1163rd Year of Blaze’s Slumber

  105th Year of the Nazalam Empire

  9th Year of Empress Lasean’s Rule

  She’d been sleeping with Kalo the past four months: a little diversionary pleasure to ease the boredom of a siege that wasn’t going anywhere. At least, that was how she explained to herself their unprofessional conduct. It was more than that, of course, much more. But being honest with herself had never been one of Taterztayl’s strengths.

  The magical summons, when it came, awakened her before Kalo. The mage’s small but well-proportioned body was snug in the many soft pillows of her flesh. She opened her eyes to find him clinging to her like a child. Then he, too, sensed the calling and awoke to her smile.

  ‘Furbolt?’ he asked, shivering as he climbed out from under the blankets.

  Taterztayl grimaced. ‘Who else? The man never sleeps.’

  ‘What now, I wonder?’ He stood, looking around for his tunic.

  She was watching him. He was so thin, making them an odd combination. Through the faint dawn light seeping through the canvas tent walls, the sharp, bony angles of his body looked soft, almost child-like. For a man a century old, he carried it well. ‘Furbolt’s been running errands for Drin,’ she said. ‘It’s probably just an update.’

  Kalo grunted as he pulled on his boots. ‘That’s what you get for taking command of the cadre, ‘Tayl. Anyway, it was easier saluting Neduri, let me tell you. Whenever I look at you, I just want to—’

  ‘Stick to business, Kalo,’ Taterztayl said, meaning it with humour though it came out with enough of an edge to make Kalo glance at her sharply.

  ‘Something up?’ he asked quietly, the old frown finding its familiar lines on his high forehead.

  Thought I’d got rid of those. Taterztayl sighed. ‘Can’t tell, except that Furbolt’s contacted both of us. If it was just a report, you’d still be snoring.’

  In growing tension they finished dressing in silence. Less than an hour later Kalo would be incinerated beneath a wave of blue fire, and ravens would be answering Taterztayl’s despairing scream. But, for the moment, the two mages were readying themselves for an unscheduled gathering at Leading Lord Drin Firstbranch’s command tent.

  In the muddy path beyond Kalo’s tent, soldiers of the last watch huddled around braziers filled with burning horse dung, holding out hands to the heat. Few walked the pathways, the hour still too early. Row upon row of grey tents climbed the hills overlooking the plain that surrounded the city of Liet. Regimental standards ruffled sullenly in a faint breeze – the wind had turned since last night, carrying to Taterztayl the stench of the latrine trenches.

  Overhead the remaining handful of stars dimmed into insignificance in the lightening sky. The world seemed almost peaceful.

  Drawing her cloak against the chill, Taterztayl paused outside the tent and turned to study the enormous mountain hanging suspended a quarter-mile above the city of Liet. She scanned the battered face of Satellite's Offspring – its name for as long as she could remember. Ragged as a blackened tooth, the basalt fortress was home to the most powerful enemy the Nazalam Empire had ever faced. High above the earth, Satellite’s Offspring could not be breached by siege. Even Lasean’s own undead army, the Ta’an Oclump, who travelled as easily as dust on the wind, were unable, or unwilling, to penetrate its magical defences.

  Liet’s wizards had found a powerful ally. Taterztayl recalled that the Empire had locked horns with the Satellite’s mysterious lord once before, in the days of the Emperor. Things had threatened to get ugly, but then Satellite’s Offspring withdrew from the game. No one still living knew why – just one of the thousand secrets the Emperor took with him to his watery grave.

  The Satellite’s reappearance here on Pueblos had been a surprise. And this time, there was no last-minute reprieve. A half-dozen legions of the sorcerous Cest Velle descended from Satellite’s Offspring, and under the command of a warlord named Carvier Languish they joined forces with the Blood-Red Guardians mercenary groups. Together, the two armies proceeded to drive back the Malaz 5th Infantry, which had been pushing eastward along the northern edge of Sh’moneh Grasslands. For the past four years the battered 5th had been bogged down in Darkdog Woods, forcing them to make a stand against Languish and the Blood-Red Guardians. It was a stand fast becoming a death sentence.

  But, clearly, Carvier Languish and the Cest Velle weren’t the only inhabitants of Satellite’s Offspring. An unseen lord remained in command of the fortress, bringing it here and sealing a pact with Liet’s formidable wizards.

  Taterztayl’s cadre had little hope of magically challenging such opposition. So the siege grounded to a halt, with the exception of the Linktorches who never relaxed their stubborn efforts to undermine the city’s ancient walls.

  Stay, she prayed to Satellite’s Offspring. Turn your face endlessly, and keep the smell of blood, the screams of the dying from settling on this land. Wait for us to blink first.

  Kalo waited beside her. He said nothing, understanding the ritual this had become. It was one of the many reasons why Taterztayl loved the man. As a friend, of course. Nothing serious, nothing frightening in the love for a friend.

  ‘I sense impatience in Furbolt,’ Kalo murmured beside her.

  She sighed. ‘I do, too. That’s why I’m reluctant.’

  ‘I know, but we can’t dally too long, ‘Tayl.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Bad form.’

  ‘Hmmm, can’t have them jumping to conclusions, can we?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have to jump very far. Anyway,’ his smile faltered slightly, ‘let’s get going.’

  A few minutes later they arrived at the command tent. The lone marine standing guard at the flap seemed nervous as he saluted the two mages. Taterztayl paused and searched his eyes. ‘Seventh Regiment?’

  Avoiding her gaze, the guard nodded. ‘Yes, Sorceress. Third Squad.’

  ‘Thought you looked familiar. Give my regards to Sergeant Corody.’ She stepped closer. ‘Something in the air, soldier?’

  He blinked. ‘High in the air, Sorceress. High as they come.’

  Taterztayl glanced at Kalo, who had paused at the tent flap. Kalo puffed out his cheeks, making a comical face. ‘Thought I smelled him.’

  She winced at this confirmation. The guard, she saw, was sweating under his iron helmet. ‘Thanks for the warning, soldier.’

  ‘Always an even trade, Sorceress.’ The man snapped a second salute, this one sharper, and in its way more personal. Years and years of this. Insisting I’m family to them, one of the 2nd Infantry — the oldest intact force, one of the Emperor’s own. Always an even trade, Sorceress. Save our skins, we’ll save yours. Family, after all. Why, then, do I always feel so estranged from them? Taterztayl returned the salute.

  They entered the command tent. She sensed immediately the presence of power, what Kalo called smell. It made his eyes water. It gave her a migraine headache. This particular emanation was a power she knew well, and it was anathema to her own. Which made the headaches all the worse.

  Inside the tent, lanterns cast a dim smoky light on the dozen or so wooden chairs in the first compartment. A camp-table off to one side held a tin pitcher of watered wine and six tarnished cups that glistened with droplets of condensation.

  Kalo muttered beside her, ‘Cowl’s Puff, ‘Tayl, I hate this.’

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Taterztayl saw, through the opening that led into the tent’s second compartment, a familiar robed figure. He leaned with long-fingered hands on Drin’s map-table. His magenta cloak rippled like water though he remained motionless. ‘Oh, really now,’ Taterztayl whispered.

  ‘Just my thought,’ Kalo said, wiping his eyes.

  ‘Do you think,’ she said, as they took their seats, ‘it’s a studied pose?’

  Kalo grinned. ‘Absolutely. Lasean’s Leading Sorcerer couldn’t read a battle map if his life depended on it.’

  ‘So long as our lives don’t depend on it.’

  A voice spoke from a chair near them, ‘Today we work.’

  Taterztayl scowled at the preternatural darkness wreathing the chair. ‘You’re as bad as Tynell, Furbolt. And be glad I didn’t decide to sit in that chair.’

  Dully, a row of yellow teeth appeared, then the rest of the mage took shape as Furbolt relinquished the spell. Beads of sweat marked the man’s flat, scarred brow and shaved pate – nothing unusual there: Furbolt would sweat in an ice-pit. He held his head at an angle, achieving in his expression something like smug detachment combined with contempt. He fixed his small dark eyes on Taterztayl. ‘You remember work, don’t you?’ His smile broadened, further flattening his mashed, misaligned nose. ‘It’s what you were doing before you started rolling in the sack with dear Kalo here. Before you went soft.’

  Taterztayl drew breath for a retort, but was interrupted by Kalo’s slow, easy drawl. ‘Lonely, Furbolt? Should I tell you that the camp-followers demand double the coin from you?’ He waved a hand, as if clearing away unsavoury thoughts. ‘The simple fact is, Drin chose Taterztayl to command the cadre after Neduri’s untimely demise at Elm Woods. You may not like it, but that’s just too bad. It’s the price you pay for ambivalence.’

  Furbolt reached down and brushed a speck of dirt from his satin slippers, which had, improbably, escaped unmarred the muddy streets outside. ‘Blind faith, dear comrades, is for fools—’

  He was interrupted by the tent flap swinging aside. Leading Lord Drin Firstbranch entered, the soap of his morning shave still clotting the hair in his ears, the smell of cinnamon water wafting after him.

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  Over the years, Taterztayl had come to attach much to that aroma. Security, stability, sanity. Drin Firstbranch represented all those things, and not just to her but to the army that fought for him. As he stopped now in the centre of the room and surveyed the three mages, she leaned back slightly and, from under heavy lids, studied the Leading Lord. Three years of enforced passivity in this siege seemed to have acted like a tonic on the aging man. He looked more like fifty rather than his seventy-nine years. His grey eyes remained sharp and unyielding in his tanned, lean face. He stood straight, which made him seem taller than his five and a half feet, wearing simple, unadorned leathers, stained as much by sweat as by the Royal magenta dye. The stump of his left arm, just below the shoulder, was wrapped in leather strips. His hairy chalk-white calves were visible between the sharkskin straps of the Nanpan sandals.

  Kalo withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it to Drin.

  The Leading Lord snagged it. ‘Again? Damn that barber,’ he growled, wiping the soap from his jaw and ears. ‘I swear he does it on purpose.’ He balled the handkerchief and flung it on to Kalo’s lap. ‘Now, we’re all here. Good. Regular business first. Furbolt, you finished jawing with the boys below?’

  Furbolt stifled a yawn. ‘Some sapper named Piper took me in, showed me around.’ He paused to pluck lint from his brocaded sleeve, then met Drin’s eyes. ‘Give them six or seven years and they might have reached the city walls by then.’

  ‘It’s pointless,’ Taterztayl said, ‘which is what I put in my report.’ She squinted up at Drin. ‘Assuming it ever made it to the Royal Courtroom.’

  ‘Camelus is still swimming,’ Kalo said.

  Drin grunted – as close as he ever got to laughing. ‘All right, cadre, listen carefully. Two things.’ A faint scowl crossed his scarred features. ‘One, the Empress has sent a Talon. They’re in the city, hunting down Liet’s wizards.’

  A chill danced up Taterztayl’s spine. No one liked having the Talons around. Those Royal assassins – Lasean’s favoured weapon – kept their poisoned daggers sharp for anyone and everyone, Nazalams included.

  It seemed Kalo was thinking the same thing, for he sat up sharply. ‘If they’re here for any other reason …’

  ‘They’ll have to come through me first,’ Drin said, his lone hand reaching down to rest on the pommel of his longsword.

  He has an audience, there in the other room. He’s telling the man commanding the Talon how things stand. Sanja bless him.

  Furbolt spoke. ‘They’ll go to ground. They’re wizards, not idiots.’

  It was a moment before Taterztayl understood the man’s comment. Oh, right. Liet’s wizards.

  Drin glanced down at Furbolt, gauging, then he nodded. ‘Two, we’re attacking Satellite’s Offspring today.’

  In the other compartment, Leading Sorcerer Tynell turned at these words and approached slowly. Within his hood a broad smile creased his dark face, a momentary cracking of seamless features. The smile passed quickly, the ageless skin becoming smooth once again. ‘Hello, my colleagues,’ he said, droll and menacing all at once.

  Furbolt snorted. ‘Keep the melodrama to a minimum, Tynell, and we’ll all be happier.’

  Ignoring Furbolt’s comment, the Leading Sorcerer continued, ‘The Empress has lost her patience with Satellite’s Offspring—’

  Drin cocked his head and interrupted, his voice softly grating. ‘The Empress is scared enough to hit first and hit hard. Tell it plain, Illusionist. This is your front line you’re talking to here. Show some respect, dammit.’

  The Leading Sorcerer shrugged. ‘Of course, Leading Lord.’ He faced the cadre. ‘Your group, myself and three other Leading Sorcerers will strike Satellite’s Offspring within the hour. The North Battle has drawn most of the edifice’s inhabitants away. We believe that the Satellite’s lord is alone. For almost three years his mere presence has been enough to hold us in check. This morning, my colleagues, we will test this lord’s mettle.’

  ‘And hope to hell he’s been bluffing all this time,’ Drin added, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘How soon can I get a transfer?’ Kalo asked.

  Taterztayl cleared her throat. ‘What do we know about the Master of Satellite’s Offspring?’

  ‘Scant little, I’m afraid,’ Tynell said, his eyes veiled. ‘A Cest Velle, for certain. An archmage.’

  Furbolt leaned forward and deliberately spat at the floor in front of Tynell. ‘Cest Velle, Leading Sorcerer? I think we can be a little more specific than that, don’t you?’

  Taterztayl’s migraine worsened. She realized she was holding her breath, slowly forcing it out as she gauged Tynell’s reaction – to the man’s words and to the traditional Seven Metropolises challenge.

  ‘An archmage,’ Tynell repeated. ‘Perhaps the Leading Mage of the Cest Velle. Dear Furbolt,’ he added, his voice lowering a notch, ‘your primitive tribal gestures remain quaint, if somewhat tasteless.’

  Furbolt bared his teeth. ‘The Cest Velle are Lady Black’s first children. You’ve felt the tremors through the Warennes of Magic, Tynell. So have I. Ask Drin about the reports coming down from the North Battle. Senior magic – Dlaruk Nialag. The Master of Satellite’s Offspring is the Lord Eldermage — you know his name as well as I do.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort,’ the Leading Sorcerer snapped, losing his calm at last. ‘Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us, Furbolt, and then I can begin inquiries as to your sources.’

  ‘Ahh!’ Furbolt bolted forward in his chair, an eager malice in his taut face. ‘A threat from the Leading Sorcerer. Now we’re getting somewhere. Answer me this, then. Why only three other Leading Sorcerers? We’ve hardly been thinned out that badly. Why didn’t we do this two years ago?’

  Whatever was building between Furbolt and Tynell was interrupted by Drin, who growled wordlessly, then said, ‘We’re desperate, mage. The North Battle has gone sour. The Fifth is damn near gone, and won’t be getting any reinforcements until next spring. The point is, the Satellite’s lord could have his army back any day now. I don’t want to have to send you up against an army of Cest Velle, and I sure as hell don’t want the Second having to show two fronts with a relieving force coming down on them. Bad tactics, and whoever this Carvier Languish is, he’s shown himself adept at making us pay for our mistakes.’

  ‘Carvier Languish,’ Kalo murmured. ‘I swear I’ve heard that name somewhere before. Odd that I’ve never given it much thought.’

  Taterztayl’s eyes narrowed on Tynell. Kalo was right: the name of the man commanding the Cest Velle alongside the Blood-Red Guardians did sound familiar – but in an old way, echoing ancient legends, perhaps, or some epic poem.

  The Leading Sorcerer met her gaze, flat and calculating. ‘The need,’ he said, turning to the others, ‘for justifications has passed. The Empress has commanded, and we must obey.’

  Furbolt snorted a second time. ‘Speaking of twisting arms,’ he sat back, still smiling contemptuously at Tynell, ‘remember how we played cat and mouse at Arnold? This plan has your stink on it. You’ve been itching for a chance like this for a long time.’ His grin turned savage. ‘Who, then, are the other three Leading Sorcerers? Let me guess—’

  ‘Enough!’ Tynell stepped close to Furbolt, who went very still, eyes glittering.

  The lanterns had dimmed. Kalo used the handkerchief in his lap to wipe tears from his cheeks.

  Power, oh, damn, my head feels ready to crack wide open.

  ‘Very well,’ Furbolt whispered, ‘let’s lay it out on the table. I’m sure the Leading Lord will appreciate you putting all his suspicions in the proper order. Make it plain, old friend.’

  Taterztayl glanced at Drin. The commander’s face had closed up, his sharp eyes narrow and fixed on Tynell. He was doing some hard thinking.

  Kalo leaned against her. ‘What the hell’s going on, ‘Tayl?’

  ‘No idea,’ she whispered, ‘but it’s heating up nicely.’ Though she’d made her comment light, her mind was whirling around a cold knot of fear. Furbolt had been with the Empire longer than she had – or Kalo. He’d been among the sorcerers who’d fought against the Nazalams in Seven Metropolises, before Arnold fell and the Sacred Zakah’d were scattered, before he’d been given the choice of death or service to the new masters. He’d joined the 2nd’s cadre at Hol’basday – like Drin himself he’d been there, with the Emperor’s old guard, when the first vipers of usurpation had stirred, the day the Empire’s First Blade was betrayed and brutally murdered. Furbolt knew something. But what?

  ‘All right,’ Drin drawled, ‘we’ve got work to do. Let’s get at it.’

  Taterztayl sighed. Ancient Firstbranch’s way with words. She swung a look at the man. She knew him well, not as a friend – Drin didn’t make friends – but as the best military mind left in the Empire. If, as Furbolt had just implied, the Leading Lord was being betrayed by someone, somewhere, and if Tynell was part of it … we’re a bent bough, Kalo had once said of Firstbranch’s Troops, and beware the Empire when it breaks. Seven Metropolises’ soldiery, the closeted ghosts of the conquered but unconquerable …

  Tynell gestured to her and to the other mages. Taterztayl rose, as did Kalo. Furbolt remained seated, eyes closed as if asleep.

  Kalo said to Drin, ‘About that transfer.’

  ‘Later,’ the Leading Lord grunted. ‘Paperwork is a nightmare when you’ve only got one arm.’ He surveyed his cadre and was about to add something but Kalo spoke first.

  ‘Caladan.’

  Furbolt’s eyes snapped open, and found Tynell with bright pleasure. ‘Ahhh,’ he said, into the silence following Kalo’s single pronouncement. ‘Of course. Three more Leading Sorcerers? Only three?’

  Taterztayl stared at Drin’s pale, still face. ‘The poem,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Carvier Languish, the man hired one,

  winter-bearing, harrowed and sorrowless …’

  Kalo picked up the next lines.

  ‘… in a tomb bereaved of words,

  and in his hands that have crushed anvils—’

  Taterztayl continued,

  ‘the hammer of his song –

  he lives asleep, so give silent warning

  to all – wake him not.

  Wake him not.’

  Everyone in the compartment was staring at Taterztayl now as her last words fell away. ‘He’s awake, it seems,’ she said, her mouth dry. ‘“Caladan”, the epic poem by Trawler Kelter.’

  ‘The poem’s not about Carvier Languish,’ Drin said, frowning.

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It’s mostly about his companion.’

  Furbolt climbed slowly to his feet. He stepped close to Tynell. ‘Caladan Libertine, Master of the Cest Velle, who are the souls of Murky Darkness. Libertine, the Crown of Disorder. That’s who the Satellite’s lord is, and you’re pitting four Leading Sorcerers and a single cadre against him.’

  Tynell’s smooth face held the faintest sheen of sweat now. ‘The Cest Velle,’ he said, in an even voice, ‘are not like us. To you they may seem unpredictable, but they aren’t. Just different. They have no cause of their own. They simply move from one human drama to the next. Do you actually think Caladan Libertine will stay and fight?’

  ‘Has Carvier Languish backed away?’ Furbolt snapped.

  ‘He is not Cest Velle, Furbolt. He’s human – some say with Rodpallin blood, but nonetheless he shares nothing of Senior blood, or its ways.’

  Taterztayl said, ‘You’re counting on Libertine betraying Liet’s wizards – betraying the pact made between them.’

  ‘The risk is not as overreaching as it may seem,’ the Leading Sorcerer said. ‘Crusherskull has done research in Puerlos, Sorceress. Some new scrolls of Gothus’ Idiocy were discovered in a mountain fastness beyond Darkdog Woods. Among the writings are discussions of the Cest Velle, and other peoples from the Senior Age. And remember, Satellite’s Offspring has retreated from a direct confrontation with the Empire before.’

  The waves of fear sweeping through Taterztayl made her knees weak. She sat down again, heavily enough to make the camp chair creak. ‘You’ve condemned us to death,’ she said, ‘if your gamble proves wrong. Not just us, Leading Sorcerer, all of Firstbranch’s Troops.’

  Tynell swung round slowly, putting his back to Furbolt and the others. ‘Empress Lasean’s orders,’ he said, without turning. ‘Our colleagues come by Warenne. When they arrive, I will detail the positioning. That is all.’ He strode into the map room, resumed his original stance.

  Drin seemed to have aged in front of Taterztayl’s eyes. Swiftly she slid her glance from him, too anguished to see the abandonment in his eyes, and the suspicion curdling beneath its surface. Coward – that’s what you are, woman. A coward.

  Finally the Leading Lord cleared his throat. ‘Prepare your Warennes, cadre. As usual, always an even trade.’