-way junction. There was a little square there.

The deacon was hoarse from yelling the Knights’ battlecry, grinning as he swung and hacked at the fleeing mob. Sweat dripped off his nose and slicked his young body inside his armour. This was sport indeed.

But there was something in the air. An odd smell. He paused in his slaughter, puzzled. His men gathered about him panting, the gore dripping from their swords in viscous ribbons. The clattering chaos of a few moments before stilled.

Powder-smoke.

The end of the street had emptied of people. Standing there now were two ranks of Hebrian soldiers with streams of smoke eddying from the lighted match in their arquebuses.

Still the deacon did not fully understand. He kicked his mouth forward, meaning to have a word with these fellows. They were in the way.

An officer at the end of the front rank lifted his sword. A pale winter sun was rising over the rooftops of the houses. It caught the steel of his rapier and turned it into a blaze.

“Ready your pieces!”

The arquebusiers cocked back the wheel-locks which held the glowing match.

“Front rank, kneel!”

The front rank did so.

“Wait!” the deacon shouted angrily. What did these men think they were doing? Behind him, his brother Knights looked on in alarm. One or two began kicking their tired horses into life.

“Front rank, give fire!”

“No!” the deacon yelled.

An eruption of flame and smoke, a furious rolling crackle. The deacon was blasted off his horse. His men staggered in the saddle. Horses were screaming as the balls ripped through their iron armour and into their flesh. The massive animals tumbled to the ground, crushing their riders beneath them. A fog of smoke toiled in the air, filling the breadth of the street.

In the powder-smoke, the surviving Knights heard the officer’s voice again.

“Rear rank, present your pieces.”

The surviving Knights turned as one to the enemy and savagely urged their terrified horses into a canter. Shrieking like fiends they charged down the street into the smoke, determined to avenge their fallen brethren.

They were met by a second storm of gunfire.

All of them went down. The momentum of the two lead riders carried them into the ranks of the arquebusiers, and the horses collapsed through the formation scattering the Hebrian soldiers like skittles. One of the Knights was flung clear, clanging across the cobbles. As he struggled to his feet in the heavy armour that the Knights wore, two Hebrian soldiers flipped him on his back again, as though he were a monstrous beetle. They stood on his wrists, pinioning him, then ripped off his casque and cut his throat.

A final shot as a moaning horse was put out of its pain. From the doors of the houses the people emerged. A ragged cheer went up as they saw the riddled corpses which littered the roadway, though some went to their knees in the clotted gore, cradling the head of a butchered friend or relative. The keening cries of women replaced the cheering.

The citizens of Abrusio rebuilt their barricades whilst the Hebrian soldiers methodically reloaded their weapons and resumed their hidden stations once more.

“I don’t believe it!” Presbyter Quirion said. Abrusio stretched out mist-shrouded and sun-gilded in the morning light. He blinked as the sound of arquebus fire came again, echoing over the packed rooftops to the monastery-tower wherein he stood.

“So far three of our patrols have been ambushed,” the Knight-Abbot said. “Skirmishing goes on even as we speak. Our casualties have been serious. We are cavalry, without firearms. We are not equipped to fight street battles with foes who possess arquebuses.”

“And you are sure it is the Hebrian soldiery who are involved, not civilians with guns?”

“Yes, your excellency. All our brothers report the same thing: when they try to force the barricades, they are met with disciplined gunnery. It has to be the garrison troops; there can be no other explanation.”

Quirion’s eyes were two blue fires.

“Recall our brethren. There is no profit in them throwing themselves under the guns of rebels and heretics.”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“And have all officers above the rank of deacon assemble in the speechhall at noon. I’ll address them myself.”

“At once, your excellency.” The Knight-Abbot made the Sign of the Saint on his armoured breast and left.

“What does this mean?” the Presbyter asked.

“Would you like me to find out for you?” Sastro di Carrera said, one hand fiddling with the ruby set in his earlobe.

Quirion turned to face his companion squarely. They were the only occupants of the high-ceilinged room.

“No.”

“You don’t like me, your excellency. Why is that?”

“You are a man without much faith, Lord Carrera. You care only for your own advantage.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Sastro asked smiling.

“Not everyone. Not my brothers. . Do you know anything about these developments then?”

Sastro yawned, stretching out his long arms. “I can deduce as well or better than the next man. My bet is that Rovero and Mercado have somehow had a communication from our ex-King Abeleyn. They have come down on his side at last-another reason why they postponed the viewing of the Pontifical bull scheduled yesterday. The army and the fleet will hold the Lower City against us until Abeleyn arrives in person, then go over on to the offensive. It is also my guess that your Knights were not meant to be slain; they pressed too hard. Obviously the general and the admiral meant this to look like a popular uprising, but they had to use national troops to defend their perimeter when your brethren tested it.”

“Then we know where we stand,” Quirion snarled. His face looked as though invisible strings had pulled chin and forehead towards each other; fury had clenched it as it might a fist. “They will be excommunicated,” he went on. “I will see them burn. But first we must crush this uprising.”

“That may not be so easy.”

“What of your friend Freiss?” And when Sastro seemed genuinely surprised, Quirion’s bass gravelled out a harsh laugh. “You think I did not know of your meetings with him? I will not let you play a private game in this city, my Lord Carrera. You will pull alongside the rest of us, or you will not be a player at all.”

Sastro regained his composure, shrugging. His hand toyed now with the gleaming, scented point of his beard. He needed to toy with his features constantly, it seemed to Quirion. An irritating habit. The man was probably a pederast; he smelled like a sultan’s harem. But he was the most effective of the nobles, and a necessary ally.

“Very well,” Sastro said casually. “My friend Freiss, as you put it, says he has won over several hundred men of the garrison, men who cannot stomach heresy and who expect to be rewarded for their loyalty once the Church has assumed full control of Abrusio.”

“Where are they?”

“In barracks. Mercado has his suspicions and has segregated them from the other tercios. He is probably having them watched also.”

“Then they are of little use to us.”

“They could stage a diversion while your brethren assault these absurd barricades.”

“My brethren are not equipped for street fighting, as you have already heard. No, there must be another way.”

Sastro regarded the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling with some interest. “There are, of course, my personal retainers. .”

“How many?”

“I could muster maybe eight hundred if I called out some of the lesser client houses as well.”

“Their arms?”

“Arquebuses and sword-and-buckler men. No pikes, but then pikes are no better at street fighting than cavalry.”

“That would be ideal. They could cover an assault by my brethren. How long would it take to muster them?”

“A few days.”

The two men looked at each other like a pair of prize-fighters weighing up each other’s strengths and weaknesses in the ring.

“You realize I would be risking my house, my followers, ultimately my fortune,” Sastro drawled.

“The Hebrian treasury is in the possession of the council. You would be amply compensated,” Quirion growled.

“That is not what I was thinking of,” Sastro said. “No, money is not my main concern. It is just that my men like to fight for the betterment of their lord’s situation as well as their own.”

“They would be defending the True Faith of the Ramusian kingdoms. Is that not reward enough?”

“It should be, I know, my dear Presbyter. But not all men are as. . single-minded, you might say, as your brethren.”

“What do you want, Lord Carrera?” Quirion asked, though he thought he already knew.

“You are looking through the archives, are you not, trying to establish who should take the throne now that the Hibrusid line is finished?”

“I have Inceptine archivists working on it, yes.”

“You will find, I think, that Astolvo di Sequero is the most eligible candidate. But he is an old man. He does not want the kingship with all that it entails. He will refuse it.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Oh, yes. And his sons are flighty, vicious young things. Hardly Royal material. You will need the next king of Hebrion to be a mature man, a man of abilities, a man who is happy to work hand in gauntlet with the holy Church. Otherwise the other noble houses might get restless, mutinous even, at the idea of one of Astolvo’s brats ruling.”

“Where might we find such a man?” Quirion asked guardedly. He had not missed the threat in Sastro’s words.

“I am not sure, but if your archivists delve deep enough I believe they may find the house of Carrera closer to the throne than you think.”

Quirion laughed his coarse laugh-the guffaw of a commoner, Sastro thought with disgust, though nothing of his feelings showed on his face.

“The kingship in return for your men, my lord?” the Presbyter said.

Sastro raised his carefully trimmed eyebrows. “Why not? No one else will make you a similar offer, I’ll warrant.”

“Not even the Sequeros?”

“Astolvo will not. He knows that were he to do so his life would be hanging by a thread. His sons are champing at the bit beneath him; he would not last a year. How would that look? The Church-sponsored monarchy of Hebrion embroiled in murderous intrigue, perhaps even parricide, within months of its establishment.”

Quirion looked thoughtful, gauging. “Such decisions of moment must be referred to Himerius in Charibon. The Pontiff will have the final word.”

“The Pontiff, may the Saints be good to him, will no doubt follow the recommendations of his representative on the spot.”

Quirion repaired to the table on which sat a host of decanters. He poured himself a dribble of wine and drank it off, grimacing. He did not imbibe as a rule, but he felt the need of the warming liquid; there was a chill in the room.

“Get word to your co-conspirator, Freiss,” he said. “Tell him to prepare his men for action. And start gathering your own followers together, Lord Carrera. We must work on a combined plan.”

“Will there then be a messenger sent to Charibon with your recommendations?” Sastro asked.

“There will. I will. . advise my archivists to look into the genealogy of your house.”

“A wise decision, Presbyter. You are obviously a man of sagacity.”

“Perhaps. Now that the bargaining is done, can we attend to the more mundane details? I want rosters, equipment lists.”

The man had no style, Sastro thought. No sense of the moment. But that was by-the-by. He had secured the kingship for himself; that was the main thing. He had negotiated a path to power. But he had not arrived at its threshold, not yet. There remained much to be done.

“I will have everything ready for you to peruse this afternoon,” he said smoothly. “And I will have couriers sent to my estates and those of my vassals. The men will begin assembling directly.”

“Good. This thing must be done quickly. If we cannot storm the Lower City before Abeleyn arrives, it will be the work of several campaigns to secure Abrusio, with all the destruction that entails.”

“Indeed. I have no wish to rule over a hill of ashes.”

Quirion stared at his aristocratic companion. “The new king will rule in conjunction with the Church. I have no doubt that the Pontiff will wish to maintain a garrison of the Knights here, even after the rebels are extinguished.”

“They will be an inestimable help, a valued adjunct to Royal authority.”

Quirion nodded. “Just so we understand each other. Now if you will excuse me, my Lord Carrera, I must prepare to address my brethren. And there are wounded to visit.”

“By all means. Will you give me your blessing before I go, excellency?”

Sastro rose, then knelt before the Presbyter with his head bowed. Quirion’s face spasmed. He grated out the words of the blessing as though they were a curse. The nobleman regained his feet, made the Sign of the Saint with mocking flamboyance and left the room.

Over five hundred leagues away, the Thurian Mountains were thick and white with midwinter snows. The last of the passes had been closed and the sultanate of Ostrabar was sealed off to the west and the south by the mountain barrier, itself merely an outlying range of the fearsome Jafrar Mountains farther east.

The tower had once been part of the upland castle of a Ramusian noble, one of the hundreds which had dotted the rich vales of Ostiber in the days when it had been a Ramusian kingdom. But it was different now. For sixty years the Merduk overlords had possessed the rich eastern region. Its ruler was Aurungzeb the Golden, the Stormer of Aekir, and the people he ruled had come to accept the Merduk yoke, as it was called in the west. They tilled their fields as they had always done and by and large they were no worse off under their Merduk lords than they had been under the Ramusian ones.

True, their sons must serve a stint in the Sultan’s armies, but for the most talented of them there was no bar to ambition. If a man had ability, he might rise very high in the service of the Sultan no matter how low his birth. It was one of the cunning ways in which the Merduks had reconciled the people to their rule, and it brought continual new blood into the army and the administration. The grandfathers of the men who had fought under the banners of Ahrimuz the Prophet at Aekir and Ormann Dyke had struggled against those same banners two generations before. For the peasantry it was a pragmatic choice. They were tied to their land and when it changed owners they would change masters as a matter of course.

Most of the upland castle was in ruins, but one wing with its tall tower remained intact and it gave a fine view of the valleys below. On a clear day it was even possible to see Orkhan, the capital of the Sultan, glittering with minarets in the distance. But the castle was isolated. Built too high in the Thurian foothills, it had been deserted even before the Merduks came, its occupants forced out by the severity of the upland winters.

Sometimes the local inhabitants lower in the valley would remark upon the dark tower standing alone on the wintry heights above. It was rumoured that strange lights could be seen flashing in its windows after dark, and there were tales of inhuman beasts which roamed the fells around it in nights of moon. Sheep had gone missing, and a boy herder had disappeared. No one dared to approach the old ruin, though, and it was left to its malignant contemplation of the dales below.

The beast turned from the window and its monochrome world of white snow and black trees and distant lights. It shuffled across the circular tower chamber and sank into a padded chair before the fire with a sigh. The endless wind was moaning about the gaps in the roof and occasional confettis of snow would flutter in the glassless window.

A beast was dressed in human robes, and its head was like some grotesque marriage of humanity and reptile. The body was awkward and bent, and talons scraped the flagged floor in place of toes. Only the hands remained recognizably human, though they were treble-jointed and slightly scaled, reflecting back the firelight with a green tint.

Other things reflected back the firelight also. Arranged around the walls on shelves were great glass carboys full of liquid, the light of the flames kindling answering shines from their depths. In some floated the small grey corpses of newborn babies, eyes shut as though they were still dreaming in the womb. In others were the coiled bodies of large snakes, their sides flattened against the glass. And in three of the fat-bellied jars, dark bipedal shapes stood gazing down into the room with eyes that were the merest gleeds of bright incarnadine. They moved restlessly in the surrounding liquid, as though impatient at their confinement.

The room was full of a sour smell, like clothes left lying out in the rain. On a small table in front of the hearth was a silver salver upon which smoked the dying ashes of a tiny fire. There were small bones in the ashes, the miniature egg-sized remnant of a fanged skull.

The thing in the chair leaned forward and poked at the ashes with one long forefinger. Its eyes glittered. With a furious gesture it sent ashes, salver and all flying into the fire. Then it leaned back in the chair, hissing.

From a niche near the ceiling the winged shape of a homonculus fluttered down like a gargoyle in miniature. It settled on the beast’s shoulder and nuzzled the wattled neck.

“Easy, Olov. It is no matter,” the beast said, patting the distressed little creature. And then: “Batak!”

A door opened at the rear of the chamber and a man dressed in travelling clothes of fur-lined cape and high boots entered. He was young, his eyes coal-black, earlobes heavy with gold rings. His face was as pale as plaster and he was sweating despite the season.

“Master?”

“It failed again-as you can see. I merely destroyed another homonculus.”

The young man came forward. “I am sorry.”

“Yes, you are. Pour me some wine, will you, Batak?”

The young man did so silently. His hand was shaking and he mopped spilt liquid with one corner of his sleeve, darting frightened glances at the thing in the chair as he did so.

The beast took the proffered wine and threw it back, tilting its head like a chicken to drink. The crystal of the goblet cracked within its digits. The beast regarded the object with a weary irritation, then threw the flawed thing to shatter in the fire.

“The whole world is new to me,” it muttered.

“What will you do now, master? Are you going to undertake the journey?”

The beast looked at him with bright, fulvid eyes. The air around it seemed to shimmer for a second and the homonculus took off for the rafters with a squeak. When the air steadied once more there was a man sitting there in place of the beast, a lean, dark-skinned man with a face as fine-boned as that of a woman. Only the eyes remained of the former monster, lemon-bright and astonishing in the handsome visage.

“Does this make you less nervous, Batak?”

“It is good to see your face again, master.”

“I can only hold this form for a few hours at a time, and the eyes resist any change. Perhaps because they are the windows of the soul, it is said.” The man smiled without the slightest trace of humour. “But in answer to your question: yes, I will undertake the journey. The Sultan’s agents are already in Alcaras hiring ships-big, ocean-going ships, not the galleys of the Levangore. I have an escort and a carriage billeted down in the village; the Sultan means to be sure I go where I say I am going.”

“Into the uttermost west. Why?”

The man stood up and put his back to the fire, splaying his hands out against the heat. There was a flickering blur, like a ripple of shadow around his silhouette. Dweomer-born illusions were always unstable in bright light.

“There is something out there, in the west. I know it. In my research I have come across legends, myths, rumours. They all point to the same conclusion: there is land in the west, and something else. Someone, perhaps. Besides, I am little use to the Sultan as I am. When Shahr Baraz-may he rot in a Ramusian hell-destroyed the homonculus which was my conductor he not only warped my body, he crippled the Dweomer within me. I am still powerful, still Orkh the master-mage, but my powers are not what they were. I would not have that come to light, Batak.”

“Of course. I-”

“You will be discreet. I know. You are a good apprentice. In a few years you will have mastered the Fourth Discipline and you will be a mage yourself. I have left you enough of my library and materials for you to continue your studies even without my guidance.”

“It is the court, master, the harem. They unsettle me. There is more to being the Sultan’s sorcerer than Dweomer.”

Orkh smiled, this time with some real warmth. “I know, but that is something else you must learn. Do not cross the vizier, Akran. And court the eunuchs of the harem. They know everything. And never reveal to the Sultan the limits of your power-never say you cannot do something. Prevaricate, obfuscate, but do not admit to any weakness. Men think mages all-powerful. We want to keep it that way.”

“Yes, master. I will miss you. You have been a good teacher.”

“And you a good pupil.”

“Do you hope to be healed in the west? Is that it? Or are you merely removing yourself from the sight of men?”

“Aurungzeb asked me the same thing. I do not know, Batak. I weary of being a monster, that much I do know. Even a leper does not know the isolation I have suffered, the loneliness. Olov has been my only companion; he is the only creature which looks upon me without fear or disgust.”

“Master, I-”

“It is all right, Batak. There is no need to pretend. In my research, I have discovered that several times in the past centuries ships have sailed for the west and have not returned. They carried passengers-sorcerers fleeing persecution in the Ramusian states. I do not believe that all those ships were lost. I believe there may be survivors or descendants of survivors out there still.”

Batak’s eyes grew round. “And you think they will be able to heal you?”

“I don’t know. But I weary of the intrigues at court. I want to see a new horizon appear with every dawn. And it suits Aurungzeb’s policies. The Ramusians have already sent a flotilla westwards; it left Abrusio months ago under a Gabrionese captain named Richard Hawkwood. They should be in the west now. The Merduk sultanates cannot allow this new world to be claimed by our enemies. I concur with Aurungzeb in that.”

“You know that Shahr Baraz is not dead? He disappeared along with his pasha, Mughal. It is said they rode off eastwards, back into the steppes.”

“I know. My revenge may never happen. He will leave his pious old bones in the Jafrar, or on the endless plains of Kambaksk. It matters not. Other things concern me now.”

Orkh left the fire and strode over to a nearby table which supported an iron-bound chest. He opened the lid, looked in, nodded, then turned to his apprentice once more.

“In here you will find the details of my intelligence network. Names of agents, cyphers, dates of payments-everything. It is up to you to run it, Batak. I have men in every kingdom in the west, most of them risking their lives each day. That is a responsibility which I do not hand over lightly. No one else must ever see the contents of this chest. You will secure it with your most potent spells, and destroy it if there is a possibility of it falling into any other hands except your own-even Aurungzeb’s. Do you understand?”

Batak nodded dumbly.

“There is also a more select network of homonculi, some dormant, some active. I have them planted everywhere, even in the harem. They are the eyes and ears you can trust most, for they are without bias or self-interest. When their bellies are full, at any rate. Use them well; and be discreet. They can be a useful cross-reference to back up the reports of your agents. When you are ready for a familiar, I would advise you to choose a homonculus. They can be wayward, but the ability to fly is always a help and their night vision is invaluable.” Here Orkh’s mouth tilted upwards. “Olov has shown me some rare sights in his nocturnal patrols of the harem. The most recent Ramusian concubine is a delight to behold. Aurungzeb takes her twice nightly, as eagerly as a boy. He has little notion of subtlety, though.”

The mage collected himself.

“At any rate, there is amusement to be had if you use your resources properly, but if you gain information which you should not know I do not have to tell you to keep it to yourself, no matter how useful it might prove. The network must be safe-guarded at all costs.”

“Yes, master.”

Orkh stepped away from the chest. “It is yours, then. Use it wisely.”

Batak took the chest in his arms as though it were made of glass.

“You may go. I find the maintenance of this appearance wearisome. When you ride through the village, tell the escort rissaldar that I will be ready to leave at moonrise tomorrow night. I have some final packing to do.”

Batak bowed awkwardly. As he went out of the door he turned. “Thank you, master.”

“When you see me again-if you do-it will be as a mage, a master of four of the Seven Disciplines. On that day you shall take me by the hand and call me Orkh.”

Batak smiled uncertainly. “I shall look forward to that.”

Then he left.

The snow was as crisp as biscuit underfoot and the taloned feet of the beast cracked the surface crust, but the widespread toes stopped it from sinking any deeper. Naked and scaled, its tail whipping back and forth restlessly, it prowled the streets of the sleeping village. The moon glittered from its skin as though it were armoured in many-faceted silver. The glowing eyes blinked as it eased open the shutter of a cottage with inhuman, silent strength. A dark room within, a tiny shape blanket-wrapped in the cradle.

It took the bundle out into the hills, and there it fed, dipping its snout into the steaming, broken body. Sated at last, it raised its head and stared up at the savage, snow-gleaming peaks of the encircling mountains. West, where the sun had set. Where a new life awaited it, perhaps.

It cleaned its snout in the snow. With a bestial form came bestial appetites. But it saved a morsel of the child for Olov.