Some dragged folk from their houses while others crashed through inside, smashing chests and slitting mattresses and turning over furniture, supposedly to find hidden treasure but really just for the joy of breaking. The victims fought no more than sheep dragged to the slaughter-pen. Used to surprise Raith, that they didn’t fight. Used to disgust him. Now he understood it all too well. He’d no fight left himself.
Folk aren’t just cowards or heroes. They’re both and neither, depending on how things stand. Depending on who stands with them, who stands against. Depending on the life they’ve had. The death they see waiting.
They were lined up on their knees in the street. Some were pushed down. Some were flung down. Most just joined the end of the line on their own, and knelt there, meek. A slap or a kick where one was needed to get them moving, but otherwise no violence. A beaten slave was worth less than a healthy one, after all, and if they weren’t worth enough to sell, why waste even that much effort on ’em?
Raith closed his eyes. Gods, he felt weary. So weary he could hardly stand. He thought of his brother’s face, thought of Skara’s, but he couldn’t get them clear. The only face he could see was that woman’s, staring at her burning farm, calling her children’s names, her voice gone all broken and grief-mad. He felt tears prickling under his lids and let his eyes flicker open.
A Vansterman with a silver ring through his nose was dragging a woman around by her armpit, laughing, but the laughter was all jagged and forced, like he was trying to convince himself there was something funny in it.
Thorn Bathu didn’t look like laughing. The muscles working on the shaved side of her head, the scars livid on her pale cheeks, the sinews standing stark and merciless from the arm she gripped her axe with.
‘Most o’ these are hardly worth the taking,’ said one of the warriors, a great big Gettlander with a lopsided jaw, shoving an old man down onto his knees at the end of the line.
‘What do we do with ’em, then?’ said another.
Thorn’s voice came flat and careless. ‘I’ve a mind to kill ’em.’
One of the women started sobbing a prayer and someone shut her up with a slap.
Here was the dream. To plunder a big city. To take whatever you saw for your own. To strut like the biggest dog down streets where you’d be sneered at in peacetime. To rule supreme just ’cause you had a blade and were bastard enough to use it.
Raith’s eyes were watery. The smoke, maybe, or maybe he was crying. He thought of that farm burning. He felt crushed, as buried as his brother, could hardly breathe. Seemed like everything worth saving in him died with Rakki, or was left behind with Skara.
He fumbled at the strap on his helmet, pulled it off and tossed it down with a hollow clonk, watched it roll on its edge down the cobbles. He scrubbed hard at his flattened hair with his nails, hardly felt it.
He looked sideways at that row of people, kneeling in the road. He saw a boy clench his fist, clench a handful of dirt out of the gutter. He saw a teardrop dangling from a woman’s nose. Heard the old man at the end wheezing fear with every breath.
Thorn’s boots crunched as she walked over to him.
She took her time. Working up her courage, maybe. Enjoying getting there, maybe. Letting the haft of the axe slowly slide through her hand until she was gripping it by the palm-polished end.
The old man flinched as she set her feet behind him, working them into the ground like a woodsman beside the chopping block.
She shook out her shoulders, cleared her throat, turned her head and spat.
She lifted the axe.
And Raith let his breath out in a shuddering sigh, and he stepped between Thorn and the old man and stood facing her.
He didn’t say a word. He wasn’t sure he could’ve got a word out, his throat was so raw and his heart going so hard. He just stood there.
Silence.
The warrior with the crooked jaw took a step towards him. ‘Get your arse shifted, fool, before I—’
Without taking her eyes off Raith, Thorn held up one long finger and said, ‘Sss.’ That was all, but enough to stop the big man dead. She stared at Raith, eyes sunken in shadow, their corners just catching the angry red gleam from that elf-bangle of hers.
‘Out of my way,’ she said.
‘I can’t.’ Raith shook the shield off his arm and let it drop. Tossed his axe clattering down on top of it. ‘This ain’t vengeance. It’s just murder.’
Thorn’s scarred cheek twitched and he could hear the fury in her voice. Could see her shoulders almost shaking with it. ‘I won’t ask again, boy.’
Raith spread his arms, palms towards her. He could feel the tears on his cheeks and he didn’t care. ‘If you’re set on killing, you can start with me. I deserve it more’n they do.’
He closed his eyes and waited. He wasn’t fool enough to think this made up for a hundredth part of the things he’d done. He just couldn’t stand and watch no more.
There was a crunch and a white-hot pain in his face.
He stumbled over something and his head cracked on stone.
The world reeled. He tasted salt.
He lay there a moment, wondering if he was leaking all over the street. Wondering if he cared.
But he was breathing still, for all he was blowing bubbles from one nostril with each snort. He put one clumsy hand to his nose. Felt twice the size it used to. Broken, no doubt, from the sick feeling when he touched it. He grunted as he rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow.
Hard faces, scarred faces, swimming around him, looking down. The old man was still kneeling, lips moving in a silent prayer. Thorn still stood over him, axe in her hand, the elf-bangle smouldering red as a hot coal. From the smear of blood on her forehead Raith reckoned she must have butted him.
‘Phew,’ he grunted.
Took a hell of an effort to roll over, blood pattering from his nose onto the backs of his hands. Up onto one knee and he gave a wobble, threw one arm out to steady himself, but he didn’t fall. The dizziness was fading, and he stumbled as he stood, but got there in the end. Back between Thorn and the old man.
‘There we are.’ He licked his teeth and spat blood, then he held his arms out wide, and closed his eyes again, and stood swaying.
‘Gods damn it,’ he heard Thorn hiss.
‘Is he mad?’ said someone else.
‘Just kill him and be done,’ growled the one with the lopsided jaw.
Another pause. A pause seemed to go on forever, and Raith winced, and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Each shuddering breath made a weird squeak in his broken nose, but he couldn’t stop it.
He heard a slow scraping and prised one eye open. Thorn had slid her axe through the loop at her belt and was standing, hands on hips. He blinked stupidly at her.
Not dead, then.
‘What do we do?’ snapped the one with the ring through his nose.
‘Let ’em go,’ said Thorn.
‘That’s it?’ The warrior with the crooked jaw sprayed spit as he snarled the words. ‘Why should they be let go? Didn’t let my wife go, did they?’
Thorn turned her head to look at him. ‘One more word and you’ll be the one kneeling in the street. Let ’em go.’ And she dragged the old man up by his collar and shoved him stumbling off towards the houses.
Raith slowly let his arms fall, face one great throb.
He felt something spatter against his cheek. Looked round to see the big man had spat on him.
‘You little bastard. You’re the one should die.’
Raith gave a weary nod as he wiped away the spittle. ‘Aye, probably. But not for this.’
The Tears of Father Peace
Father Yarvi strode at their head, the tapping of the elf-staff that had killed Bright Yilling echoing down the hallway. He went so swiftly Koll had to jog the odd step to keep up, Skifr’s cloak of rags snapping about the elf-weapon she held down by her side, the gear of Rulf and his warriors rattling as they followed. Mother Adwyn stumbled at
the back, her fin of red hair grown out into a shapeless mop, one hand trying to drag some slack into the rope around her chafed neck.
The hallway was lined with weapons, bent and rust-speckled. The weapons of armies defeated by High Kings of the past few hundred years. But there would be no victory for the High King today. From beyond the narrow windows, Koll could hear the sack of Skekenhouse. Could smell the burning. Could feel the fear, catching as the plague.
He put his head down, trying not to imagine what was happening out there. Trying not to imagine what might happen here, when Father Yarvi finally came face to face with Grandmother Wexen.
‘What if she has fled?’ snapped Skifr.
‘She is here,’ said Yarvi. ‘Grandmother Wexen is not the fleeing kind.’
High doors of dark wood stood at the end of the hallway, carved with scenes from the life of Bail the Builder. How he conquered Throvenland. How he conquered Yutmark. How he climbed a hill of dead enemies to conquer the whole Shattered Sea. Another day Koll would’ve admired the craftsmanship, if not the conquest, but no one was in the mood for woodwork now.
A dozen guards blocked the way, mailed men with frowns fixed and spears levelled.
‘Step aside,’ said Father Yarvi, Rulf and his warriors spreading out across the width of the hallway. ‘Tell them, Mother Adwyn.’
‘Let them through, I beg you!’ Adwyn spoke as though the words hurt her more than the rope, but she spoke even so. ‘The city is fallen. Blood spilled now is blood wasted!’
Koll hoped they would listen. But you know how it goes, with hopes.
‘I cannot.’ The captain of the guards was a warrior of no small fame, his silver-studded shield painted with the eagle of the First of Ministers. ‘Grandmother Wexen has ordered that these doors stay sealed, and I have sworn an oath.’
‘Oaths,’ muttered Koll. ‘Nothing but trouble.’
Skifr nudged him aside as she stepped past, raising her elf-relic to her shoulder. ‘Break your oath or meet Death,’ she said.
‘Please!’ Mother Adwyn tried to duck in front of Skifr, but the warrior who held her rope dragged her back.
The captain raised his shield to look proudly over the rim. ‘I do not fear you, witch! I—’
Skifr’s weapon barked once, thunderously loud in the narrow space. Half the captain’s shield blew apart, his arm flew off in a gout of fire and knocked over the man beside him. He was flung against the door, bounced off and crumpled on his face. One leg kicked a little then was still, blood spreading about the smouldering corpse, blood spattered across the fine carvings on the door. A little piece of metal fell, bounced, tinkled away into a corner.
‘Does anyone else wish to stay loyal to Grandmother Wexen?’ asked Yarvi.
As if by prior agreement the guards flung down their weapons.
‘Merciful god,’ whispered Mother Adwyn as Rulf stepped smartly over their dead leader, seized the iron handles and heaved on them to no effect.
‘Locked,’ he growled.
Skifr raised her elf-relic again. ‘I have the key.’
Rulf flung himself to the floor. Koll clapped his hands over his ears as the weapon spat fire, blasting chunks from the beautiful woodwork where the two doors met, splinters flying in stinging clouds. Before the echoes faded Skifr stepped forward, raised her boot, and kicked the ruined doors shuddering open.
Even for a man who’d seen the wonders of Strokom the Hall of Whispers was dizzying, elf-stone and elf-glass soaring up into the distance, a ring-shaped balcony five times a man’s height above them, another as far above that, another above that. It was all lit by a flickering madman’s glare, for in the centre of the round expanse of floor a huge fire burned. A pyre of books, and papers, and scrolls as high as a king’s barrow, the heat of the roaring flames sucking the sweat from Koll’s brow.
Statues of the six Tall Gods loomed high, flames glimmering in their garnet eyes, and standing even taller a new statue of the One God, neither man nor woman, gazing down with bland indifference on the destruction. Smaller figures were picked out against the flames. Grey-robed Sisters of the Ministry, some staring in horror towards the door, some still frantically feeding the fire, half-burned papers floating high into the echoing space above, fluttering down like leaves in autumn.
‘Stop them!’ bellowed Yarvi, voice shrill over the roar of the flames. ‘Collar them! Chain them! We will choose later who to spare and who to blame!’
Rulf’s warriors were already spilling through the doors, their mail, and blades, and eager eyes shining with the colours of fire. A shaven-headed girl was dragged kicking past, blood on her bared teeth. An apprentice like Koll, only doing as she was ordered, and he rubbed at the old chafe-marks where his own thrall-collar had sat, long ago.
Some might think it strange that a man who’d suffered as a slave himself could be so quick to force slavery on others, but Koll knew better. We all teach the lessons we are taught, after all.
‘Where is Grandmother Wexen?’ snarled Skifr, spit flecking from her burned lips.
‘Above!’ squealed a cringing minister. ‘The second balcony!’ There was no loyalty left in Skekenhouse, only fire and chaos.
Across the wide floor to a narrow passageway, ash fluttering down around them like black snow. Up a curving stair, higher and higher, their breath echoing and their shadows dancing in the darkness. Past one doorway and out of another, into the garish light.
An old woman stood at the elf-metal rail in a robe that trailed the floor, white hair cut short, a great stack of books beside her, their spines marked with gold, set with gems. She snatched up an armful and flung them over the rail: years of work, decades of lessons, centuries of learning gone to the flames. But so it goes when Mother War spreads her wings. She rips apart in a gleeful moment what it takes her weeping husband Father Peace lifetimes to weave.
‘Grandmother Wexen!’ called Yarvi.
She froze, shoulders hunched, then slowly turned.
The woman who had ruled the Shattered Sea, chosen the fates of countless thousands, made warriors quail and used kings as puppets, was not at all what Koll had expected. No cackling villain. No towering evil. Only a motherly face, round and deeply lined. Wise-seeming. Friendly-seeming. No gaudy marks of status. Only a fine chain about her neck, and strung upon it papers scrawled with writing. Writs, and judgments, and debts to be settled, and orders to be obeyed.
She smiled. Hardly the desperate prey, finally at bay. The look of a mentor whose wayward pupil has at last answered their summons.
‘Father Yarvi.’ Her voice was deep, and calm, and even. ‘Welcome to Skekenhouse.’
‘Burning books?’ Yarvi eased ever so slowly towards his old mistress. ‘I thought it was a minister’s place to preserve knowledge?’
Grandmother Wexen gently clicked her tongue. The disappointment of the learned teacher at the rash pupil’s folly. ‘That you should lecture me on a minister’s place.’ She let a last armful of books fall over the balcony. ‘You will not benefit from the wisdom I have gathered.’
‘I do not need it.’ He held up his elf-staff. ‘I have this.’
‘The elves had that, and look what became of them.’
‘I have learned from their example. Not to mention yours.’
‘I fear you have learned nothing.’
‘Forget learning,’ growled Skifr. ‘You will bleed for the blood of my children you have shed, the blood of my children’s children you have shed.’ She levelled her elf-weapon. ‘My one regret is that you can never bleed enough.’
Grandmother Wexen did not so much as flinch in the face of Death. ‘You are deceived if you think the blood of your children is on my hands, witch. I heard you were seen in Kalyiv, and was happy that you were gone from the Shattered Sea, and more than content that you would never return.’
‘You are made of lies, minister,’ snarled Skifr, the sweat glistening on her furrowed forehead. ‘You sent thieves and killers to pursue me!’
Grandmother Wexen
gave a sorry sigh. ‘Says the thief and killer who licks the feet of the prince of liars.’ She swept Koll, and Skifr, and finally Yarvi with her eyes. ‘From the moment when you kissed my cheek after your test, I knew you were a snake. I should have crushed you then, but I chose mercy.’
‘Mercy?’ Yarvi barked out a laugh. ‘You hoped you could make me bite for you, rather than against.’
‘Perhaps.’ Grandmother Wexen looked with disgust at the elf-weapon Skifr cradled in her arms. ‘But I never dreamed you would resort to this. To break the deepest laws of our Ministry? To risk the world for your ambitions?’
‘You know the saying. Let Father Peace shed tears over the methods. Mother War smiles upon results.’
‘I know the saying, but it belongs in the mouths of murderers, not ministers. You are poison.’
‘Let us not pretend only one of us stands in the shadows.’ Father Yarvi’s eyes glittered with reflected fire as he eased forward. ‘I am the poison you mixed with your own schemes. The poison you brewed when you ordered my father and brother killed. The poison you never supposed you would drink yourself.’
Grandmother Wexen’s shoulders sagged. ‘I am not without regrets. That is all power leaves you, in the end. But Laithlin’s arrogance would have dragged us into Mother War’s embrace sooner or later. I tried to steer us clear of the rocks. I tried to choose the lesser evil and the greater good. But you demanded chaos.’
The First of Ministers ripped a paper from the chain around her neck and flung it at Yarvi so it floated down between them. ‘I curse you, traitor.’ She raised her hand, and tattooed upon her palm Koll saw circles within circles of tiny letters. ‘I curse you in the name of the One God and the many.’ Her voice rang out, echoing in the towering space of the Hall of Whispers. ‘All that you love shall betray you! All that you make shall rot! All that you build shall fall!’
Father Yarvi only shrugged. ‘There is nothing worth less than the curses of the defeated. If you had stood upon the forbidden ground of Strokom, you would understand. Everything falls.’