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  It was not deserted. Vorik dor-Galyn stood off to the right, lounging against a barrel, grinning unpleasantly as he ceased applauding.

  “Did you enjoy our little mirage, Ondene?” he said. “I thought my voice was very good, if a tad too deep, though I would never have made such a blundering swing as that.”

  “I told you, guard man,” came a hoarse woman’s voice from Corlek’s left, “I know naught of swords.”

  The enclosure faced the gardens, with the Sun Corridor directly ahead and the Keep burning at its northern end, now fully sheathed in fire. The fierce, tower blaze threw sharp, notched shadows of the battlement onto the enclosure’s flagstones, and outlined a short, hunched form standing at the wall’s midpoint. The woman raised a hand to point at the flat roof of the keep and just then a figure came into view there, holding aloft a Carver banner. Then she pointed at a balcony half way up and figures in blackened garments stepped out to dance and cavort amid a thousand tongues of flame. The woman looked round, revealing an elderly face shiny with perspiration and wearing an unbalanced smile.

  “My feather folk,” she said. “My fine, fiery, flighty feather folk…” Then her gaze slid back to the burning keep.

  “Do you understand yet, Ondene?” said dor-Galyn. “Have you the wit to see?”

  Corlek nodded. The sight of Carver zealots seemingly instrumental in the Keep’s destruction would make every Carver follower in Sejeend a target for revenge.

  “An illusion,” he said.

  “More than that, Ondene. Fuel for an anger that will tear down the old and make way for the new.” There was the solid iron hiss of a sword being drawn. “The fire, however, is very real.”

  Corlek turned to face him. Agasklin’s advice to watch over Jumil seemed irrelevant now. Standing there, motionless, his gaze locked with dor-Galyn’s, he could sense the heat of the blood in his head and the thud of his heart in his chest. Dor-Galyn was holding his sword with its point sitting on the flagstones and his hand resting almost carelessly on its pommel.

  “Will you die in silence, I wonder,” he said. “Or will you scream out your last breath?”

  He then affected to yawn languidly, one hand raised to his mouth. But Corlek was watching the other hand take a proper grip on the sword’s hilt, pushing the blade across — then whipping it up in an arc of reflected golden light as he slashed at Corlek’s neck. It was all he could do to twist aside from the blow but still it caught him on the shoulder, cutting through his embroidered jerkin and the shirt beneath. He hissed at the sting, although the wound was a shallow one. Dor-Galyn laughed and pulled blade back for another hack.

  But Corlek darted to one side and kicked the nearby barrel towards dor-Galyn, forcing him to stagger back.

  “Craven dog!” dor-Galyn snarled as he surged forward in a flurry of thrusts and cuts.

  Dor-Galyn was noticeably taller and broader at the shoulder than Corlek and it was all he could do to stay on the edge of the man’s longer reach. Forced back among the chests and barrels, he had to parry and dodge with all his skill as dor-Galyn was an excellent swordsman.

  Retreating from chest to barrel, he sidestepped a vicious waist-level thrust and felt his foot knock against something. There was a solid wooden rattle and out the corner of his eyes he saw an ordinary guardsman’s spear. He parried a hammering downstroke with his shortsword then dived to snatch up the spear and leaped over a long storage chest. Swiftly, he couched the spear haft over one shoulder in the Dalbari stave-fighting style, and turned to face his adversary.

  This time the advantage was with Corlek. He feinted at dor-Galyn’s face with the point of the spear only to have it hacked off. In the next instant, he aimed a swordthrust at the man’s vitals. The Iron Guard captain saw the blow coming and brought his broadsword arcing back down in a desperate parry. At the same time, Corlek spun the truncated spear in his other hand and the haft swung round to bludgeon into dor-Galyn’s unprotected neck.

  The man gave a choked cry as he staggered to one side, lost his footing and sprawled on the flagstones, his blade clattering nearby. Filled with anger and a triumphant loathing, Corlek went to stand over him, sword in hand.

  “The time has come,” he said, breathing heavily, “for your family to know loss and grief!”

  “I think not,” said a voice close by.

  Startled he glanced round to see the one called Jumil standing less than a yard away, his mask hanging by its ties from one hand. Corlek went to bring his sword round but found to his horror that his limbs, his very muscles, were frozen in place.

  “Only I punish my servants,” Jumil went on. “In any case, this particular shadowplay is almost done…” He glanced in the direction of the burning Keep and Corlek heard the rumble and crash of collapsing walls, followed by a mad giggling from the illusionist woman. Nearby, dor-Galyn groaned.

  Jumil regarded Corlek with dark, cruel eyes. The raging glow of the consumed keep cast a dark shadow across his narrow features, a dividing line that curved from brown down a sharp nose and over smiling lips to a small, rounded chin. Corlek’s sword was only a short thrust from the man’s heart, but the sorcerous immobility was like webs of razor steel burning in his flesh as he fought to move.

  “You have proved to be a nuisance, albeit a resourceful one to have got this far,” Jumil said. “And I was of a mind to fulfill my servant’s desire by taking your life. But I’ve thought of an interesting way for you serve my purpose.”

  “….never….serve you!….” Corlek managed to whisper.

  “An empty vow,” Jumil said. “From an empty vessel, but soon you will be full.”

  Then he made a slight gesture, and the icy web within his body flashed through his limbs, body and head like a whip of white fire, consuming his mind and every last fading thought.

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine

  Night’s dread bears down upon us,

  Like a ghastly ship with a ghastly cargo.

  —Ralgar Morth, The Watchman’s Journal, ch 2

  The Amatellis Retreat of the Carver Faithful was a former warehouse on the south bank of the Valewater, out to the west of Sejeend. Its tall, mortared walls were cracked and flaking and stained with years of rainwater runnels, yet they had been sturdily built and provided a sense of security for its occupants and those to whom it gave shelter. After dark, its high walls took on the aspect of a stronghold with a couple of torches burning over the big entrance doors, near a row of small windows where sentries could be seen from time to time.

  Inside, in a long, high chamber which had once been the main loading yard, the dull yellow glow of a few rushlights revealed the rows of blanket-wrapped forms lying on pallets on the cold, cobbled floor. In accordance with the Carver’s teachings, the Retreat offered such succour to travellers and pilgrims, as well as the unfortunate, the troubled and the destitute. Halos of heat came from a few wrought iron braziers and a big fire burning in a massive hearth at the far end of the great chamber.

  It was near there, between two long tables, that Sounek lay, vainly trying to find a comfortable position atop his thin, meagrely-stuffed pallet. Dressed in threadbare garments, worn-out boots and an empty rapier scabbard, with a silk-lined caped as his purported last valuable possession, it had not been hard to portray himself as a penniless aristocrat who had lost estates, wife and all dignity. He told his story to a Carver monk called Lemker who listened sympathetically then brought him into the warm hall and gave him a small bowl of hot, meaty soup. Sounek later discovered that Lemker was a manualer, the lowest monk in the Carver hierarchy. He knew little of the actual Carver theology, beyond a restricted canon of parables, but the next highest monks were the Iterants who were permitted to study the Outer Books of the faith. There was only a handful of them in the Amatellis Retreat and they answered to Litanist Tyorzin who was apparently in charge. The Litanists were allowed to study the mysterious Inner Books, along with various other holy writings, and when Lemker spoke of Tyorzin it was in hushed tones.<
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  So Sounek and several others had listened to Lemker recite a parable of the Carver while munching on bread and soup, in common with a few groups at other table. At the same time, Sounek had maintained a farspeech thread with Inryk who was then creeping across the ledges and watercourses of the Retreat’s stepped roof.

  Now, as Sounek shifted on his lumpy pallet, he was conducting an exchange with his fellow-Watcher, who had just withdrawn from one of the monks’ chambers, after a careful search.

  [...and found nothing of interest] Inryk was saying. [A few parchments with copied-out catechisms and the like, but no pens or even so much as a charstick.]

  — There must be a scripter room somewhere, Sounek said in farspeech. But yes — that one sounds like an Iterant —

  [A what?]

  — Iterant, a low-ranking monk. What you need to find is a chamber with plenty of books and scrolls, that’ll be the one used by the Litanist. But try not to disturb him —

  [You don’t say. Well, I’ve checked all the casements on this side so it must be on the other...hmmph, liable to fall and break my neck.]

  — Please don’t. Cleaning up the mess would be a chore —

  [Mmm, funny. And if I find nothing incriminating in this Litanist’s den?]

  — Then we’ll have to carry out the same tactic at one of the other Carver retreats —

  [’S goin’ to be a long night.]

  Then the farspeech thread fell silent within Sounek’s head, leaving him to his uneven bedding on the cold, cobbled floor. From where he lay, propped up on one elbow, he had a wide view of the big hall, seen from beneath one of the long tables. It was quiet, or as quiet as such an improvised dormitory could be — a sussurus of slumberous breathing, with a snore here and there, someone muttering briefly in their sleep, a cough, a whimpered conversation. Over by the fire, one of the female manualers was comforting a weeping child, all of which set off a coil of thought in his mind, the observation that these Carver followers seemed more interested in providing unconditional help and solace to the worst off than indulging in zealous browbeating.

  Sounek, however, knew that these kind, altruistic monks did not represent the entirety of the Carver creed and its believers. Almost no great movement, or belief, or city or nation was a homogenous whole, evenly consistent and identical in all its members. There were always differing strains and tendencies, semi-autonomous groups and unorthodox individuals, something that was certainly true of the House of the Earthmother. A number of offshoots with significantly different teachings and emphasis had emerged in the more distant corners of the Empire, but Sounek knew of only one whose creed matched the warlike doctrines of mainstream Carverist belief. It was a militant sect calling themselves the Daughters of the Fathertree and consisting mostly of women whose refuge was a stronghold hidden somewhere in the northern Rukang mountains. Yet they were the exception rather than the rule, for in all the centuries of its establishment as the empire’s traditional faith, the House of the Earthmother had urged others to fight on its behalf while keeping its own hands clean.

  But such observations were irrelevant to the likes of Archmage Tangaroth and Ilgarion — they had already decided who the enemy was and now it was the Watchers’ task to provide the proof, that much was clear.

  He was lying back, considering the curious matter of Corlek Ondene, when farspeech words stirred in his mind like another’s thoughts….

  [’M at the other side of the roof] said Inryk. [There’s three windows so shouldn’t take long…]

  — Is there light in any of them? —

  [Not a glimmer...but there’s some kind of glow coming from back in the centre of town. Thought I saw something earlier but its brighter now — must be a big fire, but I can’t see past the cliffs and the tree.]

  — If its important, Sounek said, we’ll know soon enough —

  [Huh...right, now for the first.]

  The farspeech thread dissolved, leaving Sounek to the quiet, dark hall and the flickering fireside shadows. After a while, resting there in the dimness, he thought he could hear a faint rushing sound from outside, as if strong winds were blowing around the building. As it grew louder he realised that it was coming from the street outside the front of the warehouse. Pushing himself up on his elbows he noticed other raised heads just as Inryk’s voice bloomed in his mind.

  [This don’t look so good, Sounek.]

  — What is it? —

  [Big angry crowd gathering across the road] he said. [A lot of torches and spears...they seem to waiting for something though…]

  Sounek heard footsteps approaching and looked round to see a worried Lemker quickly waking all nearby sleepers. Elsewhere, other manualers were rousing the rest.

  “Only some noisy drunks out in the street,” Lemker said to them. “But just for safety’s sake, we’d like you to move to the repose chambers upstairs…”

  [Ah, they’ve been waiting for a ram…]

  Moments later, something struck the outside of the doors with a heavy thud that reverberated around the hall. There were cries of alarm and the calm procession towards the stairs at the rear turned into a rush. There was another thud, louder than the first, and a simultaneous crack. Struggling free of the panicking crush, Sounek had just staggered against the rough stone wall at the side of the great hearth when there was a third impact which broke the wooden locking bars and sent the great doors crashing open. With a bellicose roar, the mob surged into the hall.

  [They’ve just broke down the doors] said Inryk. [Where are you?]

  — Nowhere safe, Sounek said, suddenly wishing he let himself be carried along with the stampede. Out in the middle of the hall a handful of guards and manualers armed with battle staves had managed to slow the intruders but they were only moments from being overwhelmed. Sounek dashed across to the righthand set of stairs just as it began to swing upwards, lifted by heavy hawsers lashed to stanchions jutting from the bottom step. He leaped for the rising edge, caught it and dragged himself over. As helping hands pulled him up onto a landing, he could hear the attackers furiously arguing among themselves while some shouted the word ‘Murderers!’ over and over.

  [Where are you, Sounek?….damn you, answer…]

  Gasping with the physical effort, Sounek followed other fearful-looking guests of the Retreat up another flight of stairs, while struggling to get a coherent thought out to Inryk.

  — I’m...out of danger for the moment —

  [Good — I’m on the third floor, so find your way up and we can get out the way I came in.]

  — Very well —

  At the head of the stairs dozens of frightened people were arguing with some of the monks who were trying to usher them along a narrow passageway. Sounek tried to squeeze past them as they slowly moved into a chamber off one side of the passage; the other side had a series of wooden framed openings which looked down into the hall. Gazing at one point, he saw that the mob were starting to climb the supports to get at the protruding framework of the upper floor. There was also a worrying, regular thud from directly below.

  There were others hurrying along from the far end, where more stairs led up, and as Sounek reached them he heard a clattering bang from just behind him. Glancing round, he saw the black iron claws of a grappling hook embedded in one of the window frames. There was another bang as a second grapple flew through the next window and slid back to dig its claws into the wood. At first Sounek thought they were going to try and climb up to get at the monks, but then there was a deep, wooden cracking sound and he felt the floor jerk and trembled underfoot.

  Mother’s name! he thought. They’re trying to bring down this floor!

  He leaped towards the next set of steps and was half way up when something finally gave way with a long creaking groan. Beams twisted and snapped in gouts of splinters and Sounek watched in horror as the passageway tore away from the building’s main wall, then dropped suddenly from Sounek’s end and crashed onto the floor of the main hall. People fell screaming dow
n the tilting slope or over its jagged edge while other held on to jutting joists laid bare by the manmade destruction.

  [Sounek — what’s happening?]

  — Madness — he tried to find words — They’ve destroyed half the first floor —

  [Get up here, now.]

  But before Sounek could answer, hands grabbed him from behind and hurled him up the last few steps to sprawl on the half-landing. A wild-haired figure drew near and bent over him.

  “I was called….and he told me that you have to die, you and the other one….”

  The man was red-eyed and staring and his face was coverd in scratches while blood oozed from battered ears. His clothing was in tatters and to Sounek’s undersenses he bore the stench of a malign power. Sounek had the thought-canto Brace ready to shield himself from attack but before the man could reach for him someone else descended from the next flight of stairs behind Sounek, crying out;

  “Brigand scum — you defile our retreat!”

  Sounek looked up to see a robed form charge down at the scratched man, spearpoint leading. The spear caught him square in the chest, ran him through and slammed him against the stairway wall, pinning him there, such was the force of the charge. The scratched man let out an agonised bellow and struck at the jutting spear shaft with one hand. With the other he lunged at the robed monk, grabbed him by the shoulder and with a brute strength hauled him in close.

  The terrified monk was striking at his captor with his fists but to no aval. The scratched man glanced once at Sounek, grinned, the pulled the monk closer still and bit out his neck. The monk’s scream dissolved into a ghastly, wet crunching sound as Sounek scrambled to his feet and ran for the steps.