Reaper's Gale

  The Letherii did not possess heavy cavalry. But if they did, Toc believed, they would play feint and blind all day long.

  Or perhaps not. Their sorcery in battle was neither subtle nor elegant. Ugly as a Fenn’s fist, in fact. This suggested a certain pragmatism, an interest in efficiency over pomp, and, indeed, a kind of impatience regarding the mannerisms of war.

  Sorcery. Had Redmask forgotten the Letherii mages?

  The vast level plain where the enemy waited – the Awl called it Pradegar, Old Salt – was not magically dead. Redmask’s shamans had made use of the residual magic there to track the movements of the enemy army, after all.

  Redmask, have you lost your mind?

  The Awl rode on.

  More than swords unsheathed this day, I fear. He scratched again at his gaping socket, then kicked his horse into motion.

  Orbyn Truthfinder disliked the feel of soft ground beneath him. Earth, loam, sand, anything that seemed uneasy beneath his weight. He would suffer a ride in a carriage, since the wheels were solid enough, the side to side lurching above the rocky trail serving to reassure him whenever he thought of that uncertainty below. He stood now on firm stone, a bulge of scraped bedrock just up from the trail that wound the length of the valley floor.

  The air’s breath was sun-warmed, smelling of cold water and pine. Midges wandered in swarms along the streams of ice-melt threading down the mountainsides, slanting this way and that whenever a dragonfly darted into their midst. The sky was cloudless, the blue so sharp and clean compared to the dusty atmosphere of Drene – or any other city for that matter – that Orbyn found himself glancing upward again and again, struggling with something like disbelief.

  When not looking skyward, the Patriotist’s eyes were fixed on the three riders descending from the pass ahead. They had moved well in advance of his company, climbing the heights, then traversing the spine of the mountains to the far pass, where a garrison had been slaughtered. Where, more importantly, a certain shipment of weapons had not arrived. In the grander scheme, such a loss meant little, but Factor Letur Anict was not a man of grand schemes. His motivations were truncated, parsed into a language of precision, intolerant of deviation, almost neurotic when faced with anything messy. And this, indeed, was messy. In short, Letur Anict, for all his wealth and power, was a bureaucrat in the truest sense of the word.

  The advance riders were returning, at long last, but Orbyn was not particularly pleased by that. They would have nothing good to say, he knew. Tales of rotting corpses, charred wood, squalling ravens and mice among mouldering bones. At the very least, he could force himself once again into the Factor’s carriage to sit opposite that obnoxious number-chewer, and counsel – with greater veracity this time – that they turn their column round and head back to Drene.

  Not that he would succeed, he knew. For Letur Anict, every insult was grievous, and every failure was an insult. Someone would pay. Someone always did.

  Some instinct made Orbyn glance back at the camp and he saw the Factor emerging from his carriage. Well, that was a relief, since Orbyn was in the habit of sweating profusely in Letur’s cramped contrivance. He watched as the washed-out man picked a delicate path up to where stood Orbyn. Overdressed for the mild air, his lank, white hair covered by a broad-rimmed hat to keep the sun from pallid skin, his strangely round face already flushed with exertion.

  ‘Truthfinder,’ he said as soon as he reached the bulge of bedrock, ‘we both know what our scouts will tell us.’

  ‘Indeed, Factor.’

  ‘So . . . where are they?’

  Orbyn’s thin brows rose, and he blinked to clear the sudden sweat stinging his eyes. ‘As you know, they never descended farther than this – where we are camped right now. Leaving three possibilities. One, they turned round, back up and through the pass—’

  ‘They were not seen to do that.’

  ‘No. Two, they left the trail here and went south, perhaps seeking the Pearls Pass into south Bluerose.’

  ‘Travelling the spine of the mountains? That seems unlikely, Truthfinder.’

  ‘Three, they went north from here.’

  The Factor licked his lips, as if considering something. Inflectionless, he asked, ‘Why would they do that?’

  Orbyn shrugged. ‘One could, if one so desired, skirt the range until one reached the coast, then hire a craft to take one to virtually any coastal village or port of the Bluerose Sea.’

  ‘Months.’

  ‘Fear Sengar and his companions are well used to that, Factor. No fugitive party has ever fled for as long within the confines of the empire as have they.’

  ‘Not through skill alone, Truthfinder. We both know that the Edur could have taken them a hundred times, in a hundred different places. And further, we both know why they have not done so. The question you and I have danced round for a long, long time is what, if anything, are we going to do regarding all of that.’

  ‘That question, alas,’ said Orbyn, ‘is one that can only be addressed by our masters, back in Letheras.’

  ‘Masters?’ Letur Anict snorted. ‘They have other, more pressing concerns. We must act independently, in keeping with the responsibilities granted us; indeed, in keeping with the very expectation that we will meet those responsibilities. Do we stand aside while Fear Sengar searches for the Edur god? Do we stand aside while Hannan Mosag and his so-called hunters work their deft incompetence in this so-called pursuit? Is there any doubt in your mind, Orbyn Truthfinder, that Hannan Mosag is committing treason? Against the Emperor? Against the empire?’

  ‘Karos Invictad, and, I’m sure, the Chancellor, are dealing with the matter of the Warlock King’s treason.’

  ‘No doubt. Yet what might occur to their plans if Fear Sengar should succeed? What will happen to all of our plans, should the Edur God of Shadows rise again?’

  ‘That, Factor, is highly unlikely.’ No, it is in fact impossible.

  ‘I am well acquainted,’ Letur Anict said testily, ‘with probabilities and risk assessment, Truthfinder.’

  ‘What is it you desire?’ Orbyn asked.

  Letur Anict’s smile was tight. He faced north. ‘They are hiding. And we both know where.’

  Orbyn was not happy. ‘The extent of your knowledge surprises me, Factor.’

  ‘You have underestimated me.’

  ‘It seems I have at that.’

  ‘Truthfinder. I have with me twenty of my finest guard. You have forty soldiers and two mages. We have enough lanterns to cast out darkness and so steal the power of those decrepit warlocks. How many remain in that hidden fastness? If we strike quickly, we can rid ourselves of this damnable cult and that alone is worth the effort. Capturing Fear Sengar in the bargain would sweeten the repast. Consider the delight, the accolades, should we deliver to Karos and the Chancellor the terrible traitor, Fear Sengar, and that fool, Udinaas. Consider, if you will, the rewards.’

  Orbyn Truthfinder sighed, then he said, ‘Very well.’

  ‘Then you know the secret path. I suspected as much.’

  And you do not, and I knew as much. He withdrew a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his face, then along the wattle beneath his chin. ‘The climb is strenuous. We shall have to leave the carriages and horses here.’

  ‘Your three scouts can serve to guard the camp. They have earned a rest. When do we leave, Truthfinder?’

  Orbyn grimaced. ‘Immediately.’

  Two of the three scouts were sitting beside a fire on which sat a soot-stained pot of simmering tea, while the third one rose, arched to ease his back, then sauntered towards the modest train that had spent most of the day descending into the valley.

  The usual greetings were exchanged, along with invitations to share this night and this camp. The leader of the train walked wearily over to join the scout.

  ‘Is that not the Drene Factor’s seal on that carriage?’ he asked.

  The scout nodded. ‘So it is.’ His gaze strayed past the rather unimpressive man standing opposite
him. ‘You are not traders, I see. Yet, plenty of guards.’

  ‘A wise investment, I should judge,’ the man replied, nodding. ‘The garrison fort gave proof enough of that. It stands abandoned still, half burnt down and strewn with the bones of slaughtered soldiers.’

  The scout shrugged. ‘The west side of the range is notorious for bandits. I heard they was hunted down and killed.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘So I heard. And there’s a new detachment on its way, along with carpenters, tree-fellers and a blacksmith. The fort should be rebuilt before season’s end.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the risk of the road.’

  Venitt Sathad nodded again. ‘We passed no-one on the trail. Is the Factor coming to join you here, then?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Is it not unusual, this journey? Drene, after all, is on the far side of the sea.’

  ‘Factor’s business is his own,’ the scout replied, a little tersely. ‘You never answered me, sir.’

  ‘I did not? What was your question again?’

  ‘I asked what you were carrying, that needs so few packs and so many guards.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to tell you, alas,’ Venitt Sathad said, as he began scanning the camp. ‘You had more soldiers here, not long ago.’

  ‘Went down the valley yesterday.’

  ‘To meet the Factor?’

  ‘Just so. And I’ve had a thought – if they come up this night, the campsite here won’t be big enough. Not for them and your group.’

  ‘I expect you are correct.’

  ‘Perhaps it’d be best, then, if you moved on. There’s another site two thousand paces down the valley. You’ve enough light, I should think.’

  Venitt Sathad smiled. ‘We shall do as you have asked, then. Mayhap we will meet your Factor on the way.’

  ‘Mayhap you will, sir.’

  In the man’s eyes, Venitt Sathad saw the lie. Still smiling, he walked back to his horse. ‘Mount up,’ he told his guards. ‘We ride on.’

  A most displeasing command, but Venitt Sathad had chosen his escort well. Within a very short time, the troop was once more on its way.

  He had no idea why the man he was sent to meet was on this trail, so far from Drene. Nor did Venitt know where Anict had gone, since on all sides but ahead there was naught but rugged, wild mountains populated by little more than rock-climbing horned sheep and a few cliffnesting condors. Perhaps he would find out eventually. As it was, sooner or later Letur Anict would return to Drene, and he, Venitt Sathad, agent of Rautos Hivanar and the Letheras Liberty Consign, would be waiting for him.

  With some questions from his master.

  And some answers.

  * * *

  A shriek echoed in the distance, then faded. Closer to hand, amidst flickering lantern-light and wavering shadows, the last cries of the slaughtered had long since fallen away, as soldiers of Orbyn’s guard walked among the piled bodies – mostly the young, women and the aged in this chamber – ensuring that none still breathed.

  None did. Orbyn Truthfinder had made certain of that himself. In a distracted way, torn as he was by distaste and the necessity that no carelessness be permitted. They had been four bells in this subterranean maze, at the most, to mark the first breach of wards at the entranceway in the crevasse and all that followed, from room to room, corridor to corridor, the assault of light and refulgent sorcery.

  Whatever elaborate organization of power had held fast in this buried demesne had been obliterated with scarce the loss of a single Letherii life, and all that then remained was simple butchery. Hunting down the ones who hid, who fled to the farthest reaches, the smallest storage rooms, the children huddling in alcoves and, for one, in an amphora half filled with wine.

  Less than four bells, then, to annihilate the Cult of the Black-Winged Lord. These degenerate versions of Tiste Edur. Hardly worth the effort, as far as Orbyn Truthfinder was concerned. Even more bitter to the tongue, there had been no sign of Fear Sengar or any of his companions. No sign, indeed, that they had ever been here.

  His gaze resting upon the heaped corpses, he felt sullied. Letur Anict had used him in his obsessive pursuit of efficiency, of cruel simplification of his world. One less nagging irritant for the Factor of Drene. And now they would return, and Orbyn wondered if this journey to track down a few wagonloads of cheap weapons had, in fact, been nothing more than a ruse. One that fooled him as easily as it would a wide-eyed child.

  He drew out a cloth to wipe the blood from his dagger, then slipped the long-bladed weapon back into its sheath below his right arm.

  One of his mages approached. ‘Truthfinder.’

  ‘Are we done here?’

  ‘We are. We found the chamber of the altar. A half-dozen tottering priests and priestesses on their knees beseeching their god for deliverance.’ The mage made a sour face. ‘Alas, the Black-Winged Lord wasn’t home.’

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Yes, but there was one, sir. A surprise, that is.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That altar, sir, it was truly sanctified.’

  Orbyn glanced at the mage with narrowed eyes. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Touched by Darkness, by the Hold itself.’

  ‘I did not know such a Hold even existed. Darkness?’

  ‘The Tiles possess an aspect of Darkness, sir, although only the oldest texts make note of that. Of the Fulcra, sir. The White Crow.’

  Orbyn’s breath suddenly caught. He stared hard at the mage standing before him, watched the shadows flit over the man’s lined face. ‘The White Crow. The strange Edur who accompanies Fear Sengar is so named.’

  ‘If that stranger is so named, then he is not Tiste Edur, sir.’

  ‘Then what?’

  The mage gestured at the bodies lying on all sides. ‘Tiste Andii, they call themselves. Children of Darkness. Sir, I know little of this . . . White Crow, who travels with Fear Sengar. If indeed they walk together, then something has changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Edur and the Andii, sir, were most vicious enemies. If what we have gleaned from Edur legends and the like holds any truth, then they warred, and that war ended with betrayal. With the slaying of the White Crow.’ The mage shook his head. ‘That is why I do not believe in this White Crow who is with Fear Sengar – it is but a name, a name given in error, or perhaps mockery. But if I am wrong, sir, then an old feud has been buried in a deep grave, and this could prove . . . worrisome.’

  Orbyn looked away. ‘We have slaughtered the last of these Andii, have we not?’

  ‘In this place, yes. Should we be confident that they are the last Andii left? Even in Bluerose? Did not the Edur find kin across the ocean? Perhaps other contacts were made, ones our spies in the fleets did not detect. I am made uneasy, sir, by all of this.’

  You do not stand alone in that, mage. ‘Think more on it,’ he said.

  ‘I shall.’

  As the mage turned to leave Orbyn reached out a huge, plump hand to stay him. ‘Have you spoken with the Factor?’

  A frown, as if the mage had taken offence at the question. ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Good. Of the altar, and the sanctification, say nothing.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘Of your other thoughts, say nothing as well.’

  ‘I would not have done otherwise, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, gather our soldiers. I would we leave here as soon as we can.’

  ‘Yes sir, with pleasure.’

  Leave Letur Anict to his world made simpler. What he would have it to be and what it is, are not the same. And that, dear Factor, is the path to ruin. You will walk it without me.

  Clip stood facing south. His right hand was raised, the chain and its rings looped tight. He’d not spun it for more than a dozen heartbeats. His hair, left unbound, stirred in the wind. A few paces away, Silchas Ruin sat on a boulder, running a whetstone along the edge of one of his singing swords.

  Snow drifted down from a pale blu
e sky, some high-altitude version of a sun-shower, perhaps, or winds had lifted the flakes from the young peaks that reared on all sides but directly ahead. The air was bitter, so dry that wool sparked and crackled. They had crossed the last of the broken plateau the day before, leaving behind the mass of shattered black stone that marked its cratered centre. The climb this morning had been treacherous, as so many slabs of stone under foot were sheathed in ice. Reaching the crest of the caldera in late afternoon light, they found themselves looking upon a vast descending slope, stretching north for half a league or more to a tundra plain. Beyond that the horizon reached in a flat, hazy white line. Ice fields, Fear Sengar had said, to which Udinaas had laughed.

  Seren Pedac paced restlessly along the ridge. She had been walking with the others, well behind Clip and Silchas Ruin. There was light left to continue, yet the young Tiste Andii had perched himself on the crest to stare back the way they had come. Silent, expressionless.

  She walked over to stand before Udinaas, who had taken to carrying the Imass spear again and was now seated on a rock poking the spear’s point into the mossy turf. ‘What is happening here?’ she asked him in a low voice. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Familiar with the jarack bird, Acquitor? The grey-crested thief and murderer of the forest?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And what happens when a jarack female finds a nest containing some other’s bird’s hatchlings? An unguarded nest?’

  ‘It kills and eats the chicks.’

  He smiled. ‘True. Commonly known. But jaracks do something else on occasion, earlier in the season. They push out an egg and leave one of their own. The other birds seem blind to the exchange. And when the jarack hatches, of course it kills and eats its rivals.’

  ‘Then sounds its call,’ she said. ‘But it’s a call that seems no different from those of the other bird’s chicks. And those birds come with food in their beaks.’