The ragged man

CHAPTER 4

The biting wind gusted through Byora's streets. The sky had been a uniform grey for days now, but there had been little more than a smattering of rain this morning and as midday approached Luerce decided it would stay dry and settled down for the day on the cobbled ground. The disciple of Azaer arranged a white blanket around his shoulders like a tent, keeping out the chilly air, and set to playing the mystic.

He didn't mind; it was easy enough to sit there motionless all day, watching his flock, though he saw no reason to endure a soaking too. From all around him came the keening of the faithful. The cant of liturgy had devolved into meaningless sounds, but interspersed within the drone were new prayers that Luerce had instilled in the minds of the weakest. It was a modest start, but fear would provide fertile soil, especially with him there to tend it and a dragon's shadow cast over the quarter.

Luerce looked around. The crowd had grown again today; hundreds were clustered around the gates to the Ruby Tower compound. Many were beggars but already there were others, lurking on the fringes, seeking something, though they did not yet realise that. He saw grief in their eyes, and loneliness. Some were consumed by petty hatreds or avarice, and Luerce took especial note of those: the bullies and the cowards, those with a lifetime of identifying the vulnerable, they'd be ideal to swell the ranks of Ruhen's preachers.

Luerce occupied an honoured position within the crowd of devotees, and even the newcomers could see he was special. Most of the disciples sat in tight circles of five or six, with Luerce alone in the middle of them all, with his back against the compound wall. From there the Litse could survey his small kingdom: the desperate and the mad, all huddled pathetically in the shadow of the Ruby Tower where Ruhen lived, hoping for salvation from the Circle City's latest terror.

On Luerce's left a craftsman, still wearing his tool-belt, approached the wall, a reverent look on his face. He picked his way carefully past the mumbling, white-swathed bundles, hunched over as though apologetic about being upright while everyone else was sitting. The man sank to his knees as soon as he was within reach of the wall and looked up at the fluttering strips of prayer-inscribed cloth adorning it.

He raised his own contribution, fixed to an iron nail like the others, and hammered it in. He was large and powerfully built, his brown hair tangled and his beard unkempt, giving him the appearance of a barbarian from the Waste, but the expression on his face was piteous. A muddy thumb-print adorned his cheek as though in mockery of a Harlequin's bloody teardrop, and his face was streaked by tears that flowed once again as he prayed.

A child could look fiercer than this bear of a man, Luerce thought as he gazed past him and noted with satisfaction that the guards on the gate were paying no attention. The watchful gaze of a Harlequin ensured that: while the storyteller had not spoken one word except in song, its demeanour was unmistakable, even to the witless thugs who comprised the duchess' personal regiments. It stood over the crowds day and night, a sentinel for the faithful as they awaited Ruhen's benediction.

Slowly we go, oh so slowly. Luerce's attention drifted from the motionless Harlequin to a white-clad disciple who was handing out black-crusted bread to the crowd. The man was speaking urgently as they jammed the bread into their mouths, bending right over them as he whispered.

Keep on with the good works, my friend, but any more of your religious nonsense and you'll find an accident coming your way. We cannot bully the people into following Ruhen; they must beg it of him. He rubbed his thin fingers over his bald head, feeling the unfamiliar shape of his skull once covered by luxuriant blond hair. The beggar beside him looked up at the movement, awaiting his next command. He could see in her hollow eyes the awe she still felt, the otherworldly image he now presented to the Land. Once she had been beautiful, but hunger had taken its toll – for which Luerce was profoundly thankful. He had no wish to discover how his master would react if he discovered Luerce submitting to temptation whilst playing the holy man – and Ruhen would find out, no matter how he tried to cover his tracks. He had no doubt of that.

'Go and read the latest prayer,' he said softly. She scrambled to obey, almost barging the bear-like man out of the way in her haste.

'A prayer for salvation,' she announced with what she clearly thought was grandeur, 'salvation from the dragon that killed his family yesterday.'

The wordless prayers increased in volume at her words, and drained what was left of the man's remaining strength. He huddled over his knees, doubled up by the pain inside.

Luerce smiled inwardly. About bloody time. I was wondering if I was going to have to do it myself.

He looked around, searching for a picture of misery amidst a sea of it. The mercenary Grisat was difficult to pick out now that he'd shed his penitent's uniform, but Bolla, Grisat's brother-in-arms, was far easier to spot. The tall shaven-headed man sat bolt-upright, staring into nothing as he chewed numbroot day and night.

Ah, numbroot addicts, the most amenable of fools. Luerce smiled inwardly, remember his former life of petty theft and fraud. Numbroot was as benign a drug as one could find, and it took real commitment to wind up an addict, as Bolla clearly was. Aracnan, the Demi-God who served Azaer, had used Grisat to engineer a campaign of resistance after the failure of the clerics' rebellion. Bolla had played his part in that without questioning his orders, using numbroot to dull the pain of his injuries along with his ability to care about the rest of the Land.

'Our brother asks for salvation,' Luerce called out, causing a small commotion as the huddled mass turned to look at him. 'Byora's children cry out for salvation! Pray, pray with me for intercession!'

As he finished his eyes came to rest on Bolla and Grisat. More voices joined in the chant, the volume increased and Bolla began to sway in an unconscious response to the sound. Grisat, a solid-looking man, contrived to look even more miserable. Though he looked as if he had entirely gone to seed, the mercenary was still strong, well worth his pay – but Luerce only had one use for him. Finally, reluctantly, Grisat lifted his grey eyes to meet the Litse's. The order was understood.

The mercenary flinched and tugged his filthy coat tighter around his body, but he wasted no time in using the magical link Aracnan had created between them to contact the Demi-God. In a few moments Luerce saw Grisat shudder and knew the mercenary had found Aracnan. The Demi-God had been wounded as he went to join the battle against the Farlan, shot with a poisoned crossbow bolt by a Narkang agent. It was taking all of Aracnan's considerable skill just to stay alive, and the pain had left him unhinged. This would not be a comfortable experience for Grisat.

Satisfied the bond was active, Luerce bowed his head and added his own voice to the wordless anthem ringing out down the street. The beggars squatting in the street as though protesting the state of the Land were the broken and the lost; their mournful song was almost primal, and their many hurts the most basic a human could feel. Luerce felt himself enveloped in the building dirge. Swept up by the fervour, by the desperation of those around him who had lost everything, he found tears spilling down his cheek as his voice rose above the rest.

Spurred on by the Litse's fervour the howls increased until he was lost in a bubble of mourning, voicing their fears and their grief, their rage against the Land and the inaction of the Gods. Some were mad, driven by what they had seen. Some were ill. Some were sickened by the actions of priests and lords alike.

The great towers of Byora's noble district echoed with their pain, pain that could not be exhausted even by hours of song, and as evening began to close in and the ghost-hour spread shadowy fingers over the streets, their prayer was answered.

The delegation was small, no more than fifty-strong, including the squads of Ruby Tower Guards ahead and behind. Natai Escral, Duchess of Byora, rode side-saddle at the head of the nobles, the child Ruhen perched in her lap and Hener Kayel, her bodyguard, riding alongside. The duchess was a middle-aged woman, though she looked older than her years, however immaculately turned out she was. She couldn't hide the crow's-feet or the shadows of broken sleep under her eyes, and she was stooped with fatigue, riding without her customary grace.

From time to time the duchess would shake herself, as though pushing herself to stay awake. When she turned her face to the cool breeze those around her would be afforded a glimpse of the proud elegance that had dominated the largest and most disparate quarter of the Circle City for so many years. Even in black mourning, with only her ruby circlet for adornment, she stood out from the Litse nobles and ministers following.

Every few minutes her thoughts would turn back to the child nestled in her lap: the little boy she called a prince as often as her son but who was, in truth, none of those things. Shadows danced in Ruhen's eyes, and she hungered for the soothing sight of his face like an opium addict for the next fix. It was Sergeant Kayel who directed her horse then, when her attention wandered from real life.

Sergeant Kayel wore the uniform of a Ruby Tower officer, but the buttons were gold, the cloth finer and the tailoring far better than any normal soldier's garb. A big man by Narkang standards, and massive next to the slender Litse locals, Sergeant Kayel – Ilumene, to give him his real name – remained unchallenged by other Ruby Tower men because of the fear he engendered. He had been first among King Emin's elite troops as much because of his presence as his ability, and his regal demeanour remained a useful tool now.

Behind the duchess and her bodyguard rode an even stranger pair: a white-masked figure in black and a dark-haired Byoran noblewoman dressed sombrely but festooned with gems, quite unable to resist showing off her jewels to the city. The masked man, Koteer, had skin and long hair the colour of funeral ashes. He was as tall as a white-eye, and dressed like a wandering duellist. He paid his companion, Lady Kinna, no attention whatsoever. Koteer was the eldest of the Raylin sons of Death, known as the Jesters; he spoke for all four of them. The Demi-God had said nothing about why he had joined them that day; he had not needed to. Sergeant Kayel had appeared to be expecting the grey-skinned giant, and the duchess had been lost in Ruhen's eyes, leaving only Lady Kinna in a position to challenge them – and in the end she had said nothing for fear of the Demi-God. That fear was echoed by the soldiers escorting them.

They rode past the crossroad where Aracnan had been nearly killed. One beam protruded up from the blackened mess that was all that remained of the shattered buildings, and people had braved the rickety remains to nail scraps of white cloth prayers to it.

As soon as they were out of the city all eyes turned to the churned ground where the Menin and Farlan armies had fought, where lords and commoners alike had fallen to Karkarn's hands. The Menin had dug great pits and burned Farlan corpses in their hundreds, and even now the unmistakable smell lingered. As the delegation turned north, not even Kayel's vicious reputation stopped most of the soldiers ignoring unit discipline and looking behind them at the battlefield, playground of the God of War, where one patch of ground remained burning hot, blistered and scourged of all life. Next to it stood the gruesome memorial to Scion Kohrad Styrax: thousands of skulls boiled clean and bound within a circle of spears. There were already rumours running wild throughout the city of a ghostly figure seen in the torchlight, and of people disappearing nearby.

Before long the group rounded the black spur of rock that marked the boundary between Akell quarter and Byora. Blackfang, the vast broken stub of a mountain onto which both cities backed, was wreathed in low, sullen clouds. The approach to Akell was uncomfortable as the road twisted past deep dykes intended to channel attackers down the single central road, allowing the defenders to take them out more easily.

At last they found themselves picking their way through the stinking army encampment that surrounded the Fist, Akell's huge forward defence. The square fortress could house thousands of soldiers, and there were still three legion flags flying over the rows of tents outside it. Positioned on top of the Fist's jutting gatehouse was Lord Styrax's enormous personal standard: a stylised, blood-red fanged skull on a black field.

The Byoran delegation rode uneasily up to the gatehouse between rows of grim-faced Menin. Shaven-headed foot soldiers stood side-by-side with cavalrymen sporting wild black curls, and all stared with undisguised curiosity. No one moved, however, until they reached the gatehouse itself, when a grey-clad official emerged and bowed low to the duchess.

'I beg an audience with Lord Styrax,' the duchess announced loudly as Ruhen turned his hypnotic gaze on the Menin official.

'I – Ah, your Grace,' the man started in hesitant Byoran, trying not to be thrown by Ruhen's stare, 'your request is not possible. I apologise.'

Sergeant Kayel slipped from his horse and gave the man an inadvisable look, considering the watching soldiers. He lifted Ruhen gently from the duchess' lap and dropped to one knee to allow the duchess to dismount easily.

The official, a rake-thin man of around sixty summers with the heavy brow and prominent jaw so common among the Menin, waited patiently while Natai Escral arranged her dress and took Ruhen's hand. Then he said, 'Your Grace, I apologise, but Lord Styrax is not receiving visitors and General Gaur is occupied in Fortinn quarter. If you have a written petition for him, you may give it to me – or I would be happy to summon a lord to hear you.'

'I will speak to Lord Styrax,' the duchess declared firmly.

The official frowned, his eyes flitting down to the little boy at her side. 'Your Grace, he is not receiving visitors. My lord is in mourning; he is in no mood for civil affairs.'

'Then we will talk of uncivil things,' she insisted, 'of the beloved lost and the dangers that remain in this Land.'

The official could not help but glance up into the sky, watching for the black shape that had been inflicting devastation on the Circle City ever since being awakened. 'Your Grace, madam, I am sorry, but he will not see you.'

'Then I will wait here until he changes his mind. If I am to be his vassal I must be permitted his audience.' She turned to her bodyguard. 'Kayel, perhaps you would fetch me a stool?' She gestured at the ground where she stood, on the centre of the road leading out of the Fist's main gate.

'Your Grace,' the official urged, a slight note of panic entering his voice, 'my instructions were most specific: no one is to be permitted into Lord Styrax's presence. I dare not disturb him.'

'Have courage,' came a small voice that sent an electric twitch down the official's spine. Ruhen looked at him.

The man quivered a moment, then turned back to the gate.

Duchess Escral called out to him again, 'Tell your lord I would speak to him of sons – of princes cherished.'

The man glanced back, an expression of horror on his face, but he bobbed his head again and disappeared behind the flame-scarred door.

The creak of the door opening was enough to jolt Amber from a confused dream, a chaotic memory of his childhood home that faded as he opened his eyes. In the doorway stood Horsemistress Kirl, looking concerned. It was dark in his room, and Amber guessed he'd slept past nightfall.

'What's happened?' Amber croaked.

Kirl looked at him, then walked to his bedside. 'I'm not really sure. I just heard that bloody Duchess Natai's staging some sort of protest at the gate – says she isn't moving until Lord Styrax grants her an audience.'

'She wants to speak to a grieving white-eye?' Amber sounded aghast.

Kirl gave a humourless snort. 'I know – daft bitch! Colonel Uresh tried to speak to her and she just ignored him and kept repeating her demand.'

'Where's General Gaur?'

'Fortinn; Uresh doesn't want to send a rider though. Every time Gaur turns his back in Fortinn the gangs start fighting each other again. Duke Vrill's scouting the northeast towards Raland and all the other nobles are just plain scared, I think.'

'What about Gaur's huntsmen?'

While General Gaur had never been ennobled, the beastman Lord Styrax had hauled from the fighting-pits was now a powerful landowner in his own right. Much of that land he kept for private hunting, and instead of hurscals he had a band of huntsmen as his staff. Like irregulars they occupied a position outside of the Menin Army structure, and Lord Styrax used them for a range of unorthodox activities. Amber guessed a few of Gaur's commanders would be on first-name terms with the Lord of the Menin.

'Probably in Fortinn,' Kirl said, 'with General Gaur – they are his bodyguards, after all, and it's not a happy place at the moment.'

'Let's see how much my luck rides then,' Amber muttered, raising his good left arm and beckoning Kirl over. 'Help me up.'

'Are you mad? You're staying right there,' she said sharply.

He gave her a level look. 'No, I'm getting up and you're going to help me. Look at my face and tell me whether you think I'm in the mood to argue.'

'Are you pulling rank on me?' Kirl asked after a moment's hesitation.

'Hoping I don't have to.'

She wrinkled her nose. 'Fine. Let's get you sitting on the side of the bed. If you can do that without passing out, I'll fetch some crutches and find out exactly what the duchess wants.'

Amber gritted his teeth. His right arm was wrapped in wooden splints and bandages, and in spite of the magical healing it wasn't yet ready to take any weight. Kirl was tiny next to him and she needed to haul at his good arm with all her strength to help him raise his shoulders off the bed. Once he started to move, he found his left leg was similarly useless, and though Kirl was manoeuvring him as carefully as she could, he was biting down so hard he thought he was going to shatter his teeth.

After several excruciating minutes he opened his eyes and found himself perched on the side of the bed, his right foot pressed hard against the floor as he tried to balance.

'Maybe with that crutch I'll fetch a Priest of Shotir to take the edge off the pain?' Kirl asked, watching his expression.

Amber nodded as gently as he could, not wanting to jerk anything else now he had been reminded of the joys of broken ribs.

'Right, stay there and try not to cry,' she said, heading back out. 'You're meant to be a hero, remember?'

Before long Amber was making slow and painful progress past two separate rings of security to Lord Styrax's chambers. At both security checkpoints Amber was recognised, and admitted with a mixture of awe and pity, which bolstered his strength a little. Outside his lord's door the adrenalin wore off and he started to waver. Kirl had to prompt him twice before he raised his hand to knock.

There was no response. Amber waited a long while before hesitantly knocking again, but when he was greeted with silence he turned the latch himself, his hand shaking with the strain, and eased the door open.

Still nothing.

He shuffled forward, Kirl taking as much of his weight as she could bear. Inside, a single lamp on the right-hand wall gave dim illumination, but as Amber looked around, two more lamps sputtered into life, then the fire ignited, apparently of its own volition.

'Do you often walk into your commanding officer's room uninvited? ' asked a deep voice. Amber turned towards it and visibly winced at the jolt of pain from the brutalised muscles in his neck.

'No, my Lord,' he replied, shuffling around until he could face Lord Styrax. The huge white-eye wore a black tunic, uniform of the Bloodsworn cavalry, and boots to his knees, but for once the tunic was in disarray, the boots scuffed. He sat in a solid armchair backed up against the wall, supporting his great head in one hand.

'Yet you do so now.' Styrax's voice was as deep as one might expect from a white-eye of his size, but now it was a ragged growl, one Amber had rarely heard. It didn't bode well, and the major was further discouraged when he saw Kobra, Lord Styrax's sword, embedded a foot deep into the stone wall. Kobra was a prize plucked from his dead predecessor's fingers, a powerful artefact, but Amber didn't think anything but a white-eye's rage would have the strength to drive it into solid stone.

'I apologise, my Lord,' Amber said with a slow bob of the head that was about all he could manage by way of a bow. Beside him Kirl did a better job of offering respect, but all that achieved was to only make Styrax focus on her instead.

'Why are you being nursed by a Farlan Cardinal Paladin?' he asked.

'Ah, Horsemistress Kirl is attached to the Cheme Third, my Lord; she just helped herself to some knight's baggage.'

He grunted.

'An… an honour to be in your presence, my Lord,' Kirl managed to say at last, bowing again.

'I'm sure it is. Tell me, Horsemistress, do you have children of your own? With Major Amber, perhaps?'

Kirl coloured and looked down. 'No, my Lord.'

Styrax didn't speak again for a while.

Gods, has Kohrad's death broken him? Amber felt a chill on the back of his neck. Have we come all this way only to be stopped by this?

'Why not?' Styrax asked, all of a sudden. They both blinked. Neither could think of anything helpful to say in response. 'Well?' he asked again. 'Man might not look much, but he's minor nobility, a hero of the army. You could do worse.'

'I – I'm sure I could,' Kirl mumbled.

'Well then?'

'He – Ah, he has n-never asked such a thing of me,' Kirl stammered. The question had thrown her completely, but she dared not look to Amber for help. Lord Styrax stared straight at her, his piercing eyes fierce, his tone threatening.

'Amber, get her with child. I command it,' Styrax growled.

The major guessed his lord was making an effort at levity, but everything the white-eye said was laden with anger. Amber was not a man of subtlety, but he knew white-eyes well enough to know that treating the command as a joke would have been foolish.

'What are you waiting for?' The hostility in his voice increased a notch and Amber felt Kirl's supporting hand begin to tremble.

'I fear I'm in no condition at present, my Lord,' Amber said at last.

'You think killing white-eyes is a good-enough excuse?' Another notch.

Amber fought the urge to take a step back as the air grew close and hot around him.

'Kirl, could you wait outside?' he croaked, taking his eyes off Lord Styrax for a moment. She tried to hide her gasp of relief, slipped out from under his arm and offered the Menin lord a hurried bow before backing out.

A few seconds of silence stretched into ten. When Amber could stand it no longer he took one of the biggest risks of his life. 'My Lord, I cannot begin to imagine your grief. I mourn your Scion also.' His voice wavered slightly. Men dealt with grief in different ways, but among soldiers great sensitivity was impossible. This was uncharted territory for Amber.

What could he say about Kohrad? 'He wasn't as mad as some' probably wasn't appropriate, but it was all Amber could think of. The impetuous youth had shown potential, but he had always been a young white-eye for ever in the shadow of one greater than he would ever be.

'I was proud to have fought alongside him,' he said at last.

Styrax raised a hand. 'Spare me the platitudes, I have heard them already.'

Amber swallowed nervously. 'I apologise, my Lord, I had not intended it to sound that way.'

'How had you intended it then?' Styrax snapped, straightening up. He gripped the armrests of his chair as though poised to leap up and attack the major.

'I did not know your son well enough to say anything else,' Amber said in a meek voice. 'Kohrad inherited more from you than he ever realised. He was unknowable to a man like me, but he was Menin, and a soldier, too; little more than a boy making a good account of himself in a man's world.

'My father always told me that battle forged a bond between men – I might not have known Kohrad well, but I shared that with him at least, and I'm glad to have done so.' As he finished, Amber realised that he was shaking so much he could barely keep his balance.

'Those are your words of sympathy?' Styrax sat back, his anger dissipated suddenly. 'While this cancer eats away at my gut you tell me that?'

'I am sorry, Lord. Death and duty is all I know.'

'Why don't you lecture me on duty too?'

'I am yours to command, Lord.' Bugger, that was more rude than meek.

His words prompted a momentary change in the air as Styrax eyed him gravely. 'Do so and I'll put your head through the wall.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

Another long pause. Amber tried to stand as close to attention as he could manage, while a thousand emotions flashed across Lord Styrax's normally still face.

'Why are you here?' the white-eye asked at last.

'Duchess Natai Escral of Byora is requesting an audience of you.'

'And you think I care?' roared Styrax.

He propelled himself up, and sprang forward so quickly Amber, wobbling precariously on his crutch, edged back to the wall.

'The Gods themselves could be waiting at my door and I would not give a shit!' he shouted, making the heavy chair shiver and the dust motes dance in the lamp light. 'You disturb me for this? Get out of here while you still can, and pray I only strip you of your rank! You think killing Tsatach's Chosen gives you the right to irritate me with impunity?'

Amber blinked and found Styrax's hand at his throat.

The white-eye forced Amber's head up so he was looking him in the eye. His face was tight with barely restrained fury.

'All I have is my duty, Lord,' Amber repeated hoarsely. His muscles were screaming out in agony. He felt on the edge, as if he would fall into unconsciousness, so bad was the pain.

'Don't think that will save you.'

'I do not.'

'Then choose your next words carefully.'

'I – I cannot, Lord. What must be said is foolish. Even your commanders know what must be said, and they fear to say it.'

'Then make your last words good,' Styrax snarled, his grip tightening a fraction.

'We need you.'

'Don't take me for a fool! That is not what you came to say!'

'No, Lord.'

'So talk while you still can.'

'Kohrad was only a part of what you are trying to achieve here, Lord. You cannot stop now,' Amber whispered.

'Now it hardly matters!'

'That is grief talking, nothing more.'

'Grief is all I have.'

'No, Lord.' Somehow, Amber managed to bite back the pain. He rallied himself and tried again. 'There are more Crystal Skulls to track down. There are more monuments to build.'

Styrax shook him, like a lion subduing its prey. 'Who have you been talking to?' he snarled.

'Talking to? No one, Lord, but I walk in your shadow and you taught me to see the Land with open eyes. There is more to the monuments you build than celebrating victory; of that I am certain. They are too few to be of use yet – whatever use you intend to put them to. Your empire must continue to expand; the campaign is not over.'

'And so?'

The major gasped for breath, but he managed to croak out, 'And so… So your vassal begs an audience, my lord, and those you rule need your intervention. A dragon ravages the Circle City, at a time when you need it to be strong and whole. Your work is not done; your grief must be put aside.'

Styrax's grip on Amber's neck lessened.

Amber tried to relax. 'Only then will there be time for mourning, once the Library of Seasons is safe to walk again.'

The hand slipped away and Amber fell to the floor.