The Ragged Man Part 39

Lesarl's face purpled. 'You think Mihn's run away? Nartis preserve us, you really are just a stone-headed soldier, aren't you? Didn't you see the tattoos he put on himself?' Didn't you see the tattoos he put on himself?'

Vesna frowned, confused. He realised he had never seen Lesarl so incandescent with rage. 'Of course I did - but I've no mage's schooling.'

'And you never even bothered to investigate.' Lesarl shook his head in disgust. 'I don't know whether it was something he cooked up with Lord Isak or if he just guessed his lord's mind, but Mihn has made as much of a sacrifice as you - probably even more; I imagine it will last a great deal longer. He's not let anything get in the way of his duty.'

'What in Ghenna's name are you talking about?'

'Hah, exactly! Charms of protection, charms of silence - even a rune that echoed the one on Lord Isak's chest! He linked his soul to a white-eye, one who had been dreaming of his own death for months, who believed it would be at the hands of Lord Styrax - and who then marched south towards that death.'

Vesna found himself sinking back down into his chair. 'At the battle - He said - He was talking about being a gambler, and the quality of his friends ... I thought he was just talking about the battle, about saving the army.'

'I don't think he wanted anyone to know,' Lesarl said, more gently now. 'I doubt he wanted anyone counting on something as crazy as that. After all, who knows how it might work out? All I have are my suspicions, and the certainty that Mihn wouldn't ever let fear interfere with his duty. If duty took him to the Dark Place then there he would go, without hesitation.'

Vesna realised the wetness on his cheeks was tears, and a hundred clamouring thoughts were filling his mind. 'Then maybe he's a stronger man than I,' he muttered, 'because I don't have the strength to carry on.' For the first time he felt embarra.s.sed at his weakness, but he was done. He truly had nothing left to give . . .

'Yes, my friend, you do. You have the strength of a G.o.d running through your veins, and you have a task ahead of you. This war isn't over, and you must play your part to the end.' Lesarl's voice was breaking.

'Where . . . Where do I even begin?' Vesna could not hide the sob.

Lesarl gestured to the reports on his desk. 'You are now Lord Karkarn's man; as Chief Steward of the Farlan I can no longer give you orders.' He managed a sly smile. 'However, there are pieces of a puzzle here that you may draw your own conclusions from.'

'The dead priests,' Vesna said slowly, 'someone is murdering priests of Karkarn. An a.s.sa.s.sination attempt was made on me - by a true Elf a.s.sa.s.sin with a magical arrow . . . and that's something we've heard before. The Krann of the Chetse was possessed by a daemon after being shot with a magical arrow, at the orders of Lord Styrax.'

'The Chosen of Karkarn,' Lesarl repeated, 'apparently weakening the G.o.d he is, or was once, aligned to. What else?'

'My n.o.ble status? How does that fit in?'

'Do you remember our conversation the morning of your wedding?'

Vesna felt a black weight descend on his mind and it took him a moment to collect his wits again. 'About my religious status, and continuing the war alone.'

'Indeed - although you will not be alone. General Lahk has expressed a wish to take holy orders, to devote himself to the service of your G.o.d. Recent history aside, the structure of our military does not allow for religious status. I have consulted the law and the matter is unclear, but I believe any soldier or officer who takes holy orders must be relieved of their military positions.'

'You would allow the Farlan's most experienced general to leave?'

Lesarl shrugged. 'If he were a priest, I would have no option - my only choice would be whether or not to prosecute him. That aside, he - and any other soldier in that position - would be free to chart their own course, or that of their G.o.d, naturally.'

'I see,' Vesna said. 'And if those soldiers took some mementos of their former lives, such as horses, weapons and armour, that might be overlooked.'

'If their commanding officer were a sentimental type? Doubtless.' Lesarl gestured to the open door to his office. 'None of this could possibly be condoned by the Lord of the Farlan, of course, having signed a treaty with the Menin, but he can hardly be blamed for the actions of a few religious fanatics.' He paused. 'Not twice, anyway. At any rate, Vesna, I have much work to be getting on with and you look like a man with some hard thinking to do. Perhaps you should consult your G.o.d, as my father used to say.'

'My G.o.d? I'm not sure I can stomach that yet.'

'Duty, my friend, does worse than sicken us,' Lesarl said gravely as he ushered Vesna out, 'but either we endure it, or we fall. There will be no second chances in this game.'

The Chief Steward returned to his desk and brandished another leather file. 'We live in times where men kill even Harlequins - Harlequins Harlequins, for pity's sake! Whether or not that has to do with Mihn's self-appointed mission, it's astonis.h.i.+ng; it's madness. These are the times we live in now, Vesna, when nothing is sacred. Our efforts now may be all that determine what of the Land survives these events that have been set in motion - whether they be they men, tribes or G.o.ds.'

Vesna's face was ashen as he left. Lesarl shut the door behind him and stood with one hand pressed against the wood for a while. It was cold to the touch, polished smooth, and stained by age.

He faced the seat where Tila had worked alongside him the past few months, and murmured, 'Thank the G.o.ds I was not born a hero. I would not wish that on any man.'

CHAPTER 29.

'Well, engineer, will it work?'

The engineer froze in his tracks, like a rabbit that had seen the eagle's shadow. Lips pressed firmly together, he turned to Lord Styrax, but it didn't do any good. As soon as he looked directly at the black-armoured warrior his nerve failed and he began to hiccough.

The wyvern behind him was constantly trying to eat any horse that came near, and, according to the sergeant escorting him, it had only recently learned not to try and eat General Gaur. Its savagery was blunted, rather than tamed, and he was scared of it, yet the statue-still Lord of the Menin somehow unnerved him more.

'Aye, I believe so, my Lord,' he replied cautiously, remembering to bow only after he'd spoken. 'It's a battering ram; there's not much to go wrong.' The engineer wasn't a real soldier, and the campaign had taken its toll. He felt exhausted, and as out of place as he looked, this fat little man of fifty summers, but every battle won took him a step closer to home, so even the task of fitting wheels to a huge tree-trunk had been carried out with exacting care.

Styrax turned and the man wilted under his scrutiny. 'I know that, engineer,' he said, no trace of emotion in his voice. 'You are not a man of nostalgia, it appears.'

For a moment the Menin lord's gaze drifted away into the distance. There were dark circles around his eyes, indications that Kastan Styrax was still just a man, and grieved as any would, but the white irises were colder than ever.

'Ah - ' He tried to reply, but found his mind empty of words. Last time Styrax had spoken those words to him, Lord Kohrad had been at his side, ready to prove himself to his father. The very idea of bantering with a grieving white-eye made his limbs tremble.

As the tribe's foremost expert in artillery and siege weapons, he knew only too well what terrifying forces could be produced by wood, sinew and metal, to be unleashed as required. Such weapons had a resonance, a restrained stillness, like that he felt now in Lord Styrax's presence. Power hummed through the man and strained at the clamps keeping it in check. The engineer fought down the urge to run, his deepest instincts screaming to be away before such catastrophic force was unleashed.

When Styrax turned away sharply he nearly sagged with relief. His shoulders jerked as he tried to hold back another hiccough, and he flinched as the ugly old sergeant appeared beside him.

Sergeant Deebek clapped him on the shoulder and grinned toothily, about to lead him away, when Lord Styrax spoke again. 'Engineer, estimate the range of their fire-throwers.' He pointed to the nearest of Aroth's two high bastions.

Though no rival to Tor Salan's defences, the fire-throwers of Aroth were still formidable, if their intelligence was to be believed. From what they knew, when it was fired, it released a curious horizontal main beam that whipped around the entire tower, then disengaged from the powering mechanism and pivoted back to its starting point, leaving the hanging bowl ready to be refilled while the mechanism was swiftly reset.

'I - That is difficult, my Lord,' the engineer stammered, 'the mechanism has magically enhanced sections and we have yet to see it in action.'

'I understand that. My concern is whether it could be employed against anyone attacking the causeway.'

Aroth was built on the sh.o.r.es of two lakes - a larger one, three miles across, that comprised nearly a quarter of the city's perimeter, and a smaller body of water that had been artificially created; it was less than a mile wide. Between the two was a narrow belt of land no more than a hundred yards wide that served as the main entrance to the city. This was considered Aroth's strongest point, and it was heavily defended with artillery-barges, positioned on both lakes, to turn the causeway into a killing ground. Naturally, that was where Lord Styrax had chosen to attack.

'Would it have the range? Aye, I'd expect so,' he said after a long while. 'Whether it could be brought to bear, that's more the question. They must have a way to tilt and turn it, because it's covering that entire flank, but it's one thing to cover half the circle; another entirely to go beyond that.'

'Especially with that loading system,' Styrax added, staring at the city. Aroth was set on a slight rise, making the tops of those towers the highest point for fifty miles in either direction, the lakes the lowest. Cultivated fields stretched into the distance on all sides, fertile lands that begged the question of whether King Emin could afford to continue his fighting retreat. Taking Aroth would sh.o.r.e up the Menin Army's supply-lines and change the complexion of the war - but Styrax had a different plan in mind to change the game here.

'Most likely they'd need a second reloading station, on the other side,' the engineer said, swallowing a hiccough.

'The effort would be worthwhile though,' Styrax mused, almost to himself. 'The smaller lake will have far fewer artillery-barges; it's the weaker flank - unless the fire-thrower can hit its far bank.'

The engineer didn't argue. He thought it unlikely they would have bothered; the long city wall at the back of Aroth unguarded by water was still the weaker point, and these defences had been designed before King Emin conquered the city. Chances were the builders hadn't worked through every scenario as the King of Narkang might.

'Gaur,' Styrax said over his shoulder, 'are they all in position?'

'They are, my Lord. Shall I give the order?'

'Not yet.' Styrax set off towards his saddled wyvern. As he put on his whorled black helm the creature snarled and crouched down, hind legs tensing with antic.i.p.ation as Styrax climbed into the saddle and clipped the silver rings of his dragon-belt to it.

General Gaur advanced towards Styrax, stopping short as the wyvern's head lifted and its mouth opened hungrily. 'My Lord, this is not necessary. The Litse white-eyes have already scouted from the air.'

'Their mages weren't unduly panicked by the scouts, so another demonstration is in order. It - ' The white-eye paused and gathered up the wyvern's long reins. 'Trust me, my friend.'

With that he tugged hard on the reins and the wyvern unfurled its wings fully, with two half-beats to ready it, then, driving up with its powerful hind legs, it leapt into the air and caught the cool morning air. A longer stroke propelled it higher, and now it was turning in a lazy circle above their heads, climbing all the while.

Gaur watched the creature rise until it was hard to make out the figure on the wyvern's back, then he stalked over to the engineer, who took a half-pace back.

The engineer couldn't decipher the beastman's expression, but he recognised the sense of purpose in his stride.

'Get back to the baggage-train,' Gaur growled at the engineer. 'Your work here is done.'

Beyn peered forward, ignoring the bubble of chatter behind him. The King's Man was intent on movement several miles away, beyond the Hound Lake.

'Knew it,' he whispered to himself, 'I d.a.m.ned well knew it.' He turned and looked down the line of frightened soldiers until he found the general, half-hidden by an enormous n.o.bleman and his white-eye bodyguard - one inferior in every way to the vicious ogre who'd inspired that latest Narkang fas.h.i.+on. General Aladorn had withered in his retirement; now he could barely see over the shoulder of a normal man, and whatever he was trying to say was being ignored as the n.o.bleman, one Count Pellisorn of the Arothan Lords' Chamber, continued to fire demands at him.

'General, have the mages turn the weather, now!' Beyn called.

As he expected, Pellisorn just increased his volume, turned his back on Beyn and loomed over the elderly general.

'Soldier,' Beyn said quietly to the crossbowman next to him, holding his hand out.

The soldier handed over his weapon with a grin and watched Beyn quickly load it, raise the bow and put it to the bodyguard's ear. To his credit, the white-eye didn't flinch or move; he very sensibly stood stock-still.

'What the - ?' the count started, but Beyn cut him off.

'Honour Council Pellisorn,' Beyn said in a calm voice, 'the enemy have made their first move. That means your authority is no longer recognised. The task appointed to me - by the king himself by the king himself - is to ensure General Aladorn is unimpeded in his duties.' - is to ensure General Aladorn is unimpeded in his duties.'

Count Pellisorn leaned back with a look of distaste on his face, as though a favourite pet had just revealed yellow eyes and a forked tongue. Unlike most of the men a.s.sembled he was dressed in court-finery, his only armour a ceremonial gorget displaying his position on the Honour Council, the ruling body within the Lords' Chamber.

He was, however, a consummate politician, and he recovered as soon as he realised it was his bodyguard in danger, not he. 'I don't give a d.a.m.n for the opinions of some low-born thug!' the count announced, his hand moving to his sword hilt. 'Unless you think threatening my man will earn you anything but a slow walk to the headsman, you will lower your weapon immediately.'

'Take your hand away from your sword, Honour Council,' Beyn advised. 'You're as fat as you are past your prime, so don't embarra.s.s yourself further. I suggest you get out of my sight.'

'You a King's Man?' the white-eye rumbled. He was a block-faced specimen of indeterminate age with a bulbous brow and a nose broken many times - and old enough to have a shred of common sense, Beyn guessed from the look in his white eyes. He had to hope so, at any rate; they didn't have soldiers to spare in Aroth.

'I am.'

'Then ah'm takin' your orders,' the white-eye said ponderously, trying to watch the point of the bolt out of the corner of his eye. 'Is the law, I were told.'

Beyn heaved a sigh of relief that the king's decree had reached the white-eyes here. He lowered the crossbow and ordered, 'Step back, and remove your former employer from my sight, soldier. Use as much force as you think necessary.'

The white-eye's face split in into a grin, and Count Pellisorn's objections were cut short when his erstwhile bodyguard grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him towards the door by his jewel-inlaid gorget, leaving Beyn free to approach the general.

'What was that you said?' Aladorn demanded, squinting up at Beyn. 'Are they advancing?'

'I saw the wyvern; you have to get the mages to turn the weather, sir.'

'He's not going to attack all by himself,' Aladorn croaked, waving a liver-spotted claw dismissively. 'No need to waste their strength.'

'He can soften us up first,' Beyn said, 'we've nothing that can fire so high. You need to order the mages now, the only way to stop him is to threaten a storm.'

The general made a contemptuous sound. 'Afraid of thunder, is he?'

Beyn ground his teeth with frustration. He was used to folk believing him on matters of war. While General Aladorn might have been pretty good during the conquest of the kingdom, magic hadn't played a great part. Now he was just a stubborn old man, as far as Beyn could see.

'Lightning is attracted by magic,' he explained, as calmly as a man facing imminent death could, 'and he'll be up there raining the fury of Ghenna down upon us unless we do something to stop him!'

'And tire our mages in the process.'

'They can't stop him head-on, any road,' Beyn snapped, his patience gone. 'Magic ain't going to win this for us, only our b.l.o.o.d.y artillery.'

General Aladorn scowled at Beyn, his mouth becoming even more pinched and wrinkled as he thought. 'Very well, lieutenant, give the order,' he said at last to an aide standing by the door.

The man saluted and turned stiffly about.

'Run, you f.u.c.k!' roared Beyn after him, startling the man out of his formality and sending him scrabbling through the door.

Once the lieutenant had gone Beyn turned his back on the rest of the a.s.sembled command staff and remaining councillors, uncaring of their reproachful faces. He wasn't there for decorum, after all, and right now he had bigger concerns. Out of those a.s.sembled, all of Aroth's ruling circles, Beyn was the only one showing any genuine concern for the coming siege. The councillors and n.o.bles alike were all claiming they had supplies enough to outlast the enemy, and the soldiers were confident in both their defences and their prowess. But Beyn had seen nothing to give him any confidence at all in either claim.

The king's order to refuse battle was p.r.o.nounced cautious prudence, nothing more, conceding unimportant ground. That the kingdom's second city might actually fall to the Menin didn't appear to have occurred to any of them, and Beyn knew if he mentioned the possibility he'd be laughed out the room.

d.a.m.n fools, Beyn thought, as uncharacteristic doubts marched through his mind. Not one person's noticed I'm the Not one person's noticed I'm the only only King's Man here. None of the king's best warriors or mages have been sent to join this defence King's Man here. None of the king's best warriors or mages have been sent to join this defence. His hand clenched as a sense of helplessness unexpectedly washed over him. When the king himself doesn't believe we can stand against them, what chance do we have? When the king himself doesn't believe we can stand against them, what chance do we have?

Styrax pulled back on the wyvern's reins and brought it around into a thermal to climb higher. The beast resisted his urging for a moment, eager to be at the prey ahead, before tilting its wings in response.

Patience, Styrax thought, as much to himself as the wyvern. Let them see us and react. Let them have the small victory of driving me off. Let them see us and react. Let them have the small victory of driving me off.

Every fibre of his body railed at the idea, but he battered it down. He knew the flaws of his kind well enough, and he possessed every one, but there had been one guiding rule to his life: that he he would choose his own path - not the G.o.ds, not daemons, not the will of other men. would choose his own path - not the G.o.ds, not daemons, not the will of other men. And certainly not my own rage. And certainly not my own rage.

Just the thought of Kohrad was enough to produce a spiked knot at the back of his mind, but he gritted his teeth and fought it, letting the wyvern climb and circle above the city.

Without control I am no better than Dervek Grast, Styrax reminded himself, and that I refuse to be. and that I refuse to be.

The words were like a mantra, one oft-repeated of late. Grast, the reviled former Lord of the Menin, had been a monster, made worse by his intellect. The man hadn't been a savage, the unthinking and deranged killer most preferred to think him; there had been method, and strength of will to support his vicious delusions. For all of his forerunner's brutality, Styrax believed Grast's crimes would pale into insignificance next to the devastation he would wreak if he allowed grief to sway him.

If I allow myself to be ruled by grief I allow myself to be ruled by grief, he thought firmly, if if. There will be crimes enough without that. There will be crimes enough without that.

He thumped a fist against the side of his helm to wake himself up. The wyvern began to strain beneath him as it continued to climb so he corrected it with a twitch of the reins and it settled immediately, wings outstretched. It could soar like this, many hundreds of feet above the city, for hours, travelling faster than any horse, and in theory a mage as powerful as Styrax could shatter a city's walls in that time.

It wouldn't happen, though, there must be more than a dozen mages living inside a city of that size, quite enough to call the clouds above closer. He would cause some damage certainly, but not enough to risk being plucked from the air and smashed on the rocks below. No, he would resist the temptation, just as he would the growling animal in his gut that wanted to attack, to dive screaming onto the enemy and cut them to pieces before the rest of the army even caught up.