The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (143 page)

The man gave a start as Doranei lurched forward and growled, ‘The fuck’re you?’

‘I - My name is Ortof-Greyl,’ he said quickly, as if this information alone would protect him. ‘Harn Ortof-Greyl.’ He looked at Doranei expectantly.

‘Rings a bell.’

Ortof-Greyl waited for Doranei to say more but the King’s Man just swayed slightly and smacked his lips together, hoping Janna would take the hint.

‘I was… I am a member of the Knights of the Temples,’ the man went on after an uncomfortable moment of silence.

‘Not sure which, eh? Can see how that’d be a problem.’ Doranei gave the man a friendly pat on the shoulder and struggled back onto his seat. He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Want a beer?’

Sebe grinned and pulled over a pair of stools, indicating Ortof-Greyl should sit between the two Brothers. Reluctantly, the man did so.

‘Rank?’ Doranei growled.

‘Major,’ the man replied after a slight hesitation.

‘Ordained, then.’ It wasn’t a question, and they all knew the implications. ‘Where’s that brandy then, woman?’

‘It’ll be shoved up your arse if you don’t ask nicer than that, m’lovely,’ Janna replied sweetly.

Doranei dragged his eyes up from the bar, but her bright smile defeated whatever was passing for thought in his head. He turned to Sebe, waved a hand in Janna’s general direction and resumed his earlier position, supporting his head on his empty tankard.

With a sigh, Sebe secured a bottle and three thimble-like cups.

‘Ordained,’ Doranei repeated in a grim voice, staring over the bar. ‘Bugger.’

Beside him the major nodded, looking even paler than he had when he’d first entered the pub. ‘Some days it feels like fire in my veins. Not for much longer though,’ he added, ‘not after what I saw in that refugee camp.’ He knocked back his first cup of brandy before Doranei had even found his own.

‘Your Order won’t like that too much,’ Sebe said.

‘The Order is fractured and lost,’ Ortof-Greyl replied sadly. ‘General Gort is dead, General Chotech is dead. I heard a week ago that General Diolis was murdered in Aroth. My group is destroyed.’

‘Does the Knight-Cardinal know about your plotting against him? He clearing house?’ Sebe asked, leaning forward.

‘I believe so; someone must have informed on us. Whatever the truth, we are in no position to deliver an army of the Devoted to Lord Isak. We’ve failed in our duty.’

‘Join the fuckin’ club,’ Doranei growled. A sudden purpose seemed to take hold of him and he downed two shots of brandy before saying anything further.

A look at Sebe told Ortof-Greyl that he didn’t know what Doranei was referring to either.

‘Took a li’l trip after Scree,’ Doranei said while he waited for Janna to refill his cup. ‘Went to a monast’ry and talked to a bunch o’ priests.’

Sebe gave a gasp as he realised what Doranei was talking about. ‘Major, give us a moment please?’ he said urgently.

‘Fuck off, or I’ll gut you like a fish!’ Doranei added with a snarl, swinging wildly around towards the major and ending up just inches from his face.

Ortof-Greyl backed off quickly and retreated across the room. Janna gave Doranei a sharp clip around the head and quickly poured a beer that she took over to Ortof-Greyl, earning a grateful look from Sebe.

‘So what’re we going to do with him then?’

Doranei shrugged. ‘Don’t owe ‘im nothing. Send ‘im home.’

‘As a spy? He’ll need some reassurance that we’re there to back him up - and what about the Knight-Cardinal clearing house? I don’t like it; we’re probably sending him straight to his death.’

‘Fuck ‘im.’

Sebe sighed. ‘Gods, boy, what’s happened to you?’

‘Read their history,’ Doranei muttered.

‘And?’

‘Bastards had too many secrets.’

‘Oh Gods.’

The Brotherhood had scattered in all directions after the fall of Scree, some pursuing enemy agents, some going after Azaer’s disciples. Doranei had caught up with the main part of the Farlan Army and, whilst securing an escort for his king, met the novice who had guided Abbot Doren to Scree. The young novice, Mayel, had eventually told him all about the island monastery dedicated to Vellern, God of Birds, and Jackdaw, the disciple of Azaer who’d pursued them to Scree.

‘The king suspected,’ Doranei said, to which Sebe nodded. ‘Looked back an’ thought we’d got the Skull too easy. Bastard minstrel could’ve taken it, but didn’t even try. Mayel told me the Skull weren’t the only magic thing they brought, there was a book too, with initials on the cover - a pair o’ Vs. I got the monks to show me their book o’ days. They said a Farlan knight brought the Skull, but they already had a guilty secret.’

‘A pair of Vs? Could still be coincidence.’

Doranei gave a snort and attacked the brandy again. ‘Could be. Bloody ain’t, though. Monastery’s old, but the monks weren’t the first there. They found ruins to Hit, and a book o’ days with the journal - practically shat themselves when they translated it: in the middle of the night a man came an’ told Hit’s monks to hide a book.’

‘Let me guess,’ Sebe said. ‘That’d be a man with eyes like sapphires?’ He reached for the brandy and swigged straight from the bottle.

‘Bloody sapphires. Damn minstrel gave us the Skull and took a book belonging to Vorizh Vukotic, that mad blood-sucking bastard hisself. An’ guess who’s gotta ask ‘is sister what’s in it?’

‘What’s in it?’ Sebe echoed. ‘What’s worth giving up the Skull of Ruling for? We ain’t going to like the answer to that one, are we? Might piss off Zhia that we’re prying into family business too.’

‘More brandy, woman!’

Though he was flanked by two squad of personal guard, Isak nevertheless found himself walking towards the massive ornate gates with his shoulders hunched. The Temple of Law was based around an enormous central hallway, almost a rival to the white marble halls of Isak’s dreams, only this was teeming with life. Light filled the hall from mullioned glass windows of white and yellow, two full storeys high.

Three massive doors, peaked like the hall’s main gates but without the swirling lattice of ironwork, led to courtrooms on the left, while the right wall was studded with small doorways and corridors that stretched out into a rabbit-warren of offices. Cautious faces poked out from those doorways and watched from the main stairway, and the clank of advancing armour was unable to drown out the whisper of voices and the scurry of footsteps on the marble stair.

The largest and grandest courtroom was at the furthest end of the blue-tiled hallway, opposite the main staircase and the entrance to the cells. Isak swept down the corridor like a surging tidal wave while Major Jachen, the commander of his personal guard, led an assorted party without dragon livery in his wake. The soldiers were dressed for battle, save for their helms, as tradition dictated, and each man carried a short-handled glaive, ready to swing into action at the first movement towards them. They looked threatening, and even onlookers standing well clear found themselves trying to shrink further back from them.

Flags lined the hallway: the red fox’s head of Alav, Goddess of Justice alternated with the blue snake of Nartis and Isak’s own crowned emerald dragon. A crisp breeze rushed in through the open gate to greet them, gathering up the golden-tassel led flags and lifting them high. Isak felt the wind on his face and scowled as it carried the voices of the crowd in Irienn Square to him. The people had been gathering since dawn and the square was already packed when he arrived for the opening formalities of Duke Certinse’s trial: the swell of flushed and furious faces had been a stark contrast to the pale young man who’d knelt in the black square at the centre of the courtroom.

Behind a line of black-and-white-liveried Palace Guard raged a mob of clerics of all colours, intermingled with the whole range of Tirah’s assorted citizenry. Foremost among them all were the scarlet-edged robes worn by the Cardinal branch of the cult of Nartis, men and women of all ages and ranks. Three full cardinals were in attendance, each accompanied by a squad of liveried soldiers and three times as many novices in blue, all carrying cudgels.

Those of the Temple of Death had gone a step further - alongside the assembled priests was at least a company of grey-robed men, the novices of Death’s cult. Few of the novices of Nartis were more than eighteen summers old, however, and this group were considerably older - to Isak’s eyes they looked remarkably like foreign mercenaries. He didn’t bother to count; there would be exactly fifty-one of them: a company of five squads and one man to lead them.

The threat was unspoken, but clearly understood. The priests were showing their hand: they had their militia already recruited, and they were daring him to become embroiled in a power-struggle at a time when he had so publicly announced the need for unity.

‘They underestimate you. The fever they have caught from their Gods makes them foolish.’
The voice was scathing.

For once, Isak had to agree with Aryn Bwr. If he had been thinking clearly, not even Cardinal Certinse would have had the arrogance to think he could face down the Lord of the Farlan and win - but therein lay the problem. They were not thinking clearly, and this was indeed a conflict he could ill afford.

‘Send your shadow to Certinse,’ the last king whispered in a moment of clarity. Isak tensed for a moment, until he realised Aryn Bwr only meant Mihn. ‘Have him slip into the cardinal’s palace one night, and tell him that the first death in such a war will be his own. He has distanced himself from his own family to save his position, so offer him the chance to keep all he is desperate to hold onto, if only he quietens the voices of his brethren.’

‘Right now I’ll be happy if we get out of the square without having to kill anyone,’ Isak muttered, too softly for anyone else to make out, but Major Jachen still caught the sound of his voice.

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing, Jachen,’ Isak said with a dismissive wave. ‘Just make sure your men keep calm out there.’

‘They won’t start swinging, my Lord, I can assure you of that. Sir Cerse has three Swordmasters out there with him to keep an eye on the guardsmen.’

‘Good. I think we’re outnumbered.’

‘Not badly, my Lord,’ Count Vesna said with forced cheer, ‘and the Ghosts have faced worse on the battlefield - and let us not forget we’ve got a second regiment inside this building and a third covering all the surrounding streets. If they do start anything, it’ll be us ending it - and you won’t even have to touch your blade.’

Isak turned to look at his friend, resplendent in his black silks and full-length coat adorned with gold braid. His long black hair was oiled and immaculately plaited, affording a glimpse of the knighthood tattoos he was so proud of. As well as his golden earrings of rank, Vesna wore a golden lion’s head at his throat, an echo of the one on his armour, right down to the ruby in its eye.

Though the famed soldier was still in prime condition - Isak had seen him fight in Scree - he knew the count was feeling his mortality these days. Vesna looked older than when they’d first met, and his familiar roguish grin was occasionally edged with fatigue.

I hope your wedding will change that look, my friend. I don’t need an old warhorse; I need a general I can depend upon, Isak thought a little sadly.

‘It’s a beautiful day, Vesna; let’s hope none of us have to touch our blades.’

The weak winter sun was already halfway behind the buildings in the east, but still it cast a pale luminescence over the white tiles of Cold Halls opposite. The Ghosts had cordoned off a square at the entrance to the Temple of Law and were holding back a crowd that appeared as fractious as when Isak had entered two hours previously. Sir Cerse, Colonel of the Palace Guard, saluted Isak from his position just within the cordoned-off area and barked an order to his men as the Lord of the Farlan walked down the two steps to the square.

The lines of Ghosts pushed into the crowds to drive a wedge through it for Isak to walk behind, but the cheering townsfolk behind the priesthood parted easily and there was no need for the extra weight. Isak was conscious of the protective ring of black-iron glaives surrounding him as he ignored ther shouts ringing out from both sides.

After twenty yards Isak, towering over all his companions, spotted two figures walking onto the square from Hunter’s Ride, heading straight for him: a man and a woman; the woman was hooded and anonymous while the man wore a hurscal’s livery. Isak paused. Red and white checks. The colours stirred a memory, but it took him a moment to place them.

Tildek, seat of the Certinse family.

‘Vesna, that’s a Tildek hurscal coming towards us,’ he said.

Even before he’d finished speaking the count had slipped past his lord, his hand closing around the grip of his sword. Even if the man was simply looking to make a statement, they didn’t want Isak involved.

‘Lord Isak!’ the hurscal shouted, marching ahead of his companion. Vesna too increased his speed.

Isak looked around; Jachen was ignoring the hurscal and instead scanning the crowds behind them in case this was a feint. Returning his attention to Vesna, Isak was just in time to see the man stop and fall to his knees. Vesna closed the gap as quickly as he could, but he wasn’t in time to shut the man up.

‘Lord Isak, you shame the tribe and Nartis!’ the man called. He was young, not many years older than Isak. He had bushy eyebrows and a diagonal scar crossing his mouth where his broken front teeth were visible.

Isak could see the fervour in the man’s eyes as he pulled a dagger from his belt and held it up for a moment before reversing it and driving it into his own chest. A collective gasp ran around the onlookers as a flash of pain crossed the man’s face. Isak saw him sway, his hands still wrapped around the hilt of the dagger.

The hurscal’s mouth fell open and his eyes closed, but he jerked the knife out again with a breathless gasp of agony. A jet of scarlet followed it and spurted out across the paving stones at Count Vesna’s feet, stopping him in his tracks. Isak felt the Land freeze around him as everyone turned to watch the hurscal. Unbidden came a memory from his year of learning swordsmanship from Carel: a moment is all a soldier can ask for.