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E3-20231220-JV-NF-ORI

Table of Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Copyright

4. Map

5. Prologue: To be Hanged on a Summer’s Morning

6. I: The Natural Order of the World Begins to Degrade

7. II: Considering the Alternatives

8. III: Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

9. IV: Pagan Magicks

10. V: Dreadport

11. VI: Hostile Reception

12. VII: Empire of the Wolfmen

13. VIII: Death and Horror in the City of Sleep

14. IX: Prising the Jewel from the Eye

15. X: The Kasaraad

16. XI: Return to the Frontier

17. XII: A Costly Mistake in Time and Blood

18. XIII: On to Sova

19. XIV: Old Friends

20. XV: New Enemies

21. XVI: An Unexpected Reunion

22. XVII: Retaking the City

23. XVIII: The Battle of the Barracks

24. XIX: A Fortress of Evil and Sedition

25. XX: Fresh Devils

26. XXI: The Souls of the Things that Make Up the World

27. XXII: The Broken Path

28. XXIII: The Slow Evil

29. XXIV: He Who Pays the Piper…

30. XXV: … Calls the Tune

31. XXVI: An Alliance of Convenience

32. XXVII: The Sky Turned Black

33. XXVIII: Hearts of Iron

34. XXIX: Nema Has Left Us

35. XXX: The Soul of the Empire

36. XXXI: Blades of the Sun

37. XXXII: A Sword in the Hand of a Good Man

38. XXXIII: Aftermath

39. XXXIV: The Murder of an Idea

40. XXXV: Parting

41. Epilogue: The Great Decline

42. Acknowledgements

43. Discover More

44. Also by Richard Swan

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Prologue

To be Hanged on a Summer’s Morning

“Culpability is born of intent.”

FROM CATERHAUSER’S THE SOVAN CRIMINAL CODE: ADVICE TO PRACTITIONERS

I remember watching a man being hanged once. It was in a small town, ten miles north of Leyenswald, and all I could think about was how cruel it was to be executed on such a warm and pleasant summer’s morning.

The man – whose name escapes me, along with that of the town we were in – had been found guilty of murder. It was one of those ridiculous things: an argument over something in the street which should have been brushed off a few hours later in a tavern. Instead, hot words had become reckless deeds, and he had stabbed his victim in the chest. Then he had fled, though Bressinger had tracked him down less than a day later, hiding in a tree, of all places.

I was sitting with Vonvalt in a private chamber in the upper floors of a tavern, watching a work gang, under the supervision of the town’s carpenter, construct the gibbet. Vonvalt was sitting at a desk, leafing through some papers, one of which was the formal indictment. The man himself languished in the town gaol with a local Neman confessor.

“Why do you need all of that, anyway?” I asked, gesturing vaguely to the papers.

Vonvalt looked up. He did not look annoyed at the interruption; he normally welcomed an opportunity to teach me something, even if I had been rude or insolent.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The papers. That…”

“Indictment.”

“Indictment. Why bother with it?”

I knew immediately I had made a mistake when Vonvalt sat back, and pulled out his pipe and lit it. A faint smile played across his lips. “You have a problem with the procedure.”

“If that’s what it is.” I shrugged. “It just seems like a waste of time. You are going to hang him anyway. The result is the same. Why go to these… administrative lengths?”

Vonvalt considered this in his irritating, slightly amused way, as he did when he was in a generally good mood.

“Let us think on it a moment. What happened?” He nodded to the window, indicating the murder in question.

My features creased in confusion. Vonvalt knew what had happened. “A murder. A stabbing. They had an argument over, Nema, some tools or something? One stabbed the other, the victim died, and so it is murder. Plenty of people saw it, so there were lots of witnesses. The whole thing is beyond question.”

“Aye, that it is,” Vonvalt said quietly. He took in a long draw of smoke and exhaled. “All right. Then what happened?”

“The murderer ran away and Dubine caught him.”

“And what then?”

I made a frustrated noise. “You questioned him. You used the Emperor’s Voice and he admitted it. And rather than taking his head off, you are in here, writing things down and putting everybody to the time and effort of constructing a scaffold which tomorrow shall have no use whatever!”

Vonvalt smiled at my petulance.

“Let us imagine for a moment, then, that I had not been here,” he said. “That I had not been able to use my Voice on him, and so extract a confession. What would have happened then?”

“The townsfolk would have beaten him to death.”

“Be serious!” Vonvalt said, so sharply that I started.

“There would have been a trial,” I said after a moment.

“Indeed. He would have been questioned by lawmen, and probably the warden, too. Now, let us imagine for a moment that during the course of that questioning, it transpired that the perpetrator had lost his wits. What then?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Already I was on uncertain ground. “Well… that’s different.”

“Indeed. Does the common law make allowances for the insane?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I know not.”

“Think on it!”

I thought on it. “Because it is not their fault.”

“Precisely. Culpability is born of intent. ‘A man who knows not the nature of his actions cannot be held to the same standard as the man who does.’ Caterhauser. It is the same reason we do not indict children, or dogs.” He tapped the side of his head. “They know not what they do.”

There was a moment of silence whilst I considered this.

“What about if the victim had murdered the perpetrator’s wife?” Vonvalt asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m saying, what if the man who was murdered had himself that morning murdered the perpetrator’s wife? Or perhaps his child? What if the perpetrator was acting in retaliation? What then?”

“Then… well, he has still committed murder.”

Vonvalt smiled and nodded approvingly. “Yes. But: is it now fair that we hang him?”

I thought about this, and eventually shook my head. “No, I suppose not.”

“No, it isn’t. So, what else can we do?”

“Send him to gaol?”

“We might send him to gaol. We might send him to gaol for the rest of his life; we might send him to gaol for a handful of years. He might even not be convicted. I think you would be hard-pressed to find someone in Denholtz who would begrudge a man for slaying his wife’s killer, no?”

“It seems unlikely,” I agreed.

Vonvalt sat back. He smoked quietly for a moment. “How quickly that an ostensibly straightforward case of murder becomes a tangled one. If we had carried away the perpetrator the moment he had stabbed his victim, and taken his head off by the river without having ever troubled ourselves to ask why, would justice have been done?”

“No, obviously not,” I said, feeling ungracious as I often did after Vonvalt’s lessons.

“No, it would not,” Vonvalt said. He extinguished his pipe and pocketed it, and examined the indictment one last time. Satisfied, he folded and pocketed that too, and then stood. “I know that procedure seems tedious, and dry, and pointless – often, in real terms, it is. But it exists for a reason. And especially when we are dealing with matters of life and death, it is all the more important. Who knows what will come out in the wash?”

“I take the point.”

Vonvalt nodded. “Good. I know that the law seems boring to you, Helena, but trust me when I say: there are few things more important in this world than procedure.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. Vonvalt looked at me sharply, but the anticipated reprimand never came. Instead, he watched out the window as the work gang finished construction of the scaffold. It truly was a beautiful day.

“Come on then,” he said, sweeping towards the door. “Let us be about it.”

I

The Natural Order of the World Begins to Degrade

“Life has no meaning. Forget the Neman Church: there is no one, or thing, to judge you save those about you and you yourselves. Be defined by your deeds this day. Few of us linger in the halls of human memory for long.”

LORD WOLF OF WARINSTADT, ADDRESSING THE 1ST LEGION ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF RABSBACH

I was dreaming of Muldau when the attack came.

No – dreaming is the wrong word. It was a nightmare. We had all been having nightmares, for days by that point. Sometimes we all shared the same nightmare, and those visions were freighted with portent; other times, they were simply nonsensical horrors. But they were consistent, and consistently frightening. Decades later I pray for a quiet and dreamless night’s sleep. Those prayers are seldom answered.

I had been dreaming about Muldau. I did not care to think of Muldau often. The first seventeen years of my life were largely unhappy ones, characterised by cold and hunger, danger and loneliness. But there were flashes of good, even if I did not appreciate it at the time.

Muldau had its fair share of temples, and those temples had their fair share of charitable ventures. Many were predatory organisations, little better than places through which illegitimate money could be laundered; but there were some, like the Order of the Temple of Saint Grimhilt, which cleaved to their stated purpose.

I was availing myself of their services, as I sometimes did. I took a few turns with a broom around the ambulatory, knocked the dust out of the altar cloths, polished some of the silverware, all in exchange for a hot meal and a cot for the night. In the dream, the matria, a woman whose name has long faded from my memory, took me aside whilst I was eating to teach me the Cardinal Virtues.

Except she kept forgetting them. She would sit in silence, thinking fruitlessly, whilst I would grow increasingly impatient. I wanted to eat my food in peace. Listening to the woman was bad enough; listening to her sit there and say nothing was even worse.

After a while I began to prompt her, but still she said nothing. My prompting became more insistent; then I began to shout, then scream, and rave at her like an insane person, but I got nothing from the woman except the blankest, most incoherent stare, as though a thick fog had enshrouded her mind.

The woman began to cry as her rational brain dissolved into nothingness, as no single lucid thought could be conjured from it. As I ranted at her to tell me the Virtues, she was consumed by the most profound horror, unable to think of anything, let alone one of the tenets of the Neman Creed. As the essence of her spirit dissipated like steam from boiling water, she looked at me with eyes wide with panic and terror. And then she began to scream, to rail against the injustice of her insanity, her impotence and powerlessness in the face of her abrupt, terminal decline. She screamed like an animal, or a babe, a thing with no sense of self or place in the wider world.

The dream faded after that. I have had it many times since that first time, and it ends in more or less the same place: the matria screaming, me screaming, and then I wake up screaming.

I do not know what the nightmare meant. I still do not know. Decades of reflection have not yielded up any intellectual insight.

But I still think about it. I think about many things from that time.

It was Sir Radomir’s hand that was clamped over my mouth and nose. His glove smelt of old leather and spirits.

“Silence, girl, in the name of Nema,” he whispered. His breath was rank with wine. He had long used it to dull his nightmares, but this fresh crop of arcane visions was too much even for him.

I was quiet. Instinctively, I tried to press myself up to sitting, but Sir Radomir held me down.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. He looked about the hall. There was a little moonlight, and I could see the whites of his eyes.

The hall creaked and groaned in the wind.

Through the gloom, I could see the Templar margrave, Severina von Osterlen. She was armoured in mail, and clad in a black and white Templar surcoat. She lay half-propped against the wall next to the hall’s entrance, hand on the hilt of her short sword, her face a grimace of anticipation.

I turned, slowly. On the other side of the hall was Vonvalt, similarly poised. But where von Osterlen looked anxious, Vonvalt looked calm, almost meditative. I wondered what he was thinking.

Sir Radomir slowly moved away from me and back into his corner. I realised then that I had been the only one asleep.

The four of us lay in silence. Outside, the wind moaned through the trees, whistling through the branches and rustling the leaves. The timbers of the hall creaked like those of a ship at sea, like rigging swollen with saltwater. The cold air whispered through the thatch above, dislodging dust and debris.

Something was moving amidst the noise.

My blood sang in my ears as I strained to listen. Whatever it was moved slowly and carefully. That it waited for the wind to pick up, trying to disguise its footsteps against the susurrus of rustling grass, suggested an intelligence that set it apart from, say, a passing doe.

My brow furrowed. My head bent to one side. Now there was a curious… trickling sound, though it had not rained, and there was no water in the hall. I looked around, but could see no leaks, and no one else seemed to have heard it either. It was like a patter, as though wine from an upturned goblet was seeping through the planks of a table and dripping on to the floor.

Ramayah.

The word came from nowhere, unbidden, rising from the depths of my mind.

And then I was distracted once again. Something brushed against the timbers of the far wall where Vonvalt sat, causing him to stir from his contemplation.

My hand went to the pommel of my short sword. The others tightened their grips. I looked between Vonvalt, Sir Radomir, and von Osterlen, but there was nothing to say, nothing to do except continue to pretend to be asleep and so perhaps surprise our attackers in return.

There was a gentle thump against the side of the hall that could not be accounted for by the weather. Three interlopers? Perhaps four? Or merely the advance scouts at the head of an entire army? In the best case, it was a few bandits looking to rob us; in the worst, it was some manifestation from our nightmares. There was no way to know. Charging through the door and out into the darkness was insanity. All we could do was wait and pray.

There were more noises now at the door, some scraping sounds, like claws against wood, and snorting like the snuffling of a boar. For a hopeful second, I thought that that was precisely what it was, and our fear and paranoia had finally overtaken us. I turned to look at Vonvalt, preparing to flash a wry grin, a rolling of the eyes and perhaps a knowing wink. In turn, he would smile, release the handle of his sword, and gesture for me to return to sleep.

He did one of those things, which was to release the handle of his sword. But then he brought out his Oleni medallion, which had been in his pocket, and placed it around his neck.

My heart leapt with great violence. “No,” I breathed.

“What? What is it?” Sir Radomir demanded in a whisper.

I looked at the door. The clawing, pawing was more insistent now.

I looked back to Vonvalt. He met my eye, gently shook his head. His face was grim set.

“What?!” Sir Radomir hissed.

“I think we might be about to die,” was all I could say.

Then the doors smashed open.

The following morning was a crisp one. The sky above was clear blue and still, the air fresh and cold. Our breath streamed away from our mouths in great clouds of vapour, and we pulled our cloaks about us.

We emerged from the hall, exhausted, shaken, but physically unharmed. Outside, there was no sign of any interlopers; no footsteps in the dew-laden grass, no broken stalks of wildflowers, no disturbed barrels or crates. The hall was unmarked, save for the marks we had left.

The village was a typical one for this part of Haunersheim. I do not remember its name, only that it was about twenty miles north of Hofingen, the last major settlement before one was faced with the vast, desolate emptiness that the Northmark was infamous for. In the distance to the east, the mountains of Hasse were reduced to the foothills of Leindau, though still high enough to be dusted with snow. To the west lay the beginnings of a network of huge ancient forests which stretched to the North Sea and the Tollish coast.

In front of us was a cluster of perhaps fifty houses, with thatched roofs so steep and tall that they were more roof than house. Of the villagers, there was no sign.

“Sir Radomir,” Vonvalt said.

“Aye?”

“Fetch the baron, would you.”

“Aye.”

Vonvalt, von Osterlen and I stood waiting as Sir Radomir walked to one of the larger houses about a quarter of a mile away and disappeared inside. A moment later he returned, this time with a handful of men, foremost of whom was an old lord who reminded me of Sir Otmar from Rill – stooped, ailing, and who had probably been the lord of this place since his twenties and outlasted several generations of his peers.

Eventually, the old baron reached us, flanked by his retainers.

“Our problem is solved?” he asked.

Vonvalt was quiet for a moment. “I believe so,” he said.

The baron grunted. “Will you take some victuals before you leave?”

“Aye,” Vonvalt said. “That and the information you offered me.”

The old baron winked at me, though I was in too sour a mood to give him the smile he expected. He did not seem bothered. “Come. Let us eat, and I will tell you what I know.”

The retainers set out a trestle in the hall, and fetched some bread to break our fast. They also brought a flagon of wine, which we divided eagerly between the four of us. The baron took none.

“So, Sir Dovydas,” the baron said, addressing Vonvalt. “You have some idea of what manner of beast has been terrorising my people?”

Vonvalt nodded slowly. “I believe a rare type of wild cat – rare here, in the Hauner Vale. They are much more common over the Kova, in the northern parts of the Confederation.”

“A large wild cat?” the baron asked. A note of scepticism freighted his voice.

“Aye,” Vonvalt said mildly. “A Gevennan swordfang. They are difficult to spot thanks to the colouring, and they hunt exclusively at night. We all of us saw it.”

“Yes, we heard the noise,” the baron said. He looked pointedly at the smashed bar which had hitherto provided a lock for the great hall.

Vonvalt inclined his head. “It is a fearsome beast, to be sure. But I have two pieces of good news. The first is that there will only be one, given they are solitary creatures. The second is that we are likely to have frightened it off forever.”

“Why do you say that? How can you be sure?”

“My experience of the creatures is that they attack opportunistically, preying on the vulnerable. They will quickly abandon a hunting ground if they are challenged. It is likely you will never see it again.”

The baron appeared to accept this fabrication with relief. “Well! Here’s to that!” He raised his goblet. “I am indebted to you, Sir Dovydas!”

Vonvalt smiled thinly, lifting his goblet the barest amount. “I should be grateful, now, sir, if you would share with me the information you have.”

The baron nodded. “Aye, you have earned it,” he said. He turned to his right, and called out to the door, “Anthelm! The information!”

Vonvalt frowned as the door to the hall was opened once more. Only this time, a group of five strong-looking men, variously armed with melee weapons, entered.

“What the fuck is this?” Sir Radomir demanded, pressing himself to his feet. Von Osterlen and I did the same, each of us drawing our swords.

Vonvalt remained sitting. He gestured to the newcomers. “You could not have used these men to tackle the swordfang?” he asked wearily.

“Only there was no swordfang, was there? Justice Sir Konrad Vonvalt?”

Now Vonvalt did look up sharply. He stared at the old baron. “So. You know who I am.”

The baron laughed. “Thought I was just some provincial idiot, hey?” He grinned. “I never forget a face, Sir Konrad.” He stabbed a thumb into his chest. “I was in Sova for your investiture. Aye, we were both younger men then, eh?”

Vonvalt could not contain his surprise. “That was over twenty years ago.”

The man tapped the side of his skull. “And yet I remember it as though it were yesterday.”

Vonvalt’s expression turned sour. “And so what? Your plan is to kill me, is it?”

“You are in disgrace, Sir Konrad. You think the news from Sova has not reached us out here in the Northmark? Every lord in the land is looking for you. There is a healthy bounty on your head. Enough to keep this village in victuals and trade for years to come. That will be my legacy; no man will say that I did not provide, nor that I was not faithful to the Autun.”

There was a lengthy silence. “I had hoped there would be no bloodshed here,” Vonvalt said quietly.

The baron laughed again. “There will not be any. I have just told you, you will be taken captive and returned to the capital.”

“I did not mean our blood.”

The baron snorted, making a show of looking at us. “A sot, a woman, and a stripling maid. Your reputation as a hero of the Reichskrieg may precede you, Sir Konrad, but even you cannot take on five men. And certainly not with this shabby collection of persons. Drop your weapons – and the pretence that you are anything other than condemned.”

“You miserable old cunt,” Sir Radomir said, spitting a gob of phlegm on the floor. When he spoke, he did so with a weary, disappointed anger. “What a waste of time, and lives. Must we really kill all of you now?”

“We are going to have to,” von Osterlen said, displeased. She nodded to the baron. “He knows who Sir Konrad is.”

For the first time the baron’s composure fractured. “Enough of this! Drop your weapons, or I shall be forced to have you drop them. And you would do well to remember—” he added, pointing at me, Sir Radomir, and von Osterlen “—that it is only Sir Konrad I am interested in capturing.”

“Are you ready?” Vonvalt asked us over his shoulder, ignoring the baron. “When I do it, you must move quickly.”

We each nodded, spacing ourselves out and bringing our swords into a classic Sovan guard.

“What in the name of Nema are you talking about?” the baron demanded, anger and confusion in his voice. “Blood of gods, Anthelm! Get them!”

“Drop your weapons!” Vonvalt thundered in the Emperor’s Voice.

The five men immediately divested themselves of their weapons, as though their arms were strung to a common puppeteer. They watched in horror as they did so, mouths agape, eyes wide, staggering as though drunk. Clubs, hatchets, a crude morningstar, clattered to the boards.

It was over quickly. I had barely moved by the time Sir Radomir and von Osterlen had killed two men apiece, stabbing ruthlessly, repeatedly, hacking as though cutting through a thicket. For my own part, I stabbed my opponent in the forearm, where he’d had the presence of mind to try and block my sword, and then again directly in the eye as he recoiled. I had not meant to stab him in the face particularly – rather the more vulnerable neck; but my short sword slid smoothly into his brain, the blade’s razor edge unhindered by the bone of his eye socket, and he collapsed dead so suddenly that my weapon was nearly pulled from my hand.

Sir Radomir pushed past me and cut the man’s throat as well, then wiped his sword on the man’s clothes. It was butchery. Vast quantities of blood flooded the floor, leaking from gaping wounds like red wine from a spilt bottle. Someone was screaming, long and loud, over and over again with every breath, and it took me a moment to realise it was the baron.

Vonvalt had not moved from the trestle. He continued to not move, nor speak, until the baron had stopped his lunatic screaming. I wondered whether one of the slain men was his son.

“You asked me a moment ago whether I thought you were some provincial idiot,” Vonvalt said. “The answer is yes, I did. Nothing you have done here has disabused me of that notion.”

“How could you – what have you done? How could you? What have you done?!” the baron shrieked stupidly.

Now Vonvalt drew his own short sword, with great purpose, and laid it on the table in front of him.

“The information. The matters we discussed yesterday. I would now like the answers. You know I am capable of drawing them out of you whether you want me to or not, so spare me the time and the energy.”

Vonvalt sat patiently for a long time until the baron calmed himself enough to speak sensibly. “Why should I tell you anything?” he asked eventually. “You are going to kill me whatever I do.”

“I am. You have committed the crime of incitement to murder. The penalty for that crime is death.”

“You do not have the authority to execute me. You are not a Justice any more. There are no Justices any more.”

“I have not been formally divested of my power.”

“You are a traitor!” the baron spluttered.

“Accused of treason,” Vonvalt said, as though these petty corrections would change the man’s mind. “You are wasting my time. Must I use my Voice on you? I assure you it is an unpleasant experience.”

The baron looked utterly wretched. “You want to know about ‘pagan armies’?” he said with sudden venom. “Draedists and northmen bandits marauding about the woods? And all led by a warrior witch? Aye? That is what you wish to know about?”

“You told me that you had heard about such matters. That you had knowledge on the subject.”

“Aye, I have heard about it. Everything I have just told you is what I have heard.”

“I am looking to discover the precise nature and location of this warband.”

“I have no idea where it is. I have no idea if it even exists! It all sounds like complete nonsense to me.”

Vonvalt frowned. “You told me—”

The baron gestured violently through the open hall door. “I told you because I wanted whatever it was that was terrorising the village to be killed, and I knew if anybody had the means to do it, it was you, Justice. A skilled swordsman with magickal powers – even if you are a traitor to the Crown – it was too good an opportunity to pass up.” He cast an eye over the corpses on the floor, his expression somewhere between forlorn and venomous. “Now I see it was little more than a cursed coincidence.”

Vonvalt sat back. I could tell he was struggling to contain his anger. “You have no information. You merely dangled a lure. To use me.”

The baron shrugged. Behind me, I heard both Sir Radomir and von Osterlen let out angry, exasperated noises.

Vonvalt stood. He picked up his sword. “If I were you, sir, I should not wear my loyalties to the Autun so visibly on my sleeve. Not any more.”

“I took the Highmark. I’ve no love for the Two-Headed Wolf,” the baron sneered. “But I know the value of money. I would have turned you in for the bounty and nothing more.”

“It is just as well. With Seaguard ungarrisoned, I expect it will be to this ‘warrior witch’ that you will shortly owe your allegiance. And certainly there are few enough men to be drawn from Hofingen to protect you.”

The baron shook his head in confusion. “Seaguard is not ungarrisoned.”

Vonvalt gripped the handle of his sword, ready to slay the man. “It is. Not that it matters. Do you have any more to say? Every word you spill to assist me is another few moments of life.”

The baron shook his head, but it was in confusion, not defiance. “Seaguard is not ungarrisoned. The Sixteenth Legion is there. Prince Gordan himself led them in.”

Vonvalt paused. “The Sixteenth Legion, and Prince Gordan with it, was slain to a man but a few weeks ago.”

The baron shook his head again, more vigorously this time. “I know not what to tell you. But the Legion has not been slain. They have taken up residence in the fortress.”

Vonvalt considered this for a moment. He lowered his sword, and I thought he was going to spare the old man; but then he battered him repeatedly with the Emperor’s Voice, over and over again, questioning him about the rumours of the pagan warrior queen, the nature of the entity attacking the village, on what news had reached the village from Sova about Vonvalt and Prince Gordan, and many other things besides.

The baron may have been a deceitful man, but he had been telling us the truth – at least as regarded his lack of knowledge. He knew nothing beyond the same rumours that we had heard. But he remained adamant that Prince Gordan and the 16th Legion had not been killed.

In the end, the questioning, rather than the sword, was the death of him. His throat worked in silent excruciation, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped forward, his heart stopped.

Vonvalt wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a gloved hand. He regarded the baron for a moment, then slid his sword back into its scabbard, and stood.

“Come,” he said, and, stepping over the corpses of the slain men, he walked out of the hall.

We followed. I paused only briefly, to look at the small rune of banishment he had carved into the door frame.

“Quite the tally you have now,” Sir Radomir said to me.

We had recovered our horses and were heading north on an old path nearly overgrown by briar. Vonvalt had not spoken since the baron had died.

“What do you mean?” I asked irritably. I was exhausted, and cold, and still frightened from the events of the night before.

“Of men you have slain,” Sir Radomir said. He took a long drink from his skin, which he had refilled with wine from the baron’s stores.

“What an odd thing to say,” von Osterlen said from behind us. “Do you keep score?”

Sir Radomir shrugged. “I mean only that Helena has cleaved to her high-minded ideals in the past. She is quick to judge those who perform the act of killing.”

“Enough,” Vonvalt called out from the front of our caravan like a weary schoolmaster.

“I can speak for myself,” I said.

“Aye,” Sir Radomir said, as Vonvalt merely shrugged. “That you can.”

“There was nothing unlawful in what we did. They would have taken us captive.”

“Ah!” Sir Radomir said, pointing a finger at my face. “But they were acting within the confines of the law. There is a lawful bounty on Sir Konrad’s head, issued by the Emperor.”

“It was self-defence,” von Osterlen said, her voice level.

“Was it? Or was it the butchery of a group of lads seeking to enforce the common law? Certainly that is no longer our purpose.”

I felt a surge of anger wash through me. I threw my hands up in the air. “What are you doing? What is the point of this? So, what? We should have allowed ourselves to be captured, arrested and taken to Sova, there to be publicly executed whilst Claver launches his attack? Blood of gods, keep your thoughts to yourself if their only purpose is antagonism. Nema knows our lives are difficult enough.”

Sir Radomir was quiet for a moment; then he smiled, a lopsided, disingenuous grin. “Just wanted to get my sword red on some legal debate. I thought you all enjoyed it.”

“Enough, Sir Radomir,” Vonvalt said again, wearily.

We rode in silence for a little longer. I found my thoughts turning to Bressinger, as they often did in those days. With Vonvalt and von Osterlen taciturn, and Sir Radomir being a quarrelsome prick, I missed his easy manner more than ever. True, the man had been surly and withdrawn, though his moods were often a foil to those around him. When Vonvalt was quiet, Bressinger would sing; when Vonvalt was dour, Bressinger was garrulous. Had he been with us now, he would have been trying to make multilingual puns – his favourite pastime – or playing word games with Sir Radomir, or trying to provoke von Osterlen to smile. He would have done it, too. Bressinger could be – had been – irrepressible.

I smiled at my favourite memories of him, biting my tongue so as not to weep. I missed him so very dearly.

Perhaps half of an hour passed before any of us said anything. My thoughts had drifted back to the night before, and the hall we had slept in. Slowly, a question formed on my lips, but for a long time I was too disquieted to voice it. “Will they come back?” I asked eventually. I felt Sir Radomir and von Osterlen stiffen up. “Those… creatures? From last night?” I tried not to think of them. They were horrors, like those Sir Radomir and I had seen in Keraq.

Horrors that appeared to be following us.

“Demons, more like,” Sir Radomir muttered.

“Aye,” von Osterlen agreed quietly.

Vonvalt turned briefly. His face looked tired and grey. “No. Not there, anyway.” I thought of the rune he had carved into the door frame, and the way the creatures had shrieked as they encountered it – as though they had suddenly been hosed with boiling pitch. “But… there is something at work in the Northmark. I can feel it. The fabric between worlds is thin—and thinning. And for as long as it is, I fear we shall see more of those… ‘creatures’.”

“Never mind that,” Sir Radomir said, eager to talk about something else. “What about this talk of the Sixteenth Legion? Every person from here to Sova agrees it was destroyed. How is it they have taken up residence in Seaguard?”

“I assure you, Sir Radomir,” Vonvalt said, turning away. “I intend to find out.”

We rode on a little further until the countryside began to open up again. After a while the briar receded, as did the farmland that it hemmed, and we approached a vast expanse of marsh. The clouds had drawn in, and the countryside looked bleak and grey in the late morning light.

Before we left the outermost environs of the village, we came across a sorry sight half lost in a gorse thicket. It was an old shrine to Nema, but the altar was askew, the deer’s skull had fallen to the floor, and little more than a rime of melted wax marked the stones. From the look of the overgrowth which had wrapped itself around the altar’s base, it had clearly been neglected for a long time.

“We should have the villagers repair it,” von Osterlen said.

Vonvalt glanced at the shrine. “Why the hell should I care?” he muttered, and urged his horse on into that desolate, unforgiving country.

II

Considering the Alternatives

“The healthiest thing for any human mind is a willingness to change it.”

FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S TREATISE, PENITENT EMPIRE

It would be the last time I travelled to Seaguard.

It was a place that had only ever been a symbol of fear, of corruption and treachery, of violence and death. Once the seat of Margrave Waldemar Westenholtz, now months hanged, it had passed into the hands of a caretaker master in anticipation of the arrival of Prince Gordan Kzosic, the Emperor’s third son, and the 16th Legion.

We had run into Prince Gordan briefly on the Baden High-Way, on our way to Sova, and he had struck me as a pleasant man who did not care much for the vicissitudes of Imperial politics. The prince had been tasked with taking up the margraveship of Seaguard ahead of the summer fighting season, a time when the North Sea was calm enough to allow for raids from the northern kingdoms.

Since then, rumours abounded of the destruction of both the prince and the 16th. We had first been told of this by Senator Tymoteusz Jansen, in secret in the Hauner fortress town of Osterlen; but we had heard it spoken of in almost every place we had been since.

The Legions had a certain aura of mystique about them. This had of course been eagerly cultivated and propagated by the Sovans, but quite needlessly. The evidence of their effectiveness as a fighting force was everywhere. Certainly in my life I had never known a Sovan Legion to be bested. And prior to the ill-advised invasion of Kòvosk, and the ascension of blackpowder as a weapon of insurgency and sabotage across the Confederation, one would struggle to find a record of a Legion suffering any meaningful defeat in the preceding half-century.

There were many reasons for this, which I do not need to go into in this account. Training, equipment, strategy and tactics, zealotry, and a lack of coordination and cohesion amongst their many enemies, all played their parts. At that time, therefore, it was unthinkable that a Legion could be defeated, let alone beaten so thoroughly that not a single man had survived. But, as with many things in the Sovan Empire, the supremacy of the Legions was on the wane. Blackpowder and its use was becoming the predominant force on the battlefield, and the Sovans, unlike their enemies, were slow to adopt it – wedded as they were to the short sword and the outmoded heavy cavalry charge.

To hear, then, that not only had the 16th Legion not been destroyed, but that Prince Gordan had in fact arrived safe and unharmed at Seaguard as planned, aroused within us a curious mixture of emotions. It fit with our own view of the natural order of things that the Legions were invincible, and was therefore a strange comfort; and, to the extent that the preservation of the Empire, or at least the lawful peace which it had brought about, remained our goal, the news was a boon.

But at the same time, there was something… odd about it. It was widely accepted – by many people who were not naturally credulous – that it had been destroyed. This apparent reversal, therefore, did not feel like good news, but something inherently wrong, something inauspicious.

And it was, in many ways.

But I shall come on to why shortly.

We approached Seaguard from the south-east. The journey was long and arduous. We could not avail ourselves of the few good roads that cut through this part of Haunersheim, for fear of discovery, and instead had to rely on a succession of ancient paths which led through the forests and marshlands of that desolate country.

Eventually we reached the coast. Here the air smelt of salt water and a frigid wind cut across the sand, rustling the banks of desiccated razorgrass there. The going was quicker thanks to the lack of thick forest to pick through, but without the trees, the squall was unforgiving.

We spent most of the journey in silence. Vonvalt was sullen and melancholic, as was to be expected, whilst Sir Radomir’s drinking frequently rendered him insensible. I was beginning to wonder why he kept with us. He was a simple man, more suited to lawkeeping in small towns than navigating these great machinations of state. The nightmares and arcane visitations frightened him more than he let on, too. But, like Vonvalt, he had been a soldier in the Reichskrieg, and had seen the effects of unfettered warfare first hand. Perhaps he persisted in order to prevent a return of those evil days. He was a tenacious sheriff, after all, his ethical code as black and white as von Osterlen’s surcoat.

As for the Templar herself, I wondered whether she, too, regretted hitching her wagon to Vonvalt. I was glad that she had, for she was level-headed and pragmatic, and a doughty fighter to boot. But she was not immune to the gloom which had infected us. The enormity of our task was overwhelming, and she was pious, and had taken her mission in Südenburg seriously.

But, for all that, I did not think she would leave. She knew the nature of the threat posed by Bartholomew Claver. And whilst the Empire of the Wolf had many flaws, and was built upon a bedrock of blood and bone, having a zealous tyrant on its throne was hardly an improvement.

“What is your plan?” she asked as we made camp for what would be the final time before we reached Seaguard. We sat at the extremity of an ancient and dark forest, itself but a stone’s throw from the landward edge of a wide, windy beach. Our horses cropped the razorgrass tentatively, as unhappy as we were.

“We shall have to approach carefully,” Vonvalt replied, idly poking at the fire with a stick. “I suggest Helena and Sir Radomir scout out the area first. They are the least likely to attract attention.”

“What is it we are looking for?” I asked.

“What do you think? I want to see if the Sixteenth Legion is in residence.”

“How will I know?”

“It is five thousand men!” Vonvalt said. “You would do well to get half that number inside.”

“There is no need to take that tone.”

“Aye. But I have taken it.”

“Nema, you cannot be a surly git as well,” Sir Radomir said. “That’s my job.”

We shared a muted laugh in spite of ourselves, but a lengthy silence followed.

“I am troubled by this,” Vonvalt said eventually. “It vexes me.”

“That old baron could have been wrong. Surely that is the most likely explanation?” von Osterlen said.

Vonvalt shook his head slowly. “No. He was telling the truth, or at the very least he thought he was. Right up until the end.”

“End is the right word for it,” von Osterlen muttered. “His heart gave out, I take it?”

“Hm,” Vonvalt grunted.

“You told him you were still a Justice.”

Now Vonvalt looked up and fixed her in the eye. “I am still a Justice.”

“No, you are not. And I am no lawkeeper, but last I checked ’tis not a crime to contradict you.”

There was another long silence.

“All right. I can tell this is something that has been bothering you for some time. Let us have it out, here and now.”

Von Osterlen sniffed. “We have a mission, aye. An important one. I know that. I have put great faith in you, Sir Konrad, at great cost to my own reputation – and career, I might add. But let us be clear: rightly or wrongly, you are no longer an agent of the Crown. If we are to defeat Claver – and I agree his designs must be thwarted – then we must not adopt his methods. Claver is a wretched, deceitful man, and he twists the Neman Creed to suit his own ends. No one who cleaves to the Creed could act in the way he has. In wielding the Draedist arcana to your own ends – nay, in killing men with it – you are no better than him. You act as a brigand. And I shall not have it.”

Vonvalt listened patiently until she was finished. “Will you think on something for me?” he asked.

Von Osterlen frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I want you to think on something for me. I want you to think about an Empire in which Claver is the Emperor. What is it you think he will do?”

Von Osterlen thought for a moment, but eventually shook her head, unwilling, rather than unable, to engage.

“He would slay his enemies,” Sir Radomir muttered.

“Aye,” Vonvalt said. “There would be a great purge in Sova. I expect every member of the former Magistratum and every lawkeeper beholden to the Royal Imperial Courts would be killed. Anyone or thing connected to the administration of the common law would be dismantled and destroyed. What else?”

“Senators,” I said.

“Senators. Every Haugenate would be imprisoned, tortured, and murdered. Every member of the Royal Imperial household would be put to the sword, including children. So, thousands of lives extinguished, and that is just in the first couple of days. After that, Claver would reassert the supremacy of the second head of the Two-Headed Wolf: the canon law. The Neman Church would be given its old powers back, as well as – gods forbid – the Draedist arcana. And where Justices have gone before, now Neman Inquisitors go. Do you know what punishment the canon law stipulates for heresy?”

“’Tis death,” von Osterlen said.

“It is burning,” Vonvalt corrected, “the worst death. Do you know what the punishment for adultery is?”

Von Osterlen shook her head.

“That is to be blinded. Theft?”

“I take the point.”

“To lose one’s hands. Blasphemy?”

“I said I have taken the point.”

“To have your tongue pulled out. To insult a Patria?”

Von Osterlen said nothing.

“They will confiscate your home. To miss the sacrament? Confiscation of livestock. To fornicate before marriage? Drowning. And—” he pointed at her “—it will not just be those accused of a transgression. Think on your rights. What can you do now? Under the common law, you may go wherever you please, speak to whomever you will, marry whomever you will. You can eat whatever you want, drink wherever you want, insult whomever you want. The Neman Creed is the official religion of the Empire, true, but what is the punishment for heresy? A fine, aye, and a cheap one at that. Avowed heresy remains burning, but every Justice I know would go to great lengths to avoid it. You may go about your business freely, and knowing that you are entitled to your freedom; that even if you commit a crime, your innocence is presumed until proven otherwise. The worst you can expect for most crimes is imprisonment, which is as it should be.” He snapped his fingers sharply, making von Osterlen start. “All of that would disappear. Overnight. If you think what came before the Autun was bad, wait until you see what comes after it. And that is assuming that Claver will even adhere to the established tenets of the canon law, rather than govern entirely by his own whims. ‘Beware the tyrant – he clothes himself in the armour of ignorance’.”

“Aye,” von Osterlen said, “every man is subject to the same processes and procedures. Even you, Sir Konrad.”

“Indeed. So, I have told you what will happen if Claver succeeds – and believe me, that is the very best case. What then is an acceptable price to avoid it?”

“I am not a jurist. I think you can twist facts and arguments to suit your own ends and make anything seem good and honest.”

“I would not be much of a lawkeeper if I couldn’t.”

“I am being serious.”

“As am I. Come, Severina. This is important.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I am cold, and tired. Finish your lesson so I can go to sleep.”

“Think about the common law. Think about your rights and freedoms. Let us pretend, for a moment, that the Sovans conquered to impose the common law as an end in itself. Would you say the Reichskrieg was an acceptable price for that?”

“Thousands died.”

“Aye, but thousands more lived. And now their lives are better. So, to look at it in the round, more people have benefited from the Reichskrieg than have suffered under it.”

“You can make that argument if you wish. Many would disagree with you. Not least the subjugated.”

“Do not resist me so stubbornly, Severina. Use your mind. Think. The truth of what I am saying is patent.”

“I believe that you believe it to be.”

The first time in the conversation – if it could so be called – I could tell Vonvalt was getting annoyed. “Now think about the alternative. An absolute theocracy, governed by a lunatic. Tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people will die, and probably more than that. It is a bleak, black future, where millions live in fear for their lives, terrified that the slightest transgression could lead to their mutilation and death. What price should be paid to avoid that? One death? A thousand – ten thousand?”

Von Osterlen shrugged dramatically and with great exasperation. “What is it you want me to say?”

“I do not give a jot what you say. It is what you understand.” Vonvalt held out his hand like he was holding something between his thumb and forefinger. “It does not matter if I wield the Draedist arcana. It does not matter if one provincial baron dies. It does not matter if five lads are slain in a great hall. I could have burned that village to the ground and everybody in it and it would still be acceptable collateral. Do you see? We have not even begun to approach the lowest foothills of the threshold of what is acceptable in order to prevent Claver from attaining the throne.” Vonvalt took a deep breath, and a deeper draw of ale from his skin. He stared at the fire as he spoke. “Sometimes we must act outside the bounds of the law to safeguard it. You are right that Claver is a deceitful and wretched man, but you are wrong to say that I am no better than him. I am better than him. I will always be better than him. Claver breaks the law to see that it remains broken; I break it only so that it may be saved. The time for high-minded ideals is gone. We have dark deeds ahead of us. If you have not the stomach for it, leave now.”

“’Tis better to die in service of the law than serve a regime that does not uphold it,” I whispered.

“Blix,” Vonvalt muttered, catching my eye.

Von Osterlen looked at me askance. “I liked you better when you sat there in silence.”

“I could say the same of you,” I shot back. Sir Radomir snorted, and the snort turned into a chuckle. The chuckle turned into a laugh, and then soon we were all laughing again, pleased for the break in tension.

Vonvalt sighed. “Sleep, all of you. I shall keep the first watch. Tomorrow, we shall see if we can find out what happened to the Sixteenth Legion.”

Sir Radomir and I made the approach to Seaguard. We posed as commonfolk, which at that time I suppose we were.

Seaguard, that gigantic, obsidian-black castle built in and amongst the rocky cliffs of the North Sea, reared into the grey morning sky. At its roots was an illegal township, a bustling fishing and trading outpost which had long stood in defiance of Imperial ordinances. But, like a tenacious wart, it could not be budged, and a succession of margraves had long abandoned any attempts to shift it.

The place was cold and damp, and smelt strongly of brine and fish. Seabirds trilled above constantly. Normally a forest of masts could be seen in the harbour, too, where the huge Imperial fleet of war carracks lay at berth. But on that day, there was no sign of them.

We tried to approach with the nonchalance of people who had nothing to hide, but nonetheless I found myself gripped with nervousness as the township came into view. We had agreed that we would knock about the place for a little while, asking about salted brittlecut and how we might source an ongoing supply for an unnamed Sovan merchant. But there was no one on the outskirts of the township, and we had to delve much further into the settlement than we had wanted to.

The trouble was, there was no one there either.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Sir Radomir muttered, looking about.

I had been to Seaguard twice before in my life, and both times this settlement, small though it was, had bustled with life. But now, like much of the rest of the Northmark, it was desolate. There was no sign of an army encampment either, where the excess numbers of men from the 16th Legion should have overspilled the walls of Seaguard and into the surrounding countryside.

“I do not know,” I muttered back. We looked at the buildings of the settlement, haphazard structures that had undergone a slow shift from temporary to permanent. Some were brick and timber, more were wattle and daub. All were empty.

I looked up at the tall, black walls of Seaguard. There was no one there either, no soldiers on patrol backlit by the morning’s weak grey light. It was as though the place had been ravaged by some pox, cut off from the rest of the Empire and left to rot.

“This place is dead. Whatever happened here, I think we missed it,” Sir Radomir said, idly kicking at the debris which littered the pathway. There was no sign of struggle, no burn marks or sword cuts or blood spatter. A raid I might have understood, though it would take a huge force many months – years, even – to defeat Seaguard, more than I had ever heard make it across the North Sea. “I don’t like it. We should head back. It is as we thought; the Sixteenth was destroyed. The old baron was mistaken.”

I shared his unease. It was not just that the place was deserted; there was something else at work here. The same creeping feeling, of being watched, of wrongness, of malevolent, arcane forces at work, filled the air around us. Only part of it could be put down to our highly strung nerves.

Ramayah.

I turned sharply. “Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?”

“A whisper. Something whispered in my ear. Did you not hear it?”

“I did not hear it,” Sir Radomir said, irritation concealing his fear. “Come. Let us go. There is nothing to be divined here.”

I wholeheartedly agreed, and was about to turn tail and leave back down the pedlars’ path we had come in by, when something caught my eye.

“There!” I said, pointing to the curtain wall.

There was a long pause as Sir Radomir followed the line of my finger, squinting against the bright grey sky. “Aye,” he muttered, but the fear remained.

It was a soldier, judging from the silhouette. He walked the length of the wall, looking neither left nor right, then turned at the mural tower and walked north so that he was lost from sight. The wall was too high, and the soldier too far away, to discern anything more than the fact of his existence; but it was an odd walk, rhythmic and unnatural, like a march. A few moments later he returned and continued his circuit. He made no attempt to call down to us, in spite of the fact that we were the only visible people in the township.

Sir Radomir and I stood in silence for a long time. I noticed his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

“Come on,” he said, not taking his eyes from the battlements.

“Who is that?” I murmured. I tried to make out the colours of the man’s surcoat; they looked like those of the Royal household, the red, yellow and blue of the Autun, but it was impossible to discern more, framed as he was against the sky.

“I know not, but someone has taken up residence in the castle,” Sir Radomir said. “That is the information we sought.”

I wanted to leave as much as the sheriff, but some strange compulsion kept me there.

“We do not know who it is.”

“They are Autun. Perhaps not the Sixteenth, but they are Imperial – and therefore no friends of ours.”

Another long silence passed between us as I watched the castle. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Then the gates opened.

They were enormous thick planks of oak strapped and studded with iron. They creaked and rumbled as they swung inwards.

“Helena, come!” Sir Radomir hissed at me, grabbing my upper arm.

“No,” I said, not taking my eyes off the gate. There was no one coming, no patrol exiting the castle, no force moving to intercept us as interlopers. The gates moved like the soldier had; slowly and automatically, compelled, rather than controlled.

“Come on,” I said, walking towards the fortress.

“We should fetch Sir Konrad,” Sir Radomir said.

I shook off his grip on my arm. “Go, then.”

“Helena, you cannot go in there. You will be killed.”

I shook my head. “No. If they wanted us dead, we would be dead. We are a hundred paces within bowshot.”

Sir Radomir fixed me in the eye. “Helena, something is wrong. I don’t like this. Come with me, now. We shall fetch Sir Konrad and the Lady von Osterlen.”

I broke his gaze, and resumed my slow walk towards the gates of Seaguard. “You go. Bring them here. I shall meet you inside.”

I did not wait to hear his response, nor did he follow me.

“Helena!” he shouted.

I entered the outer bailey.

“Helena!” Sir Radomir shouted one last time.

The gates, unmanned, rumbled closed behind me.

I was not greeted. No one met me. The inside of Seaguard was as empty as the township beyond its walls.

I felt both anxious and afraid, but not enough of either to remain inactive. I headed for the stone steps that led to the top of the wall, and ascended them briskly. As I reached the top, I looked over the battlements to see Sir Radomir in the distance, making his way back to where Vonvalt and von Osterlen were hiding. I was surprised at that; for all his unease, I still thought he would have stayed close by.

The soldier was there, at the eastern extremity of the south wall. He turned once he reached the mural tower and then resumed his walk towards me. This part of the wall was perhaps fifty yards long, and the man, clad in armour and a surcoat, strode its length as though being pushed by an invisible hand.

“Hello?” I called out to him. His face did not even twitch. He did not blink. He stared directly ahead of him as though his eyes were fixed to lengths of thread. His arms hung limply by his side, and he walked in a bizarre, unnatural gait.

I drew my short sword and held out in front of me. “You there!” I shouted to him.

He would have walked straight into me if I had not moved. He continued on to the next mural tower, then turned, and continued on there as well until he reached the northern extremity of the walls. A strange stink wafted from him as he passed me. I had seen this behaviour once before, from the possessed nuns in the passageways of Keraq. But whereas that woman had spoken to me, attempted to interrogate me – even attacked me – I sensed nothing except a profound vacancy about this soldier. He was more like a glamour than a thrall.

“Helena,” someone said. I whirled around. The voice sounded as though it had come from directly next to me, but there was no one there. There was no one in the bailey, either. I shivered. The whole castle felt empty, and that in spite of the man tramping about the walls, for there was no sense of consciousness to be discerned from him.

“Helena. The great hall.”

The same voice again, that of a woman. It sounded familiar, though I could not place it.

The fear returned. A sense of deep dread took root in me as I descended the stone steps and made for the inner gatehouse, passed under the portcullis, and into the inner bailey. A familiar set of wooden steps to my left led up to the only entrance to the keep, and I ascended them and walked through a small, stout door into the disarming room. But there was no one to take my sword, and I kept it strapped about me.

The reception chamber was empty. I walked through it, having enough knowledge of the interior layout of Sovan castles to guess where the great hall would be. But as I approached, the sense of dread grew. My guts churned, and my skin broke out in gooseflesh. I felt sweat trickle down the small of my back. I felt drawn to the great hall, but at the same time, I knew intrinsically that it was not a place I wanted to be.

Nonetheless, I entered it. It was typical of those of its type; high arched windows, large hearth, tapestries, rugs, and an abundance of dark wood panelling and hunting trophies. The furniture had been cleared, leaving it an empty, draughty space. At the top of it was a dais, upon which sat an ornate wooden chair, where the margrave would hold court.

And in it, sat an old woman.

“Helena, welcome. It has been a long time,” she said.

It was Lady Karol Frost.

III

Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

“Information does not exist in vacuo; it is a curated product of human minds. It cannot – and should not – be disentangled from its source. Information obtained through unlawful means is akin to plucking the fruit of a tree which has been poisoned. The only proper thing to do is disregard it.”

FROM CATERHAUSER’S THE SOVAN CRIMINAL CODE: ADVICE TO PRACTITIONERS

“’Tis not possible,” I breathed.

I walked towards her slowly, tentatively. I had seen Lady Frost in my dreams many times, always, it seemed, throttling the life out of a two-headed wolf. But alive, and in the flesh? Not since before Rill had been burned – and, as far as I was concerned, her along with it.

“You were killed, by Claver. By Westenholtz.” I felt sick with shock. I had seen séances in which the dead had been conversed with. I had seen the souls of the recently deceased lingering on the Plain of Burden. But I had never seen a dead body restored fully to life before.

“No. I was not. Come closer.”

I approached. She looked appreciably different to the old witch I had seen in the forest near Rill. Yes, she was an elderly woman – as I am now, grey-haired and wrinkled – but there was no frailty to her. To the contrary, there was a conspicuous physical strength to her, in spite of her age. Her body was visibly bulkier, as though she had bridled her contempt and transmuted it into muscle.

Indeed, she was everything except burned, as she had been in my visions. Her skin was not cracked and blackened, her teeth were not split, her eyeballs were not cooked white. She looked hale and healthy. The only marks on her skin were tribal tattoos, lines of dark blue around the eyes and mouth. Those, too, had been absent from my visions.

“What happened?” I whispered. “Here. Where is everybody?” But I knew. Seeing Lady Frost sitting there, as imperious as any Hauner lord, it dawned on me. The 16th Legion had indeed been destroyed.

“You are the warrior witch. The pagan queen everybody has been talking about. It is you.”

Lady Frost smiled thinly. “Your master approaches. I shall tell you all when he is here.”

The most surprising thing about the encounter was how unsurprised Vonvalt seemed to be.

“So,” he said, as he entered the hall along with Sir Radomir and von Osterlen. His face was grim. “You are not dead.”

“No,” Lady Frost agreed.

I looked at Vonvalt, unable to conceal my surprise. “You knew? About this?” I gestured to Lady Frost rudely.

Vonvalt shook his head. “No. But I have long suspected. Your descriptions of your encounters with Justice August in the Edaximae – the way she has spoken of receiving assistance from ‘others’. There are other things, too, which have been troubling me for a while, and which have only just now achieved clarity.” He turned to Lady Frost. “You tried to speak to me, through Helena. In Linos.”

I remembered the terrible nightmares I had had in that small fishing village in Kormondolt Bay, and waking up to see Vonvalt sitting at the end of my bed, Oleni medallion in his hand, grimoire necromantia at his feet. That night, trapped in a nightmarish fugue state, I had tried to kill Justice Roza – or rather Basia Jask, the half-Kòvoskan spy.

“You tried to get me to kill Roza,” I said, the revelation making me giddy. “You knew she was a traitor and you tried to get me to stop her.”

“Would one of you mind explaining just what the fuck is going on?” Sir Radomir asked. “Exactly who are you?”

The corner of her mouth quirked as though tugged by a length of gut. “I am Lady Karol Frost. I do not go by that name or title any more, but let us stick with it for now. The waters are muddy enough already.”

“I’ll say,” Sir Radomir growled.

“Sir Konrad,” von Osterlen said. “Is there some significance to this woman?”

Vonvalt sighed. “I have told you this story before, though not in detail. A long time ago we came upon the village of Rill in northern Tolsburg,” he said. He explained to von Osterlen what had happened: the discovery of Lady Frost and the Draedist ritual in the woods; the fining of the villagers; the burning of the village and its inhabitants by Margrave Westenholtz’s men at the behest of Claver.

Von Osterlen nodded to herself. It was difficult to know how she felt about it. She was a Templar, after all, and though many Templar margraves were political appointees rather than zealous warrior monks, there had still been plenty of the latter. I had not spent enough time with von Osterlen to know where she came down on the matter, but years of dealing with pagans on the Frontier had certainly hardened her heart to the plight of the Draedists, and she was more religious than most. Certainly she disdained the practice of magick, which she considered to be witchcraft. The interposition of Lady Frost into Vonvalt’s affairs would strain her relationship with him, I was certain of it.

“I am very keen to understand how you came to be here,” Vonvalt said.

“Yes, I rather expect you are.”

“How did you avoid being killed in Rill?”

“A simple matter of not being there at the crucial time,” Lady Frost replied. “No… ‘pagan magicks’ involved.”

“Your husband—”

“Otmar was murdered, yes. I have no desire to speak about it, and certainly not with you.”

“Very well.”

“You are Entangled,” Lady Frost observed.

“As are you,” Vonvalt said.

“Aye.”

“I have dreamt of you. We have all dreamt of you.”

“I am flattered.”

“Do not jest with me,” Vonvalt said impatiently. “Portents. Visions of things to come. Of the end of the Empire.”

Lady Frost inclined her head. “I am not surprised. I have had similar dreams.”

There was a silence which stretched.

“Why do you speak so guardedly?” Vonvalt asked eventually. He gestured about the great hall with both hands. “We were clearly predestined to meet.”

Lady Frost gave Vonvalt a long, appraising look. “Because, Justice Sir Konrad Vonvalt, I do not know where you stand. And,” she added, cutting across him before he could speak, “I do not think you know where you stand either.”

“Nonsense,” Vonvalt said with contempt.

Lady Frost shook her head. “No. There is conflict in your heart.” Now she nodded at me. “There is something else, too. Something has its hooks in your girl.”

Everyone turned to me. I wished the flagstones of the great hall would open up and enfold me.

“What?” I breathed. My immediate thought was of the Muphraab. It made my flesh crawl.

Lady Frost gave me a long, penetrating stare. “Bare your breast,” she said eventually.

There were a few moments of stunned silence, swiftly followed by enthusiastic outrage.

“By Nema, what is this?” von Osterlen demanded.

Lady Frost rolled her eyes. “God Mother give me strength, I said her breast, not her breasts.”

“Why should she? To what end?” Vonvalt demanded.

“’Tis all right,” I muttered, hoping my compliance would put an end to these Sovan histrionics. I unbuttoned the top few buttons of my blouse and pulled my kirtle down slightly, revealing a very unsexual four inches of breastbone. Sir Radomir and Vonvalt ostentatiously averted their gaze.

“Blood of Creus,” von Osterlen remarked, looking at the skin I had exposed. Sir Radomir and Vonvalt immediately turned back. I, too, looked down.

“Prince of Hell,” I gasped.

“No, not Kasivar,” Lady Frost said, also looking at the mark of the two-headed snake that had manifested itself on my breastbone. “Aegraxes.” She looked up, her finger on her chin, her expression curious, thoughtful.

“The mark of the Trickster is indeed upon you.”

If I had hoped to avoid histrionics, I was to be disappointed. Eventually, after everybody had calmed down, we moved out of the great hall and upstairs, into a chamber that had once been Margrave Westenholtz’s private solar. The place was much as I remembered it, its greatest asset the commanding view of the North Sea – itself afforded by a dual aspect of latticed glass windows. We arranged ourselves more comfortably, and Vonvalt, the least outwardly perturbed of us, pulled out his pipe and began to smoke thoughtfully.

“When we first met, Lady Frost, I had you for a charlatan. Yet it is clear that you are well versed in the Draedist arcana.”

“What high praise,” Lady Frost said with sickly sweetness. “Imperial.”

“I am not an Imperial,” Vonvalt said. “At least, I am no supporter of the Emperor.”

“But you do support the ongoing existence of the Empire,” Lady Frost remarked.

“I believe that its ongoing existence is significantly better than the alternative. Patria Claver must be stopped.”

“Oh, on that we can agree,” Lady Frost said, waving a hand dismissively. “That man is a puppet of chaos and death. And worse,” she added with a mutter. “But I am afraid I cannot countenance the survival of the Empire.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have come here to enlist my help,” Lady Frost said. “To make common cause. And I am telling you that the precondition for my assistance is the dismantling of the Empire of the Wolf.”

Vonvalt reclined, and released a great cloud of smoke from his mouth. “And what is your alternative? Another Reichskrieg?”

“Of course not. Only that each nation be left to govern itself.”

Vonvalt scoffed. “Why? Such does not benefit you. Haunersheim might as well be named ‘Greater Sova’. Most living Hauners have known nothing but the Empire. You think this place will magically revert to some… Draedist paradise?”

“Draedism is illegal in Sova. It was not so under the laws of the Hauner Vale. Nor under the laws of Tolsburg.”

“So that is it, is it? Dismantle half a century of integration? You think it will simply end there? Give Haunersheim back to the Hauners, Tolsburg back to the Tolls, Jägeland back to the Jäglanders – and everybody will just rub along?”

“Yes.”

Vonvalt scoffed. “With respect, Lady Frost, that is asinine.”

“That was not respectful.”

Vonvalt rolled his eyes. “Are you a student of history? I assure you, Tolsburg was far from a unified nation before the Sovans pitched up. Nor was Haunersheim. Nor were any of these countries. They are each in and of themselves miniature empires, accretions of disparate peoples which have formed over centuries. Hell, Rill and Kolst were at one another’s throats, two villages barely a stone’s throw apart.”

“Your father took the Highmark; ’tis no wonder you see things through the lens of the Autun.”

Vonvalt shook his head slowly. “The Reichskrieg killed many thousands of people, and the majority of those were not soldiers. Let us be absolutely clear; it was a sequence of bloody conquests, of which the common law and the secular rights of the individual were extremely welcome by-products – though by-products they were. But simply because they came about in such a manner does not make them intrinsically evil. In fact, they are intrinsically good. Dismantling the Empire is little better than installing Claver on the Imperial throne. The outcome is the same: death, destruction, devastation, a time of evil words and deeds. A chaotic transition from a flawed but functional institution to a decidedly dysfunctional and malevolent one is no choice at all.”

“There are those who would say that good cannot ever come from evil; that it is tarnished.”

“Such people lack intellectual nuance,” Vonvalt said, and I knew him well enough to know that that was one of his greatest insults.

“So.” Lady Frost sat back. Her disappointment was palpable. “You do fight for the Empire.”

“I fight for what is right! If the Empire is what it takes to preserve the rights and freedoms of the majority, then that is worth fighting for.”

“And how far will you go? To fight for that? To maintain the status quo? Many would welcome bloodshed if it meant self-governance.”

“I will go as far as I have to. Until the balance shifts. I serve the natural law, natural justice. If that means I have to operate outside the niceties of the common law, then so be it.”

“I believe that you believe that,” Lady Frost said. Vonvalt let out an exasperated noise. “You can be as angry as you like, Sir Konrad, but it seems to me you have missed a fundamental truth. There is peace, and there is justice, and these are not the same thing. And whilst the Empire has brought peace, where is the justice for those who died to bring it about?”

“Now you equate justice and vengeance.”

“Sometimes they are one and the same.”

“Nema’s fucking slit!” Sir Radomir exploded. “Are we in the fucking Philosopher’s Palace?” He gestured to Lady Frost. “Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck is the Sixteenth? Why is there a magickal tattoo on Helena’s breast? And why, the fuck, are we being tormented by fucking demons at every turn?! I am sick to my death of it. Let us have some answers, and not spar like pubescent law students. Blood of gods!”

There was a pause. Lady Frost looked impassive, though Vonvalt glowered, chewing on his pipe as he did when challenged. After a long time, Lady Frost said, “You and I do not see eye to eye. You have become less like the man I knew in Rill. That is a shame. But,” she added, again before Vonvalt could speak, “we both know Claver must be stopped. And to that end, I believe we can and should make common cause.”

“Aye,” Vonvalt said. He could appreciate realpolitik if nothing else.

“So. Some answers, then, before your brains boil. The question of what happened to the Sixteenth Legion can be answered very easily. They are killed. We ambushed them in the Velykšuma. We took their uniforms and equipment and marched into Seaguard unopposed. Then we slaughtered the garrison and burned the docked ships.”

We sat in stunned silence. What she was describing was impossible. A Legion could not simply be slaughtered; a gigantic, impregnable fortress like Seaguard could not simply be taken; the largest Imperial fleet of ships could not simply be burned to ashes and left to rot on the sea floor.

But we were sitting in the testament to the truth of what she said.

“How?” Vonvalt asked. “I’m not denying it – such is patent. But few succeed against an Imperial Legion, certainly not to such an extent. And the Prince Gordan – he is slain?”

“The wolf cub is dead, aye. And the Legion was not bested merely by skill at arms. I shall not pretend otherwise.”

“Magicks, then?”

Lady Frost inclined her head. “Your ‘demons’, Sir Radomir. It has been much easier to breach the fabric between our plane and theirs in recent weeks. It has thinned, and thins by the day. Our shamans have spoken on it at length.”

“You have more than one wielder of the pagan arcana?”

Lady Frost snorted. “Aye. It has always been the case.”

“If the fabric is thinning, that would explain the visions we have been having, and the… experiences,” Vonvalt said.

“I do not doubt it. Doubly so, thanks to your Entanglement.”

“What is ‘Entanglement’? What are you talking about?” von Osterlen asked.

“Think on how things come to pass,” Vonvalt said. “Prince Gordan, the Emperor’s third son, has been slain. Why?”

Von Osterlen gestured to Lady Frost. “Because he was ambushed in the Velykšuma.”

“And why?”

Von Osterlen sat back, her expression one of displeasure. She had little patience for Vonvalt’s method of tutelage, which was often condescending. “Because he was sent there by the Emperor to take up the margraveship of Seaguard.”

“And why?”

“Because Margrave Westenholtz is dead.”

“And why?”

“I could list reasons going back to the beginning of time if that is the only question you are going to ask me.”

Vonvalt leant forward. “Precisely. Chains of causation that stretch back to the beginning of everything that we know. Kane described how these temporal currents move like rivers through time and space, and, like rivers, they can be branched, diverted, or dammed. Large, world-shaping events are like wide and deep rivers. They pass through the country, dividing mountain ranges, eroding the soil, wearing down rocks, flowing to the sea unhindered. But like any river they can be affected; it is just that it takes more energy and effort to do so, and the outcome is more difficult to control.

“As matters stand, we are at the nexus of several cataclysmic events, any one of which would pose a threat to the existence of the Empire. The currents of time are in a state of great and violent flux. And we, through our actions, have become entangled in them, able to move and shape them in ways that are significant. I expect it is why we have drawn the attentions of some of the entities of the afterlife.”

“That you have,” Lady Frost said.

I felt the marking on my chest pulse painfully for a few moments. I wanted for all the world to examine it, but, for all my affected lack of concern earlier, a strange sense of modesty was preventing me from doing so.

“You said you have had visions, run-ins with the creatures of the afterlife,” Lady Frost continued. “Tell me the nature of these.”

We spent some time explaining the various encounters we had had. I told her of the time I had spent with Aegraxes in that bizarre floating castle in the afterlife, where he had taken the form of a Southern Plainsman. Even Vonvalt, whom I had expected to be tight-lipped, spoke at length of his own recent experiences – including that with the Muphraab. It was not because Vonvalt felt beholden to Lady Frost, nor particularly impressed by her. Rather, it was because he suspected that she already knew most of it. She had been playing her own part in the holy dimensions for months now, helping Justice August avoid Ghessis the Hunter, trying to steer the hand of Fate to her own ends.

“Thank you for being so open and honest with me, Sir Konrad,” Lady Frost said. “I know, of course, about your troubles at the Ziggurat of Ambyr.” She spoke of the home of the Muphraab. “And of Miss Sedanka saving your life. Justice August and I did what we could to assist.”

“That was you,” I breathed. “In the Myočvara.” I thought back to the Plain of Burden, after I had saved Vonvalt from the Ziggurat of Ambyr. Something had attacked us – and then something had saved us. I realised now that that latter something was Lady Frost.

Lady Frost inclined ahead. “It was. Not alone, of course.”

“Who? Who are you working with?” Vonvalt asked.

“Who else but Aegraxes himself?”

Vonvalt looked sceptical at this, but Lady Frost waved him off. “But, even working in concert, the truth of the matter is we are being overtaken by events. Something is happening in the afterlife. It is true that Aegraxes has long taken an interest in the affairs of men, but he is the exception that proves the rule. No longer. I am worried – and not a little frightened – that Bartholomew Claver is receiving assistance from some entity in the astral plane. A malevolent one.”

“He has boasted of receiving aid from something powerful,” Vonvalt said. “He has said as much to me directly.”

“Indeed,” Lady Frost said thoughtfully. “He managed to command the Prince of Ambyr – one of the foremost chieftains of Hell. Could it not be him?”

“That moth-headed soul-sucker?” Sir Radomir grunted.

The shadow of a smile played upon Lady Frost’s lips. “Well put.”

“There is tarring me with a hex, and there is securing patronage. Surely the Mu—” he caught himself before he could say it. He cleared his throat. “That parasite has better things to do than tutor Claver in death magicks.”

Lady Frost thought for a moment. “What does he want? Claver? What is driving him? He could enjoy a life of extraordinary wealth and privilege simply as he is, without ever stepping foot in the Hall of Solitude, let alone attaining the Imperial throne.”

“I used to think he just wanted the repatriation of the Draedist arcana to the Neman Church,” Vonvalt mused. “Then I expect when he achieved the backing of the Church and of the Templars, he began to buy into his own myth. Now he has designs on the Imperial throne. The question is, who benefits? Certainly Claver and his cronies. Perhaps the Templars will push even further south and claim the riches of the Southern Plains for themselves? But that was inevitable even under Haugenate rule.” He shook his head. “And then there is this question of entities of the afterlife. To what end do they manipulate the Empire of the Wolf so? If Claver is being backed by some malign entity, then it is clearly of benefit to that entity, for my experience of the inhabitants of the holy dimensions is that they are too vast and alien to be truly concerned with the affairs of mortal men. What does it gain from patronising Claver?”

“They can see things which we cannot,” Lady Frost said. “The temporal pathways flow differently for them. We can only perceive of events after they have passed; entities in the afterlife can perceive of events that have not yet happened, and direct the present time accordingly.”

“The Trickster has some plan for me yet, then?” I asked.

“I expect so.”

“What is your plan?” Vonvalt asked. “And what means do you have to enact it? You say you have magickal practitioners.”

Lady Frost was quiet for another long moment, still weighing up whether to bring Vonvalt into the fold.

After a long while she said, “Come with me. There are some things that I must show you.”

IV

Pagan Magicks

“Overconfidence is a contemptuous quality, but underconfidence is worse. The sufferer of the former is quick to be dismissed as a charlatan; but what intellectual fruits does the latter withhold from mankind?”

JUSTICE VILEN VAŠEK MASTER OF THE MAGISTRATUM AND LEGAL PREFECT

I did not know what to expect, but a half-day’s journey south across cold, desolate countryside, huddled under our waxed cloaks, shielding ourselves from the persistent drizzle, was not it. By the time we approached what appeared to be the outer perimeter of Lady Frost’s pagan army encampment, night was falling, and I was fixated on my growling stomach and soaking wet clothes.

The forest looked vast, ancient and uninviting, a dark tangle of wet wood and moss that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. This was the Velykšuma, an ancient Hauner word the Saxans had not bested, and which meant something absurdly prosaic like “big dark forest”. But what it lacked in poetry it made up for in aptness.

If I had felt a nebulous sense of unease before, then here in the Velykšuma the essence of that fear was distilled and my blood suffused with it. And it was not just the crude, animal masks and tribal warpaint of the encampment’s guards, though that would have been intimidating enough; rather, it was the eldritch whispering, the shadows at the edges of my mind, the sense that, but a few ill-chosen words, the gates to the afterlife would be flung open. If, as Lady Frost had put it, the fabric of the aether between the mortal plane and that of the holy dimensions was thinning, then here in the woods it was held intact by a single frayed thread.

Now there was no chance of turning back. The journey between Seaguard and the outer parts of the Velykšuma had been characterised by open, if bleak countryside, and had presented plenty of chances to – well. Not escape Lady Frost, for she had no hold over us; but certainly to part ways. Aligning ourselves to her cause, though expedient, still did not necessarily feel like the right thing to do. There was no question that Claver had to be stopped; but there was a question of how we did it. Like I had once considered Vonvalt to be, perhaps I, too, was being high-minded and naïve.

However, if I was being those things, then I was not alone in it. Sir Radomir, an old drunk veteran and Hauner nationalist, disliked Tolls and hated pagans – not because he was an adherent of the Neman Creed, but rather because the only pagans he knew existed in Hauner folk tales, and they were a bloodthirsty group of baby snatchers. To ask him to cast aside his prejudices and throw in his lot with a group of people who he detested was asking a lot of a man who saw the world through a very narrow lens. Sir Radomir was the type of man who wanted to stop Claver, but he wanted to stop him at the head of an Imperial army, not this heretic rabble.

Von Osterlen’s concerns were similar, but born of a different mother. I was sure that von Osterlen was at least moderately Neman, against the use of the Draedist arcana, and certainly opposed to the activities of the pagans here in Haunersheim. Lady Frost’s people, her army, were for all intents and purposes identical to the pagans on the Frontier. The Frontier pagans were not Draedists – they were Saekas – but they were offshoots of the same branch, and only distance prevented them from making common cause. Von Osterlen had spent years fighting the Saekas; now Vonvalt was asking her to assist in bringing a group of Draedists all the way south to Sova.

We were taken down a path into the forest. Occasionally I caught sight of a pagan warrior, a man or woman clad in mail, their armour decorated with trinkets, their faces tattooed or painted. In the gloaming they were an imposing, frightening presence, still as statues, only their eyes following the passing of our little group.

Lady Frost led us into a glade. Here was a collection of tents made of overlapping swathes of sturdy, treated fabric, and camouflaged with branches. There were no fires outside, nothing to illuminate the army of pagans which surrounded this place. Squinting and looking carefully revealed dozens of only slightly unnatural-looking mounds in the forest, which must have been other camouflaged tents, but the full extent of the force amassed here could not be divined. I marvelled at their discipline; without fires, there was no warmth, no light, no hot food or drink. Just a miserable, damp and dark evening to be spent.

Lady Frost took us inside the largest tent. Inside was clearly some sort of headquarters, comfortable and well appointed with soft furnishings. For all Lady Frost was a hard woman, she was still an old one. She required a little more than the soldiers under her command.

Two people were waiting for us, sitting on chairs. Neither stood as we entered. The first was clearly some kind of pagan shaman, his skin so extensively tattooed that he looked as though he had been dipped in a vat of dark blue dye. A black band of ink circled his head at eye level, and more black markings had been wrought on his face and scalp over the blue. He smelt strongly of herbs, so strongly it filled the chamber with a sweet, cloying musk.

The second person was a woman of early middle age, armoured in an ornate, lacquered black breastplate chased with bronze over a coat of mail. Her once vibrant red hair was fading like autumnal leaves, and an unsightly scar wound from the middle of her chin to the back of her jawbone – what looked to be a failed attempt at opening her throat. She put me immediately in mind of von Osterlen.

“This is Kunagas Ulrich,” Lady Frost said, indicating the shaman. I knew “Kunagas” to be a title, rather than a name, the equivalent of “patria” in the Neman Church.

“Hm,” the shaman grunted. He took stock of us all, but his gaze settled on me. It lingered long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“Io restas proksime de ŝi,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off me.

“Jes. Ankaŭ mi sentas ĝin,” Lady Frost replied.

“Kiu portas la kronon de sango?”

“Ni esperu ke ne.”

“You hear it?” Ulrich asked in Saxan. It took me a moment to realise he had asked me.

“Hear what?” I asked back.

Ulrich waggled his fingers as though mimicking a tiny waterfall. “Drip, drip, drip?”

I looked at Vonvalt uncertainly, but his expression was one of distaste. “No.”

Ulrich shrugged. “Hm,” he said again.

“Who is this?” Vonvalt asked impatiently, gesturing to the warrior woman. She sat at her ease, reclining, one leg loosely crossed over the other.

“Captain Llyr ken Slaineduro,” Lady Frost said.

Captain Llyr eyed us. “Seen dier wolfen?” she asked Lady Frost.

“Aye,” Lady Frost replied.

“You are from the northern kingdoms,” Vonvalt remarked.

“You are from the southern kingdoms,” Captain Llyr said in thickly accented Low Saxan. I realised that for the first time in my life that I was meeting someone from across the North Sea. She may as well have come from the surface of the moon. The Sovan Empire was a place so geographically vast that it was easy to lose oneself in it and its matters entirely, without ever thinking of those other empires and kingdoms that existed beyond its borders. After all, the Sovan Empire was but a tiny slice of the world – though it was my entire world – and that made it easy to forget that the Sovans were but one people amongst many.

Or rather, many people amongst many.

“How large a force have you assembled here?” Vonvalt asked, turning to Lady Frost. “I shall not assist an invasion.”

Lady Frost tutted as Captain Llyr snorted. “Here? Half a thousand. A sixth of our full force. Most every man and woman under my command is a Hauner or a Toll, born and bred. Though I daresay we have more in common with the Brigalanders than the Sovans.”

“I daresay you are right. But I am here to prevent a slaughter, not start one. The northern kingdoms have spent decades raiding Haunersheim – including plenty from Brigaland.” He pointed rudely to Captain Llyr. “You and I are not friends.”

The woman launched to her feet, but before she could do anything, von Osterlen stepped forward and pushed her roughly back down. “Stay down or I will put you down,” the Templar snapped.

Captain Llyr snarled, and yanked a knife from about her waist.

“No!” commanded Ulrich. A noiseless thunderclap burst through the tent. My eyes widened. We as Vonvalt’s retainers could resist the Emperor’s Voice, but it surprised us enough to have much the same effect.

There was a silence as everybody took stock. If there had been any question of whether or not the Draedists could truly wield the arcana, then it had just been answered.

“Sir Konrad, you speak and act with great insolence, considering your position,” Lady Frost said. “You of all people know what it will take to stop Claver. Persons skilled in wielding the arcana, yes, but you still need fighting men and women to defeat his Templars here, on the mortal plane. I am offering to work with you, to assist you in defeating your greatest enemy. Claver is the moon to your sun, the night to your day. Fate has brought you here, I am certain of it. Would you not like to tip Her hand in your favour?”

“Aye,” Vonvalt said, warily. “But I will not achieve that end at any price. I will not stop Claver only to install some… Hauner pagan or northlander upon the Imperial throne instead. I am looking to achieve a peaceful disassembly, not a bloody coup.”

“I have told you, that is not my goal. The Sovan rump state will be left intact, to bicker and squabble and govern itself as it will.”

“And do you speak for Captain Llyr ken Slaineduro?” Vonvalt asked, looking at the Brigalander.

“I speak for myself,” Llyr said, still furious at the shove she had received from von Osterlen. “I am here to safeguard the arcana, and the holy dimensions, and to see that only those who are respectful and worthy are afforded the opportunity to divine its secrets. Claver is a menace. The Neman Church is an abomination. It will take many of us working in concert to prevent his and its ascendancy. And as for the Imperial throne?” She spat on the floor. “You can put a hundredweight of dogshit on it for all I care. Once Claver is dead, I intend to return home.”

Not for the first time, there was a long silence; but, for the first time, I could sense Vonvalt softening. I should not have been surprised he was so standoffish in the first place. Vonvalt was a vain and proud man, and his disinvestiture had wounded him greatly. That he was being forced to treat with these people at all – people who he should by rights have been prosecuting – galled him.

“So. You have three thousand men-at-arms. And—” he gestured to Ulrich “—a number of shamans. What powers have you, besides the Emperor’s Voice? Claver has two dozen warrior priests who can wield it just as effectively. Probably more, by now.”

Ulrich looked at Vonvalt disdainfully. “We do not call it such, and nor should you.”

“This is not the time to debate nomenclature,” Vonvalt said sharply. “Come, what else?”

I watched as Ulrich and Lady Frost exchanged a look. They tolerated his rudeness only because he was integral to their plans – much more integral than first appeared, as I shall come on to later in this account. But at the time, their subservient manner was a curious thing to behold.

“There is something I would show you. It regards the nature of our powers, and how we propose to fight this war on both the mortal plane and in the spirit dimension – for this war shall – unquestionably – require both.”

“All right,” Vonvalt said, gesturing to the woods at large. “So show me.”

We delved further into the Velykšuma. The drizzle collected on the many thousands of leaves overhead, formed larger balls of water, and fell as fat raindrops that pattered throughout the forest. The effect was compounded by the creaking of branches and skittering of creatures – deer, foxes, rodents – as though the whole forest were a giant skeleton rousing itself from the earth.

I could see now that the mounds were indeed tents, covered over with earth, leaves and sticks. Occasionally I heard the odd snatch of muttered conversation, but although I could hear it, I could not understand it. The Draedists spoke their own language – really the main reason why the Sovan Empire had outlawed the practice of Draedism – a sort of proto-Saxan but with a much more poetic, song-like lilt.

We passed through the encampment. After a while, the ground began to rise and fracture, and we were picking our way upwards, clambering amongst moss-covered rocks and over slippery wet tree branches.

My sense of dread persisted, expertly stoked by Kunagas Ulrich in the tent, for now I heard dripping constantly – though of course, it was only the rain. But my curiosity was piqued, too. Clearly Lady Frost did not mean to murder us, for such could have been achieved a thousand times over in the time we had been here. What, then, were we about to be shown? In spite of the circumstances I could not help but wonder.

Eventually, we reached a hilltop clearing. Here the wind was unforgiving, driving the rain into us from the side, and the trees thrashed about as though in the throes of a seizure.

In the centre of the clearing was a frame of stone.

The sculpture filled me with a deep sense of unease – for a sculpture it was, wrought from human hands and no natural rock formation. It was nonetheless crude. Runes had been cut into the frame, and nothing grew within several feet of its base. I saw, littered amongst the bare soil, tiny animal bones.

Even Vonvalt looked uneasy. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

“If you think it is a dreadport, then yes,” Lady Frost said.

Vonvalt looked at her sharply. “It cannot be,” he said.

“It is.”

“What is a dreadport?” I asked.

Vonvalt did not answer me straight away, instead eyeing the ancient structure. “They were supposed to have been destroyed. A very long time ago.” He took one tentative step forward to examine it. “A gateway to another plane of existence,” he murmured.

“The afterlife?” I asked.

Vonvalt shook his head, but it was Lady Frost who spoke. “Another place. A place between dimensions, a liminal plane known as the Izmyesta.”

Vonvalt looked back to Lady Frost. He gestured to the dreadport. “You have not been using this, have you?” he asked.

Lady Frost’s composure fractured. “We were using the arcana long before the Empire of the Wolf stole it from us,” she snapped.

“Lady Frost, when first we met, you were going to use a length of black thread on a hidden pulley to frighten your flock of followers into doing your bidding,” Vonvalt said, giving voice to something I had been thinking about for a while.

Lady Frost sneered her displeasure at that. “You know nothing of what was to take place that evening,” she snarled, suddenly conscious of Kunagas Ulrich and Captain Llyr standing next to her. “There are many things that can go wrong with these rituals. But just because they can be interrupted, or spoiled by entities making mischief, does not mean the afterlife is not a real place, filled with real gods. The thread was a way of… making sure. That if the ritual was to go wrong, the villagers would not lose their faith.”

“Merchant assurance? Is that it?”

“I have no idea what that is. Liken it to whatever you will.”

We all looked at the dreadport in silence. “I do not know much about these,” Vonvalt confessed after a while. “I do know that they are dangerous if misused.”

“Calm yourself, old wolf,” Ulrich said. “We have been practising for many years; our people for many hundreds. It is not your business to be concerned about it. We do you an honour, showing you these things.”

“Not to mention a bloody great favour,” Captain Llyr spat.

“Peace, Captain.” Lady Frost gestured to Kunagas Ulrich, who turned, with not a little reluctance, to the dreadport. I watched as the shaman began to incant the words that would activate the gateway. Shortly after he had begun to speak, the runes etched into the stone frame glowed a dull pink, and the skin of the air began to alter, shifting and swirling and resolving into a plate of obsidian blackness which spoke of an absence of all earthly material.

That infernal whispering, a susurrus of malevolent enticements and demented babbling, scratched at the corners of my mind. The air changed too; whereas before the wind had been constant and strong, driving the rain into us, now the clearing was utterly calm.

I looked around me. Vonvalt was watching the incantation and manifestation of the gateway through a slight squint, his face a mask of displeasure, though he did not move to prevent the ritual. Sir Radomir and von Osterlen looked markedly unhappy, which was to be expected. Even Captain Llyr, a practising pagan, seemed uneasy.

Ulrich stopped his chanting once the gateway was stable. He turned, and nodded to Lady Frost, who in turn looked to us.

“The Izmyesta is a strange place,” she said, her voice flat. “It is not like the afterlife that you have experienced. It is a link between the mortal realm and the holy dimensions. You will experience strange sensations, and see strange things.”

“We are not unfamiliar with these sights,” Vonvalt said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Let us be about it.”

“As you will.”

She walked towards the dreadport. Before she passed across the threshold, she exchanged a few low words with Ulrich. He glanced at us, and nodded.

“Come then. And I will show you what I have brought you here to see.”

We crossed the threshold. I cannot easily call to memory the sensations I felt. My enduring thoughts and feelings are ones of a place of immense absence; of movement, of sound, of feeling. The Izmyesta was a little like the Plain of Burden – the Myočvara – in that it had a feeling of anticipation, a feeling of in-betweenness, of liminality. But it also felt closed in and leaden, a stifling lack of activity, a sensation akin to sitting inside an empty and silent dining hall on a hot summer’s afternoon.

Curling blackness, like clawing our way through the soil in and amongst the roots of a gigantic forest, filled my every sense. Eventually the sensation cleared and we stood on a mirrored plane, the ‘ground’ underneath our feet an immense flat of polished glass. Ahead of us stood a huge tree, its roots sinking into the mirror of the floor. Hanging from each branch was the corpse of a man, stripped and bloodied. But they were not hanging by the neck, as though executed; they were hanging like leaves, like they had grown out of the end of the branches.

“Bloody Nema,” I heard Sir Radomir say behind me. His voice sounded flat, as though the air that we breathed was a blanket waiting to smother sound rather than carry it.

Next to him, von Osterlen looked aghast.

“We call this the Tree of Death,” Lady Frost said. She spoke with wonder, as though this abomination before us was a marvel to behold. “Tell me how you access the holy dimensions, Sir Konrad.”

“I think you already know,” Vonvalt said with distaste.

“Aye. You require a corpse – and a fresh one at that. And once the corpse is too ripe, perhaps after a day or two, it is useless as a vessel.” She gestured to the Tree of Death. “Here in the Izmyesta, the sleeping death is made permanent. These men will remain usable for as long as the tree holds them.”

I squinted at the corpses hanging there. For the first time I noticed markings on them, tattoos, and I realised that they were a selection of slain legionaries from Prince Gordan’s 16th.

“A permanent open door to the Plain of Burden,” Vonvalt said.

“That’s right,” Lady Frost said. “We can travel in and out at will. No dangerous necromantic tricks, no great expenditure of energy. We can reach the Myočvara as easily as… well, opening a door.”

“Aye, and at what cost?” Sir Radomir said. “This is not a fate I would wish on my worst enemy.”

“Indeed,” Vonvalt murmured. But, for his disgust, I could see that he saw at least some attraction in the idea.

“Have you seen the beyond, Sir Radomir?” Lady Frost asked. “There are many parts to the afterlife, in the same way there are many nations on the mortal plane. Would you gamble your immortal soul on an eternity in the Halls of Hell?” She turned back to the tree, nodding to the corpses there. “These men spend their existence in blissful black oblivion, ignorant to all and sundry.” She shrugged. “It could be much – much – worse.”

“How long have you been able to do this?” Vonvalt asked, before Sir Radomir could rejoin.

“We have known of the dreadport for decades, but this is the first time in a long time we have been able to harness its power in this way.” She took a deep breath of… not air, exactly, but whatever it was in the Izmyesta that passed for it. “In fact, only recently have we been able to do much of what we have achieved. The aether is thinning. We are on the eve of a great cataclysm. And you, Sir Konrad, are at its nexus.”

There was a pause. “It is what you wanted to show me?” he asked eventually.

Lady Frost shook her head. “This is only a part of it. We must go deeper.”

Entering the Plain of Burden had never been so simple. And yet, without that heavy cost of entry, doing so felt curiously wrong, like a child entering a study which had been left unlocked. Vonvalt had spoken before of how accessing the afterlife had not always been a process so fraught with horror, and the Tree of Death was hardly a pleasant thing to behold; but still, it was a place that men should not have been able to enter at all. The heavy toll paid hitherto felt somehow appropriate.

Kunagas Ulrich warded us with a few curt, guttural words. Then, to enter the Myočvara, we simply touched one of the corpses hanging from the tree. The transition was instantaneous – or if it was not, then I have no memory of it. As we entered the Plain of Burden, that unending dead marshland, I could sense something had changed about the place. It was not a pleasant feeling. The air felt charged with anticipation. It was not dissimilar to the feeling I had experienced in the Izmyesta, but somehow intensified.

In the distance, I heard a dull thudding – the rhythmic pounding of a gigantic blacksmith’s hammer, or footsteps, or the beating of an enormous heart.

“Why have you brought me here?” Vonvalt asked.

“Come,” Lady Frost said.

I had thought the Myočvara to be infinite, for certainly the marshland, sitting as it was under that enormous funnel in the sky, stretched to the horizon in every direction. But eventually we reached a place where the matter of the afterlife thickened, and we were once more in a forest. But it was not a forest of wood, grass and life; it was a forest of decay, the trees made of browning bone, the ground springy underfoot and carpeted with ghastly mushroom-like growths. Above, twisted grey and black clouds were rimed with sickly green light. It reminded me more of the Edaximae, the purgatorial plane, home of many of the creatures of the afterlife – including the Muphraab.

And then I realised that it felt that way, because that was where we were.

“We should not be here,” Vonvalt murmured once he, too, realised that we had strayed into the Edaximae. “You are experimenting with forces beyond your control. This is dangerous.”

Lady Frost travelled on, heedless. Left with no choice, we followed her, until eventually we came to small clearing. There, in the centre, a man lay against a stone tablet, his arms and legs having long ossified so that they looked as though they had melted into the rock. His body was bare. A huge livid purple bruise marked his neck, and his eyes were black, entirely shot through with blood as dark as ink. He struggled ceaselessly, his head turning back and forth, his breath coming in horrible, laboured gasps.

“Blood of gods,” Vonvalt muttered as he approached the man. He turned sharply to Lady Frost. “This is—”

“Margrave Waldemar Westenholtz,” Lady Frost said without emotion.

I groaned as I realised that what she said was true.

“Impossible. Westenholtz should have passed beyond the purgatorial plane months ago,” Vonvalt snapped.

“We are holding him here,” Lady Frost said, and I noticed for the first time a number of runes glowing dully in the air above Westenholtz’s head like a crown. “He cannot be permitted to pass. Not yet.”

I watched as Vonvalt peered at Westenholtz, so close that his face was but a few inches away. That Westenholtz was in the throes of some deep existential agony was evident. I was no lover of the margrave – indeed, I hated him; he was ultimately responsible for the mess we found ourselves in. In other circumstances I might even have been pleased to learn of the man’s eternal torment. But not now. This was appalling.

“What is his conscious state like?” Vonvalt asked. I studied him much as he was studying Westenholtz. I had expected him to be outraged by this torture, but he seemed to be interested in the way a scholar might be. His initial outrage had given way to curiosity. He examined Westenholtz like a specimen, noted the markings above his head, and even went so far as to grab him by the chin roughly, as though he might compel the man to regain his senses. A part of him almost looked satisfied, as though this were a satisfactory outcome.

“We do not know. But he has some sense of the matters which brought him here. Like you, he is Entangled. The currents of time were disturbed by his death. We have prevented his soul from passing further on into the afterlife. Until he is truly free of the purgatorial plane, then the full effect of his death cannot be used for our enemies’ gain.”

“Who told you this?” Vonvalt asked. “How could you know about the temporal pathway?”

“You speak as though the Magistratum discovered the secrets of the afterlife, rather than stole the arcana from the Neman Church – who stole it from us!” Lady Frost snapped. But her temper retreated quickly. “Although, in this event, you are right.” She took a half-step back. “We have had assistance.”

“Hello, Konrad,” said another voice. I turned to see Lady August, emerging through the bone-trees.

“Faith,” Vonvalt whispered as he saw her, taking a step back. “Resi.”

Then a number of things happened very quickly.

The first was that Westenholtz’s body stopped thrashing. He suddenly lay as still as the stone tablet beneath him, as though time itself had frozen. He fixed Vonvalt with a venomous glare.

“Still doing your best to try and stop me, eh, Sir Konrad?”

We all stared at the corpse. It was not Westenholtz’s voice.

It was Claver’s.

The runes above Westenholtz’s head began to glow, burning brighter and brighter as though the sun had perforated the fabric of this plane. Then, a few moments later, the runes shifted and changed entirely. Just looking at them made me feel nauseous. My eyes swam in and out of focus as my brain tried to reject what it was seeing. I heard von Osterlen and Sir Radomir gasp in horror and pain.

For the first time, Vonvalt had nothing to say.

“I am coming for you, Justice,” Westenholtz gnashed in Claver’s voice. Black goo frothed between his teeth. “It will not be long. It will not be long!” He laughed dementedly as his eyes and mouth caught fire and he thrashed his way into a more permanent state of death.

Just when it seemed that the horror was over, the thumping sound, the heartbeat of this world which had formed a low, pulsing backdrop, suddenly increased in both intensity and volume.

“Ghessis!” Resi shouted and, transforming into a rook, took to the skies.

A moment later, a gigantic figure burst into the clearing, a naked, alabaster-pale man three times the height of Vonvalt, thickly muscled and wearing a grotesque mask wrought crudely from iron. He grabbed the body of Westenholtz, tearing it free from where it had melted into the stone tablet in a welter of dead brown blood, leaving the arms and legs welded to the rock like crusts of pie burnt to a tin.

Then it turned to us, and roared.

“In the name of Nema, run!” Lady Frost screamed, any semblance of control over the situation gone.

We ran.

V

Dreadport

“War profits none save the devil.”

SOVAN PROVERB

I remember dreaming of the Tree of Death, too – dreaming of it as we ascended from the Myočvara.

No. It was not a dream. Even nightmare is too mild a word. It was a vision, and a rapacious one at that, inserted into my mind in the same way a constable would stuff a length of iron into a doorjamb.

The Tree stood at the centre of a large plaza. At one end of the plaza, Claver was undergoing his investiture as the new ruler of the Empire of the Wolf. Around him was a large cordon of Templar warriors, each clad in a black Savaran surcoat.

Gone was Claver’s threadbare Neman habit; he now wore rich, cream-coloured robes trimmed with gold. Around his neck hung a purple stole, embroidered on one side with the White Deer, and on the other the Flame of Savare. He wore a crown of golden laurel, but it was what was above his head which drew my eye. As with Westenholtz, there floated several pink runes of binding as if they had been carved into the air itself. It was not so much Claver as some demonic manifestation of him which had been bound to the mortal plane.

Standing behind the cordon of Templars was a secondary ring of tame Mlyanars, and for a moment I thought I saw smug satisfaction in their faces. In fact, each of them was dead, a grey-skinned corpse held up by an armature of wooden poles. Each of the corpses wore a broad, ecstatic grin.

Behind the Mlyanars were the people of Sova, an ashen collection of automata. They roared noiselessly once the investiture was complete. They were all dead as well. Everyone was dead, a sea of pallid cadavers, every face locked in a jarring rictus of ecstasy.

I do not know how long I loitered, spectral and unobservable, in that ghastly tableau. It might have been a handful of moments; it could have been a thousand years. But then Claver, a solitary flame of life amongst a sea of death, looked at me from his throne, locked his gaze upon me, and regarded me—

And I was whisked away, dragged back down the temporal pathway and back into the realm of the living.

I was vomited back out into the mortal plane.

Rain lashed me like stinging whips. The wind was a thunderous roar. I heard trees and branches creak and rip and snap. Leaves and twigs scythed through the air. Fat cold raindrops smacked into me like open-palmed slaps. Above, thick black clouds were being pulled in as though by a whirlpool, crackling with corposant green lightning.

Lining the dreadport were hands. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them, pulling at the frame, reaching through the portal of aethereal blackness. Fingers bulged with cords of sinew as they scrabbled for purchase on the rain-skinned stone. I recognised them immediately for what they were. These were the hands of the same creatures that I had accidentally summoned outside of Keraq: ghastly, faceless, long-toothed, thick-skulled demons, any one of which could cut down a dozen men without breaking stride.

And they were trying to come through.

Everyone who had entered the dreadport lay scattered about it as though thrown by an explosion of blackpowder. I saw Vonvalt several dozen feet away, lying at the apex of a channel of freshly turned earth. Others, too, had gouged lines in the wet soil where they had ploughed it with their bodies.

“Kunagas!” I heard Lady Frost shout. I turned to where she had been thrown. She was pulling herself out of a tangle of broken branches, wide-eyed through a mask of mud.

I turned back to the dreadport. A whole arm up to the elbow was through now. The only thing preventing its egress was the thicket of grasping hands around it. In their eagerness and insane clamour, the creatures had stoppered it as though it were a hole in a sinking ship – but the crush of bodies could not hold forever.

I noticed others in the clearing now, pagan warriors and Captain Llyr’s armoured Northmen. They advanced on the portal with reckless courage, brandishing swords and spears. I looked back over to Lady Frost, but she was not paying attention; she had run over to where Ulrich lay, and I saw for the first time that the shaman’s blue head was marked with a bright crimson streak of blood.

I heard a piercing shriek and whirled back to the dreadport.

“Wait!” I shouted. A man had thrust his spear into the aperture so that the tip of it was engulfed by the writhing mass of discorporate flesh. A second later, he was yanked in after it and ripped apart like a fresh orange.

The foremost of the demons was now part-way free of the wall of hands. A thick black skull with three bleeding eyeholes was birthed from the dreadport and began to utter a keening, ululating shriek that enveloped my entire mind with its awful sound. I could do nothing except crawl away, scrabbling frantically backwards until I hit the base of a freshly felled tree. My right hand landed on something I initially took to be a rock, though it transpired to be the breastplate of Severina von Osterlen, who lay on her back, her head bent forward, watching proceedings with an expression of undisguised horror.

“In the name of Nema,” she whispered, barely audible above the shrieking wind.

In spite of the violent dismemberment of their countryman, several more pagans attempted to slash at the demon before it could fully exit the dreadport. One lost a sword but escaped with his life; another managed to land a blow on the creature, before he had a skull-sized hole punched through his chest.

“By the goddess, it’s coming through!” I heard von Osterlen shout.

She was right. The demon was now out of the dreadport. With a wrenching, writhing twist, it yanked itself free and landed on the blasted grass in a great gout of foetid amniotic fluid like a freshly birthed calf. A mind-bending sense of horror overcame me as I realised we were all about to die in a particularly violent manner—

And then something happened. The wind and rain suddenly stilled. Leaves, which had been slicing through the air like blades, tumbled to the ground. The violent, elemental storm subsided immediately. The air thrummed with energy like a smacked tuning fork. I looked over to see Kunagas Ulrich standing, his eyes white balls of marble, his arms and hands outstretched; then I turned back to the demon, and noticed that the dreadport was inert. Once again it was a simple stone structure, framing nothing more than the view of the forest beyond. The hands, the abyssal darkness, had gone.

The demon, however, remained.

“Kristijan!” Lady Frost shouted. One of the pagan warriors looked over to her sharply. “Attack it now! It is safe!”

The warrior accepted this injunction with great reluctance, but he approached the demon nonetheless, sword and shield held ready.

The creature pounced at him like a cat. He screamed, bringing his weapon up – but then froze in place as Ulrich bellowed several incantations that filled the air like a physical weight. Runes appeared over the soldier’s head, cut into the aether by the shaman’s profane words, whilst the demon suddenly spasmed and writhed, gripped by a powerful but invisible force.

The latter burst into a great cloud of dark vapour. A screech echoed throughout the existential planes. The vapour coalesced into a vortex which shot into the frozen pagan’s mouth and filled him like beer into a barrel. His flesh distended as he inhaled the creature, his bones crepitated, blood and ectoplasm oozed from his skin and orifices, and his eyes flickered and flashed with crackling green lightning.

Once this horrifying spectacle was complete, and the man had finished jerking and convulsing and was finally still again, Ulrich set him afire.

“Nema!” I moaned.

All of us there watched as the man, now little more than a human-shaped demonic prison, was consumed by the unnatural flames. He shuddered and lurched and screeched, flailing and staggering until he sank to his knees and slumped over into the wet grass. The smell of burning flesh and the crackle and spit of roasting fat filled the cold night air.

Eventually the fire subsided, and we sat, each of us heaving in deep lungfuls of air, trying to process what it was that we had just witnessed. I saw Lady Frost talking urgently with Ulrich. Sir Radomir, who had given up trying to understand these horrors, did the only thing that made sense to him, which was to have a long drink of wine from the skin he carried. Von Osterlen sat in stunned silence next to me. I did not want to even guess at how she was feeling.

Vonvalt was furious.

“Blood of gods!” he snapped, launching to his feet. He gestured angrily to the dreadport, and then to Lady Frost and the shaman. “You bloody fools! Amateurs! We could all have been killed! You are no better than Claver with this reckless incompetence!” He clenched and unclenched his hands, stalking about the clearing. “Nema help me, I had my doubts, but I did not think you so thoroughly misunderstood the nature of the forces you grapple with—”

“Be silent!” Lady Frost snapped. “You insufferable man! Can you not see what is happening? The afterlife is in turmoil! We are doing what we can to stabilise it, to assist the forces of good—”

“There are no ‘forces of good’ in the afterlife, you idiot!” Vonvalt roared. “There are no forces of evil! There is nothing but chaos, a miasma of discorporate emotion, of creatures and entities interested only in their own existence, in their own lives!”

Lady Frost would not be cowed. “Can you not admit your own ignorance for but one moment? You have heard from the lips of your own clerk that Aegraxes strives to stabilise the currents of time. You have seen the red hand of Kasivar at work through Claver! You have seen Ghessis claiming souls in the Edaximae! If you cannot see the malice there, the malevolence, then it is you who is the idiot, my lord Justice!”

A dangerous silence followed. Ulrich watched this exchange impassively. Other pagans, including Llyr ken Slaineduro, looked ready to kill Vonvalt – and we his retinue – then and there. Judging by the looks of Sir Radomir and von Osterlen, I half wondered whether they would welcome it.

Vonvalt wiped the sweat from his brow and spat on to the soil. “And what of Resi? She has been taken, now.”

“Westenholtz was taken. Resi is fine. She can take care of herself. Nema knows she has managed for this long.”

“Aye, and how much longer? And what in Kasivar’s name was the Margrave doing there anyway?”

“I told you. If he passes beyond the purgatorial plane, doorways which were open to us are closed. Time is shifting, the pathways branch and split—”

“Oh, Nema, spare me,” Vonvalt muttered, waving his hand at her and turning away.

The absurd thing was, Vonvalt knew all of this. He was not stupid. He had seen these matters for himself. It was just that he would rather have read it in a textbook on jurisprudence, or heard it in a lecture from a Justice, or celebrated legal philosopher. It was not the news itself, but rather its source. It was the fact that it was coming from Lady Frost.

Eventually, he gestured to the clearing around us. “What is your plan, then? You have shown me the… catastrophe you meant to show me. Tell me how you plan to leverage it. If you even can any more.”

Lady Frost sighed, deflated. She looked tired and old again. “We have wounded. Let us return to the encampment. We shall discuss our next moves, and then you may be on your way.”

It took us a while to get organised and return to the encampment. By the time we had reconvened in Lady Frost’s command tent, which was by now beginning to smell a little ripe, it was dawn.

We gathered in a familiar assembly: Lady Frost and Kunagas Ulrich, Captain Llyr, Vonvalt and the three of us his retainers. Lady Frost had no maps to speak of, since good maps were difficult to come by and expensive to produce, and nor did Captain Llyr. But it was clear that a map was not needed. Both women, and especially Lady Frost, were intimately familiar with Haunersheim.

“We are three thousand, which you know,” Lady Frost said. “Our warriors and shamans are strong and battle-tested, the match of any Imperial Legion.” She looked at Vonvalt, as if goading him to contradict her. For once, he held his tongue. “We can move as quickly through the forests as we can down the Hauner Road. We will endeavour to avoid all Imperial settlements, but know that if we are attacked, we will attack in turn.” Vonvalt conceded this with a nod. “Any Imperial shrines we come across we will destroy. We will put any and all Neman churches to the torch. But we will spare every life we can, including those of the priests. We are like you, Sir Konrad. We are in the business of preserving lives.”

Vonvalt worried at his teeth with his tongue for a few moments. “What is your route? It will be harder to avoid detection the closer you are to Sova. Once you reach Osterlen you are going to run out of forest, and quickly.”

“It is best if you do not know our precise route,” Lady Frost said. “There are many things, mortal and otherwise, which would seek to frustrate us.”

Vonvalt nodded again at the obvious wisdom of this. “I will write letters to the lords of the Southmark. Baron Hangmar, Count Maier, Duke Hofmann. I shall explain the situation to them, and command that they furnish you with their assistance.” He rubbed his chin. “Since Westenholtz’s rebellion, Royal licences for private forces have been withdrawn. But they should still be able to bolster your army by several thousand.”

Lady Frost smiled, but it was not as sardonic as it could have been, given how utterly unhinged Vonvalt’s suggestion sounded. “Thank you, Sir Konrad, but I can assure you your southern lords will have no interest in assisting us.”

Vonvalt shook his head patiently. “Pagan rebels do not have the same reputation in the Southmark as they do in the north. And given what has come to pass in Sova in the past few weeks, they will be more amenable to trying something – anything – to maintain peace. Every man remembers the Reichskrieg. War profits none save the devil. If your men are well behaved, keep to themselves and march in good order, you will be surprised at how pragmatic the southern Hauners can be.”

Lady Frost seemed to accept this. “If you say so.”

“I will ask them to rally at Wolfenshut on… Nema, what’s the date?”

“It’s the fifteenth of Cervenkar,” I said.

“The fifteenth of Galenkar, then. One month.”

“That is much too fast,” Lady Frost said.

“We do not have the luxury of longer,” Vonvalt said simply. He turned to Sir Radomir. “You will accompany Lady Frost. You will bear my seal, and the letters.”

The sheriff looked up sharply. “What? No!” he said.

Vonvalt shook his head. “I need someone I can trust with this. More importantly, someone these lords can trust. You are a Sovan Hauner with a smart head on his shoulders and the right history. You are intimately familiar with the threat and you speak to matters plainly. They will listen to you. Besides: Baron Hangmar you have met already, in the Vale. You will bring much-needed weight to my requests. I am afraid I cannot brook a refusal.”

Sir Radomir looked about the tent at Lady Frost and her pagan retainers. “Aye,” he said eventually. He was clearly torn on the matter, and I certainly was sorry to see the back of him. But I could see, too, the wisdom in Vonvalt’s choice. “All right,” the sheriff said after a while. “I’ll not make anyone’s life more difficult by griping about it. If that is the best use of my abilities, then so be it.”

Vonvalt clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Would that everybody thought as you do.”

“The world would be a lot fucking quieter if they did,” Sir Radomir grumbled.

Vonvalt turned back to Lady Frost. “My own route lies south.”

“Where will you go?”

Vonvalt drew in a deep breath. “I mean to recruit – or attempt to recruit,” he muttered irritably, “the Kasar to our cause. Given the historic ties between the Kasar and the Empire, I think it is something that is worth exploring.”

Lady Frost nodded her agreement. “They are powerful practitioners of the arcana, more so than us. The Kyarai sits much closer to the Eye of the Sea.”

The Eye of the Sea was the portal through which magick was believed to have first emerged into the world. It was located at the bottom of the Jade Sea, and sat at the epicentre of the greatest concentration of magickal creatures in the known world – the Kasar, the Stygion mermen, and others both contacted and uncontacted.

“Oh, I am counting on leveraging their talents in that regard,” Vonvalt said. “But it is their martial strength I am more keen to secure. Even a few hundred would bolster our forces significantly.”

Lady Frost nodded. “I agree. I wish there was something I could do to assist you, but we have little contact with our cousins in the south.”

Vonvalt stood, and we stood with him. “Then it is settled. We shall work in conjunction to defeat Claver.”

Lady Frost nodded, but her expression was serious, and she closed her eyes. There was a long pause as she considered her next words. But it was Ulrich who spoke.

“Girl,” he said, nodding at me. “You saw something.”

I felt my stomach lurch as everybody looked at me. “What do you mean?” I asked.

Ulrich squinted. “On the way out. Our exit from the Myočvara. You saw something. I can see your mind.”

“I saw Claver,” I said. “I saw him being crowned.”

Consternation rippled through the tent.

“You saw death.”

“There were many corpses, yes.”

“Did you see—” Lady Frost began.

“Ne parolu pri Ramayah,” Ulrich said suddenly. I could not understand it, but the wording nonetheless unsettled me.

Ramayah. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a dripping noise.

Lady Frost looked at him, then back to me and Vonvalt. “We have seen many things during our travels. And though we have tried to shepherd the temporal pathway, each intervention seems to do little except muddy the waters.”

“Sometimes it is better not to know,” Vonvalt said, his voice marked with a rare uncertainty.

Lady Frost nodded absently, but still she contended with the urge to give some insight into what she had seen. “I think you are doing the right thing in seeking out the Kasar,” she said. “But—”

“Ne parolu pri la Princo de Sango!” Ulrich snapped.

The words died in the woman’s throat.

“Just be careful,” she said, eventually. “I will concede, Sir Konrad, that we do not know fully the nature of the thing we grapple with. But I do know this: there are dark forces at work in the aether. And I do not mean Claver.”

Sir Radomir, von Osterlen and I snatched a few hours’ sleep. Vonvalt spent the time writing letters to the various lords of the Southmark he thought would assist. Then, it was time to go.

Sir Radomir was paired up with one of Captain Llyr’s men, a big, red-headed, pale-skinned Northman called Modron. Sir Radomir looked uncomfortable in the man’s company, but Modron struck me as one of those people whose good humour was impervious to almost everything.

Vonvalt handed his letters to Sir Radomir, along with a bag of coin and his seal.

“Take the Imperial Relay to Espa,” he said. “Use the rest of the coin to hire horses. Be forceful in your warnings, but not reckless with your lives. I would rather see you again under the Wolf Gate alone and having failed, than in a gibbet outside Oldenburg.”

Sir Radomir nodded. “I will see it done.”

“I know you will,” Vonvalt said, placing his hand on Sir Radomir’s shoulder. “I have asked much of you in these past months. Know that I appreciate it.”

Sir Radomir smiled weakly, uncomfortable, his wine stain birthmark vivid red against the dull green and brown of our surroundings.

“Come on then, old wolf,” Modron called down from a white palfrey behind Sir Radomir. They had Saxanised him as best they could, dressing him in Imperial garments pilfered from the 16th Legion. The ruse would work, provided the man did not speak in his thick Brigalander burr.

Sir Radomir rolled his eyes. “Aye,” he said. He turned to me, and winked. I found myself suddenly choking up. This felt like a permanent parting. “Good luck, Helena,” he said to me. “Promise me you will live.”

“She’ll be fine,” Vonvalt muttered.

I did not trust myself to speak; I simply pulled the sheriff into an embrace. Once we were finished, he grasped forearms smartly with von Osterlen, both of them nodding in a curt mark of mutual respect; and then he mounted up, and he and Modron were leaving the forest and heading west for the Imperial Relay.

Vonvalt turned back to von Osterlen and I. “Right,” he said, and my guts churned in anticipation as I turned my mind to the mission we were about to undertake.

“We have a ship to catch.”

VI

Hostile Reception

“One of the greatest feats of human cognisance is to realise and accept that every being capable of thought has a life as complex as one’s own.”

CHUN PARSIFAL

Another long journey awaited. We travelled south-east across Haunersheim, staying off the main roads where we could. I was not at all familiar with this part of the country, but it was as desolate as the rest of it, made up of huge empty forests, wide stretches of uncultivated grassland, and large, impassable marshes.

We rode for many days south until we reached the River Kova where it bordered Hasse, and where Vonvalt secured us passage on a small ship. The shipmaster had had a run of bad luck and extorted Vonvalt for the passage fee, and in other circumstances Vonvalt would have prosecuted and fined the man on the spot. But this time he accepted the injustice, contented merely to remain undiscovered.

So it was that we bedded down in a corner of the conspicuously empty cargo hold, and I watched through a gap in the boards as the Kova Confederation – a place that, but for an invisible line on a map, could easily have been part of the Empire – passed us by.

Travelling by river was always the quickest way to go, faster even than the thunderous speed of the Imperial Relay. Along with the Gale and the Sauber, the Kova was one of the three largest rivers in the Empire. In fact, technically it was two rivers, the North and South Kova, both the product of an enormous tarn in the mountainous region of Hasse. It was the Easterners’ first line of defence against the Autun, a broad, deep, and fast channel that ran the length of the Confederation’s western boundary and emptied into the North and Jade Seas.

There is little enough to tell of that journey. The first part of it was tense as we passed alongside occupied Kòvosk. There was evidence of the Legions’ investiture everywhere, from encampments to temporary forts surrounded by palisade fences, to the vast castles outside of Kolstadt and the great Imperial fortress of Reussberg. We were even stopped by Legionaries at one point, and the hold searched; but the ship was clearly empty, and the search cursory, and we were not seen.

We continued south until south-east Estre met south-west Kòvosk, and then we followed a course almost due east to the Jade Sea. From there, it was simply a matter of hugging the coast along the eastern length of the Frontier.

It was safer here than on the Kova, and we went up on to the deck. To the right side we could see the rocky coastline of the Frontier, and beyond, the vast wildflower meadows that covered huge swathes of it in a carpet of green. But it was the foamy and shallow emerald waters of the Jade Sea, shimmering in the sunlight, which took my breath away. In the distance, through the haze, I could see the beginnings of a huge crescent of rocky islands known as the Iris Isles.

“I have never been to sea before,” I said to Vonvalt. “Well, not like this,” I added, thinking of our violent apprehension of Ivan Godric on the ink-black waters of Kormondolt Bay.

“No,” Vonvalt said, breathing in the warm, briny air with relish. He looked pleased to be out here, and relaxed in a way he had not been for a long time. It was a disarming and pleasant surprise. We had been awkward in one another’s company for some time, since the failure of our nascent courtship in Sova. As a result of that shabby enterprise, and in an effort to preserve both of our feelings, Vonvalt continued to keep me at arm’s length. But this had the effect of making us less amicable than before the idea of a love affair had even been in prospect. And besides, a part of me still wondered if there was something there, some latent feeling which could – leaving aside the question of whether it should – be cultivated and husbanded.

We stood in silence for a while. Vonvalt watched the horizon through squinted eyes, and I followed his gaze. I knew what he was thinking: how easy it would be to simply keep going. To leave behind the Empire of the Wolf, and all its troubles. To forget about Claver – to leave the Autun to him – and to disappear.

If Claver had not been able to leverage the death magicks of the afterlife to relentlessly hunt Vonvalt forever, he might well have simply left. The temptation was a strong one. Here, even a few miles off the coast, everything seemed so insignificant. The Autun was simply one nation amongst many, one small slice of one very large world. Who knew what other incredible dramas were playing out in other countries, other empires, that we had never even heard of? Could there have been some other Vonvalt, on a distant ocean looking to the west, grappling with upheaval equal to or greater than that which we were facing?

Yes; there was something about the sea that evoked these thoughts, that huge and unknowable saltwater empire, its cold depths as unfathomable and unmeasurable as those of the afterlife.

“Will we see any mermen?” I asked Vonvalt suddenly.

When he did not answer, I looked over to him. His eyes remained on the horizon, and he shook his head. “No,” he said. There was another pause.

“But they are in there. Somewhere.”

It was not until the following morning that we sailed past the southernmost part of the Frontier. The last bastion of the Empire was a fortified Templar port town called Grunhaven. I could barely see it in the morning haze; just a collection of sand-coloured stone walls and towers, and the odd splash of heraldic colour. I wondered idly where Claver and his Templars were.

So it was that we began to sail down the coastline of an entirely alien country. This was the Kasar Kyarai, a verdant land of dense rainforest and hot grass plain, penned in to the west by a vast range of mountains known as the Southern Dividing Range which separated the Kyarai – and its water – from the dry and barren nation of Qaresh.

I found a curious sense of anxiety gnawing at me as we approached the Kasari capital city, Port Talaka. I had spent some time with Kimathi, of course, the Imperial Warden, and knew enough of the history between the Autun and the Kasar to know that there were symbolic and economic ties between the two nations. This state of affairs was largely born of the Emperor’s Haugenate ancestors, who had adopted the Two-Headed Wolf device, and who had seen the Kasar as a natural and auspicious ally – not to mention one of the only other practitioners of the magickal arcana. I had no doubt that as the Autun expanded southwards, subsuming the lands of the pagan Saekas on the Frontier until they eventually abutted Qaresh and the Kyarai, that conquest of the Kasar themselves would be the next logical step. But for now, they were allies, and although the journey was treacherous, there were plenty of Sovan knights to be found in the cities of the wolfmen. Senator Jansen, after all, had squired here. Indeed, it was his friends who we were seeking out.

We rounded a large spur of land and Port Talaka came into view, a massive walled city that bestrode an equally massive river outflow which I would come to learn was part of the Yaro Delta.

“Gods,” I breathed, taking in the view. The most striking aspect of Port Talaka was the temples, vast stepped pyramids of grey-brown stone, each festooned with intricately carved grotesques. The temples themselves, as well as almost every other building, were alive with a riot of colour – vivid blues, emerald greens, bright citrine yellows. In and amongst the buildings flourished verdant greenery, carefully husbanded into pleasing hanging gardens, whilst the waters of the Yaro Delta were directed into channels that cut geometric shapes around the streets and into the public spaces. If Sova was a city whose architecture contrived to oppress and intimidate, a collection of monolithic funerary monuments masquerading as institutions of state, then my first impression of Port Talaka was one of riotous colour, gaiety, and a celebration of life. I had not expected it; Kimathi had seemed like little more than an enormous, savage bodyguard. But that was a foolish mode of thought. One might as well try to take the measure of the entirety of the Sovan commonfolk after meeting a single knight.

I was so buoyed by what I saw that, as we approached the wharf, I almost didn’t notice the bodies of Templars in gibbets being stripped of their extremities by huge leathery birds. Then my optimism dissolved in an instant, to be replaced by a heavy lead weight of fear in the pit of my stomach.

I was not the only one. The sudden turn in mood on the ship was palpable.

“Shipmaster,” Vonvalt called to the captain as we stood at the balustrade. I followed Vonvalt’s gaze, to see that a group of Kasar was gathering at the end of the dock. Like Kimathi, they were tall and muscled, clad in skirts of a light white material affixed around their waists by ornate, colourful sashes and intricate brass clasps. However, it was their swords I was more focused on – fat-bladed scimitars which, when propelled by an armful of wolfman muscle, looked as though they could comfortably cut a man in half.

“They are just here for the lines,” the shipmaster called to Vonvalt, though he too had seen the gibbets hanging over the waters of the Yaro Delta as they foamed into the Jade Sea.

Vonvalt turned to von Osterlen. We all of us shared an uneasy glance.

“Can you see any other human vessels?” Vonvalt asked, casting his eyes about. Unlike the Sovan docklands which bustled with waterborne traffic, here was a noticeable paucity of ships. There were a few other vessels, a carrack of curious design and some other smaller boats, but if Sova and the Kasar were engaged in buoyant trade relations, there was little evidence of it here in the capital.

“No,” von Osterlen said, eyeing the gibbets coldly.

I watched as the number of wolfmen at the end of the dock swelled. The crew members of our ship began to throw heavy ropes to them, and the Kasar caught them with ease and began securing them to thick metal posts at the dockside.

“This is not the welcome I had expected,” Vonvalt said, sweating in the stifling morning heat.

His uncertainty was having a profound effect on me. I had not a hope of understanding the wolfmen. As far as I was aware, Vonvalt did not speak the language either. Nonetheless, their body language was undeniably hostile. I could sense some consternation amongst the crew of the ship now, too, as though they had regretted throwing the tow lines out. The shipmaster began to call out from the balustrade in a tongue which sounded like a guttural form of pidgin Saxan, a language which I would soon learn was a creole which had developed between merchant traders.

But the Kasar did not respond.

“Hm. This is not good,” Vonvalt murmured.

“We’ve not a hope of escaping with our lives if they mean us harm,” von Osterlen said, eyes still on the gibbets. “This may well be it.”

Vonvalt clacked his tongue, gripping the wood of the balustrade. “Nema,” he muttered, frustrated rather than frightened.

“We should arm ourselves,” von Osterlen said.

“No,” Vonvalt said sharply. “That will be the end of it. Our best hope is to let this play out and see if we can explain matters—”

He stopped as a curious metallic thwacking sound rang out from further down the ship. We all turned to see that the shipmaster and his crewmen had started frantically hacking at the tow lines with their blades. With a jolt of fear I looked back to the dockside, to see the Kasar growling and shouting amongst themselves. One of them began to shout to a group of archers who stood at the top of a mural tower.

“Oh shit!” von Osterlen said, as they quickly drew and loosed and the first arrows began to strike the sailors. One was struck in the face and died instantly, while another was impaled through the guts and collapsed to the deck, shrieking and thrashing.

“Below deck, now!” Vonvalt commanded.

Where there had been panic before, now there was chaos. The shipmaster, not a military man by any stretch of the imagination, picked up a hand axe and resumed his desperate chopping at the lines. He was killed by three arrows. Another thunked into the boards next to Vonvalt – a rare miss – as we made desperately for cover in the hold.

My breath rasped in my ears and my heart thumped painfully in my chest as we descended the ladder. We armed ourselves, of course, but that did not count for anything in the circumstances. We might have been able to barricade a doorway in the hold, and jam up an attack there, but for minutes only. And then what? If it came to it, the Kasar could simply set the vessel aflame.

The ship was pulled into the dock inexorably, and the shipmaster’s crew was killed out of hand. Their screams and frantic footsteps on the deck above were enough to drive me insane.

“We’ve not a hope of prevailing,” von Osterlen said again, gripping her sword in her hand.

“I know!” Vonvalt replied, pacing about the chamber like a caged animal, still trying to think of a way around the problem. He would be thinking right up to the moment a Kasari blade bit into his neck, I was sure of it.

We all looked up as the side of the ship collided gently with the dock. Then there were more thumping, clattering footsteps, as the Kasar boarded and moved through the vessel.

I looked at Vonvalt. Suddenly, he gritted his teeth, and threw down his sword. “Discard your weapons, now,” he said. “Quickly!”

Von Osterlen looked unhappy, but did as he bade. I did too. Although it made me feel detestably vulnerable, the fact of the matter was, we could not best the wolfmen. A few short swords were not going to make a difference to the outcome. Better to appear completely unthreatening and throw ourselves on their mercy.

“Stand behind me,” von Osterlen said to me, and I was quick to oblige.

We did not have to wait long. Vonvalt did not close the door to our little subdivision of the hold, to give the Kasari boarders plenty of time to see that we were not a threat. It was a good idea, though in the event it made little difference.

“Peace! Peace!” Vonvalt shouted as the Kasar approached, four burly wolfmen who had to stoop under the low beams of the hold. We all held our hands out, and I can only imagine how we must have looked. Few things on the mortal plane truly frightened Vonvalt, and von Osterlen’s physical courage was beyond question. But in those awful moments, the stink of fear was tangible.

I could not help but cry out as the Kasar burst into the chamber. I gripped two fistfuls of the back of von Osterlen’s surcoat. Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited to be cut down by one of those cruel-looking scimitars.

“Peace!” Vonvalt continued to shout, standing perfectly still with his hands out. The Kasar reared over him, easily seven feet tall. Already it seemed to hesitate. “Peace!” Vonvalt implored one last time. “Gods, please!”

The wolfman regarded him for a few long, excruciating moments; then, vexed, it growled, grabbed him roughly, and dragged him out of the chamber.

“No!” von Osterlen shouted, putting both arms behind her to try and protect me; but she too was grabbed by her surcoat and yanked after Vonvalt, leaving me alone in her wake.

I shrank back into the boards of the hold, putting some distance between myself and these lupine interlopers; but it was instinct more than anything, and completely pointless. I closed my eyes as a third Kasar lurched forward and plucked me off my feet, and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

And then, like the others, I was carried off the ship and into the light.

The wolfman’s shoulder dug painfully into my gut as I was carried along the wharf. Ahead, I could see von Osterlen being similarly lugged. She appeared to have taken a knock to the mouth, for she periodically spat a gob of blood on the hot stones of the dockside. She did not meet my gaze.

We were taken down a wide, flagstoned boulevard which ran adjacent to one of the many branches of the Yaro. Here, dozens of Kasar, as well as Qareshians, Southern Plainsmen and the odd sun-reddened Sovan, gathered at the edges of the road to watch this shabby procession. There was an undeniable air of hostility. The Kasar growled and howled angrily in the same way a plains wolf would, whilst those humans present offered much more readable expressions, ranging from sympathy, to indifference, to contempt.

On we went. Sweat dribbled from my forehead and stung my eyes. I was wearing clothes appropriate for the Hauner spring and the cold mountains of Hasse, but the stifling heat of Port Talaka was something else. Never before had I experienced such clammy, sultry weather, as though the air was twice as heavy here. It was making me feel lightheaded and nauseous.

We were taken into a wide open space. Here were stone plinths and statues of colourful snarling beasts and intricate geometric patterns cut into the flagstones and distant encircling walls. Shades of dusty red and yellow were in abundance. There were more Kasar, too, and Plainsmen, and I thought the place must have been some sort of market, though if it was, then this was not a market day.

I was taken across the length of this space, and then my captor began to ascend a set of stone steps.

“No,” I croaked through dry lips. We were ascending the side of one of the large temples I had seen on our way into port. Blood was very clearly visible on the stones underfoot, and not just crusts of old, desiccated brown, but fresh wet crimson too. I craned my neck to identify its source, and saw, strung up on wooden armatures at regular intervals either side of the steps, human bodies clothed in the unmistakable livery of the Savaran Templars.

I let out a groan of dismay. The Templars were in a sorry state. Some of the corpses were old and had shrivelled in the punishing heat of the sun. Others were fresh, and were still being worried at by meat-eating birds. Few were whole. Throats cut, limbs missing, eyes and tongues and hearts removed. Theirs had been bad deaths.

I realised with a sour jolt what was happening. The Kasar thought we were Templars. We were about to suffer the same dismal fate as these brutalised men.

I slouched back down over the wolfman’s shoulder. Weak, roasting in my hot clothes, confused and frightened, all hope left me.

We reached the top of the stepped pyramid. At its peak it was surprisingly spacious, and housed an ornate construction of stone and timber which looked like a temple of some kind. From the pyramid’s apex I was afforded an extraordinary view of Port Talaka, a remarkable city which seemed to have been built around, and in competition with, the many distributaries of the Yaro Delta.

I would have traded anything to linger for a while longer, to take in the view, to have some water, to strip out of my hot clothes. Dying was one thing, but dying wretchedly was another entirely. Indeed, our end was going to be particularly unimpressive. In spite of the awesome setting, few had gathered in the square below. They watched us with something approaching indifference, and I wondered how many people had been killed here to arouse such a muted reaction from the commonfolk.

“Please!” Vonvalt was shouting, his voice hoarse. “Let them go! It is me the Emperor is after! My retainers had nothing to do with it! Anything they did was at my command! Release them! I am the only one you want! No one else need die here today, I beg of you!”

He continued on like this. It was clear he considered that word of his disavowal had reached the Kyarai, and that the Kasar – being allies of the Autun – had taken it upon themselves to execute him. But the Kasar either did not understand Saxan, or they did not care. Either way, they ignored him. Still, I was grateful for the attempt.

Vonvalt, von Osterlen and I were wrestled into a corner and forced on to the floor. A moment later, a Savaran Templar was produced from within the structure behind, his face so savagely beaten that his eyes were swollen shut. I almost felt sorry for him as he was manhandled to a stone block and manacled to it. He struggled weakly – though he might as well have been pulling against the roots of a mountain.

We were all shouting now. Even though the man was a Templar and therefore our sworn enemy, it felt very quickly as though we had gone from the forces of secularism versus the forces of religion, to humans versus wolfmen. We begged and pleaded for the man to be released, but we might as well have been begging the sun not to rise. The Kasar nearest the Templar, a black-coated wolfman who wore what looked to be a number of tokens of office – including a breastplate of finely wrought steel – spoke a few guttural words, raised his sword, and beheaded the captive in one swift, brutal chop.

We all fell silent, each of us wretched and stunned. The crowd below let out a desultory cheer as the Templar’s head was thrown down the steps, spinning hair and blood as it tumbled like a loosed cartwheel.

Next to me, von Osterlen quietly prayed for the man’s soul.

Another man was brought forth, another Templar, raving so violently that something ruptured in his throat and gave his voice a peculiar breathy, high-pitched quality.

“Father Claver save me!” were his final words. He was wrestled on to the stone tablet and killed.

I sat in a daze, watching fresh blood cascade down the side of the execution slab. “I can’t believe this is it,” I murmured. The second Templar’s head was tossed aside with such callous disregard that I found my choler rising. The sense of injustice was sudden, incredible and overwhelming. We had done nothing – nothing – and yet here we were being murdered, one by one, as a matter of public spectacle.

My anger boiled over. “Prince of Hell, stop!” I suddenly raged at the Kasar. I found myself, as often happened in these situations, reverting back to the person I had been in Muldau. “How… dare you do this! By what right?!” I demanded.

I achieved nothing except marking myself out as the next victim.

My blood pounded in my ears – blood that would soon be coating the temple steps – as the Kasar grabbed me by my upper arms and pulled me effortlessly over to the stone table. It looked for all the world like a Neman altar. The body of the second Templar had been removed and placed to one side, to be later skewered on a pole like a rotisserie chicken and set in its bracket on the stone steps beneath.

I was too dazed even to scream. We had been in the Kyarai for less than an hour, and here we were, about to be killed. I could not comprehend it. I felt Templar blood soak into my hair as the manacles were affixed around my wrists and ankles. I looked over to Vonvalt and saw him raging with such violent effort that for a few moments I thought he might actually break free. But even if he did, what then? They would cut him down in an instant. The wolfmen stood seven feet tall. They wouldn’t even need swords to do it.

I found myself looking up at a hazy yellow sky, my breath rasping in my throat. The black-coated Kasar stood above me, sword in hand, the armoured segmenta of his breastplate clattering together as he raised his weapon.

I was too dazed to be angry, now, too numb with incomprehension. But I was so weary of everything, of all that had led to this point – the fighting, the constant fear, the crushing weight of our mission – that it almost felt like relief. I did not close my eyes, or shirk from the blade. The only thing that frightened me was knowing that this was not the end.

The scimitar came whistling down—

VII

Empire of the Wolfmen

“To hear the people of Sova speak of Sova you would think it was the only place on the mortal plane worth existing in.”

MIROSLAVA TADIĆ

The blade deviated at the last moment and slammed into the slab with an almighty clang. A chip of stone, the apex of a triangular carving, shot free like a cannonball and scratched my cheek.

For a moment I thought I had been killed. Vonvalt had told me a story once of a man he had beheaded so cleanly that the eyes within the severed head had looked around desperately for a few moments afterwards. I wondered if I, too, had suffered this grim fate; that the scimitar had sliced my head so neatly from my shoulders that my brain had yet to acknowledge I was dead.

Then I heard a man shouting. It was not Vonvalt, but rather someone more distant. It was coming from the base of the stepped pyramid, that guttural merchants’ creole. The man shouted long and loud, over and over again, and – judging by the steadily increasing volume – he was also approaching, moving up the steps of the pyramid.

I looked over to the edge of the platform. Eventually, the man crested the lip. He had originally been a pale-skinned Sovan, though years of living in the sun-baked Kyarai had turned him a permanent reddish-brown, more akin to von Osterlen’s Estran colouring. He looked to be about ten years Vonvalt’s senior, perhaps even older, his hair bleached a pale golden blond. He wore a knee-length tunic fastened at the waist with a belt, from which hung a Kasari scimitar. Whoever he was, he had embraced the ways of the wolfmen entirely, and they in turn appeared to have embraced him.

He reached the top of the stairs, his hands outstretched in supplication. Sweat dripped freely from him, and he took a few moments to catch his breath. Then he resumed his entreaties, this time more calmly. Those of us that remained – me, Vonvalt and von Osterlen, followed this exchange keenly, though I had no idea what I was listening to. I could pick up the odd word in Saxan, spoken incongruously amongst a torrent of harsh nonsense, but that was all.

What was clear was that he was asking for our lives to be spared. It was also clear that the Kasar, although they were clearly unhappy about it, were acquiescing. However, it was not until two more of the wolfmen appeared at the top of the steps, who looked to be part of some official coterie, that I was unchained and released. Von Osterlen immediately moved forward to help me, whilst Vonvalt closed with this welcome arrival.

“What in the name of Nema is going on?” he demanded. He gestured angrily to the executioners’ block. “We could have been murdered!”

“I will explain everything in a moment,” the man said in a very strangely accented Saxan. He looked flustered. “Come, quickly. We need to get you out of sight.”

We were taken to an ostentatious residence on the outskirts of the city. It was a construction of white stone, with intricate timber facings. We arranged ourselves on a large balcony which sat above an acre of water gardens, too shocked and dazed to do anything except sit and drink from cold, sweating glasses of sweet tea garnished with ice. Beyond the gardens was a large stretch of arable farmland where Kasar wearing broad wicker hats tended to the fields, and through the haze I could see distant fortifications which marked the original southern boundary of Port Talaka.

Eventually our saviour reappeared and sat with us. He had in his hand a letter, which he passed wordlessly to Vonvalt. Vonvalt spent a few moments taking in its contents, before nodding and handing it back.

“You are very lucky this reached me,” the man said. “Very few Imperials will brave the Frontier any more, and fewer still will come by the Jade Sea now that Port Talaka is closed to Sovan shipping.”

Vonvalt removed his outer layers, stripping down to his shirt and breeches. “Sir Anzo Amalric,” he said to the man, and the man inclined his head. “This is my clerk, Helena, and my associate, Margrave Severina von Osterlen.”

We both greeted Sir Anzo. Von Osterlen did so cursorily, though I was still reeling from my experience atop the pyramid, and could not help but thank him over and over again for saving my life.

“I only wish that I could have got there sooner,” Sir Anzo said grimly.

Vonvalt rubbed the sweat from his forehead and eyes. “What happened here?” he asked. “Why were we taken to be killed? Has news of my disavowal reached the Kyarai?”

Sir Anzo shook his head, wincing. “’Tis the fault of the Templars – the Savarans from Zetland and Keraq.” Von Osterlen stirred uncomfortably beside me. “Normally they keep out of the Kyarai, and only trouble to throw themselves at Qaresh. But in recent months they have taken to chipping away at the edges.” Sir Anzo shrugged. “The Kasar have had enough. They have closed the borders to Sova, and they kill every Templar they can get their hands on. I’m sorry to say that that includes anyone who looks like a Templar, even if they are not one.”

“You mean we nearly lost our lives due to a misunderstanding?” Vonvalt asked bitterly.

Sir Anzo was not put out by Vonvalt’s confrontational tone. “I suspect so. Though I am surprised they took you to the mordplaak straight away. Did you do anything to antagonise them?”

“Our shipmaster and his crew panicked after they had strung the tow lines. They tried to cut themselves free.”

“That will be it, then,” Sir Anzo said.

Vonvalt scoffed. “It hardly warrants a death sentence.”

Sir Anzo nodded. “I agree. But the Kasar are sick to their back teeth of Templar raids, and of Sova herself. These days it takes but an ember to touch off the barrel.” He gestured to the letter which I guessed – correctly – he had received from Senator Jansen. “You have a difficult task ahead of you.”

“When did these raids begin?” von Osterlen asked quietly.

“I cannot tell you exactly, but they have been going on for some time,” Sir Anzo said. “Like I said, a few months at least.” He seemed to look at her as if suddenly noticing her for the first time. “I have heard of you. You are the Margrave of Südenburg.”

Von Osterlen nodded. “I am not sure I can properly call myself that any more. But yes.”

When she did not continue, Sir Anzo turned back to Vonvalt. “I am sure you have many questions. Come inside, wash, eat, and then we can consider how best to proceed.”

I welcomed the time alone. The experience in the mordplaak had shaken me deeply. I had faced death a number of times in Vonvalt’s service, but there was some quality to death by execution, the combination of anticipation, helplessness, and fear, which when mixed together created a particularly affecting concoction. I found that in the hour or so we were given to bathe and make ourselves decent, I actually sat in a state of near-catatonia, as all the pent-up fear left my system and my nerves unwound.

Eventually, I roused and washed myself in the cool, fragrant water. A servant brought clothes for me, a garment not unlike a kirtle but made of very thin fabric which Sir Anzo had dispatched someone to purchase. The simple process of washing and dressing did a great deal to reset my constitution, and in spite of the morning’s misadventures, I did feel somewhat restored afterwards.

Once I had performed my ablutions I was guided to a dining hall, where platters of food had been set out beneath protective meshes and cloths. Flies were in abundance here, and I watched with fascination as another servant opened a cage and released six tiny lime-green birds into the hall. They immediately made for the rafters, but soon after began to dart down like loosed arrows, snapping the fat black flies out of the air.

“The Kasar call them vliegvangers,” Sir Anzo said from behind me. “Flycatchers. Nema knows you need them in a place like this.”

“What’s a mordplaak?” I asked, reminded of his use of the other Kasari word he’d spoken.

“The pyramid. Once it was a temple, until about a hundred years ago. Now it’s… well, it’s basically the Kasari equivalent of the main watch house in Sova. Who is the sheriff there, by the way? Is it still Keller?”

“Sir Gerold Bertilo,” I said.

Sir Anzo shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

We stood in silence for a moment. “How long have you been here?” I asked him as he moved to join me. He lifted up one of the cloths and began to load a plate with a variety of fresh fruits.

“Oh, much too long,” he said offhandedly. “I came here to squire under Sir Stanislav Perić. Tymoteusz and I were contemporaries. The Empire and the Kasar were much closer under Kzosic III.”

My eyes widened. It seemed impossible to envisage the Empire being helmed by anyone other than Lothar Kzosic IV; but Senator Jansen and Sir Anzo were easily ten or fifteen years older than Vonvalt, and had known a younger, smaller, hungrier empire than I.

“What happened?” I asked, picking up a hunk of yellow sweetbread.

“What always happens. Things change. Relationships are neglected and sour.” Sir Anzo popped a grape into his mouth. “Sova has always been complacent when it comes to the Kasar. It has let the Frontier fray under the Templars. The Emperor is too tied up along the Kova to pay proper attention to what is happening down here.” He poked a finger into the table. “They should never have built Zetland. Nema knows what that castle is supposed to be protecting; at least Südenburg and Keraq guard the pilgrim path. I can think of no earthly excuse for Zetland except as a base of operations for expansion.” He ate another grape. “Certainly that’s what Qareshians think. And I do not think they are wrong.”

It was a strange, isolating sensation, being here in the Kyarai, where Sova was merely a part of the overall picture instead of its focus. I could not hope to begin to understand the complex tangle of allegiances to which the country was subject – a country easily as big as Haunersheim and home to millions of Kasar and Southern Plainsmen. I had barely got to grips with the complexities of political life in Sova. I felt like there was no room in my brain to learn the ways and customs of an entirely new nation.

“I am still not sure I understand the nature of the relationship between the Empire and the Kasar. For example, I know that the Imperial Warden is a Kasar—”

“Kimathi! How is that old dog?’ Sir Anzo erupted. “He used to be one of the best.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sir Anzo paused. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Kimathi is the Warden, the Emperor’s bodyguard,” I said.

Sir Anzo chuckled, and shook his head.

“What?” I asked, annoyed.

“Kimathi is that,” Sir Anzo said. “He also used to be one of the very best spies the Kasar implanted into the Imperial court.”

I did not know what to make of this information.

“Why do the Kasar spy on the Imperial court?” I asked.

Sir Anzo shrugged. “Why not? Would you not?”

I stuck out my lower lip and shook my head. “It would not even cross my mind to.”

Sir Anzo chuckled again, genuinely amused by my naïveté. “The Kasar are big, violent brutes, be under no illusion; but they are at least half human, and have all the conniving guile of humans. Nobody underestimates their physical strength, but those in the Kasaraad are as slippery as any Sovan senator you would care to name. Kimathi, however – well, he hasn’t yielded up much in the way of information these past few years. At least not that I am aware of.”

“Why?”

Sir Anzo shrugged. “Who knows? It might be any number of reasons. Perhaps he is too old and tired for courtly intrigues?”

“I know that feeling,” I muttered.

Sir Anzo scoffed. “Such world weariness! You cannot have more than a brace of decades under your belt?”

Our conversation was cut short as Vonvalt entered the dining hall. He wore a fresh tunic like the one Sir Anzo was wearing, and his hair was wet and brushed back. He took in the spread in front of him, and then picked up a plate and began to pick at the fruit.

“What is your role here, Sir Anzo?” he asked without preamble.

“Oh, I am no ambassador, if that is what you are driving at. Just an old Sovan knight who has outstayed his welcome,” Sir Anzo said breezily, unfazed by Vonvalt’s abruptness.

“A wealthy old Sovan knight,” Vonvalt observed pointedly.

“I have benefited from my time here, I make no bones about that.”

Vonvalt made a show of looking round the hall. “Benefited greatly.”

The corner of Sir Anzo’s mouth quirked upwards as though tugged by a fishing line. “Indeed.”

Vonvalt snorted softly and busied himself with the food again. It was clear Sir Anzo was not going to be drawn on the nature of his business dealings or how they had generated such extraordinary wealth, but I assumed it was because his dealings lay somewhere at the nexus of the mercantile and political. A “grey man”, Vonvalt referred to them as – spies, facilitators, traders in illicit goods and information. An army of such men and women existed within and without the Sovan Empire, greasing the wheels of industry.

“Senator Jansen believes you can assist us,” Vonvalt said.

“Tymoteusz has probably oversold my abilities,” Sir Anzo said immediately. “I would not… trust him overmuch. He has a habit these days of being friends with everyone. Playing out the rope, if you take my meaning.”

But before his meaning could be properly taken, the three of us turned as von Osterlen entered. She, too, had changed, wearing a light kirtle which hugged her muscular body – the effect of which was rather pleasing on the eye.

Vonvalt turned back to Sir Anzo. “I will speak plainly with you. I need an audience with whoever here can get me an army. An army of wolfmen.”

Sir Anzo shook his head. “They will not give you an army,” he said. “They do not have an army to give.”

“What do you mean?” Vonvalt asked sharply. He was acting the way he usually did when he was not the most informed man in the room: defensive to the point of rudeness.

“The Kasar are not like Sovans. They do not spend time, money and effort maintaining large standing armies like the Legions. They are barely a unitary body. The Kyarai is home to fifty dynasties that can be traced to the Cataclysm, and they each have a seat at the Kasaraad by right.”

“Nonsense,” Vonvalt said, to Sir Anzo’s surprise and amusement. “Who defends their borders, then?”

“Each dynasty has armed retainers, naturally, and Port Talaka has a group responsible for the city’s security – which I would compare more to a constabulary than an army. But the only moderately cohesive force is the Grasvlaktekraag, and they are engaged.”

“And where are they?”

“The northern border of the Kyarai, a stone’s throw from Randshut. The only thing approaching what you need. The Kasaraad ordered its formation when the Templars began to stray into Kasari territory.”

Vonvalt massaged his temples. “What of their fighting qualities?” he asked, failing to keep the disappointment from his voice. This whole trip south was beginning to feel like a fool’s errand.

“You have seen Kimathi fight?”

“I have seen Kimathi cut a man in half,” Vonvalt remarked.

Sir Anzo sat back. “Well, that at least is the good news – and the reason I expect Tymoteusz sent you to me. A single Kasar is worth a half-dozen Sovan knights in plate, ten men at arms – shit, a hundred conscripted peasants. They are beasts of war, Sir Konrad, devastating killers. It is as well they are concerned only with the Kyarai; as an expeditionary army, they would be the better of any Legion.”

Vonvalt rubbed his chin. “Nema, that is what I need,” he said wistfully. Vonvalt slapped a fist into his open palm. “You must help me, Sir Anzo. A force of Kasar, this ‘Grasvlaktekraag’, could mean the difference between success and annihilation.”

Sir Anzo shook his head. “The Kasaraad will not allow it.”

“If I explain the situation, explain that the Templars are our common enemy—”

“It matters not how silver your tongue, you have no authority, Sir Konrad. You are no longer a Justice. You have been declared persona non grata by the Imperial Court.”

“The Kasar do not know that.”

“I shouldn’t count on it.”

Vonvalt considered this for a moment. “There must be someone who isn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Persona non grata. There must be a Sovan representative here. Someone who can argue in my stead as a proxy. Give the whole thing legitimacy.”

“The appearance of legitimacy,” Sir Anzo corrected, still unhappy.

Vonvalt waved him off irritably. “You are thinking about this much too rigidly.”

“That is not something I am often accused of.”

“Sir Anzo—”

“Just – I take the point,” the old knight interrupted, sensibly cutting off Vonvalt before he received an earful. “I am not saying it is impossible; but you will need a way to verify your story. They will not just go along with you. If you can convince them that this is not some ruse, that the Empire is in danger from malevolent extradimensional forces, that the Grasvlaktekraag isn’t going to goad the Legions into storming down here on some pretext of self-defence—”

“Evidence. They require evidence. I understand the point you are making.”

Von Osterlen and I exchanged a glance. She rolled her eyes subtly.

Sir Anzo sighed. He clacked his tongue as he thought for a moment. “I have in mind a way you might bolster your case in a way the Kasaraad is likely to respond to.” He thought again for a few moments. “I am not sure in the circumstances it is wise—”

“What is it?” Vonvalt demanded.

“Kimathi. If they can speak with him, infiltrate his dreams using the arcana—”

“Who is ‘they’? Be specific.”

Sir Anzo, who clearly had not been spoken to in this way for many years, shot Vonvalt a look of profound irritation. Nonetheless, he said, “The Kasar are not religious in the same way as the Sovans. But they have something akin to the Neman Church – or rather, specifically, the College of Prognosticators. It is a… spiritual body, a group of Kasar who have taken it upon themselves to keep the practice of pagan magicks alive within the Kyarai. It is called the Spiritsraad. Much like the College, it is an organisation shrouded in secrecy.”

“And you think they can commune with Kimathi? By infiltrating his dreams? How precisely can they do that?”

“Precisely? I do not know. And I am not sure anyone truly knows. Not even the Magistratum,” he added pointedly, and continued on quickly before Vonvalt could argue. “But I understand that in Saekan, sleep is known as the klyada; the—”

“—Minor death,” Vonvalt murmured. He paused. “You are speaking of the City of Sleep.”

Sir Anzo cocked his head. “You have heard of it?”

“Only in a vague and academic sense.”

“Justice August has contacted me through my dreams before,” I said. “Speaking across dimensions. Using the afterlife as a means of communication.”

Sir Anzo gestured to me. “There you have it.”

“What is the City of Sleep?” von Osterlen asked.

Vonvalt looked at Sir Anzo, but the latter shrugged. “I know it only by name.”

“It is a liminal dimension,” Vonvalt said. “Limbo. It sits somewhere between the afterlife and the mortal plane, in the same way the Tree of Death did.”

“You have not been there?” von Osterlen asked.

“Not with any lucidity. I am given to understand we all go there when we sleep. But it has never formed part of my practice. There are those within the Order who consider its existence apocryphal.” He gestured to Sir Anzo. “Evidently not.”

“I can only go on what the shamans tell me,” he said elusively.

Vonvalt stroked his beard in thought. He did not look pleased. “How is it you intend to bend this ‘Spiritsraad’ to your will? Why would they listen to you? What are you to them?”

Sir Anzo considered his next words carefully. “I happen to have a very unique and direct link to the heart of it. Recently I have spoken to several of its members about an increase in activity in the afterlife. The practitioners here in Port Talaka are convinced something… how did they express it? Consequential is taking place.”

Vonvalt, von Osterlen and I all traded uneasy looks. Had the ripples from our recent misadventures in the Northmark of Haunersheim been felt all the way down here in the Kyarai?

“Does this spiritual council have any sway with the Kasaraad?” Vonvalt asked eventually.

“They are not supposed to, but they do. The Spiritsraad is not without its adherents. But here in the Kyarai, the use of magicks is seen as dangerous, a practice that has outstayed its welcome. The Kasar are keen to distance themselves from the accident of their birth. They wish to modernise. The temples remain, but they are secular buildings now. They integrate with other cultures. You will find many a Southern Plainsman and Zyrahn and Qareshian here. Hell, there used to be plenty of Sovans too, though they have dwindled in number.”

“Yet you persist. Indeed, not only do you persist, but you occupy a place of great prestige and confidence,” Vonvalt remarked.

“By virtue of my contact within the Spiritsraad, yes,” Sir Anzo allowed.

“And how did that come about? You are not a sanctioned practitioner of the arcana,” Vonvalt said, leaning a little on the word ‘sanctioned’.

Sir Anzo spent another long moment considering his words. “I am a facilitator, of sorts. I deal in matters which the Kasar themselves would prefer not to. Matters that they consider themselves above.”

Vonvalt scoffed at the man’s continued obfuscation. By this point it was irritating all of us. “Blood of Gods, man, out with it!”

But still Sir Anzo would not be drawn. “It is probably easier if I show you. But I warn you, Sir Konrad. It is not for the faint of heart.”

Vonvalt smiled thinly. “Sir Anzo, there is nothing left on this mortal plane that can faze me.”

“We shall see. Come.”

Sir Anzo took us out of the city. We boarded a luxurious wagon with an awning to protect us from the early afternoon heat, which was drawn by several huge, horned, horse-like creatures I had never seen before. A Plainsman drove the wagon, whilst Sir Anzo, acclimated to the same level of luxury a Sovan senator would be, relaxed behind him.

We exited through the red stone fortifications, a high and thick gatehouse guarded by Kasari bowmen, and out into a grass plain that was heavily irrigated and turned over to agriculture. I watched as Kasar and Plainsmen worked in the fields; they turned to observe this collection of pale-skinned foreigners with interest and suspicion. Whatever Sir Anzo was to these people, it was not a figure of trust and confidence.

We travelled for about an hour. The Kyarai baked in the afternoon sun, a country of vast, hot grassland filled with huge herds of roaming beasts. I could see small walled settlements on the horizon, squat houses of clay and timber and the occasional stepped pyramid, but those were lesser cousins of the gigantic mordplaak we had seen in Port Talaka, more akin to shrines than temples. I wondered what use the Kasar had for these relics – if they truly had forsaken their ancestral religion.

Eventually we came to a place of fractured earth, where the grassland gave way to a sudden ravine of dusty red rock. It lay at the nadir of a natural defilade, concealing it from much of the rest of the plains. At the end closest to us was a pair of Kasar, playing a game that looked a bit like Sovan schach with intricately carved ivory pieces. They looked up to see our cart, and quickly retrieved their weapons, but Sir Anzo placated them with an outstretched hand. He dismounted and spoke to them in Kasari as we approached, and they responded in kind, their lupine eyes fixed on Vonvalt, von Osterlen and I the entire time.

I saw then that an access had been cut into the closest part of the ravine, a narrow and treacherous staircase. Sir Anzo exchanged further words with the guards, and then led us down into that shaded scar in the earth. It filled me with a sense of foreboding.

“What is this place?” Vonvalt asked.

“You shall see for yourself in a moment,” Sir Anzo said.

The ravine reminded me of quarantine colonies one could find on the coastal islands in the Grall Sea, places where men and women who had contracted foreign poxes were corralled into miniature societies and left to rot. But it would shortly turn out to be much worse than that.

As we descended I began to hear noises. At first I thought I was hearing the barking of plains wolves, and then I thought I could hear the crying of babes. Neither was right; but neither was entirely wrong, either.

As we reached the bottom, and my eyes adjusted to the gloom, the truth was laid bare.

“In the name of holy Nema,” von Osterlen breathed behind me.

In that pit lay dozens of human-wolf hybrids. The permutations were random and grotesque; an immobile human baby with canine legs; a child of five or six years with a hairless human head horribly deformed into the shape of a wolf’s; dozens of other combinations, some crying out pitifully, others sitting or lying catatonically.

“Blood of gods,” I whispered.

“The Cataclysm created the Kasar, of course, but it was not nearly so neat with all its other creations. Most of the runts died quickly, but tainted bloodlines persist,” Sir Anzo said, as though leading us amongst a collection of curios in a great hall.

Sir Konrad followed him between the hybrids, his face a mask of distaste. “And you husband them here,” he said, conspicuously avoiding a pile of excrement.

“I do.” Sir Anzo gestured further down the ravine, where the red rock turned a corner. “There is more that way – breeding pens, fodder stores, and the like. I leave instructions for them to be allowed to take the air, such as it is, for as much of the day as possible.”

I felt like crying as I moved amongst the pathetic creatures. Few things had filled me with such profound melancholy as these cast-offs.

“To what end?” von Osterlen demanded, appalled.

“You must know that the only way to access the afterlife is via séance,” Sir Anzo said. He seemed untroubled by this criminal enterprise; perhaps not criminal in the sense of the laws of the Kyarai, but a crime against nature, by any measure.

“You use them as anchors for the Nyrsanar Navi,” Vonvalt remarked. He looked displeased in a general sense, but did not seem to share the shock and outrage that both von Osterlen and I felt.

“Indeed,” Sir Anzo said. He knelt down and picked up one of the runts with the same careless expertise a farmer might handle a calf.

“But performing a séance only works after the destruction of a human consciousness,” Vonvalt said. He could not keep the interest from his voice. I should not have been surprised; Vonvalt had murdered a prisoner in Rekaburg for no other reason than to teach me about the Nyrsanar Navi. But that man had been a coward and a deserter. This… this was something else. As someone who had spent the early years of my own life at the mercy of others, his callousness towards these creatures angered me.

“They are bred to ensure they retain a nascent consciousness. I strive to keep their level of awareness just over the threshold of human thought. It has taken many years to achieve these results with regularity, but I have reached the point now where I can provide the Spiritsraad with a viable sacrifice nine times out of every ten.”

“What happens to the tenth?” von Osterlen asked.

“Private buyers.”

“And they pay you handsomely for this service,” Vonvalt remarked. “The Spiritsraad?”

Sir Anzo nodded. “It is not where I saw my life leading, but it is where it has led. The Kasar pay me well, and keep me safe. Where many other Sovans have been driven out of Port Talaka, I have remained. Thrived, I daresay.”

“I’m not sure I have ever been as disgusted as I am now,” von Osterlen said, helplessly casting her eyes about at each pitiable hybrid. “The red hand of Kasivar is writ large here.” She jabbed a finger at the nearest. “This is evil work.”

Sir Anzo weathered this invective with the world-weariness of a man who has long traded away his shame. I saw in him then a prisoner of circumstance, a once proud member of the Chivalric Order of the Autun, now stuck down a dead-end tributary of the temporal pathway, locked in his role as purveyor of abominations by chains wrought of the finest gold. All his wealth and status in the Kyarai meant nothing to him, but he hadn’t the courage to break free.

“They are witless,” Sir Anzo said. “They feel no pain. They drink a concoction each morning that dulls their senses. Do not think of them as conscious beings.”

“I would not treat cattle in this way!” von Osterlen shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the ravine.

“Calm yourself,” Vonvalt snapped. “We have much more than this to trouble ourselves with. And besides, would it be better to sacrifice a living, breathing human, or Kasar, in their stead?”

“But what is the point of it? Why even do it at all? It is grotesque!”

“Why do the Northmen listen to the ground around fire mountains? Why do the Stygion dive down deep when the waves suddenly retreat from the beach? The wise do well to monitor the world around them. Why should the afterlife be any different?”

“It would be better to abandon this shabby enterprise entirely,” von Osterlen muttered angrily.

Sir Anzo shrugged, bolstered by Vonvalt’s consequentialism. “My lady, I can assure you that much worse things are afoot in the world than this.”

Von Osterlen fixed him in the eye. “There is only one man in the known world that I would wish this fate on, and it is you,” she said. Then she turned, and made her way back up the stairs.

Vonvalt looked at me, perhaps searching for another ally, but I would not meet his gaze. My thoughts aligned entirely with those of von Osterlen’s. I just wished I had been more shocked. Necromancy had always been a difficult, haunting and energy-consuming task for Vonvalt. He could see little except the practical benefits of Sir Anzo’s solution.

“We cannot shy away from using every tool at our disposal to stop Claver,” Vonvalt said to Sir Anzo, though I had the feeling it was for my benefit.

Sir Anzo nodded, though he seemed to have regretted bringing us here. He kept the hybrid in his hands, and together the three of us exited the ravine after von Osterlen. She was sitting in the back of the cart, her arms folded, and she did not speak to any of us for the rest of the day.

Sir Anzo wrapped the hybrid in a blanket and fed it something that made it docile to the point of catatonic. He placed it in a special container next to him at the front of the cart, a strongbox perforated with holes. That such a small and pathetic creature was about to cause us so much traumatic horror that very night was unthinkable.

The driver whipped the huge horse-like creatures and we began the long journey back to Sir Anzo’s residence.

“I want no part in this,” I said quietly as we travelled across the grass plains, bathed in the afternoon sunlight.

“Nema, and you think I do?!” Vonvalt retorted in a sudden surge of anger, and we lapsed to silence.

VIII

Death and Horror in the City of Sleep

“It is not only Sova which concerns herself with the exploration of the holy dimensions. There are plenty of other practitioners of what we refer to as the ‘Draedist arcana’. Hitherto these interdimensional argonauts have not crossed paths, but I foresee a time in which entire wars will be fought for the right to control access to the afterlife.”

FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S TREATISE, PENITENT EMPIRE

We spent a few hot and restless hours back in Sir Anzo’s manse. I took my leave of the group at the earliest opportunity and returned to my chamber. There I lay on my bed, trying and failing to forget about the hybrids I had seen lying catatonically in that ravine.

The stress and heat of the day had conspired to exhaust me, and in spite of my sour mood I eventually dozed off. I jolted awake a few hours later having dreamt exclusively of the wolfchild mutants, to find it was dusk. Outside, plains wolves barked in the hot twilight air.

“Miss Sedanka, you are summoned,” a servant called gently from the doorway. “Your presence is requested downstairs.”

“I’m coming,” I said blearily, dry-mouthed and perspiring in the stuffy chamber.

After I had taken my bearings, I made my way downstairs, to find Vonvalt, Sir Anzo and von Osterlen preparing to leave in the entrance hall.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“We go to the Spiritsraad,” Sir Anzo said.

“Now? Already?”

“Yes. There is no sense in waiting,” Vonvalt said.

“I told you I wanted no part in this,” I said.

“None of us do!” von Osterlen snapped. “Grow up, girl.”

“You’ve changed your fucking tune!” I snapped back at her; a vertiginous sense of rage washed through me.

Von Osterlen’s eyes widened. My anger caught her – and everyone else – completely off guard.

“Yes, well,” she muttered in the silence that followed. She did not meet my eye, and when she spoke, it was unhappily. “Sir Konrad has been at pains this afternoon to emphasise the necessity of this work.”

“I’ll bloody say,” I remarked, but I was already embarrassed by my outburst, and pleased this nascent confrontation had died. Still, a part of me wished the margrave had shouted back.

“You know we do not have time for these histrionics, Helena,” Vonvalt said wearily, though it felt forced. “I need everyone with me.” He tapped his breastbone. “Hearts of iron.”

This had the unwelcome effect of reminding me of my own breastbone, and the tattoo of Aegraxes that was branded on the skin there. Was this, too, part of his broader plan? Was I a piece on an aethereal board, currently being manoeuvred to a model of the Spiritsraad? I wondered what Vonvalt had said to von Osterlen. Would he have broached the topic forcefully, or gently? Would he have leant on her sense of logic? Realpolitik? Or would he have confected some clever argument which appealed to her piety? I imagined him lecturing her as he had done in Haunersheim, speaking on the importance of trading away some of our high-minded ideals. He would use phrases which had for him become trite – hearts of iron or stone, a rough time filled with rough deeds, tangled matters and tangled outcomes. Had von Osterlen relented because she accepted his arguments, or because she had grown sick of hearing them?

Whatever had happened, I had lost my only ally, and with it my desire to force a confrontation. Vonvalt still had the power to compel me – not literally, with the Emperor’s Voice, but emotionally. I remained, in spite of our growing distance, in his thrall. And besides, a small but vocal part of me felt as he did; that there was no scope for these petty reservations. That in order to survive, we had to throw ourselves into this grubby grey world with gusto, knowing that to fail with clean hands was worse than succeeding with dirty ones; knowing that to adopt the tools and methods of our enemy was the right thing to do if done in furtherance of an ultimate good. That was our sacrifice. We compromised our souls so that others could see the world through eyes unclouded by moral failure.

In any event, I knew that if I refused to go, they would go without me. What could that represent except our permanently parting ways? I could not tolerate that.

“Fine,” I said.

“Fine?” Vonvalt asked.

“Yes. What choice is there?”

Vonvalt opened his mouth, and then closed it again. After a while, he muttered to Sir Anzo, “Let’s get on with it.”

We exited the residence and climbed into the same wagon we had used to visit the hybrids, and made our way into Port Talaka. We crossed over the many strands of the Yaro Delta and cut in westward, to where the city rose up, the striking geometric architecture, hanging gardens and stone idols forming one vast shallow pyramid, as though the whole city were some meta-temple.

In the centre of Port Talaka were two massive stepped pyramids of red stone. The first, which was crowned with a striking building wrought of white marble and which caught the last of the day’s sunlight like a goblet of blood, was the Kasaraad, home to the conclave of dynasties which governed the Kyarai. The other, which lay across from it via a flat stone boulevard a quarter of a mile across, was the Spiritsraad, a huge domed temple of obsidian black, which had at its apex the “Blood Eye” – the largest ruby in the known world.

Sir Anzo conversed with the guards at the foot of the Spiritsraad, and they let us pass without incident.

“You cannot speak Kasarsprek, so you are unlikely to make any faux pas,” he said as we began to ascend. “If in doubt, bow and show deference; they understand that that is a mark of respect from a human. You can always follow my lead if you are wanting for something to do.”

The Kasar were naturally much taller than humans, and their steps were commensurately higher. The ascent to the top of the Spiritsraad was a punishing climb, and even in the late evening the heat was intense in the Kyarai. By the time we summited the temple, half an hour had passed, and I was not the only one dripping with sweat. Of all of us, von Osterlen, by far the fittest thanks to her lengthy military career, was the only one who had managed the climb without stopping.

I looked up at the black temple. It was an intricate drum-shape of marble and obsidian, much larger than it had looked on our approach from the east of the city. I craned my neck, though I could not see the Blood Eye from where we stood.

Once again, Sir Anzo conversed with the guards who stood at the entrance to the temple. They were both black-coated and wore heavy ceremonial armour and long robes of white silk. I watched Sir Anzo show them the runt, which they viewed with obvious disgust; then one of them disappeared inside the building and returned a few moments later with another Kasar who, even to my untrained eye, was clearly some kind of priest.

“Come on,” Sir Anzo said to us quietly, and in we went.

Beyond the threshold was a polished floor of cream-coloured stone shot through with veins of emerald, whilst a ring of intricately carved idols, each easily thirty feet tall, held up the vast domed ceiling. In the centre of the main chamber was a massive statue wrought from onyx, which depicted an armoured Kasar wearing a grotesque iron mask and wielding a gigantic halberd. I tried to think why I was so struck by the statue – beyond its obvious impressiveness as a work of art – until I realised that it was the spitting image of the Imperial Warden.

“It could be a statue of Kimathi,” I murmured to no one in particular.

“It might as well be,” Sir Anzo said, speaking over his shoulder. “The Imperial Warden is historically taken from the Hyernakryger, the guardians of the Spiritsraad. This statue is of Salamatu, a well-known warrior demigod of Kasar legend.”

“So these Hyernakryger,” I attempted, butchering the pronunciation. “They are like Kasari Templars?”

The warrior priest who was chaperoning us growled his displeasure at the mention of the Savarans. I wondered how much Saxan they could understand. The answer, as it would transpire, was both more than I thought and less than I hoped.

“An ill-advised comparison, but an apt one,” Sir Anzo said in a low voice.

We were taken into a small chapel. We had arrived unannounced, so nothing had been prepared. Sir Anzo bade us wait, and accompanied the Kasari priest back out of the chamber, doubtless to corral whoever was required for the communion with Kimathi.

“Once more into the abyss,” Sir Konrad muttered, sitting down carelessly on what could well have been a chest containing holy relics. “If nothing else it will be interesting to see how the Kasar do it.”

I was not given long to ruminate on it. A short while later, a small conclave of Kasar appeared. I recognised these wizened creatures for what they were: their stooped bearing, greying fur and fussy, bookish auras immediately marked them out as holy men and women. They conversed with Sir Anzo at the same time as removing the hybrid from the chest he had brought in a brisk, business-like manner. If there was any anger or confusion at our unanticipated arrival, then none of the shamans gave any hint of it. Perhaps they relished the opportunity to exercise their powers. It made sense that Sir Anzo would limit the number of sacrificial mutants and so drive up their price.

One of the Kasar placed the runt in a broad metal bowl on an altar in the centre of the chamber. The thing mewled, and I felt an awful mixture of revulsion and pity for it.

“The Dwelkspreker is saying that the… kraakbyan, the…” Sir Anzo snapped his fingers impatiently as he thought of the word in Saxan. “The fabric between planes – is thin. They have noticed it these past few weeks, especially on the Frontier.”

“It was the same in Haunersheim,” Vonvalt said. “Claver’s meddling, and his demonic patronage, is awakening forces that have long been dormant.”

Sir Anzo wrinkled his lip. He listened to the priests speak for a little longer. “They are worried,” he murmured, and I felt my gut sour. “Something is not right.”

“You have explained to them our task?” Vonvalt asked.

“Yes, to make contact with the Imperial Warden and learn the truth of the turmoil in Sova,” Sir Anzo said.

“It is not only that. I need the Kasaraad to give us an army to stop the Templars,” Vonvalt said impatiently.

Sir Anzo held out both of his hands. “I know that,” he said. “But that comes later. The shamans can’t help you with that.”

“It is important context!”

“Peace, Sir Konrad. Matters are in hand.”

Vonvalt pursed his lips. Around us, preparations were made for the séance. This was not the hard-headed and pragmatic preparation I was used to seeing from a world-weary member of the Magistratum. This had a much more superstitious, spiritual feel to it, the sort of preparations a charlatan psychic might make. Candles and incense were lit, whilst Sir Anzo bade us form a circle, linking hands. The Dwelkspreker chanted in a low voice, whilst another Kasar next to her held a medallion in the same way Bressinger had done. I felt another jolt of melancholy at the thought of my old friend.

The Dwelkspreker – evidently the leader of the conclave – said something to Sir Anzo, who turned to us. “We must not break the circle—”

“We know,” Vonvalt snapped, immediately irritated, as he got whenever he felt he was being condescended to.

Sir Anzo sighed and nodded to the Dwelkspreker. She resumed her incantation, and with a sharp, curved dagger, sliced the throat of the runt in the metal bowl. It was a single, deep incision, and the thing died immediately.

I closed my eyes, for I did not want to watch it die; but then I felt the ground shift beneath me, and when I opened them again, the inside of the Spiritsraad had disappeared. In spite of what Vonvalt had said, I still expected to see the Plain of Burden below as we descended – but of course, Kimathi was not dead, and we were not travelling there.

Instead, we were taken to a different place.

I squinted as it resolved. To my surprise, it was an actual city – a city of drab grey, brown and black stone, a place of absolute and profound silence sitting beneath a sick yellow sky. Scattered about were huge black obelisks easily two or three hundred feet tall, and as we approached the streets I saw vast, milky eyes open in the centre of each one. The eyeballs rolled and turned and squirmed desperately; they held the city in their ghastly gaze, wretched mute sentinels.

This was a dimension where the conscious human mind had no place: the City of Sleep, one of the astral planes where, every night, millions of sleeping souls went. Where I went. This was the realm of the klyada, as the Kasar would call it, the “minor death”, the unconscious, liminal threshold between life and the afterlife. In every one of the buildings beneath us – and the city appeared to be limitless – lay a sleeping soul.

We moved, propelled by incantation, until we reached a low, dim chamber which contained the spectral form of Kimathi. He lay not on a bed, but a stone slab inscribed with runes which pulsed with dull pink light. We stood around his prostrate form like assassins. There was something so unsettling about the process, knowing that I myself experienced this terrifying vulnerability every time I closed my eyes at night. Even Vonvalt, as learned as it was possible to be in the Draedist arcana – at least from the perspective of the Imperial Magistratum, a syllabus which seemed increasingly inadequate – knew very little of this place.

The Dwelkspreker laid a hand on Kimathi’s chest and spoke softly. Kimathi did not start when awoken, like I had expected him to. Instead, he seemed to remain in a trancelike state, as the Kasar spoke to and questioned him. I knew not what they said, though the conversation went on for a while.

Time passed, and my unease grew. I felt like a spy in a foreign castle.

“Do you hear that?” I asked von Osterlen next to me. I could hear a low pulsing sound over the raging silence, something which I had initially taken to be my own heartbeat.

The Dwelkspreker looked briefly over her shoulder, lupine lips pulled back in disapproval.

“Shh!” Sir Anzo hissed. I looked at him sharply, and he pressed his index finger to his lips. “Do not speak,” he whispered.

I looked past him to Vonvalt, but he himself was too focused on the questioning of Kimathi to pay attention.

I wanted to leave now. My gut churned with a feeling of irresistible urgency. Desperate for a distraction, I turned to my left and saw a square window there cut into the wall. The view beyond was not much to look at, simply a cobbled street and a row of silent grey buildings. I examined their surface, trying to find some detail to focus on—

And then I heard something else. It sounded like a breath, or the beginnings of a whisper.

Frowning, I looked across to Sir Anzo.

“You must leave!” came the urgent whisper again.

I turned sharply, expecting to see some sort of spectral form loitering in the window frame – but again, there was nothing.

My skin roughed with gooseflesh. The feeling of unease, that quiet, subtle dread that had not left me since our arrival, increased tenfold.

I turned once again to Vonvalt, but he did not look back to me. He did not speak Kasari either, but continued to watch the proceedings with great interest. He gave no indication that he had heard the voice, and nor did anybody else.

I was about to speak in spite of Sir Anzo’s injunction, when the disembodied whisper came again, even more urgent this time. “You must leave! He is coming!”

Now I fancied that I saw, for the briefest of moments, a rook flitting through the air outside the window. I took several quick steps towards it and looked across the rooftops of that horrible, dead city. I saw, in the distance, one of the large black obelisks.

It was staring directly at me.

“Run! Get out now! He is coming!” the voice shrieked.

I clambered back from the window and turned to Vonvalt. “We need to go!” I shouted. Everyone turned angrily to me, until the sudden sound of running, thumping footsteps filled the street outside.

“Run! Run!” the voice screamed hoarsely, and I saw the alabaster form of Ghessis as he charged down the cobbles towards us.

It was like being faced by an inescapable landslide. My body went rigid, my face scrunched up, and I waited for the inevitable—

And then I was being whisked away from the chamber by incantation, being propelled through the air whilst behind us Ghessis charged, his giant form unhindered by the buildings underfoot. He let out a bloodcurdling, animalistic roar which burst free of his grotesque iron mask like an explosion of seawater against a cliff.

We fled. But for however long we flew above that horrible metropolis – a never-ending city of the sleeping dead that felt more purgatorial than the Plain of Burden itself – Ghessis was behind us, rampaging across the buildings.

Everyone was shouting something. The Kasar conversed madly in their guttural tongue, whilst Vonvalt shouted frantic instructions at Sir Anzo to pass on to the shamans, though the latter was so insensible with fear that he might as well have been a lump of wood. Von Osterlen, veteran of dozens of battles and skirmishes and margrave of one of the most important Templar castles on the Frontier, was mute with fear. Our misadventure with Lady Frost and the dreadport had done nothing to prepare us for this fresh horror.

Other presences now began to manifest around us. The air began to perforate like a sheet of paper held over a flame. Creatures poured into the City of Sleep like flies, thousands of them dragging their way through rents in the aether. They clawed their way towards us, wingless, faceless, leathery black beasts, gripping handfuls of air as though it were physical matter.

Vonvalt turned to me. “Helena! I’m going to send you back!”

“What are you going to do?!” I screamed.

“I cannot leave the Kasar here, I need to make sure that they return! Without them we will never stop Claver on the mortal plane!”

“No! You will not!” a familiar voice called to us, and cackled madly.

We turned. In the centre of the swarm of demons we saw Bartholomew Claver. He floated through the aether like a sorcerer king, his skin death-white, runes glowing above his bald scalp. Behind him, a rent in the air afforded a tantalising glimpse of an appalling plane of existence, a blasted landscape of blood and bone, and at its centre a huge complex of obsidian black ziggurats and temples chaotically arranged in mind-bending geometric constellations. A maelstrom of dark and malign energies bled through the rent in the fabric of space, giving Claver a corona of black light.

“It will take more than a few dog-men to stop me, Sir Konrad,” Claver said. His voice was in our heads, in my ears, buzzing in my brain like flies on a bloated corpse. The demons rampaged forwards, and behind them Ghessis. In moments it would be over, and we would be flung into whatever hellish dimension existed beyond the City of Sleep. Or perhaps we would simply be violently discorporated. It was difficult to know which was better.

“Stop this insanity!” Vonvalt shouted. “There is still time to stop this!”

“Time? The threads of time are converging! The temporal pathways lead to only one place. See for yourself!”

We looked below as the streets suddenly filled with an army, a procession of armoured warriors with none of the rabid insanity of the creatures that chased us, but instead with the grim, malign countenance of demonic soldiers.

Ghessis released another angry roar. He was so close his hand could only have been a few dozens of feet from me, a hand the size of my body. I screeched in fear—

—And then I was somewhere else. Somewhere familiar. A castle chamber, the view through its windows nothing except blue sky and bands of puffy white cloud. Honey-coloured light spoke of a late afternoon, insofar as time existed in this place.

Aegraxes stood before the window, his back turned to me. His robes had changed; he wore a toga of white and cloth-of-gold, stark against his lacquer-black skin. I noticed he wore a silver chain around his neck that reminded me of the Oleni medallion Vonvalt wore during his séances. The castle chamber was bare, as though it had been ransacked.

“What a mess you have got yourselves into,” Aegraxes said, not turning. His voice was clear in the leaden air, as though he had spoken directly in my ear.

I looked about the place, breathless with fear and confusion, my nerves still tightly wound, my sanity wounded. “Wh-what am I doing here? What happened?” My hand went to my chest where Aegraxes had left his mark on me. It pulsed painfully. Was it some sort of psychic beacon? A marker, which Aegraxes could latch on to and draw me to his enclave at will?

“Your master has dismissed you from the City of Sleep. I wanted to speak to you, before you return to the land of the living. I am sorry to say a rather hellish experience awaits you in the Spiritsraad.”

I shook my head, trying to blink away my confusion. “Please, I-I don’t understand—”

“Claver is right. The temporal pathway is narrowing as the threads of time converge. His ascendancy is becoming more likely with every day that passes.”

“What does it matter?” I asked helplessly. “What does it matter who rules the Empire of the Wolf when an entire army of demons is on the march?”

“The mortal and immortal planes are intricately and inextricably linked. I cannot explain matters to you without risking an adverse outcome. But know, Helena, that our enemy has found in Bartholomew Claver a man of unique drive and talent. The temporal pathway always strives to consolidate and align, and Fate does not care whether that alignment brings good or evil to our dimensions. It is capricious.”

“Ghessis? Is that who you mean? Our enemy?”

Aegraxes shook his head. “Ghessis is the Gatekeeper of Purgatory. He will track you for as long as you go where you are not supposed to. He is nothing more than a hunting dog. No. I am talking about something much worse. A being of great malignance.”

“Sir Konrad always told me that there was no good or evil in the afterlife. Just entities that are so vast as to be unknowable.”

“Well, Sir Konrad was wrong,” Aegraxes said simply. He held out his hand, and a rook fluttered down and perched on his finger. He brought the bird inside, and in the blink of an eye, Justice Resi August was standing in front of me.

“Lady August!” I breathed.

“We do not have much time,” she said. She looked agitated, her face flushed. She spoke quickly to Aegraxes. “Our enemy is on the move. They have broken into the Izmyesta. Claver was in the City.”

“I know,” Aegraxes said quietly. “An unexpected development. His patron bestows great gifts.”

“Claver is following Ghessis. He knows he needs to kill me in order—”

“Peace,” Aegraxes said, holding up a hand. He nodded to me. “I do not want to disrupt the temporal pathway. I can still see a way through.”

Now Lady August looked at me as well. “Can we tell her nothing? Our Lady is making preparations. The risk seems slight.”

When Aegraxes spoke, it was to me. “Helena, help is coming. You are not alone. Claver moves on Sova, but you knew that already. You must go back there, and soon. A way forward will present itself – a volume of esoteric lore hitherto overlooked.”

I frowned at this. “A volume of esoteric lore?”

Aegraxes exchanged a look with Justice August. “That is all I dare say. We cannot risk collapsing the pathway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The answers lie in Sova. Go, now. And steel yourself; fresh horror awaits.”

“Wait!” I shouted, but my chest pulsed painfully, and then I was gone.

I awoke to find myself draped over Vonvalt’s shoulders, being carried out of the chapel and back into the main chamber of the Spiritsraad.

“What is going on?” I mumbled, my mind cloudy with confusion. It was the same feeling as being shocked awake from a deep sleep in the middle of the night.

Vonvalt immediately put me down, and my feet hit the marble of the floor – hard. I saw that he had his sword in his hand, and it was marked with streaks of fresh blood. Only then did I register the screams coming from the chapel.

Vonvalt looked at me, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. His face was dripping with sweat and his hair was lank and crazed.

“Claver!” he shouted.

My attention was stolen as the door to the chapel smashed open on its hinges. The runt which had been used for the Nyrsanar Navi burst through the door. It was no longer the size of a weak infant; it was the size of a huge Kasar, a horrifying mutant creature of bloated, twisted sinews and bulging, irregular body parts. Amid its thrashing limbs and shrieking, snarling maw, I saw, nestled somewhere about its chest, the head of Bartholomew Claver, crowning from the writhing tissue like the birth of an unholy infant.

“Holy Nema,” I breathed.

The creature crackled with corposant light as it charged at us. Vonvalt shoved me roughly out of its path and rolled to the side, seeking and failing to score a hit as it barrelled past. Its claws scratched and clattered against the marble as it sought to arrest its momentum, and then before either Vonvalt or I had a chance to take stock, it was charging back towards us again.

The second head – the Claver head – was spouting complete lunacy. I had no idea what this hellish beast was, this mutated mockery of life, but it was clear that the priest was puppeteering it and likely from a great physical distance. The runt, like an overfilled wineskin, had been stuffed full of dark energy from the afterlife, its limbs lengthened and enlarged, its demeanour transformed from a pathetic, mewling cub to that of a demented and enraged wild beast.

It thrashed its way towards Vonvalt again. A huge hand the size of a platter swung at Vonvalt’s head, which he ducked inexpertly. He managed to cut the creature’s hand with his short sword, and I watched as one of its talons flew off into the air, leaving an arc of ichor in its wake. The blood hissed and sizzled where it touched the holy stones of the Spiritsraad, offending the place with its very existence.

The creature screeched, clutching its ruined hand, clumsily rolling over several times before crashing into one of the pillars in the central chamber. Moments later, Kasar spilled out of the chapel, one of them the Dwelkspreker clutching a tome of arcana, incanting desperately to try and banish the creature.

It nearly worked, too. I watched as it was suddenly seized by eldritch energies, as though grabbed by an enormous invisible hand. But Claver shouted something, some words that burned my ears and hit me like a psychic thunderclap, and the beast was briefly freed from its paralysis. With one swift lurch, it eviscerated the Dwelkspreker from groin to breastbone, spilling a vast clump of guts on to the marble. The book from which she had been reading tumbled across the ground, and another Kasar attempted to dive after it but slipped in the gore. It landed awkwardly on its side, and the beast was able to quickly leap on it and rip it to bloody rags.

Vonvalt grabbed me roughly by the arm and ran us both towards the door – but the creature headed us off. Dripping with Kasari blood, the abomination battered into the main entranceway so roughly the wood splintered. The Claver head once again emerged from its cloacal recess, and dripping with greasy filth, grinned at us.

“There is only one way this ends, Sir Konrad,” Claver gurned, and then suddenly gnashed his teeth as though he were fighting for the control of his own likeness. He spasmed and jerked as if having a seizure. “There is nowhere in this world, or in the next one, you can evade me.”

“By the gods, what have you done to yourself?” Vonvalt asked. Alongside the hatred and revulsion, there was a note of genuine bafflement in his voice. Claver’s transformation from zealous, irritating priest to vessel for incarnate evil had happened so comprehensively and dramatically it was difficult not to be truly curious.

Claver did not answer. His head retreated back into the ectoplasmic mass of flesh. Vonvalt suddenly lunged forward, cracking the top of Claver’s skull like an egg with the edge of his sword. A huge plume of foul black smoke erupted from it, and with it came the screaming sound of a thousand anguished souls and the angry buzzing of bluebottles and flies.

The beast caterwauled from its fanged mouth, gnashing and screeching. It smacked the sword out of Vonvalt’s hand with a ringing clang and sent it skittering across the ground. Vonvalt and I dived backwards again as though propelled by detonation of blackpowder. I was desperate for a weapon of any kind, but there had been no time to arm myself. Instead, I clutched at Vonvalt’s clothes, holding him in front of me as I might a shield.

Behind the beast the doors burst open and a group of Hyernakryger charged in. They wore breastplates of burnished black and white skirts. There must have been five of them, all told, each wielding a large halberd. At the same time, von Osterlen emerged from the chapel, her clothing stained with great sprays of blood. Her hair was, like Vonvalt’s, lank with sweat, and she clutched her short sword.

“Severina! Help!” Vonvalt shouted as the bewildered Hyernakryger closed to engage with the thrashing beast. Even faced with six swords, the demonic spawn was far from outmatched. It rampaged towards the nearest Kasar, parrying the halberd with a smack of its palm which once more released oily foul-smelling ichor from the gash. It closed in to the Hyernakryger’s guard and smashed its right arm off in a welter of blood and flashes of splintered white bone. The Kasar grunted, instinctively sinking to its knees, and the spawn wrenched its head off with one almighty tug.

Von Osterlen screamed as she closed in to engage the beast. She hacked at it as though she were chopping wood, once, twice, three times, each blow scoring a great gash down its back. It looked as though it were a corpse that had been opened up by a barber-surgeon, the great incisions parting its flesh cleanly. But, a moment later, a fountain of gore erupted from the wound. Foul, black energies, ectoplasm and sludge sprayed the Templar in an unholy baptism. The creature whirled around, and battered von Osterlen violently with its remaining good hand. The moment it was turned, the Hyernakryger struck, each thrusting its halberd deep into the spawn’s flesh. Now, finally, the despicable creature buckled, effluents leaking from it as though it were a smashed sewer pipe.

The bloody work of execution began. The remaining Kasar and von Osterlen moved in to dispatch the creature, hacking at it relentlessly, stabbing, parting flesh and bone. All of the dark energies which had filled and animated the host bled out, some of it splattering across the marble of the floor, a great deal more of it simply evaporating into the aether. A poisonous, noxious stench filled the Spiritsraad, making me gag.

Eventually, the thing was killed. In and amongst the gore that remained – great clumps of viscera and strings of sinew which had no discernible purpose – was the mutated runt that Sir Anzo had brought for sacrifice. Of Claver’s disgusting head, there was no sign.

I looked up at von Osterlen. She was covered head to toe in dripping gore, and her composure was one of stunned horror.

“Where is Sir Anzo?” I asked her.

She looked at me as though she had not expected me to be there. Without saying anything, she pointed back into the chapel with her sword.

As the Hyernakryger began to move about the Spiritsraad, checking the corpses of the Kasari priests and securing the temple, Vonvalt and I quickly went back to the chapel to where the séance had started. Inside, the walls were coated in a film of blood. Sitting in the corner was Sir Anzo, completely motionless, and for a second I thought he was alive; then I saw that his eyes had exploded, and the top of his head was blackened as though it had been lit on fire.

“Nema, what a mess,” Vonvalt said, sheathing his sword.

I promptly vomited on the floor.

IX

Prising the Jewel from the Eye

“No one is entitled to success. Sometimes the just fail and the unjust triumph. That is why complacency is the most unforgivable of sins.”

FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S TREATISE, PENITENT EMPIRE

It is difficult to convey in this account the chaos that came after. This is not just because I was numb with shock and horror, but for the much more practical reason that I simply couldn’t understand what the Kasar were saying to one another – and our only translator was lying in a pool of his own exploded brain.

The Hyernakryger descended on the Spiritsraad in force. At least twenty or thirty appeared in the minutes after the fight. The air still throbbed with eldritch energies, and the psychic shadow of Claver and his malign patron hung heavy in the air like a black curtain. I was filled with the urge to sit and weep helplessly, but there was so much to do, so much to occupy my mind and body, that I was not given the time to dwell on matters. It was just as well.

It seemed as though all of the initial council of priests had been killed or their minds vacated. Von Osterlen and Vonvalt attempted to explain what had happened. I watched as they spoke slowly and loudly, using hand gestures and whatever rudiments of the language they knew, to try and convey the impossible; that the sacrificial whelp had been possessed by a demonic entity puppeteered by a human priest and ripped its way into the mortal plane – not to mention through the cream of their spiritual leaders. Were it not for the remains of that spawn littering the marble, and those Hyernakryger who had been fortunate enough to dispatch it, suspicion could easily have fallen on us. After all, we had only been in Port Talaka for a few days, and our arrival and ongoing presence had been nothing but inauspicious.

We were not permitted to leave, and we found ourselves corralled into a small alcove. The Spiritsraad was filled with constant, agitated conversation in Kasari, and every minute that passed more wolfmen arrived. We tried to deduce who they were by their clothing: some were clearly Hyernakryger, whilst others appeared to be functionaries and statesmen. Many times frustrated gestures were thrown our way, and I had been so preoccupied with the ghastly Claver spawn that I had failed to appreciate just how much danger we were still in.

“Do you think they will execute us?” I asked quietly.

Vonvalt shrugged, staring at the floor. “Who knows?” was all he said.

After another period of ruminative silence, von Osterlen, who looked as though she had taken a bath in pitch, said, “I have seen more horrors in these past few weeks as your companion than I have in all my years as a knight.” She spoke as Vonvalt had spoken – in the manner of someone who had tired of life and all of the things it had to offer. And who could blame her? The things she had witnessed were things no one was supposed to witness. It was like seeing your own organs. There was only one thing more frightening than discovering there was nothing after life, and that was discovering that there was something. Many things, in fact.

“Yes,” Vonvalt said. “I do not doubt it.”

Von Osterlen snorted. “You are not a sympathetic man, are you?”

Vonvalt’s gaze remained on the floor. “Oh, I am sympathetic,” he murmured. “And if it is worth anything to you, then I am sorry. And,” he added, “I suppose I should thank you for your part in slaying that beast. Whatever it was. That took great courage.”

Von Osterlen nodded. “Yes, well. I’ll not pretend it did not test my store to its limits.”

“And mine. I fear that the Magistratum’s arcane syllabus has done little to prepare me for the nature of the threat we face. I…” He hesitated. After a little while, he said, “I confess I feel… somewhat out of my depth.”

I exchanged a glance with von Osterlen.

“That is a rare admission,” she said.

“Aye, well.”

“You think it is a demon, then?”

He shrugged. “What else could it be? An agent of chaos, certainly. It is unlikely to be a named entity from the Book of Creus, for what such creature would waste its time on Claver? I would put my coin on some ambitious fiend looking to make mischief on the mortal plane. Some creature well versed in death magicks and with a history of mortal folly. Either way, for as long as Claver is receiving its patronage, I do not know what hope we have of severing his connexion to the afterlife.”

“We have one,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Vonvalt asked.

“Aegraxes,” I said. “And Justice August. As I left the City of Sleep they spoke to me. I got the sense of…” I screwed my eyes closed, trying to remember what I had seen and heard. For all their importance, his visitations were perversely easy to forget, like a week-old dream. “Of movement. Of… battle. Opposing forces within the afterlife, each trying to bend the temporal pathway to their own ends.”

“Did he tell you anything we can use?” von Osterlen asked, frustrated. “Anything we can actually do?”

“He mentioned some book to be found in Sova. That the capital was where we needed to be. But that was it.” I shook my head. “They fear to meddle in anything other than oblique ways. I do not really understand it, but I think by giving voice to certain things, they can actually have unintended consequences.”

Vonvalt thought for a long while. “Our return to Sova was little except predestined, but his reference to a book is interesting. The only books of value I can think of are those to be found in the Master’s Vaults, though of course Vladimir von Geier removed all of the most useful ones. And now they have been burned in Keraq.” He shrugged. “We have the Codex Elementa, but the practice of treating with elementals hardly assists us. And I should not even like to attempt it. Who knows what I might unleash on the world?”

“You have been less cautious before,” I said pointedly.

Before he could rejoin, von Osterlen said, “You know nothing of the nature of this ‘temporal pathway’?”

Vonvalt pulled an expression which put me in mind of Bressinger, the lower lip sticking out, the corners of the mouth turned down, a slight lifting of the shoulders. “I know some. Resi knows much more than I – more than I ever did. It is as I discussed with Lady Frost. We are like pieces of flotsam in a river, and the river is time, or the ‘temporal path’. We can do some things to alter the flow; sometimes, very small changes can have very large consequences. That is Kane’s theory of Entanglement. I expect neither Aegraxes nor Resi wants to tell us anything for fear of shunting us down an undesirable branch. Matters are so finely balanced—”

“‘Finely balanced’?” Von Osterlen snorted. “We face failure at every turn.”

“No,” Vonvalt said. “Not every turn. You must realise, Severina, that we are contending with plans that have been laid over the course of many months – even years. It is true that the Empire of the Wolf has underestimated Bartholomew Claver, but Bartholomew Claver has also underestimated me. Now we bedevil him. I see his attempts to disrupt us as a sign that we are successfully disrupting him. Otherwise why turn his attention to us at all?”

Von Osterlen shook her head. She gestured to the grisly scene before us. “I do not share your optimism.”

“Think on it. Claver relies on his ability to navigate the afterlife in order to commune with his allies and direct their efforts. He has set a great deal in motion, but matters that are multifaceted have many opportunities to fail. For his plan to succeed, a great many individual things must succeed. He must eliminate Südenburg; he must recover blackpowder from Kòvosk without running afoul of the Legions; he must eliminate all resistance and opposition within the capital – root and branch. Now he has Lady Frost and her army to contend with, something else which he has not factored into his plan. And, if the Kasar gift us soldiers, then he must contend with those, too.”

“I think it more likely the Kasar will hang us. You think on it; imagine if a group of Kasar pitched up in Sova, demanded an audience with the College of Prognosticators, summoned a demon, and decapitated the Neman Church in the space of two days? There would be war.”

“Or would it instead focus their minds on the nature of the threat which faces us all? We would do well to remind the Kasar that Claver’s designs will not end with the Autun.”

“Nema, you are intransigent.”

“I am not intransigent; it is you who is not considering the matter from every angle.”

“But what of his demonic patron?” I asked. “We still do not know who or what that is.”

Vonvalt shrugged. “Helena, honestly I do not know. But what I do know is that when you burned the books in Keraq, you dealt Claver a serious blow. He now has but a couple of pages of the Codex Elementa—”

“But you have not seen what it is those pages can accomplish,” I said. Like von Osterlen I found myself unable to channel any of Vonvalt’s optimism. “I was there, Sir Konrad. I was there in Keraq for the summoning.”

“But the demons can be killed. They are powerful, and they are the match of any Kasar, true, but once they cross the threshold, they become mortal, in the same way that when we cross the threshold, we become immortal.”

“But they are legion!”

“Legions can be destroyed. We have seen that first hand.”

“Sir Konrad—”

“Listen to me! Both of you. I am no fool. Success at this juncture seems like a remote prospect. For a long time we have been on the back foot, reacting to Claver and his plans, being swept along by matters rather than dictating them. It is time to reclaim our agency. Helena you burned the books in Keraq. Before then Claver had practically the entire arcana in his possession. Now he has but a handful of tools. We have marshalled a host in the north and, Nema willing, a host in the south. By Claver’s reckoning, we should all three of us be dead along with the rest of the Order. Instead, he now has to face at least one force, and hopefully two. He must now contend with these.

“For months we have been reactive, but we are not limited to being reactive. It is entirely within our gift to attack. And that is what we are going to do. Whilst there is breath in my lungs, I am going to make a great deal of mischief.” He tapped the side of his head. “That requires us to cultivate a certain attitude. It is all well and good stacking up the obstacles we face and saying ‘’tis hopeless’; it takes a deal more fortitude to instead out-think our enemies. Do you know what frustrates me most about my reputation? That I am ‘hero of the Reichskrieg’. That I am a talented swordsman. Not that I am a thinker; not that I have an incisive mind. People do not discuss what it is I have done to bolster the common law in our country, the many hours of intellectual labour I have put into finessing the art of nation building on a secular legal scaffold. Well, I am going to bring my greatest weapon to bear. My brain.”

We all of us looked up as a human appeared. She was a Plainswoman, with closely cropped black hair, cheekbones you could forge a sword on, and clad in a striking cloak of orange and cloth-of-gold brocade. She could not have been more than thirty years old.

“Sir Konrad Vonvalt?” she asked in accented Saxan, disdain writ large across her features.

“Yes.”

“You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

We were taken out of the Spiritsraad, down the long broad steps that led up to it, and to a waiting wagon. Port Talaka was hot and dark, the air muggy, the sky thick with cloud. Aside from the movement of the Hyernakryger from their nearby temple barracks, the city was quiet, and as we moved through its empty streets, there was no sense that the aethereal contagion had spread beyond the Spiritsraad.

The woman said nothing to us as we were escorted through the streets, and we said nothing in turn. We sat, still armed and our clothes spattered with gore, ruminating.

Eventually, the wagon came to a stop outside a large townhouse. It was set back from the flagstones of the street, surrounded by a decorative garden. The house itself was cubic in shape, wrought of grey stone, and crowned with an ornamental balustrade that itself enclosed a small stepped pyramid rife with geometric gargoyles. The façade was formed of pillars, and in between them hung pennants each embroidered with an Autun rampant. The path which led to the front entrance was guarded by a solitary armoured Kasar armed with a halberd.

I could hear the trickle of water and the buzz of insects as we stepped out of the wagon. The woman led us wordlessly down the path, which I saw was flanked by two square pools of water, and into her house. It was a wide, minimally furnished space, white-walled and tastefully decorated.

She was greeted by a pair of servants.

“Water, and fresh clothes. See that the guest chambers are prepared,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Jasa,” one of the servants said, and they both bustled off.

The woman turned to us. “My name is Danai Ihejir. You may refer to me as ‘Excellency’. Tell me how I may address each of you.”

“Sir Konrad, is fine.”

“Helena.”

“Severina. I am the Margrave of Südenburg, but there is no need to address me as such.”

Danai regarded us for a moment, an unfriendly look in her eye. “You should know that Sir Anzo does not represent the interests of the Autun here in Port Talaka. It was a mistake to engage his services.”

“Well, it was a mistake he has paid for with his life,” Vonvalt said brusquely. “I am to take it you are the Emperor’s representative here?”

Danai inclined her head.

“I did not know the Empire maintained a formal emissarial presence in the Kyarai.”

Danai gestured expensively about her. “And yet, here we are.”

There was another silence. “Perhaps you had better tell us what is going on,” Vonvalt said.

Danai smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Sir Konrad, I was about to suggest the very same thing.”

We were given drinks, fresh clothes to change into, water to bathe in, and a place to store our weapons and armour. Half an hour later, we were sitting in Danai’s solar on the upper floor of the residence, each of us holding a clay pot of chilled mint water. A small stick of incense smoked in one corner to keep the insects away. Lime green vliegvangers sat in nests in the rafters, torpid.

“I have been here for six years,” Danai said. “Originally my family was from Zyrah, but my mother made good money in brocades and we moved to Sova when I was ten years old. My father was a language tutor. He taught wealthy merchants and their children the tongues of the Southern Plains – Balabrian, Ereban, Saekanic, Kasarsprek. They wanted to learn so that they could trade, and it worked.”

“Wait a moment; your father was not Ramachani Ihejir, was he?”

Danai nodded, her features briefly brightening. “Yes. You knew of him?”

Vonvalt smiled. “I listened to him once, in the Philosopher’s Palace. He spoke on Balabrian ethics – very cogently I might add.”

I was grateful for this small piece of shared history, for Danai was clearly pleased. It did a great deal to dissipate the tension in the room. If it was deliberate, it was deftly done by Vonvalt.

“Time passed. Our family became wealthy and well connected,” Danai said with a shrug. She spoke more easily now, a layer of formality stripped back. “As someone fluent in five languages, I was a natural choice to represent the Empire’s interests here in the Kyarai.”

“I spoke with a senatorial colleague, Tymoteusz Jansen.” Vonvalt shook his head. “He did not mention you.”

“Tymoteusz,” she said, displeased. “I know of him. He squired here, under Stanislav Perić. Sir Anzo did, as well. Well before my time, of course. Those men are closer in age to my father.”

“I’m to understand they have – had – a reputation here?”

“Yes. They all did. Unpleasant ones,” Danai added flatly. “I am not surprised that Senator Jansen did not mention me. In fact, I suspect you have been routed deliberately to avoid me. If you sought out Sir Anzo for the thing that I think you have, be in no doubt that I would have done everything in my power to prevent it. It is difficult to overstate the mess you have made.” She spoke as though she were reciting a simple list of facts, rather than with any animosity.

“Would you mind, Excellency, explaining to me—”

But Danai held up a hand. Vonvalt, in a surprising turn, fell silent. “You first.”

Vonvalt obliged her. He spoke for some time, and servants refilled our drinks on two occasions. He told Danai of Claver, of matters on the Frontier, of the burning of the arcana in Keraq and the summoning of the demons; he told her of the destruction of the Magistratum and the unrest in Sova, and he told her of our exploits in the north with Lady Frost. Finally, he explained what had happened on our arrival, our fortuitous rescue by Sir Anzo, our visit to the runt farm, and lastly our attempt to contact Kimathi in the hope of legitimising our request for martial assistance.

Danai listened to this account with apparent impassivity, until he spoke of the demonic spawn in the Spiritsraad and the slaughter of the Dwelkspreker; only then did her composure fracture. When Vonvalt finished his account, a long silence claimed the solar.

“I see,” she said eventually. She clacked her tongue a few times, then stood, and began walking idly around the room. “I have heard rumours of Sir Anzo’s… business dealings. I know of his connexion to the Spiritsraad, though I have never made it my own business to pry into it. Sir Anzo enjoys –enjoyed – something of a charmed existence here in Port Talaka, but he had a great many enemies, too. A man like that must tread water constantly; the moment the difficulty he creates outweighs his utility, he is killed. I am not at all surprised that he has met with a violent end.”

“Did you have any dealings with him at all?” Vonvalt asked.

“Not really,” Danai said. “Sir Anzo has been in Port Talaka for decades. His network far exceeds mine. As an official representative of the Imperial Crown, I have found my role to be…” She considered for a moment. “… ceremonial. Largely. Like my father, I teach some languages to dynastic scions.” She shrugged. “I attend events. I appear at state functions. I am questioned routinely on the activities of the Templars, activities which have nearly cost me my role – and I daresay my life – on a number of occasions in the past few months.”

“I have heard of this. Sir Anzo told us, too.”

“Yes. The Kasaraad is losing patience. They believe the Empire is fixing to move south since its eastward expansion has been such an abject failure. It has been difficult to disabuse them of the notion. What you have told me this night goes a long way to explaining matters.”

Vonvalt leant forward, clasping his hands. “Excellency, I will be direct. My reason for being here is to beseech the Kasaraad for an army. I need soldiers. Powerful soldiers, soldiers who are familiar with the arcana and how it operates. I need as many Kasar as can be spared in order to engage Claver in the field, as far south of Sova as possible.”

Danai regarded Vonvalt for a long while. “I think Sir Anzo was right.”

“Right about what?”

“I think you will have extreme difficulty in convincing them to part with their soldiers. They do not have an army, not in the same way the Empire has—”

“I know that. Sir Anzo told me of the Grasvlaktekraag. They seem ideally suited for the task. Really, it would simply be an extension of what it is they are already doing. They would still be protecting the northern border; just several hundred miles further north.”

Danai sat back, thinking about this for a moment.

“I just cannot think of circumstances in which they will simply allow you to recruit their northern garrison. Think if the situation were reversed. And besides, you are no longer an agent of the Crown. The Magistratum has been disbanded. If anything, I should be ordering your arrest and execution. You are, technically speaking, a traitor.”

“Now listen here!” I turned sharply. It was von Osterlen who had spoken. Her resolve had evidently been bolstered by Vonvalt’s speech in the Spiritsraad. “Everything Sir Konrad has said is true. Sova has been overcome by brigands. The Emperor is indolent and Claver is a wound that has been left to fester. Once we might have lost merely a foot. Now we must cut off the whole leg. We are well past these niceties. It is time to take drastic measures. Make sure you are on the right side of history. Excellency.”

Danai accepted this minor tirade with the same expression one might wear when presented with a mouldy orange.

“You have power, here,” von Osterlen continued. “You are authorised to act on behalf of the Emperor, with absolute discretion, in the interests of the Empire. Well, I am telling you that it is in the interests of the Empire that Claver be stopped. It is, by happy accident, also in the interests of the Kasar, because I can tell you now, Claver will not suffer others to practise the arcana. He will seek first to consolidate and then to monopolise his power. He has already struck a bargain with Iliyana of Casimir that Kòvosk and the wider Confederation be left alone in exchange for blackpowder. Once he has withdrawn the Legions and weeded out any of those who will not rally to his cause, what do you think he is going to do with all those tens of thousands of men?”

Danai shifted uncomfortably. “You do not represent the Empire.”

“But you do,” Vonvalt said firmly. “Besides; the testimony of those Hyernakryger from the Spiritsraad should bolster your entreaties.”

“My entreaties?”

“Yes. The reason you have detained us is to hear an explanation, is it not?”

“If I have detained you it is only for your protection. It is a miracle the three of you are still alive.”

“Yes, but I asked you a question,” Vonvalt snapped. Danai looked at him sharply. “Excellency,” he added.

Danai sighed loudly. “I understand your position, Sir Konrad. And, I will freely admit, what you say does dovetail with the matters I have been apprised of – small morsels though they may be.”

“You will pass on my requests, then? Argue our case? You can tell them that their purpose is to kill as many Templars as they can. They should enjoy that.”

Danai grunted. “I will do what I can. But I warn you: you should be prepared for failure. The Kasar are inflexible and they are prone to infighting.”

“No different from the Senate, then.”

“No. Perhaps not. We shall find out soon enough.”

We spent the remains of the night in the ambassador’s residence, and much of the following day, too. We had been advised to distance ourselves from Sir Anzo, and Danai had dispatched servants to discreetly recover our belongings from the old Sovan’s residence.

The following morning Danai left early and made for the Spiritsraad, accompanied by her guard. She bade us wait in situ, and the servants provided us with fruit platters to break our fast, which we picked at idly, and a drink called kafé, a type of hot tea made from roasted and ground beans which was supposed to be sipped slowly. I found the drink to be bitter, and it made me feel lightheaded and anxious, and I had only about half of mine.

The servants informed us apologetically that they had not been able to remove the bloodstains from our clothes, and instead provided us with fresh local garments in much the same vein as those Sir Anzo had provided us with – loose, light fabrics which were designed to keep the wearer cool and protect skin from the sun. For me it was another white kirtle fixed at the waist with a sash of orange silk.

The morning was a tense one. We were used to constantly moving, constantly striving for and achieving the next goal. The unstructured time unsettled us. I felt pent-up. Von Osterlen spent most of the morning meditating in prayer; I joined Vonvalt on a balcony which overlooked the street, and together we watched Port Talaka come to life.

“It is remarkable,” he said. He nursed a glazed clay pot of kafé, which he had taken an immediate liking to, though it had given him an excitable, agitated air. The view was indeed extraordinary; the long channels of the Yaro Delta, sparkling gold in the morning sunlight; the old stepped pyramids, rising out of the city like the spikes of a morningstar, all greys and earth reds and mustard yellows; the pleasant geometric lakes and hanging gardens; the melting pot of cultures, Southern Plainsmen, Qareshians, Zyrahns, Ereban and Balabrian Dynasts – and even the odd white-skinned Sovan – mixing with Kasar, all going about their business, much like in Sova itself.

“A whole Empire, millions of people, living here, working, trading, just going about their lives. It makes one wonder. How many more empires are out there? How many more nations can there be, entire countries of people of whom we have no notion? What other creatures are there? Who is to say it is only the Kasar and the Stygion mermen who were created by the Cataclysm? What other manner of intelligent creatures exist out in the world?”

“It boils my brain to think about,” I said absently.

“Aye, and mine. If I survive this, if we defeat Claver and restore some semblance of order to the Empire, I should like to explore it. To just… leave.”

My blood surged to hear this. It had never occurred to me that Vonvalt would leave the Empire. As he had rightly identified, he was one of its modern architects. Within these volumes I have focused on the ascendancy of Claver, but it is important not to overlook Vonvalt’s many contributions to the Two-Headed Wolf. Through his legal practice, he had moulded and shaped the Empire as effectively as any statesman.

“You would go?” I asked.

Vonvalt nodded, not taking his eyes off the city. “The world is changing. The Magistratum is disbanded. Even if we are successful in our mission, I do not think it will be reincorporated. I do not think there is a place for Justices any more. People do not trust us. The power we wield. It is too much for one person.”

My heart was pounding. Vonvalt had never spoken like this before. “Where would you…?”

He shrugged. “Here. Further south? Who knows. Perhaps I shall go east, across the steppe. Find out just exactly where it is Kòvosk has been getting all of its blackpowder from.” He snorted.

I did not say anything for a minute or two. “What would I do?” I asked quietly.

Vonvalt turned to look at me. “You are young, Helena, and intelligent, and beautiful. In Sova, every door there is will be open to you.”

I did not expect to be so stung by this, but I was. Vonvalt, and what he represented to me, was something I found myself still turning over in my mind. Sometimes I found him intolerable; other times I craved him as though I were addicted to him. Our lives were so thoroughly and inexorably entwined it was impossible not to think of him constantly. And besides, Vonvalt had confessed his love for me, or certainly something approaching that intensity of feeling. I had not forgotten the letter he had written me on his deathbed in Südenburg, the letter which I was not supposed to have seen – but which von Osterlen had slipped me. For him to now speak both candidly and casually of plans to simply disappear on some hermitage was almost physically painful to hear.

“You would not have me accompany you?”

Vonvalt shook his head sadly. “I would not shackle you to me, Helena. You know I care about you deeply—”

“Do you?” I demanded. “Do you care?”

Vonvalt’s eyes widened in brief astonishment. “Of course I do!” he said. “But—”

He stopped, his attention drawn by something on the street. It was Danai, not only accompanied by her warden, but by several Kasar clad in loose robes. They, too, wore silk sashes about their waists, each of a different pattern, and I wondered whether those fabrics denoted some kind of dynastic allegiance.

Vonvalt stood. Danai obviously saw him, for she motioned for us to come downstairs.

“We can talk about this later,” he said to me.

We made our way downstairs, gathering von Osterlen on the way. My heart, which before had been pounding with thoughts of Vonvalt’s affection – or lack thereof – now pounded with fear. I had faced death so many times, and yet I could never overcome my fear of it. I did not know how someone like Vonvalt, or Sir Radomir, or von Osterlen, did it; how they managed to overcome that physical fear of dying. I had made a good account of myself in many fights, I had endured brawls and melees and even battles, but nothing had rid me of my fear.

Danai entered the residence alone, her Kasari companions waiting outside.

“What news?” Vonvalt asked. “Will they fight?”

“We have a long way to go before we grasp that nettle. I am here to take you to the Kasaraad. You are to be questioned. Your answers will dictate what course of action the Kasar will take.”

“Regarding the Grasvlaktekraag?”

Danai shook her head. “No. Regarding whether you will be executed this afternoon.”

X

The Kasaraad

“A foreign land,

With foreign laws

No better or worse

Just different to yours.”

FROM “THE MERCHANT’S PROLOGUE”, BY DUŠANKA LILJANA

We were taken back through the city, clad in foreign garments and without any weapons. Simply being in a foreign nation carries with it some innate discomfort. Your language is useless, your customs alien, your appearance conspicuous. But here in the Kyarai, we had caused so much upset, been responsible for so much calamity – and in such a short space of time – that this feeling was exacerbated a hundredfold. I was extremely pessimistic about our prospects of survival.

Neither Vonvalt nor von Osterlen spoke as we were led through the streets. The sun climbed higher through the haze and filled the city with light, though there was cloud in the sky and it would be gloomier later. Still, it was warm, and smelt of foreign spices and incense, and in any other circumstances it would be a pleasant and adventurous time.

We were returned to that central part of Port Talaka where both the Spiritsraad and Kasaraad existed. Once again we surmounted steps too steep for our human legs, and by the time we reached the top, in spite of our light clothing, the four of us were sweating with the exertion.

“Not many humans have seen the Kasaraad in session,” Danai said as we achieved this summit. “You will be intimidated. That is natural. They will be speaking Kasari, not Kasarsprek, so I must concentrate. I will give you what information I can, but you should be prepared for this to be lengthy. I have gone to the trouble of laying some groundwork, and you are not without allies, but there are plenty who still cannot – or will not – disassociate you from the Templars.”

“Will we be given an opportunity to speak?” Vonvalt asked.

“You will be expected to,” Danai said. “But do not until I tell you. Appear contrite – they are familiar enough with humans and our emotions to know what that looks like, and it will make a difference. I will translate where appropriate, so do not speak too quickly.” She lowered her voice. “I have withheld two pieces of information; the first is that you have been disavowed; the second is that Severina is a Templar. I know that she is not a Savaran, but—” she shrugged “—the distinction will not matter.”

“Judicious omissions,” Vonvalt said, inclining his head in gratitude.

“I will do my very best, Sir Konrad, and I shall beg for clemency should the need arise. But you should be prepared to die today.”

“Then I hope,” Vonvalt said, “that your best is good enough.”

“As do I. Come, they are waiting.”

I took a great deal of comfort from the presence of Vonvalt, von Osterlen and Danai, but our entry into the Kasaraad was still an overwhelming experience. We were taken through a short corridor and into the main chamber. Here the Kasari dynastic representatives stood, one for each house – fifty in all – though there were closer to several hundred. Judging by the coloured and patterned sashes each Kasar wore, I guessed that each individual representative was supported by a small cohort of retainers.

The chamber was surprisingly Sovan in design – because that’s precisely what it was. Its plans had been drawn up by a Sovan architect almost a century before, which was why its sweeping curves, so reminiscent of the Senate, were at odds with the rest of the geometric architecture of Port Talaka. It was structured in tiers, with the more elevated the tier, the more junior the dynasty represented. There were three tiers in total, including that at ground level. Behind the benches of the highest tier was a ring of tall and broad windows which let in a great deal of sunlight. Each tier was held up by a column of jadestone, with each having been wrought into some sort of beast, presumably from Kasari legend.

The Kasari representatives let up a great clamour as we were corralled in. We were ushered into a small wooden box in the centre of the floor, which put me in mind of a witness box in a Sovan courthouse – an apt comparison, given what we were about to endure. As for the members of the Kasaraad themselves, they looked to be a diverse group. There was no specific physical feature that seemed to denote some special societal preference, such as the colour of their fur; the Kasar were human / plains wolves hybrids, rather than Sovan wolves, which gave many of them fur patterned with dark splotches and stripes. A range of colours – black, brown, orange, grey, red – were represented in equal measure. Some human sensibilities still prevailed: the females had their breasts covered, though that was the only thing that distinguished the sexes. Indeed, the only thing that seemed to unite them was advancing age: greying muzzles were in abundance.

I could not understand most of what followed. Kasari – the natural tongue of the Kasar, as distinct from Kasarsprek, the pidgin language they spoke to humans – was a curious mix of human-esque phonemes and guttural, multi-pitched growling which was to be expected from a creature that was a mixture of both human and plains wolf. It was a harsh, intimidating language, and one that hovered at the very edge of comprehension, which made it frustrating to listen to.

We watched as the Kasar spoke and shouted and gesticulated to one another – and to us – over the course of perhaps an hour. At one point, Hyernakryger were brought in, and Danai briefly explained that they were talking about the fight in the Spiritsraad. It was during this that the first respectful silence fell, and it was clear to me at least that the Hyernakryger were held in some esteem.

“They have given an accurate account,” Danai said quietly to us at the end of the testimony. “Based on what you have told me.”

“Where are Kimathi’s people?” Vonvalt asked.

Danai indicated a group of Kasar wearing sashes of orange, black and brown, a conspicuous – and conspicuously wealthy, if their gem-encrusted rings, bangles and chokers were anything to go by – collection on the lowest tier. It was clear they enjoyed great status within the Kasaraad. “The Westereik Dynasty,” she said, gesturing subtly.

“What of the—” Vonvalt began, but he was shushed by Danai as the debate resumed. Now it appeared altogether more heated, infused as it was with matters spiritual.

Eventually, some change came over the chamber, and the talking died away. A new Kasar appeared, grey-furred and elderly, clad in threadbare blue robes fastened with a sash of faded yellow. The wolfman – or wolfwoman, rather, to the extent the distinction meant anything – leant heavily on a cane of black lacquer.

“This is the Official Questioner,” Danai said to us. “Speak plainly and truthfully. I will translate, though she will be able to understand a little Saxan.”

“Let me do the talking,” Vonvalt said to von Osterlen and I, as if there would have been any other option.

The Questioner said something to Danai in that guttural tongue, and I held my breath.

Danai leant in slightly to Vonvalt. “She asks what your purpose is for being here.”

“To ask for help,” Vonvalt said. It was not the rousing bout of oratory I had expected.

Danai duly translated his words into Kasarsprek. There was a ripple around the chamber, but the Official Questioner was clearly well respected, and when she held up a hand for silence, she got it.

“Help with what?” Danai asked, and then, quietly, “You must have expected that.”

“Help to prevent the destruction of the Kyarai.”

Danai looked at him warily, pursed her lips, and translated once more. This time the Kasaraad erupted in a predictable manner, and even the Questioner had to shout several times to obtain quiet.

“What do you mean?” Danai translated.

“The fates of our nations are entwined. They have been for centuries. Ever since Valent Saxan requested Salisun act as the Imperial Warden, ever since the Autun has been the official device of the Haugenates, ever since we both became practitioners in the rare magicks this world has to offer, our human nation and your wolf nation have shared in the vicissitudes of Fate. When we prosper, you prosper. When our star falls, so does that of the Kyarai.”

He paused to let Danai turn these impressive words into a stream of very unimpressive-sounding Kasarsprek.

“You know of the Savaran Templars. They have made it their business to expand the southern frontier of the Empire. Whilst their preoccupation has, for the longest time, been the native Saeka people, I know that they have turned their attention to the northernmost settlements of the Kasar. That these actions were not condoned by my Emperor is likely to be of little comfort to you, but there you have it.

“In recent months the Templars have been taken over by a man called Bartholomew Claver. Claver is an evil man and a menace to the natural order of the world. He has two objectives: the first is to install himself upon the Imperial throne, and he has gone to – and will go to – great and bloody lengths to achieve this goal. The second is to become the sole custodian and practitioner of the arcana.

“Members of the Kasaraad, Claver is coming close to achieving the first of these objectives. If he has not already done so, we believe that he will take a large Templar force north and begin to cut through the armies which stand in his way between the Frontier and the Hall of Solitude in Sova. These armies are few in number and ill prepared for the magickal onslaught which will greet them. This is by design; Claver has spent many months ensuring that the élite forces of the Empire remain bogged down along the River Kova.

“It has fallen to me to rally what forces I can to oppose him. I have had some success in the north of the Empire. But I do not have nearly as many soldiers as I need.”

He paused to let Danai catch up. But, judging by the stillness in the chamber, it did not seem that any member of the Kasaraad, even the more obviously obstreperous ones, was about to interrupt.

“Esteemed members, I owe you an apology, and I give such freely and very sincerely. I came to your great city seeking assistance, but I have brought death and horror with me. Respected and wise members of the Spiritsraad are dead, and though they were killed by Claver, it was I who created the circumstances in which they came to be at risk. But at least it has demonstrated, in a stroke, just how very dangerous Bartholomew Claver is, and just how much of a threat he poses to your nation.”

This was the first time in Vonvalt’s speech I baulked slightly; he was often overconfident in people’s ability to accept what he considered to be objective and inescapable logic.

“You have heard from your Hyernakryger, of the vile acts of Claver in the Spiritsraad. I and my companions owe them our lives. It is a debt I hope to repay with this early warning: you must strike north. Sova is in disarray. The forces of disorder are prevailing. My whole reason for seeking the assistance of your Spiritsraad was to get a warning to the Imperial Warden, and to bring his counsel – for I understand he is wise and respected – to you, here. With decisive intervention from the south, combined with an attack from the north, we might yet preserve the lives of many thousands of humans and Kasar.

“Members, I humbly beseech you for your assistance, and I should be pleased to answer all the questions you may have on the matter.”

Danai finished translating. The Questioner remained silent. The chamber remained silent.

Clearly, nobody had been expecting that.

Eventually, the Questioner said something to Danai, and the ambassador turned to us.

“There are no questions. They wish for you to leave. Come.”

We waited in an antechamber for several hours whilst the Kasar discussed matters. Sometimes the debate rose in pitch and intensity where I imagined some thorny issue was being raked over. Other times the chamber was eerily quiet. Eventually, Danai came out, and informed us that we could go.

“What does that mean? Is that a good sign?” Vonvalt asked her, uncharacteristically anxious.

Danai shrugged. “Honestly, I do not know. But I expect they would have arrested you here and now if you were ultimately to be executed.”

We were led back out of the Kasaraad and on to the steps of the red pyramid which sat beneath it. “I have done what I can on your behalf. The session will take a long time. They will want to hear from others, and debate matters exhaustively. It is rare that a dynasty will not want to have its say, even if it adds nothing to the overall conversation.” She nodded down the vertiginous steps to the city below. “We might as well wait in comfort.”

We walked back through the streets until we reached the ambassador’s residence. Here we were offered more fruit, as well as a little meat and bowls of cold herbal tea, though none of us were in the mood for eating. Still, I felt more optimistic that we would leave the Kyarai alive. It was an outcome I would have been happy with, even if we achieved nothing else.

Danai was right in that no news came for the rest of the day. Servants had visited Sir Anzo’s house and had recovered our belongings, and we packed them up. Danai secured horses for us, too, and made general arrangements for our passage out of the city.

It was a long, hot, sultry afternoon. In other circumstances we would have explored the city and taken in its delights, but for all of Danai’s diplomatic circumspection, there was no doubt that we were under house arrest.

I had wanted to speak to Vonvalt, to return to our conversation from earlier that morning; but Vonvalt hated to be ill informed, and pressed Danai to teach him the rudiments of Kasarsprek. She herself did not have the time, but ordered a servant fluent in both to take up the task. I felt sorry for the man as I watched him carry several books into Vonvalt’s chamber.

So it was that von Osterlen and I ended up spending the remains of the day together. We arranged ourselves as Vonvalt and I had that morning, and in spite of my earlier dislike of it, had a little more kafé. I was beginning to see its appeal as a drink to be sipped over the course of an hour.

“What do you think?” I asked von Osterlen. She looked rather striking in her silk kirtle, which caught the sun and contrasted pleasantly against her olive skin and black hair. Mine made me look wax-pale – or it would have done had the sun not burnt it red.

Von Osterlen did not look at me. She surveyed the city through squinted eyes like an engineer might view an enemy fortification. Even in this relaxed setting she intimidated me. She had a hard character, all of her mirth and good humour beaten out of her on the Frontier like a hammer against a red-hot sword.

“I do not think they will kill us, but nor do I think they will give us this ‘Grasvlaktekraag’, or whatever it is called.”

“No, I think that is the right way to say it.”

“Hm. I shall leave the language to Sir Konrad.”

“He has an ear for it. He will pick it up quickly.”

Now von Osterlen did look at me. She looked faintly amused. “You think so highly of him, don’t you?”

“Who could not? However I feel about him, and I feel a great many things – often contradictory things – nobody could argue he is not a remarkable man.”

Von Osterlen turned back to the view. “I think Sir Konrad is a fundamentally good man. But he is allowing what makes him fundamentally good to be squeezed out of him. Like meat from a sausage skin.” She looked unhappy as she spoke. “But I shall not pretend that there is some other option which allows us all to keep our virtue intact.”

“No,” I said. I regretted agreeing with her, though I did. Saying it out loud felt like an admission of defeat.

“It is better to stop Claver with polluted souls. I do not like it, but the outcome is what is important. But that business with the runts sickens me to my back teeth. Sir Anzo…” She shook her head. “Men like that, they make the world a worse place.”

“Aye, well.” I took a sip of the kafé. “He is dead now.”

Now von Osterlen fixed me in the eye. She looked angry, and I felt as though we were getting to the crux of what had been truly bothering her. “Is he, though?”

“What do you mean?” I asked disingenuously.

“You know exactly what I mean. Is he dead? Does anybody truly die? Or are we all destined to while away eternity in some confounding hellscape at the mercy of unknowable creatures? Is that what our lives will be reduced to? All this—” She gestured to the city around us. “Meaningless.”

I sighed, long and loud. “I don’t know—”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know,” von Osterlen snapped in a flash of anger. “Prince of Hell, Helena! ’Tis as though you are the earthly reincarnation of Saint Creus. Visitations, communing with devils and angels, talk of… Nema, the ‘threads of time’… consorting with pagans! You are better versed in these matters than Sir Konrad himself, and do not try to tell me otherwise. The visions you have, these—” she threw her hands up in the air “—conversations with Aegraxes! You speak with the fucking gods, girl! So do not tell me that you do not fucking know!”

I sat in stunned silence. I had never seen her so angry. Von Osterlen looked away from me, immediately embarrassed at having lost her temper. She bit her lip and worked it between her teeth as she focused on something in the distance. Eventually, she stood.

“I take my leave,” she muttered.

“Wait, Severina, please,” I said, standing too and grabbing her by the wrist. She shifted quickly, instinctively, and for a moment I thought she was going to strike me. Instead, she took a deep breath, and seemed to regain herself.

I let her arm go. “Please. We have so much to contend with. Let us not contend with one another.”

She sighed, rubbing her face in her hands. Then she sat back down. “Forgive me, Helena,” she said quietly. “I am not myself.”

I waved her off, embarrassed and uncomfortable with being apologised to. “It would take someone of special character to weather the things we have been forced to endure.”

Von Osterlen snorted bitterly. “I am a margrave. A veteran. A commander of thousands. I should be able to govern myself. And yet here you are, a maid half my age and with double the grace. Do not make excuses for me.”

I was about to do precisely that, but I stopped myself. “Well. Let us not dwell on it.”

That seemed to be the appropriate thing to say, judging by her reaction. “I have spent my life, or the better part of it, fighting Saekas. Protecting pilgrims. Dominating the land of the Frontier. My gods are the Imperial gods; my church is the Neman Church. For the last twenty years I have been a sword of the Autun.” She sighed bitterly. “Now I see nothing except a life wasted. We pray to gods who have nothing for us but apathy. We revere saints who are not saints. These things we worship have never been worthy of worship. For centuries we have beseeched them in blind ignorance, like foolish children. We have woven and spun tales and parables and histories out of nothing at all, and then treated them as though they are immutable truth.” She looked at me, her face a picture of weary, angry disappointment. It radiated from her like the heat from the Kyarai sun. “Everything I have done since I was a little girl has been done in the name of Nema. And she has never cared. If a prayer is answered, ’tis nothing but serendipity. Pure, stupid chance.” Her hands balled into fists. “We have killed and maimed thousands for a goddess who does not care.”

“I do not think the gods do not care,” I said quietly.

She looked at me, arms folded. “What do you think?”

“That they are not gods.”

“They have the power of gods. And they meddle in human affairs.”

“Aye, rarely. But they cannot be beseeched for favour. They are capricious.” I shrugged. “You said it yourself. There is no difference between an answered prayer and coincidence.”

“Except agency.”

“Agency which they do not wield. At least, not in that way.” I scanned the horizon. “I am not even sure they can hear prayers. Not in the way the Church suggests.”

Von Osterlen stood, and approached the balustrade. She rested her hands on its stone surface. “Do you know what my greatest fear is, Helena? That the afterlife is not some… morally bifurcated place, where the good ascend to heaven and the evil descend to hell. But that it is just… random. A place of chaos, where the soul travels not for any reason, but for an absence of reason. A place where we go not as a reflection of who we were as people, but a place where we go as an end in itself. I should think nothing at all would be preferable. Can you imagine it?”

“I do not need to imagine it. And nor do you. We have both been.”

“Aye,” she murmured. “We have been. As argonauts, not as souls.”

Another long silence passed between us, one that slowly filled with the bustle of the city. Eventually, I said, “I have had similar thoughts before. Similar feelings. A similar… unbalancing. Now I try to look at matters in the way Sir Konrad looks at them; we do these things, expose ourselves to these truths, so that the commonfolk may live lives untroubled by warfare. To save as many lives as we can. It is not about saving or preserving the Empire; it is about saving and preserving the people who comprise it.”

“Saving and preserving them so that they may die and have their souls become playthings for Nema knows what. There may not be gods, Helena, but there are certainly demons.”

I did not know what to say. There was no answer – at least, there was not one I was equipped to provide, in spite of what she thought. “I do not have any answers. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Dwelling on it is a sure path to madness.”

She snorted. “Aye. On that we can agree.” She sighed and watched the city for a little while longer. I could tell she was in no mood to discuss the matter further.

“I am going to have a bath,” she said. “I shall see you for dinner.”

“See you later,” I said, and she left.

I sat on the balcony in silence for the rest of the afternoon, alone with my thoughts, sipping my kafé whilst the sun slowly set on the Kyarai.

That night I dreamt I was awake in the City of Sleep. Outside the window I heard a procession of demons marching through the streets. Their boots thumped in lockstep against the cobbles and they blew on horns incessantly. It sounded like screaming.

On the stone slab in the chamber, a naked couple was copulating vigorously.

The man was Vonvalt.

The woman was me.

I watched with a strange, fascinated horror as he reared over my spreadeagled form. But whilst he seemed to be thrusting mechanically and without any pleasure, his face a rictus of pain – I moaned and writhed with an aggressive theatricality.

Somewhere in the chamber, I heard a steady drip, drip, drip.

I approached the slab, heedless of the procession outside which was travelling directly past the window, until I stood but a few feet from it. Now I began to notice strange things. My body was the wrong colour, as was my hair. The woman was taller, too, and her skin was rough and calloused from years of wearing heavy armour.

I watched as my doppelganger on the slab turned to me. Vonvalt, grunting and pounding like a rutting stag, did not even seem to notice.

“Hello, Helena,” the woman said. Then she laughed, and plucked off my face, throwing it against the wall where it slapped like a piece of wet paper.

It was von Osterlen.

I reached up with trembling hands, to find that my own face had been cut away.

Von Osterlen smiled, and then let out a huge, belching vomit of blood which hit me square in the face—

When I awoke, it was just before dawn.

Tentatively, I felt my face, to find that – of course – it was intact.

I did not go back to sleep that night.

XI

Return to the Frontier

“What are borders except an admission of ignorance? A flaccidity of the human spirit? They are a man-made imposition, confected by lukewarm souls, and not the natural order of things.”

SENATOR ZLATIKA KLEMENT

The news arrived the following morning. There was no fanfare. Servants roused us, and Danai met us in the main hall.

Von Osterlen, Vonvalt and I avoided one another’s gaze.

Several wolfmen were there. One was large and grey, wearing only a pair of loose pantaloons fixed at the waist by a sash of orange, brown and black colouring. I recognised it as the livery of the Westereik Dynasty that Danai had pointed out to us in the Kasaraad – Kimathi’s brethren. He carried a large Kasari scimitar sheathed in an ornate scabbard of black lacquer and inlaid with intricate silver patterning.

The other Kasar was the Official Questioner, though I did not immediately recognise her; she was clad in robes and a hood which obscured her face.

Danai spoke to them for a little while in Kasarsprek, and I could see Vonvalt listening intently, trying to hone his skills in the language. Eventually, Danai turned to us. “The Kasaraad has acceded to your request. This is Ran-Jirika; he is a dynast, from the same house as the Imperial Warden.”

“He is Kimathi’s… brother?” Vonvalt asked.

“Yes. His selection is auspicious, and is a demonstration of great faith in you and your mission. You should be grateful,” she added, pointedly.

Vonvalt stiffened at being condescended to, but managed to perform a shallow bow in the direction of Ran-Jirika. “Gan-kur,” he said in Kasarsprek. Then he turned back to Danai. “Will you pass on my thanks and gratitude?”

“There is no need.”

We all turned. It was the Questioner who had spoken – and in Saxan, no less.

“You speak our language?” Vonvalt asked.

“I told you that she did,” Danai said, alarmed by Vonvalt’s sudden hostility.

“You told me that she spoke a little.”

“I can only speak some,” the Questioner said. Her voice was heavily accented, and she had difficulty around certain sounds, mostly tongue-to-tooth and lip-to-lip, which made sense given the shape of the Kasari mouth. But it was unmistakably Saxan. For the sake of this account, I shall curate her speech into something intelligible, rather than transliterate.

“You must accept my thanks on behalf of the Empire—”

But once again the Questioner demurred. “There is no need. In fact, it is I who should be thanking you. There are many of us within the Kasaraad who have been looking to secure our northern border for some time. Your speech yesterday, rude, insolent and unwelcome, actually had its intended effect – at least as far as you are concerned. And I should say, there were many who wanted to kill you simply for speaking out of turn.”

I exchanged an uneasy glance with von Osterlen.

“The Kasaraad is not known for its subtlety or its ability to reach consensus. The Houses look to their own interests before that of the Kyarai—”

“That is the way of politicians everywhere,” Vonvalt said.

The Questioner, again, looked annoyed with the interruption. “The matters upon which you spoke so passionately are of course well known to us. But so far we have not wanted to risk open war with your Empire. In light of what you have told us, as well as what our own priests and Hyernakryger were able to verify, we agree that urgent action is now required to stave off catastrophe on the mortal plane.”

“I am pleased I was able to assist.”

“Hm. The Templars are a menace. We have been reserved in the face of their aggression, but the truth is, in spite of what they represent, it has been difficult to hold off from destroying these people. And do not be fooled by the failures of our neighbours in Qaresh; the only reason your Templar hosts still exist on the northern plains is thanks to our forbearance.”

I took this with a pinch of salt. It was easy to criticise the Templars because we hated them, but the truth was they were an effective veteran fighting force with access to some of the largest and strongest fortifications the Empire had built. I did not believe that Kasari failures on the battlefield were entirely down to their hesitancy.

“Your being here has provided a convenient pretext for something that likely would have already happened,” the Questioner continued. “It is a shame that the Dwelkspreker had to pay for it with her life. But sometimes a drastic action requires a drastic beginning.”

Vonvalt looked impressed with this truism. “I am glad that you are with us. For the first time in a long time I am beginning to feel the first stirrings of optimism.”

“Well,” the Questioner said. “I would not go that far.” She nodded to the door. “Come; we have a long journey ahead of us.”

We exited the residence. Danai had her servants bring out our packs, and these were expertly stowed on those same gigantic horses that Sir Anzo’s wagon had been pulled by. These great, muscular beasts with their black horns looked more like oversized deer than traditional Saxan coursers, and were known in the Kyarai as Plains horses. It made sense that the Kasar would choose these to ride. Each wolfman was easily seven feet tall, and the weight of one and a half grown human men.

There would be six of us travelling north in total; Vonvalt, von Osterlen and I, as well as Danai, Ran-Jirika and Salana, which was the name of the Official Questioner. The Plains horse was much too tall for me to mount unassisted, and von Osterlen boosted me up with her hands. The creature did not seem to mind me; if anything, it was probably pleased to be carrying such a small burden. By happy coincidence, it also responded to the same cues as a regular horse.

It was a hot, dusty morning as we set off through the streets of Port Talaka. Some people glanced over to us, but for the most part we moved through unmolested. Many went out of their way to make some obeisance to Salana, and I wondered what her broader role within the Kyarai was.

It took us the better part of an hour to escape the western fortifications of Port Talaka. Broad, well-kept flagstones in pleasing geometric patterns gave way to a dusty road of compacted red earth. It was well trafficked for several miles out of the city, but it quickly became desolate. Salana explained to us that since the various Templar incursions south, trade from the north had all but dried up, and the Qareshians stuck to difficult but well-known mountain paths through the Southern Dividing Range.

Like many great cities of that era, one did not have to travel far beyond Port Talaka’s fortified boundaries to find oneself in open countryside. Several miles of ground was heavily irrigated for farming, but after that, we passed into open, uncultivated grassland. Here we were at the northernmost part of the Kyarai, itself the north-easternmost country of the Southern Plains. The plains themselves consisted of more than a thousand miles of open grasslands, though the Kyarai was hemmed in by the Southern Dividing Range, which kept Qaresh hot and dry and the Kyarai thick with rainforest – the ‘Reenwound’. I was desperate to see it, but would have no such luck on this journey. Indeed, as we approached the southernmost boundary of the Sovan Frontier, there was little except miles and miles of grass, rustling in the breeze, thigh-high and alive with the buzzing of insects and the keening of birds. Not for the first time was I grateful for the light, airy garments that Danai had provided us with.

The Plains horses were rugged and hardy, and had no problem in trotting along at a decent clip. It was just as well; we had a great deal of ground to cover. It was not long before Port Talaka was a distant memory, and save for a couple of intrepid merchants who had braved the Saekas of the Frontier – and who had been too long out of Sova to provide any useful news – we saw no one.

Vonvalt spent the entire journey learning as much Kasarsprek as he could. I could hear him, painstakingly repeating vowel and consonant sounds. Danai was a surprisingly patient teacher, and Salana, too, seemed happy to oblige, correcting where necessary. As the afternoon wore on, she was barely correcting at all. Vonvalt was absorbing it almost frighteningly quickly, though that should not have been a surprise. Vonvalt was a Justice. He was able to take in and understand a complex legal brief at a glance. And besides, Kasarsprek had a lot of Saxan in it.

By the end of the day, my thighs ached abominably; the back of the Plains horse was much wider than a regular horse, and though it was faster and stronger, my leg muscles did not thank it. Still, Danai and the Kasar seemed pleased with our progress as we made camp for the night. For my own part I ate and drank quickly and quietly, exhausted and longing for sleep, though I dreaded what fresh crop of visions awaited me.

But, for once, I dreamt of nothing.

The journey wore on. There is little enough to tell of it; we rode by day, camped by night, ate meagrely, drank water constantly, and listened to Vonvalt learn Kasarsprek.

These long periods of travel taxed my mental state greatly. Bressinger’s death had left a hole in my heart, and these hours and days of silent introspection gummed it up with profound melancholy. Vonvalt was many things to me, but he could never be what Bressinger had been – a friend, a brother, a confidant. I missed his companionship. I missed his love.

Sir Radomir would have buoyed me in these dark moments, but of course he was not there. There was a good chance I would never see him again, either. The sheriff’s black-and-white worldview was sometimes grating, there was no question of that; but it was also a welcome respite from Vonvalt’s intellectualism. I felt as though I could be entirely myself in the sheriff’s company, speaking and acting without fear of shame or judgement.

It was interesting to me that in this difficult time it was not Vonvalt’s company I craved. I was still no closer to crystallising in my mind the precise nature of our relationship, save that it was an unhealthy one and becoming more sickly by the day. I did love him, insofar as that meant I felt a deep bond of affection for him. But I was also in his thrall. I was bound to him not only by choice but by compulsion. I found many of his actions reprehensible and hypocritical, but in quiet moments I performed great feats mental gymnastics to excuse and forgive them. I wilfully blinded my conscience to stay with him because it was emotionally expedient. As a consequence of my difficult upbringing, which had sheared years off my maturity, I found that every fibre of my being screamed out for stability and the comfort of the known. In every period of peace and quiet I drew away from Vonvalt, seeking out the company of others; but with every fresh danger, I rushed back to him, my need for his comfort and guidance intense and urgent. This constant cycle exhausted and confused me and left me mercurial. On that long ride out of the Kyarai, I was a difficult companion.

“How did you come to be the Margrave of Südenburg?” I asked von Osterlen one day in an effort to take my mind off these intrusive thoughts. I realised that, for all the time we had spent together, I still did not know her that well. So much of our time had been given over to great, world-shaping events. Normal conversation about trivial matters had long seemed like a luxury to be dispensed with.

Von Osterlen looked at me askance. She was a little like Vonvalt; she could be surly at times, especially on long journeys, where they both had a tendency to sit in silence.

“That is a long and, if I am honest, not particularly interesting tale,” she said eventually.

I studied her as she turned away. She was what Vonvalt would call a “handsome” woman. She was of an age with him, or perhaps five years younger, dark haired and olive skinned, her features prematurely worn with the stresses and strains of helming a fortress on the Frontier. Like Resi August, she was a hard woman, and gave little of her time to levity, or at least with me. But there was an undeniable beauty to her, too. She was enigmatic and she was powerful, both physically – for especially out of her Templar armour and she was very visibly muscular – but also authoritatively. She was the kind of woman I aspired to be.

“We have plenty of time,” I said. “Why not give me the bones of it?”

The shadow of a smile played across her lips. “I joined the order of Saint Saxanhilde when I was about your age. What are you, twenty?”

I was about to correct her, when I realised that I was indeed twenty. Not only that, but I had been twenty for nearly six weeks.

“Shit,” I said aloud.

“What?”

“My birthday. I missed it. I completely forgot about it.”

“That’s quite an oversight,” von Osterlen agreed. There was an awkward pause. “Many happy returns,” she offered.

“Thank you,” I said absently. I tried to think of what I had been doing on the day in question. It did not particularly matter, but Vonvalt normally went out of his way to buy me a small gift – only he had forgotten as well. It was that, I realised, which stung me more than anything else.

“I suppose you have been occupied. With matters of state. I often forgo a celebration, though…” she smiled for a moment, eyes on the horizon “… my men often contrive to embarrass me with some ceremony.” She indulged the memory for a moment, even chuckling to herself quietly. Then, the moment passed. “I fear for Südenburg. For my people. For Luther.”

I wondered how Luther de Rambert, von Osterlen’s Grozodan second-in-command, was faring. He had helped Sir Radomir and I escape from Keraq, but I had not seen him since we had left Südenburg. Much like the margrave herself, he had been quiet, stoic and pious.

“You joined the order of Saint Saxanhilde,” I prompted, trying to divert her attention.

“Aye,” she replied. “I had a happy upbringing but I was one of many children. My elder sisters all went into the professions. One of my brothers is a Legionary. He commands the garrison at Jelicaburg. Another brother was killed in the Reichskrieg. We needed only the church to complete the full set.” It was an old joke; in Sovan circles, especially amongst the wealthy, it was fashionable to have a child take on a profession – an apothecary, physician, lawman – a child to join the Legions, and a child to join the church. It was known as the pjolni – the “full set”. She shrugged. “Saint Saxanhilde’s is a martial order – I think you know that.”

I nodded my agreement.

“It suited me. I am a good soldier, but a better commander. And I made all the right noises in Temple.”

“I thought you were a true believer,” I said before I could stop myself. I regretted it immediately, for I could tell it had not pleased her, and I had been enjoying the conversation. But I found her sentiment a difficult one to understand after our conversation in Danai’s residence. And besides, it fit much more neatly with what I would have expected. After all, von Osterlen was a pragmatic and intelligent woman. Such people rarely indulged in religious practice save what was required of them.

“That is impertinent,” she said eventually.

“I am sorry,” I said, and meant it. “It’s just—”

She waved me off irritably. “I know what you meant. Truthfully, I have always taken great comfort from it. Faith. I have…” she sighed, seemingly annoyed with herself for airing these thoughts, but apparently unable to stop “… found these past weeks very difficult, as well you know. Sir Konrad speaks so offhandedly, so blithely about the bleakness of the afterlife, as though an eternity of existence as little more than prey for malign entities is not a profound existential horror. On reflection, I see why the information, the knowledge, is not more widely shared.”

I shrugged. “So much of it is still unknown, though,” I said, trying to offer some comfort in a way I had been unable to in Port Talaka. “Who is to say that such heavenly realms as those of Nema and the Deti do not exist in some form? Perhaps they are much deeper in the aether, or exist on some other plane. What we have seen is bleak, yes, but that is just what we have seen.”

Von Osterlen smiled mirthlessly. “You sound like him, do you know that?” She nodded to Vonvalt as she said it.

“’Tis no wonder,” I said. “I have spent more time in his company than any other’s, except perhaps Dubine,” I added with a pang of melancholy.

“Did anything come of your… courtship?” She raised her eyebrows pointedly.

I shrugged again. “I know not the workings of his mind. In all honesty, I know not the workings of my own. He is not the man I knew a few years ago. He is not the man I knew a few months ago. Every day I spend with him brings new horror. I barely sleep for fear of waking up to see some malignant spirit loitering about my bed, or of being dashed apart by demons. Half the time I can barely bring myself to eat. Everything seems so… insurmountable. There is no end in sight. I’m not sure I have the mettle for more weeks and months of this – for that is surely how long it will take to resolve. And I cannot disentangle my thoughts of him from…” I gestured to the plains around us. “This. Our mission. Our purpose, our sole purpose. Sir Konrad is consumed by thoughts of Claver. It leaves little room for anything else. And, frankly, that is probably the way it should be. But I am not Sir Konrad. My mind moves from thing to thing like a frog across lily pads.”

Von Osterlen shook her head gently. “I am not so sure, Helena. We must make time to indulge our desires. Our humanity. We are not automata. Even in Südenburg, as severe a place as you can exist within the Empire – or rather, without it – we made time for levity, for music and humour, for carnality. A life without these things is no life at all.”

“I always thought the Templars were a chaste order,” I said.

“Oh, not the Order of Saxan Knights.” She gave me a wry look. “The great hall after a battle is like Kliner’s The Fall of Gevennah.”

Kliner was one of the most celebrated Sovan artists, but I did not know the reference.

The day wore on. Von Osterlen told me more of her journey from initiate to margrave. I probed her with the odd question, but I was content to simply let her speak – and she to talk. It was not an account she had been asked to give before.

I cannot recall precisely how long the journey took. I’m sure that was a symptom of the featureless landscape. We did pass the odd settlement, of course, but so much of the north of the Kyarai was wildflower grassland, hundreds and hundreds of miles of it in every direction. Certainly it was long enough for Vonvalt to pick up an impressive grasp of Kasarsprek. By the time we reached the Grasvlaktekraag encampment, he seemed to speak it almost as easily as Danai, and I could not help but wonder if he had employed some subtle magickal gift to enhance his understanding.

“It is not as difficult as it seems,” Vonvalt said to me. I do not think he was trying to sound insufferable, but he spoke as one with great knowledge on the subject, rather than the enthusiastic amateur he was. “The only hard part is using the throat correctly. The shape of the wolfman’s mouth means he relies more on his throat to enunciate. But Kasarsprek minimises these glottal sounds and creates simulacra of the bilabial and labiodental sounds in the middle of the mouth. Listen to the difference between Kasarsprek and Kasari; the latter is much more guttural—”

He carried on in this vein for some time, but my attention was fixed on what looked to be a distant fortification. It was mid-afternoon on the final day of our trek, and all of us – save apparently Vonvalt – were tired, surly, and parched, for our water reserves had been calculated with great specificity in order to spare the horses the extra weight.

As we drew closer, I could see that it was indeed a fortification. Steeply sloped ramparts of compacted red earth rose up and were capped with crenellated walls of pink stone. In the centre lay a pyramidal keep which was festooned with geometric gargoyles. The curtain wall ensconced dozens of other buildings, too, mostly square in profile, with thin slit windows and the same crenellations one would find on hundreds of similar Sovan fortifications. Some of them were gone to ruin; more still were overgrown and in need of repair. Yet for its rambling nature – and it was a large fortress covering a half-dozen acres – it was imposing in the afternoon haze.

In the lee of the fortress was a small township, a mixture of building styles from the very rough – little more than single-room lean-tos – to sturdy stone structures with plastered façades and intricate geometric patterning. I could see one modest stepped pyramid which looked as though, in contrast to those of the capital, it still functioned as a place of worship. Such places accreted organically over many decades, beginning with a small garrison fortification and a semi-permanent encampment for travelling merchants, to a rude fortress and shanty township, to a permanent castle and walled city. They were ten a penny in the Empire. This one was called Kalegosfort, and it was the name of both the dusty, pink-stoned fortress of the Grasvlaktekraag, and the settlement that lay to its south.

We drew plenty of attention as we passed through the town. Like Port Talaka, Kalegosfort was home to a mixture of Kasar and humans, though the concentration of white-skinned Sovans here was much more marked, presumably because of our proximity to the Frontier. Kalegosfort would represent, in theory, the first safe haven for a Sovan merchant after the southernmost Templar fortress of Zetland.

Kalegosfort had that innate quality of isolation to it, like an island in a vast sea. This was the final, northernmost outpost of the Kasar, itself many days’ travel to the nearest sizeable town. Here, the wind moaned across the desolate plains and insects chirped and rattled in the grass.

Ran-Jirika rode on ahead, the hooves of his Plains horse kicking up clouds of red dust where the grasses had been cleared away and the earth compacted by decades of human and wolfman feet. Our approach had long been noticed by sentries atop the walls of the fortress itself, and the main gate – a portcullis of latticed iron – rattled open on Ran-Jirika’s approach.

“How will this go?” Vonvalt asked Danai.

“Honestly, I do not know. But the presence of Ran-Jirika and the Questioner is a great boon.” She shrugged. “Besides; I hardly think the Grasvlaktekraag will need much in the way of encouragement to join us. The problem has been keeping them here, to heel.”

We approached the fortress. I saw now that the northern side of it was built atop a steep escarpment, giving Kalegosfort a commanding view of the southern Frontier. The nearest Sovan settlement was the wayfort at Randshut, several tens of miles away and probably visible on a clear day. It was little more than a fortified outpost for traders, and had never held any serious garrison thanks to its proximity to Qaresh. Its isolation had made it easy pickings for the Saekas, too.

I looked up at the walls to see that we were being observed by a dozen armoured Kasar. Unlike the Hyernakryger, the soldiers of the Grasvlaktekraag were more heavily armoured, with mail hauberks and surcoats. Each had a scimitar, which was buckled about their hips, and each carried a huge halberd the same height as themselves.

We passed into the fortress, into a paved staging area. Here were more Grasvlaktekraag. They were dusty and rugged looking, many visibly scarred. Their surcoats were pale earth-red and embroidered with Kasari devices. But though there was an air of expectation, I did not detect any noticeable hostility. Instead, there was almost a sense of reverence as the Questioner dismounted and joined Ran-Jirika in speaking to a Kasar I assumed was some sort of commander.

“That is the Kraagsman,” Danai said quietly to the three of us, gesturing subtly to the Kasar Ran-Jirika and Salana were speaking with. He was black-furred and grey-muzzled, unarmoured and stripped to the waist. I saw that a large burn scar had eaten away a huge swathe of his belly fur, and the grey skin beneath was knotty and discoloured.

“The leader, I am assuming,” Vonvalt said.

“Indeed. I believe the serjeants are known as ‘skarls’, and the individual companies are ‘skarlsgrup’.”

“And you say there are how many? Four hundred?”

“Yes,” Danai agreed. She looked away for a moment to listen to something in Kasarsprek; then she said to us, “We are being asked to dismount.” We did so.

The Kraagsman approached Vonvalt. Vonvalt stood his ground, but I could tell he was intimidated.

He flinched as the Kraagsman thumped him on the shoulder, almost sending him sprawling on to the flagstones. “You and your people are welcome here, Saxan Konrad,” the Kraagsman said in faultless Kasarsprek. He placed a palm on his chest. “I am Zuberi, leader of the Grasvlaktekraag.”

“Thank you, Zuberi,” Vonvalt said, slightly winded. “I see that I have been introduced. I am grateful for your hospitality and I hope that you will find my arrival and my purpose auspicious.” Vonvalt spoke in halting but what I took to be very passable Kasarsprek, judging by the reception of the broader assembly.

Zuberi’s lupine features broke into a broad grin. “Together, we will hunt Templar scum!” he roared, and the host behind him bellowed their agreement.

And so it was we entered the inner fortress to lay plans to move north.

XII

A Costly Mistake in Time and Blood

“I have never known a greater sorrow than to have ended the life of a person I might have called friend.”

MARGRAVE ERNUST HUNFRID

In spite of the extraordinary burden of administration – the Grasvlaktekraag could not simply up sticks and abandon Kalegosfort – we were prepared to leave the following day. Danai and Salana – and many others, I have no doubt – were correct; Kraagsman Zuberi had required little in the way of honey in his ear to press north. The barest threshold of official approval had been crossed in the form of the Questioner. Now, much to Vonvalt’s savage delight, matters progressed with great speed.

I remember vividly being in and amongst the maelstrom of activity as the wolfmen organised themselves. Plains horses were checked, reshod, fed, watered and packed. Great quantities of food were brought out of the fortress’s stores – cured and salted meats, carefully staled bread, a special paste made from ground wildflowers, tubers and oil which could outlast the Empire itself and remain edible – packed with skill, and stowed; blades and horse horns were sharpened, scimitars were sheathed, halberds were protected with leather covers and tied to saddles; armour was checked and repaired with haste and proficiency.

As we watched the Grasvlaktekraag prepare to sally, Danai came to speak with us.

“This is where I leave you,” she said to Vonvalt. We had not expected her to accompany us, but I was sorry to see her go nonetheless.

“Yes,” Vonvalt said, turning away from the spectacle of the Kasar making their preparations. “I owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

“I agree,” Danai said with a hint of wryness. “I have done all I can to explain, in detail, the full nature and purpose of your mission to Ran-Jirika, but you should be conscious of the nature of the Kasar. They can be… ungovernable. They do not have the discipline of the Sovan military formations you are used to dealing with.”

“I am used to dealing with all sorts,” Vonvalt murmured.

“Notwithstanding,” Danai said with a hint of impatience. “They are formidable warriors, but they are akin to a barrel of blackpowder. Once the fuse is lit, there is little to do except stand back and watch.”

“Duly noted.”

There was a pause. “I am sorry that we reached this point via so much… unsavouriness, but I am not sorry that we have reached this point,” Danai said eventually.

Vonvalt was quiet for a few moments, his attention seemingly back on the wolfmen. “No,” he said. I found my hand idly going to my chest, where the mark of the Trickster sat like a faded tattoo.

“I am not sure that it could have gone any other way.”

Once again, we set out north. Ran-Jirika remained with us as a political representative of the will of the Kasaraad. Zuberi led the Grasvlaktekraag. He had left a skeleton force in Kalegosfort, perhaps twenty Kasar; the rest, nearly four hundred wolfmen, struck out on to the Frontier. It was an impressive sight, watching these soldiers and their huge horses, as well as a sizeable baggage train, make its way across the plains.

Vonvalt took the time to pass on what Kasarsprek he knew to von Osterlen and I. I think, for all he had appeared to brush off Danai’s warning about the Kasar being an unruly mob, he was concerned enough to pass on a few key phrases – “wait”, “stop”, “yes”, “no,” and so on – and though he did not tell us why, I suspected he was worried about preserving innocent lives. Although the Kasar were a civilised race, the Grasvlaktekraag were soldiers, and soldiers were capable of all manner of things when their blood was up.

We rode on, this time cutting north-east. Vonvalt’s plan, as he had explained to the Kraagsman, was to make for Grunhaven. But it was on the second day of our journey that something unexpected happened.

“What’s going on?” von Osterlen asked no one in particular as some minor commotion seemed to be taking place at the head of our force. Vonvalt, who had been lost in introspection, looked up sharply, to see wolfmen pointing to the north-west. There, in the distance, one of the outriders was heading back, and, to our surprise, he had, slung across the back of his saddle, a person.

Vonvalt said nothing, but immediately spurred his horse on to intercept the wolfman with the captive. I strained to see whether the person was a Templar, but as they approached, it was clear that they were simply a merchant.

I watched and listened as Vonvalt conversed with the outrider, and then latterly Ran-Jirika and Zuberi as they too converged on the former. Then, after some back and forth, Vonvalt motioned for me and von Osterlen to approach, and we did so.

The merchant – a man – was pulled unceremoniously off the back of the Plains horse and set upon the ground, where he immediately collapsed on to his backside. Vonvalt undid the man’s gag.

“Water,” the man said immediately, and Vonvalt provided some from his own waterskin.

I studied the merchant as he slaked his thirst. He was middle-aged and bald, his head wrapped in cloth to keep the sun off – though his face was still weather-beaten and his lips cracked and dry from want of water. He wore clothes appropriate for a long trek across the Frontier.

“Why don’t you tell me who you are and what happened,” Vonvalt asked after the man had gathered his wits. Still, he did not take his eyes off the line of mounted Kasari soldiers stretching away into the distance.

“Are you going to kill me?” was his first question. It came out as a gasp. He certainly had a Sovan accent, a Hauner by the sounds of it.

Vonvalt shook his head impatiently. “No. Tell me what I’d like to know and you can be on your way.”

The man seemed to be placated by this, more still by the presence of us humans amongst the Grasvlaktekraag.

“My name is Bertrand Kaufmann,” he said. “I am from Oldenburg.” I smirked, pleased with my ear for accents. Kaufmann nodded in the direction of Kalegosfort. “I am making for Port Talaka.” He looked shifty for a moment. “My business is my own.”

Vonvalt shook his head. “I am afraid it isn’t.”

Kaufmann sighed. “I am looking to make enquiries about the sale of some precious items.”

Vonvalt’s eyes narrowed. “I am not about to rob you,” he said, though even as he said it, he seemed to lose interest in the nature of the man’s business. Ultimately, what did it matter?

“A man such as myself, a Sovan citizen no less, should be able to travel without let or hindrance—” Kaufmann continued, emboldened by Vonvalt’s retreat, but Vonvalt waved him quiet.

“Enough of that. Tell me what happened.” He nodded towards the Kasari outrider as he said it.

Kaufmann looked surly and disgruntled. “Little enough to tell. I was walking down the path to Randshut. Making for the border.” He shrugged. “I saw your caravan on the horizon, and thought it was more Templars.”

All three of us, von Osterlen, Vonvalt and I, exchanged a sharp glance.

“More Templars?”

“Aye.”

“Where?” Vonvalt demanded.

Kaufmann looked taken aback. “A-a day north of here, perhaps?”

“Nema, be more specific!”

Kaufmann floundered for a moment. “Gods, I must’ve seen them… Flame of Savare, perhaps twenty miles east of Zetland? Radovansburg.”

“Which direction were they heading in?”

Again, Kaufmann thought.

“Think!” Vonvalt snapped, but von Osterlen made a placatory gesture.

“Easy,” she murmured.

Vonvalt looked annoyed at the interruption, but at least had the good sense to take the point.

“Still east. They were heading east. The reason I remember is that there is a stained-glass window in Radovansburg chapel, and I remember it catching the morning sunlight. And the Templars were moving from my right to left.” He shrugged. “I know not where they were heading. Zetland was in the opposite direction, and there is little enough between there and the coast—”

“Grunhaven,” Vonvalt and von Osterlen said in unison. “How many?” Vonvalt demanded.

Kaufmann shrugged. “I know not. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands.”

Vonvalt turned to us excitedly. “Claver will be making up the coast, and then up the Kova. I’ll warrant Iliyana of Casimir will be there to meet him with the Confederation Navy, and spirit him to Kzosic Principality. He will attack the capital from the east.”

“If we are quick, we will be able to intercept him,” von Osterlen agreed.

We all straightened up. Von Osterlen offered Kaufmann her hand, and she pulled him to his feet. Whilst Vonvalt spoke to Ran-Jirika, she offered the merchant some advice.

“Tread carefully in Port Talaka,” she said. “Sovans – even wealthy merchants – are not as welcome as they once were.”

Kaufmann nodded his thanks. “The times are changing. Not since the final days of the Reichskrieg have I known such disarray.” He took one last look around the Kasar of the Grasvlaktekraag. “You look as though you are prepared for violence. I did not know the wolfmen ventured this far north.”

“They do not. Ours is a special purpose.”

“Then I bid you good fortune,” Kaufmann said, only slightly uneasily.

“And I you.”

Kaufmann repaired to his horse, and then was gone.

A matter of minutes later, so were we.

We continued on to Grunhaven with renewed purpose, though for all their stamina and hardiness, the horses’ energy needed to be husbanded as carefully as that of any other. The temptation was to canter on to the coast, but we had to content ourselves with a steady trot.

Vonvalt and von Osterlen speculated at length about Claver’s movements, though given what we knew about the man’s affiliation with Iliyana of Casimir and the Kòvoskan rebels, most of their speculation was a simple evolution of Vonvalt’s conjecture. In and amongst all this excited talk, it seemed to me that we were all overlooking the most crucial question of all: what exactly it was that we planned to do when we got there. Claver and Margrave von Geier had at least five thousand Templars under their command, and probably closer to twice that in other forces. We were four hundred Kasar. Even if every member of the Grasvlaktekraag killed five men apiece – and, given what I had heard of their abilities, I did not doubt that to be a perfectly possible outcome – that was a fifth of our enemy’s number. And what happened then?

To my greatest surprise, Vonvalt seemed untroubled by my concerns, which I raised during the last meal we took before we reached Grunhaven. It was midday, but the sun was obscured by a low ceiling of grey cloud, and the air, leaden and sultry, felt charged with anticipation.

“Do not let the numbers trouble you too much, Helena,” Vonvalt said. “Defeating an army does not require you to kill every last man in it. It is true that they will likely outnumber us, but you are assuming that this is Claver’s entire force. It may well only be a part of it. After all, ten thousand men require a vast number of ships to transport. And,” he said, warming to his theme, “even if it was all ten thousand, there are any number of ways to pick apart such a force. If we burned their ships and baggage train, they might lose half the army to thirst. We shall have to take the measure of them first.”

I did not have much in the way of appetite, though von Osterlen encouraged me to eat to keep my strength up. Once we had finished, and the horses had been given all the rest they were going to get, the Grasvlaktekraag saddled up, and we made for Grunhaven.

As the violent confrontation drew closer, I found my nerves once again beginning to fray; and so in a quiet moment I drew my Plains horse up alongside von Osterlen’s, and spoke to her in a low voice.

“I feel as though I am always afraid,” I confided. Vonvalt was at the head of the company, talking to Zuberi and Ran-Jirika. “No matter how many fights I get into, the fear never leaves me. It simply returns afresh, every time the prospect of violence rears its head.”

Von Osterlen seemed genuinely surprised that I thought there could have been an alternative. “It never goes,” she said simply, unsure if she’d fully grasped my meaning. “It will never leave you.”

My features creased in confusion. “What do you mean? You feel fear?”

Von Osterlen chuckled in what was an exceptionally rare display of mirth. “Of course, Helena. I am only human. I do not want to be stabbed any more than the next person. It’s fucking painful,” she added.

“Then how do you do it?”

“How do you do it?”

I considered this for a moment. “Because I have to,” I said.

Von Osterlen shrugged. “There you have it. And besides, you do get used to it. Not fully, but it does get easier.”

I eyed the horizon. “I hope I never have to get used to it,” I said uncertainly.

“Yes, well,” von Osterlen agreed. “There is that, too.”

We both looked up as some small commotion drew our attention at the head of the company. Grunhaven had come into view, little more than a distant smudge in the late afternoon haze. But it was not the fortress that was drawing the attention of the Kasar; it was the group of soldiers to the north.

“Shit,” I said. I was not prepared for this in the slightest. I had anticipated some night-time exploits per Vonvalt’s suggestion, some examination of our enemy under cover of darkness; sabotage and subterfuge. Instead, we were both caught out in the open.

“Indeed,” von Osterlen agreed. She took in the group of Templars to the north. Even to my untrained eye it did not look like a particularly cohesive force, and certainly not ten thousand men. There could not have been more than a tenth of that. “Look, they are in disarray. Prepare yourself; this will move very quickly.”

She was not wrong. Already I could see the Grasvlaktekraag shifting as the news worked its way down the company. I watched as the Kasar began to remove the leather caps from their halberds and horses’ horns, watched as they began to discard their baggage without ceremony, to be recovered after the battle. Those who had stripped off their armour for the journey were hastily donning it, pulling on their mail shirts, buckling scabbards about their waists, checking that their scimitars drew cleanly and did not stick.

The Templars, who must have been just over half a mile away, were shifting as well, adopting bedraggled formations, but only a quarter that I could see were mounted, and there was no sign of a baggage train. Any misgivings I might have had were buried under a surge of optimism. The Kasar, already bigger and stronger than mortal men, as well as rested and fed and spoiling for a fight, would make mincemeat of this detachment of Claver’s force.

Vonvalt rode up to us as Zuberi began to direct the company in Kasari.

“You two remain in the rear,” he said.

I was secretly relieved at this injunction, though von Osterlen’s features creased in annoyance. She was cut off, however, before she could defy him.

“With me,” Vonvalt added. “Let the soldiers do the soldiering. Our mission is too important to throw our lives away on a skirmish.”

The Grasvlaktekraag lined up, a single formation two ranks deep. I had seen what a Sovan destrier did to a person, but even that enormous beast had nothing on a Plains horse. Each Kasar wielded its halberd with the haft across its back, blade extended out to the side, and I knew that this one charge alone would be devastating – decisive, even. My heart surged; this whole mission, many weeks in the making, had seemed hare-brained. Now, it seemed like genius.

Zuberi sounded the charge with a horn, and the Grasvlaktekraag let up a great roar. The horses kicked forward, and I felt the plains rumble beneath my feet as the charge began.

“It is much too far for a charge,” Vonvalt shouted to us over the wind in our ears as we followed at a much slower – though still fast – pace. “They will burn out well in advance of the Templar line.”

“You were warned of their impetuosity,” von Osterlen said. She herself seemed to be in high spirits, which was unsurprising in the circumstances. The Savaran Templars had been rivals to Südenburg long before they had been an enemy of the state.

And then, her expression fell.

She squinted at the Templar host, and what cheer had marked her features melted away like ice in the midday sun. Now there was in its place an expression of profound horror.

“In the name of Nema, Konrad, call them off!” she shouted.

Vonvalt looked completely baffled. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “We’ll not get a better chan—”

“It’s Luther!” Von Osterlen screamed, kicking her horse into the hardest canter it could muster. “It’s not Claver, it’s the Saxan Knights! It’s Südenburg!”

“No!” I shouted. I squinted at the distant Templar line, to see that von Osterlen was right. The livery was all wrong. The Savarans wore a white star against black; and though black cloaks were in abundance, I could clearly see livery of the Order of Saxan Knights – a black cross against a white background, centred by the deer’s head of Nema.

“Prince of Hell!” Vonvalt shouted, kicking his own horse into a canter. He began to bellow at the Grasvlaktekraag, but their blood was up, and he had no hope of making himself heard over the thundering of their horses’ hooves and battle cry.

I followed suit. Vonvalt had taught us – prophetically, it felt – the word for ‘stop’ in Kasarsprek, and I screamed it as my Plains horse charged forward, though I had even less hope of being heard than von Osterlen and Vonvalt. I watched with horror as the Templar cavalry initiated their own charge – for what choice did they have? – and I felt sick as the two cavalry companies smashed into one another.

“No!” I screamed again, my throat raw. I watched as Templars were cut in two, their armour like paper against the huge war halberds of the Kasar. One man was literally hewn in half. I saw a Frontier courser decapitated. The clash was so violent that I saw one Templar horse half-somersault, its belly gored by the Plains horse’s horns. Its neck snapped as it landed – as did the back of its Templar rider underneath.

Vonvalt and von Osterlen moved like people possessed, shouting and screaming in both Saxan and Kasari. But now they had the sounds of battle to contend with, too. Not only the screams of the men and horses and the roars of the Kasar, but the clash of armour against armour, scimitar against short sword and spear.

A horrible, plunging despair took root in me as I reached the rearmost part of the battle. Except it was not a battle. It was a massacre. That the Templars had stood to fight at all spoke volumes of their incredible courage, for the Kasar were absolutely terrifying – and feral in the heat of battle. If the Kasar truly were divided into two parts, human and wolf, then they reserved the former for their leisure, their business and trade, their cities and places of civilisation.

On the battlefield, I was watching animals at work.

I rode past a Templar who had had his head, top half of his chest, and left arm cut off. I saw another man skewered on the end of the halberd and lifted into the air like a roasted hog. In one part of the field I saw a dismounted Kasar, his halberd discarded, punch a man so hard in the face it caved inward as though his facial bones were eggshell.

The rout was sudden and total. I know not how long the engagement lasted, but it could only have been a minute, perhaps two at most. The ferocity of the Kasari charge, the energy of the impact, the spectacular gore of the melee, had crushed the Templars’ will to fight to a fine powder. As both a demonstration of martial prowess, and a tragic mistake, it was without peer.

The Templars fled. Those on foot discarded anything that might hinder them – swords, shields, even mail. Those cavalrymen who had survived simply broke off and cantered away. It was only then, after Vonvalt and von Osterlen’s frantic screaming at Zuberi, that the Kraagsman pulled out the same horn he had used to sound the charge and blew a different pattern, a sequence of regular blasts which was met with singular confusion. It was easy to see why; the Kasar wanted to charge the Templars down and slaughter them to a man. In their minds, these were the Savarans, men and women who had made it their business to attack Kasari lands, holdings and personnel for little reason other than to blood themselves. Unchecked, they would have reduced every Templar on the field to bloody rags.

Even as the call-off was sounded, some Kasar attended their final kills. I saw at least a dozen men and women who might otherwise have survived dispatched with predatory zeal. The Kasar wielded weapons, certainly, but they had clawed fingers and powerful jaws, too, and these were used to great effect.

I realised I was weeping as the massacre ground to a halt. Zuberi blew on the horn incessantly, and I could read in his lupine features a sense of urgency. Slowly, the Plains horses came to a stop. Immediately some began to idly crop at the grass, oblivious to the tragedy which had just unfolded. One Kasar dismounted and was about to dispatch a wounded Templar, when I shouted “stop” in Kasarsprek – and the wolfman looked over at me.

I dismounted, misjudging the distance to the ground and nearly rolling my ankle, and ran up to the Templar. The Kasar who had been about to execute him growled in anger and frustration, but let me past.

“Are you wounded?” I asked the man. He had the dark skin of a Grozodan, a greying black beard, and creased, careworn features. I realised then that I recognised him. “Luther,” I breathed. “By the gods.”

“Helena?” Luther de Rambert said between deep breaths, eyes wide in fear and confusion. “What are you doing here? What is going on?”

My tears pattered down on his surcoat. “I’m sorry,” was all I could say. “I am so, so sorry.”

XIII

On to Sova

“Human hands, human mistakes”

SOVAN PROVERB

We limped into Grunhaven. Like Kalegosfort, a small merchant outpost of the same name had grown up next to it, and it was into this nascent town that we pulled the survivors.

The Templar fortress of Grunhaven was itself abandoned. Nothing sensible could be divined from the locals about the absence of a garrison, but to hear them speak of it, it was not a new state of affairs. As one of the southernmost Templar outposts, the fortress would undoubtedly have fallen under the purview of Zetland, so it made sense that Claver would have left the place to fallow and taken whatever soldiers there had been north with him. Though the real reason was never divined, it at least gave us a place to stay.

Vonvalt frantically summoned all able bodies in the town. I was dispatched to find a blue star that denoted a physician, found two, and collared them both. Great quantities of marsh ale were produced, as well as fresh water from a tributary of the Reka which trickled into the Jade Sea a mile or two north. Whilst the physicians tended to the most badly injured Templars – and there were plenty that would simply not survive – the small number of townsfolk, mostly fishermen and their families, and a sizeable cohort of itinerant merchants and their ships’ crews, began fetching water, vinegar and wine, and bandages, or anything that could pass for a bandage.

Strangely, I could not help but feel sorry for the Kasar, too. For all I had thought of them as wild beasts in the heat of battle, once word had been spread of the mistake, their demeanour had changed quickly and totally. With blood and tempers cooled, a heavy contrition set in. I could see it in their movements, in their features. Occasionally one would perform a jarringly human act, like rubbing the backs of their heads, clasping a hand over their mouths, or pinching the bridge of their snout. Several appeared to be consoling one another. They did what they could to assist, lashing wounded Templars to their horses, providing water from their own skins, and so on. But the damage had been done, and there was no undoing it. Now we had to mitigate what we could.

In and amongst the chaos of the field hospital, I found Vonvalt and von Osterlen. Both were stripped of their armour. Vonvalt’s shirt was unbuttoned to the navel and both sleeves were rolled up to the middle of his upper arm. Von Osterlen had foregone a top entirely and wore only a breast band. Her tunic she had ripped into strips and was soaking them in vinegar. Her expression was one of furious concentration. She conspicuously avoided talking with Vonvalt.

I set to helping. Vonvalt had long ago taught me basic aid, and I rendered what I could; but no sooner had I begun when he stopped me.

“Helena,” he said to me quietly. “Find Luther. Find out what they were doing here. And explain to him our mistake, if he will listen.”

I expected von Osterlen to leap up to attend with me, but she was entirely engaged with matters medical. I could only imagine what emotional agonies she was feeling. These were her people, her soldiers. She had left them in Südenburg under the auspices of her second-in-command, Luther de Rambert. And now here they were, hundreds of miles from their fortress, already in a sorry state, and that was before the Grasvlaktekraag had smashed them to pieces. She must have been feeling horror and sorrow, certainly; but knowing her as I did, I suspected her predominant emotion would have been one of guilt.

I picked my way back through the bloody streets, where a great many Templars lay directly on the road. The Kasar, at Vonvalt’s request, had gone into Grunhaven fortress itself to prepare it for occupation. I did not know how long we would be there, but it would likely be a day or two. Eventually, I found Luther de Rambert, still clad in his armour and surcoat, though helmetless. He was clasping the hands of another Templar, both of their eyes closed, and I could see de Rambert’s mouth moving in whispered prayer. I waited at a respectful distance for him to finish, and when he did and stood, the Templar whose hands he had been clasping remained motionless.

He looked at me. “Helena,” he said. I could see that he had been weeping.

“May I speak with you?” I asked. I had to repeat it a second time to get the words out. My voice was so hoarse from all the screaming. “Privately?”

De Rambert cast one more forlorn look about his men, and then nodded. Together we walked up on to the dusty, sand-coloured walls of Grunhaven. We made our way around the battlements until we were looking directly out over the Jade Sea. Shafts of golden late afternoon sunlight slanted under the low ceiling of cloud, giving the water a sparkling green colour in keeping with its namesake. Beneath us, the waves pounded and fizzed against the rocks on which the wall had been built.

“What happened?” I asked. “How did you come to be out here? We mistook you for Savarans.”

De Rambert watched the sea. He did not take his eyes off it as he spoke. “There are no Savarans here any more. You will find Keraq as empty as Grunhaven.”

My heart surged. “They have moved? Claver and his men?”

De Rambert nodded. “They came for us at Südenburg,” he said. “Margrave von Osterlen warned me that it was a distinct possibility, though to my shame I never truly believed it.” He looked at me suddenly. “I still took the necessary measures she had decreed,” he added, as though he had to justify himself to me.

“I am sure of it,” I murmured uncertainly.

De Rambert sighed, and seemed to deflate as he did so. “No, I never truly believed it. Even after what came to pass in Keraq.” Now he looked at me askance, as though I might somehow have been tainted by the demons which had engulfed the Savaran stronghold. I could hardly blame him; the same thought had crossed my mind on multiple occasions. “If anything, I thought that that devilry would convince them to abandon the whole enterprise. It is extraordinary to me that people can still see Obenpatria Claver as a pious man, when he has so obviously come completely untethered from all notions of piety.”

I nodded my agreement. It was an irony not lost on any of us that Claver, in seeking to reassert the authority of the Neman Church, was in the thrall of the Neman Church’s own historic nemeses. Who knew what intricate mental con tortions the man was performing to justify it all to himself?

“Margrave von Geier is a man of great strategic capability,” de Rambert said bitterly. “Südenburg is a large and powerful fortress, but it is not without its weak points. An enemy would not know them, or certainly not with any intimacy; but von Geier might as well have been studying the engineers’ blueprints. Not that he needed to.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“A few months past, we were attacked by the Saekas with blackpowder. It was an attack of two parts, a diversionary feint to the north and the main thrust to the south. They sought to breach the curtain wall with blackpowder – a thick wall, by any reckoning, but one that predates the discovery of blackpowder by a century or more.” He picked up a small stone atop the merlon and idly tossed it into the roiling green waters below. “They cracked it like an egg, but we thwarted the attack and let the masons patch it up.”

I realised what he was saying. We had been there when it happened. I could remember watching the battle from atop a nearby escarpment, and seeing the hole afterwards. “You are telling me it was a move planned months in advance?”

De Rambert spat over the edge. “Aye. They hit it again, the exact same place. This time the whole wall came down. We had been prepared for a lengthy siege, not a scrap like that.” He sighed again, shakily. “It was a massacre.”

I did not say anything for a little while. It did not seem like the right thing to do, to interrupt him.

“The powers that Claver and his priests are able to employ, it is beyond anything I have ever laid eyes on. They were able to…” He paused, words catching in his throat. I did not know what to do, so I simply did the Sovan thing and pretended I had not noticed until he comported himself. “They were able to force men to…” Still he grappled with it. “Kill themselves,” he said eventually. “They shout in some arcane tongue, and in so doing are able to command men’s minds. And they would force us to turn our own swords against ourselves. I watched men cut their own throats—”

He stopped again, gripping the merlon in front of him to steady himself. This time I put my hand on his shoulder, and to my surprise, he held it with his own. If I had felt guilty before, now I felt wretched. They had endured so much, only to face this fresh hell on the Frontier.

“How did you get away?” I asked.

De Rambert stiffened, as though someone had stabbed him in the small of his back with a dagger. “We fled,” he said with venom. “Those of us who could, we fled like cowards. And here, finally, we have faced our divine retribution in the form of these fresh devils.”

“I am so sorry that this happened,” I said. I explained to him what had come to pass with the Grasvlaktekraag.

He nodded bitterly. “Perhaps, then, we shall have a chance to make our atonement.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We shall join you, of course,” de Rambert said. “What meagre force of ours remains. And we shall have our revenge on Claver. Obenpatria I will call him no more. We will see him killed, and all of those who call him master.”

And then de Rambert turned away from the wall, and made his way out of the fortress to once again tend to the wounded.

Vonvalt held a council of war that evening in Grunhaven fortress. In attendance was von Osterlen, de Rambert, Ran-Jirika and Zuberi. Salana, the Questioner, was an old Kasar and required rest, and had retired.

Also in attendance was a representative from the town, a woman by the name of Jelena Kovac. Vonvalt spent some time thanking her for her assistance, which she accepted graciously, though she seemed very much out of her depth. Then he turned to de Rambert.

“Luther,” he said. “An inauspicious afternoon. I speak on behalf of my Kasari friends, too, when I say that this is about as far away from where we wanted to be as it is possible to get. I have been mixed up in similar mistakes many years ago in the Reichskrieg, and there is nothing quite like the agony of slaying allies. Our sincerest apologies will be worthless to you, I am sure, but in the event that you can take any comfort from them—”

De Rambert smiled sadly, holding up a hand. “Thank you, Sir Konrad. But I know the hand of Fate at work when I see it.”

Vonvalt lapsed to silence, wrong-footed. Von Osterlen had already spoken to de Rambert earlier that evening, and she had forewarned us of his rather fatalistic outlook. Whilst this business with Claver had all but cut her adrift from the Neman Church, it had had the opposite effect on the old serjeant. His piety was almost frightening in its fresh intensity.

“Human hands, human mistakes, Luther,” Vonvalt said sadly. “Would that I could write this off as the machinations of the inhabitants of the aether.”

De Rambert shook his head chidingly, but said nothing. This, too, unbalanced Vonvalt, but he pressed ahead notwithstanding.

“Helena has told me that you and those of your surviving men will join our cause. I am most pleased to hear it. I have been thinking for some time on how to proceed, for a great deal has rested on reaching this juncture. But before we do, I would hear from you what happened, in your own words. And please; there is no detail too granular.”

De Rambert repeated his account – that which he had relayed to me on the battlements – but if he had given me the stones, he gave Vonvalt the sand. For his own part, Vonvalt pressed and probed constantly, until by the end he felt he had an acceptably detailed account.

“Ten thousand men,” Vonvalt said, sitting back and musing. “At least a hundred of those damnable patrias – each worth a hundred men in and of themselves. We have denied them the full fruits of the Draedist arcana thanks to Helena’s burning of Keraq, but we know that Claver still has the ability to summon demons and bind them.”

“That is the most dangerous thing of all, is it not?” von Osterlen asked.

Vonvalt looked at her. “Indeed it is,” he said. There was another lengthy silence as we all ruminated on this macabre thought. Kovac, the de facto mayor of Grunhaven, had absolutely no idea what was going on. She probably thought we had all lost our minds. “We had supposed that Claver and the Savarans would make for Grunhaven, and from here head up the Kova. We know that Claver has made a pact with Iliyana of Casimir for the supply of blackpowder. I thought they would collect it en route and then move east through Kzosic Principality. But you,” he said, now turning his attention to de Rambert, “think they have made north through Estre?”

The old Templar nodded. “Aye. That is what I think. They had a large baggage train, one that suggested a march over land. Knowing the Savarans as I do they will pilfer as much as they can from Estre as they go. Perhaps lay waste to Saxanfelde.”

“You think they would be that bold?” Vonvalt asked.

De Rambert let out a small, bitter chuckle. “Claver’s goal is Sova itself, is it not?”

“Yes, that was foolish of me,” Vonvalt said.

“Besides, if Prince Gordan is killed, and Prince Tasa is likely soon to be killed himself, that only leaves Prince Luka left. My thinking is Claver will seek to draw him out of Saxanfelde and slay him, and cut off the Haugenate line root and branch. That way there will be no one left to rally support for the Imperial throne after he dispatches the Emperor.”

“It would add weeks, nay, months to his campaign,” Vonvalt said. “Claver’s greatest ally is speed. The slower he and the Savarans move, the more time he gives Sova to rally the Legions. They may be strung out along the Kova, but if the capital is under threat, you can bet they will abandon the East.”

“And be slaughtered,” von Osterlen said. “The Kova Confederation is waiting for just such a rout. The moment the Legions abandon their strongholds and extend themselves over miles of rough terrain, they will be massacred. If a few thousand pagans can do it in Haunersheim, imagine what a hundred times that number of battle-hardened Kovans could achieve.”

Vonvalt considered all of this. “To my mind, there are only two ways Claver is going to get into Sova. The first is the same way he got into Südenburg; destroying the walls with a vast quantity of blackpowder. We know that this is at least a part of what he is planning.”

“What is the second way?” von Osterlen asked.

“The second way is that he walks in through an open gate.” Vonvalt, a courtroom performer at heart, took a moment to let this settle. “Think on it,” he said. “When we left Sova it was in disarray. News of its current state has been thin on the ground, but we know that the Grand Lodge was burned, and the Magistratum was disbanded. That means our enemies within the capital have made their move. And unless that move has been crushed, then Claver might not have to battle to get inside it at all.”

“I assume that is where you come in,” von Osterlen said.

“Precisely. Until Lady Frost, Captain Llyr and Sir Radomir arrive with our pagan army – and I am hoping several thousand Hauners – we cannot hope to match Claver in the field. We must husband our forces and save them for the final confrontation. Ten thousand men does not seem like a large force, but what we must remember is these are ten thousand battle-hardened men, they have an excellent and ruthless commander in the form of Margrave von Geier, they are highly motivated, and with their priests wielding the Draedist arcana in the van, they are likely to roll over any army they come up against. So, we need numbers, and we need to be intelligent. My current thinking is this…”

There was a brief, tense silence. We had spent a great deal of time ourselves wondering what Vonvalt’s plan was, for he had kept his counsel on the matter.

“My plan is to head back to Sova. Given Helena’s current… role as aethereal go-between, I shall keep her with me. I must speak with the Emperor. My plan is to undo whatever mischief the Mlyanars have achieved in the capital. That way, if Claver bests Prince Luka in Saxanfelde – as we must assume he will – then at least when he reaches Sova, he will find the gates barred and guarded.

“The second part of my plan involves sabotage. We must stop that blackpowder from reaching Sova. Severina, you and Luther will take the Grasvlaktekraag up the Kova, and locate and obliterate their stores. It is of vital importance, so I shall trust no one else with it. If you are successful, then make for Sova, and together we will destroy Claver’s army on the Ebenen Plains.”

Von Osterlen, whom I suspected had already guessed the nature of Vonvalt’s plan, or at least her part in it, nodded. “We will need ships,” she said. “With oars and tow lines. The South Kova is tidal, true, but that will only get us so far. Maintaining subtlety will be no small endeavour.”

“I know. That is why I have invited Ms Kovac here.”

All attention shifted to the diminutive mayor.

“W-we are merchants and fishermen, not soldiers,” she began, but Vonvalt held up a hand for silence.

“I am afraid that this war will make soldiers of us all. You strike me as an intelligent and competent woman.” That was naked flattery, since she did not strike any of us as either. “You have heard everything we have discussed, and you understand fully the nature of my mission.” Another falsehood. “What I need from you are ships – as the margrave here has described. They will be travelling far upriver, which means tow lines and oars. The Kasar can row; the Saxan Knights can rest. Nema knows they’ve earned it,” he added, glancing at de Rambert.

Kovac cleared her throat. “No shortage of trade galleys in this part of the world,” she said.

“Good,” Vonvalt said. “We will require three, I expect, though four might be prudent.”

“I will see what I can do,” Kovac said with great uncertainty.

Vonvalt nodded. “Thank you.” He looked around the table. “We each of us know what is at stake here. This plan will take hearts of iron and not a little luck. But I am confident that we can prevail. Before we retire, are there any questions?”

For now, there were none.

“In which case, get you all to bed. We shall reconvene in the morning.”

We were in Grunhaven for two days as preparations were made. In that time it became clear which of the Templars were fit enough to join us, and which would remain in that small, coastal town, either to convalesce or die. In the end, just over six hundred Saxan Knights could be armed, armoured, provisioned – and most importantly, persuaded. It was half the number of survivors who had left Südenburg, and after our horrendous miscalculation, we were lucky to get that many.

There was no avoiding the hostility between the Templars and the Kasar. In spite of the many explanations and apologies that were offered, at least a hundred fit and capable men and women would not join us. Some renounced their oaths to the Order altogether, something which should have been in theory punishable by death, but in practice was tolerated with sombre understanding.

The business with the Templars took its toll on von Osterlen too, who had become surly and withdrawn. I think she wanted to blame Vonvalt for what happened, but could not sensibly do so, and so absented herself from our company. Still waters run deep, and I felt as though Severina and I were only just beginning to understand one another. Now she was to leave, and on a fundamentally dangerous and risky mission. Like my parting with Sir Radomir, it felt like we would not see one another again, and the thought made me melancholic.

What food and water could be spared from Grunhaven was taken. We also took a huge amount of fodder for the Plains horses; although they were an undeniable inconvenience to transport, their impact on the battlefield could not be overstated, and it was worth the logistical hardship to bring them.

In the end, a small fleet of merchant galleys was requisitioned. We were fortunate to have enough to choose from, though the journey, short as it was, would be spent in undeniable discomfort, particularly as subterfuge was paramount. The Templars and Grasvlaktekraag were to travel in separate ships as much as possible, and Vonvalt and I travelled in a ship loaded with the latter, since there was no merchant crew otherwise willing to take them.

So it was that on dawn of the third day, we left Grunhaven and sailed up the coast. With so much time given over to preparations – for everything was logistics; food, water, other provisions which I would not have even considered – I had not given thought to what it was we were undertaking. But as we sailed into the wide estuary of the Kova, carried by the reversing tide and a fortunate wind, I began to appreciate just how dangerous a course of action this was. After all, Claver knew that Vonvalt was alive, thanks to our ill-fated séance in the Spiritsraad. There had almost certainly been a time in which he was presumed dead. Now, not only was he known to be alive, but he was known to be consorting with Kasar, too. Our enemies in Sova were likely to be on high alert.

I told Vonvalt of my fears one night as we took a meagre meal amongst a stack of barrels in the hold. We had been invited to use the captain’s cabin, but Vonvalt had insisted we remain with the Kasar out of solidarity. We ate and spoke by a tiny, guttering candle flame, aware of our wolfman cohabitees and their quiet, growled conversation in Kasari.

“I know,” Vonvalt said, chewing on a piece of hard bread. “But there is only so much I can mitigate.”

“What is your plan? To get in, I mean,” I asked.

Vonvalt thought as he chewed. “That I do not know. We shall have to hope that an opportunity presents itself.”

“I am frightened,” I admitted. “Not just of what it is we are doing, but what will happen if we fail.”

Vonvalt nodded. “As am I, Helena. As am I. I still do not know what form our adversary in the afterlife takes, but it is certainly an entity of exceptional power. The nature of the beasts we have tangled with so far is testament to that.”

I thought about the things I had seen and experienced, the strange dripping sound which only I could hear, the whispers in my ear, the visions and portents and nightmares. I would have given anything – everything – for it all to have simply gone away.

“Do you think Justice August is all right?” I asked quietly.

Vonvalt was quiet for a moment. “I certainly hope so,” he said.

“Do you think Severina will be all right?”

Vonvalt considered this. “I think Severina appreciates the nature of our mission, and she will do what needs to be done.”

“She is not happy.”

“She is not,” Vonvalt agreed. “But that is to be expected. She has dedicated her life to being a Templar. It was once a noble profession – at least, insofar as Sova was concerned. Now she sees only perfidy. It is a difficult thing, to have one’s world burned down. It takes a person of special character to see anything except ashes.”

I thought back to mine and her conversation. A random thought struck me. “What is Kliner’s The Fall of Gevennah?” I asked.

Vonvalt frowned. “Why do you want to know that?”

“She mentioned it to me. She said that the great hall in Südenburg was like the fall of The Fall of Gevennah after a battle.”

Vonvalt snorted. “It is a painting of an orgy,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. But what should have been a moment of levity turned sombre as my thoughts immediately returned to the bizarre and frightening nightmare I’d had of Vonvalt and von Osterlen copulating in the City of Sleep. It filled me with an unreasonable and unquenchable sense of jealousy, in spite of everything.

“Do you think you and I—”

“We should get some rest,” Vonvalt said quickly. “We have another long journey ahead of us.”

I wondered what he thought I’d been about to say. Perhaps he, too, had thought of the bizarre scene in the City of Sleep, and had been eager to avoid the subject. Worse, perhaps he’d thought that I’d been about to proposition him. My gut curdled, and the temptation to clarify the matter was a strong one. But in truth, I wasn’t entirely sure what coals I had hoped to rake over. I wanted Vonvalt in my life, but I also wanted to be free of him. I wanted him to want me in his life, but only so that I could wrest back the agency in our relationship. And just as I thought that the vestiges of any romantic feeling had died away, something, some absurd fresh life would be breathed into the embers. Whenever Resi was raised in conversation, I was jealous of his love for her – his deep and abiding love for her, which I could never trump. And now there was the stupid false vision of his bedding von Osterlen to contend with, too – something which had not even been real, and which I was convinced was part of a broader pattern of aethereal warfare being waged against my mind.

But even in spite of these poisonous emotions, which festered in my mind like a suppurating boil, when I imagined any sort of courtship with Vonvalt, mentally I recoiled. I wanted him, but I did not; I needed him and yet he was the least healthy thing for me. I knew we needed to part ways, but the thought of it was unbearable. I wanted all of it and none of it concurrently. And talking about it in that cramped, stuffy and dark hold was not going to cure anything.

“Fine,” I muttered eventually, and Vonvalt blew out the candle before either of us could say anything more.

XIV

Old Friends

“Can a person ever truly be one thing to you? Fully friend or fully enemy? In the same way two nations at war might still covertly trade, do our friends not smile at our misfortune, too? Even but once, in the darkest, quietest hour of night?”

SIR WILLIAM THE HONEST

Vonvalt and I left the convoy of merchant galleys at the Estran border, bought a pair of knock-kneed palfreys, and travelled on through the countryside.

The Eastmark of Estre was a heavily forested place that contained little in the way of settlement. I did not feel too vulnerable travelling here, as most of the westernmost half of Kòvosk was nominally under the control of the Sovan Legions; nonetheless, Vonvalt kept us away from major roads, and despite the very real danger of turning one of ours or our horses’ ankles in the profound darkness, we frequently journeyed through the night.

We did not speak much. Like von Osterlen, Vonvalt was withdrawn, the weight of his mission crushing all conversation out of him. I do not know how long the journey took us, but it was at least a week by the time we reached the Ebenen Plains. It was the end of spring, and Sova was hot. The golden green grass of the plains rustled and rippled like an ocean, whilst puffy white cloud sailed overhead, mottling the ground with shadow.

It was at once a comfort to see the vast, sturdy fortress city of Sova – and intact, at that – and at the same time intimidating and oppressive. It was true that Sova was gigantic, but absent some secret entranceway which Vonvalt had not yet alluded to, we were still going to have to make our way through one of the four main gates. The thought churned my guts with sour dread.

We travelled up the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way, surrounded on both sides by disordered urban creep that had long ago spread beyond the walled city itself. Huge portions of this uncontrolled expansion were given over to dockland, industry and unsanctioned markets; but here in the south, it was almost entirely housing. In this chaotic residential precinct, the River Sauber was split into two branches which rejoined ten miles south of the city, and we travelled up the high-way between these two fast flowing riverlets and cut east over the Poor King’s Bridge. It was Vonvalt’s intention that we enter the city through the Sun Gate, one of the least trafficked entrances into Sova.

But the Sun Gate was closed and locked.

“Shit,” Vonvalt muttered. We rode around the Poor King’s Bridge for a while. Vonvalt examined the passing commonfolk, but he would not tell me what he was doing or thinking, nor did I ask. After perhaps half of an hour, he evidently found what he was looking for; a rangy merchant of late middle age, who was agitating around several large cartfuls of grain at the side of the high-way.

“Good morrow,” Vonvalt said pleasantly.

The man eyed Vonvalt’s palfrey jealously. “Not particularly,” he replied.

“I have been out of the city awhile; what news?” Vonvalt asked, slipping back into his Jägeland accent. “I had not expected the Sun Gate to be closed.”

“And the Creus Gate. Only two ways in and out. There has been some upheaval and no mistake,” the merchant said bitterly. He nodded to the enormous southern wall of Sova. “Lords and ladies playing their games again. Difficult to know who has the better of it these days.”

Vonvalt pretended to look shocked. “By Nema. My business demands that I enter, but I do not want to walk into a war zone.”

The merchant snorted. “Then you would do best to abandon your business, good sir.”

“And what of you?” Vonvalt asked the man. “What is your business?”

“My own,” the man replied. “It profits no one to speak openly within earshot of the walls,” he added pointedly.

Vonvalt scratched his beard roughly. I had to admit, the effect was a convincing one. One would have to know Vonvalt intimately to recognise him. “Would that there was some way of entering with subtlety,” Vonvalt said.

The merchant regarded us for a long time. “What is the nature of your business, I wonder?” he asked.

Vonvalt did not answer. Instead, he nodded at the man’s carts. “You are a grain merchant.”

“I am supposed to be,” the man replied. For all his caginess, his exasperation had been looking for an outlet for some time. “Tried to get through the Creus Gate, which I told you was locked. Was told to come south, but the Victory Gate was jammed up with Guardsmen checking papers. I thought I’d try my luck with the Sun Gate – which is fucking closed.” He took a deep breath, then affected a bright smile. “And then some soldiers confiscated my mules and all the animals they could lay their hands on. And so now I am stuck here waiting for – Prince of Hell, old age to take me at this rate.”

“Our meeting is a fortuitous one,” Vonvalt said quietly. “I need entry into Sova. You need animals to pull your carts.”

The merchant squinted at us. “You propose to lend me your horses?”

“I propose to give you these horses; if I can rely on your discretion.” Vonvalt’s Jägeland accent had slipped, and now he spoke again in a cut glass High Saxan which betrayed his status as some high lord travelling incognito.

The merchant nodded, taken aback. “Oh, I-I can certainly guarantee you that,” he gabbled, his urgency and desire for payment quickly overriding his sense of self-preservation. Then he lowered his voice. “What I cannot guarantee you is that they will not check the goods.”

“That is a risk we will shoulder,” Vonvalt said to my great unhappiness. “Concealing us amongst those sacks will not be difficult. Where do you plan to take the grain?”

“There are silos which feed the stores in the southern closure.”

“Are they guarded?”

“Not normally, but who knows these days?”

Vonvalt mulled this over. “All right. We shall make the attempt just before dusk. Fetch whatever harnesses and make whatever preparations you need to in the meantime.”

We spent a long, anxious, and ultimately tedious day watching the merchant’s grain carts as he hurried off to gather together all of the accoutrements he required. Sova was strangely quiet, and Vonvalt considered it likely, given the silence and feel of the city, that there was a curfew in place. Personally, I felt as though Vonvalt was overestimating the risks to us in simply attempting the gate posing as commonfolk. Clad in unassuming clothes, his hair longer than it had been for years, and his beard ragged and unkempt, he could have passed for just about anybody in Sova.

Nonetheless, the wheels had been put in motion, figuratively and literally, for soon we were concealed under sacks – which had been half stuffed so as not to crush us – and bumping along the road. It felt to me as though Vonvalt had put his trust in this random merchant man a little too readily, but he did not seem troubled by it. “Self-interest is the greatest motivator there is,” he said simply, and that was that.

The cart clattered and squealed and jolted along the road as we approached the Victory Gate. My heart thumped so loudly I was sure that the gate guards would hear it. We waited in a queue of people for the better part of an hour before it was our turn. In that time the greatest risk was dying of heatstroke; in the Sovan summer, trapped under a huge pile of grain sacks, my little hollow became intolerably hot – so much so that I began to panic slightly as the air thickened into sweat soup around me and I felt lightheaded.

“What’s this then?” I heard a man asking in a Sovan accent.

“Grain. Which I was supposed to deliver yesterday, no thanks to you lot,” the merchant snapped.

“What have you got these knackers doing pulling carts?” Same accent, a different voice.

“You took my mules!” the merchant said angrily.

“Nema, keep your wig on,” the first voice said. I wasn’t sure whether the merchant’s anger was genuine, born of nerves, or a piece of skilled acting, but it was having the quite brilliant effect of deflecting all suspicion that may have fallen on him. People who had something to hide – and who were unskilled at doing so – were nervous and evasive, not confrontational and attention-seeking.

“How much does each of these weigh?”

“Sixty pounds,” the merchant said.

I felt a disturbance at the head of the cart, and then something jolted it sharply. “Nema, you aren’t joking,” the second guard said with a strained voice as the sack was thrown back down.

“All right, get on with it,” the first voice said, and we were on the move again.

I whispered a prayer of thanks to Nema, when I heard the second guard shout, “Hold on!” and the cart clattered to a stop. My heart leapt into my mouth.

“What’s the matter now?” the merchant demanded. I clasped my hands over my mouth, stifling a screech as I heard the unmistakable ring of steel as a sword was drawn. Then the cart tilted to the left as someone climbed on top of it, and I felt one of the sacks dislodge from where they had been piled around me and press into my legs. I tried to keep my breath level, but my panic was once again rising. I was going to be discovered, or suffocate on grain; the outcome was the same.

I heard a sound like a spade digging into sand.

“What you doing?! You’re going to spill it!” the merchant shouted.

“It’ll get tipped into the silo anyway,” the guard said, and I realised that he was stabbing his sword into the sacks above me.

Every muscle in my body clenched as I waited for a sword to bite into my flesh. I heard the rattle of grain as it tumbled out of severed sacks.

“First you take my mules and now this shit,” the merchant grumbled.

The cart tilted again as the guard leapt off. Now I heard the unmistakable sound of someone being slapped. “Shut the fuck up,” the guard snapped. Then one of the palfreys whickered as it was slapped on its rear. “Get the fuck out of here, you insolent old bastard.”

And with that, we were in Sova.

We and the rest of the grain were emptied out into a silo somewhere in the south-western closure of the city. The merchant was pleased to see that we were alive, even though it had earned him a black eye and potentially his death.

“Thank you for the horses,” he said. He spoke quietly, though there was no need; the silos were empty and unguarded. Indeed, much of this part of the city seemed unsettlingly quiet, and that in spite of the night-time.

“Thank you for your discretion,” Vonvalt said. “I bid you good fortune.”

“And I you,” the merchant said, and they clasped forearms. Then he left us, and once the sound of his cart clattering away into the distance receded, a silence hitherto unknown to Sova reasserted itself.

We found a quiet corner, concealed ourselves, and lay down. In spite of the season, at night-time the silo was bitterly cold, and we ended up having to hold one another for warmth. There was nothing intimate about the close contact. In other circumstances I would have lain awake all night thinking about it and what it might represent; now I was much too cold, tired and anxious of discovery to think of such things.

I did not expect to be able to fall asleep, but I must have done so at some point, for I was roused early in the morning. A gap in the tiles above offered me a glimpse of a milk-pale sky, pink washed with blue and still rife with stars. My body was cold and stiff as I pressed myself up off the hard floor. We had nothing to eat or drink, but I was much too nervous to think about either.

“We should make for the Imperial Palace,” Vonvalt said. “They will not have changed the guard yet, and those on duty will be tired and lazy.” It was the same logic he had applied getting us through the Victory Gate, and it spoke volumes of his opinion of the city’s guardian class.

We made our way out of the silo. This was an aspect of Sova I was unfamiliar with, for much of our time here had been spent in the north-eastern closure. From the south looking north, the view was dominated by the southern aspect of the Law Library, whilst to the left, the Grand Lodge was conspicuously broken and burned.

Most worryingly, we were only half a mile from the Imperial Guard barracks, a large white box of pillared marble rife with pennants and flags that stood proud of much of the intervening city. Squinting, I could see signs of damage there, too; more blackening from fire, broken arrows littering the roof slates, and the remains of makeshift barricades.

“What happened here?” Vonvalt murmured to me as he, too, drank in the view.

We faced the same problem at this time of morning as we would have done in the middle of the night: the streets were empty. Sticking to what shadows there were, we made our way quickly up the road and to its junction with another running perpendicular, when we stopped dead. There was a checkpoint there, attended by men and women in the armour of the Imperial Guard – fine black steel with golden trim and gambesons of rich purple with intricate embroidered patterning. But they also, I noted with a profound sense of dismay, had the white star of the Savaran Templars daubed crudely over their chests. Worse: just beyond was a row of crude gibbets, each home to a body. Atop each wooden armature, crows cawed and clawed incessantly, plucking at rags and flesh and eyes, something which none of the soldiers did anything to dissuade. In the road, too, were bodies, most roughly kicked into the shit ditches at the side. Some were badly burned, blackened like lumps of charcoal.

“Shit,” Vonvalt hissed, pushing me roughly into an alley. I stumbled into the shadow and kept moving, though I felt Vonvalt grasp the back of my kirtle and slow me to a walk. “Keep walking quickly and stay to the left,” he said in a quiet voice behind me.

I felt sick with fear. The temptation was to hide again, to find somewhere to conceal ourselves for another day and wait for the safety of darkness. But Vonvalt kept pushing me on, and we made our way hurriedly but carefully through a succession of dank alleyways. There was no sign of anyone else. It was as though the whole population of Sova had evaporated like water from a hot pan.

We were now moving parallel to the Petran High-Way in an easterly direction. Vonvalt’s plan, insofar as he had told me, had been to cross the easternmost branch of the River Sauber, but that was scuppered when we saw another checkpoint at the end of the Miran Bridge. There were more Imperial Guard there, too, displaying the white star of Savare, and it was becoming impossible to escape the conclusion that they had turned traitor.

Vonvalt’s composure was beginning to fracture. He pulled me down another alleyway and we crouched behind a stack of old wine barrels at the rear of a public house. We took a moment to catch our breath.

“There is no one,” he said, unable to keep the bafflement from his voice. “I had hoped we might…” he gestured to the city at large “… blend in. But there is no one.”

“Perhaps we should wait for nightfall,” I said hopefully. If we were caught, the best we could hope for was to be briskly murdered. At worst, torture and immolation awaited. Vonvalt’s strategy – if it could so be called – of simply improvising our way into the Imperial Palace had failed. It was folly to continue risking our lives so recklessly for the sake of half a day of anxious tedium.

Vonvalt, to my dismay, shook his head. “No. We must press on.”

“We are going to get killed,” I said through clenched teeth. “It is getting lighter by the second.”

Vonvalt worried at his lower lip. “If we can reach the banks of the Sauber we will be concealed from view.”

“Hardly!”

“Helena, listen to me—”

“Nema’s blood, you listen to me,” I snapped. I had had enough of this lunacy. “This is reckless. This is foolish. It is clear some… rebellion has taken place here. Charging through the city like this is going to get us both killed. And then what happens? What a stupid, ridiculous, ignominious end: to have come this far, only to be murdered out of hand by idiot soldiers.”

Vonvalt stared at me. I wasn’t sure if I had ever spoken to him in this way.

“A great many lives depend on your ultimate success. My life right now depends on you not being careless. Prince of Hell, can we just think a moment? Can we turn our minds to the issue, rather than running about like headless hens?”

Vonvalt held out his hands in a placatory gesture. “You are right, and I am sorry. Let us take our bearings.”

“Yes, let us,” I said sarcastically. “Blood of gods.”

We crouched there on the damp and dirty cobbles for a few moments in silence.

“All right. You are right. Something has happened here. The question is, is it every member of the Imperial Guard who has gone rogue, or just some of them?”

“Why does that matter?” I snapped, though it was fairly obvious why.

“If it is all of them, then the Emperor is likely to be dead,” Vonvalt said pointedly. “If that is the case, then we are in real trouble.” He thought for a moment. “If that is the case, then I do not think we can win this fight.”

“But if it is just some faction?” I prompted, not wishing Vonvalt to turn maudlin.

“Then there will be some who remain loyal to the Emperor, and they will be guarding the Imperial Palace. For as long as there are loyal soldiers, then we have a chance to turn back this…” He wrinkled his nose. “Treachery.”

“That means that some parts of the city will still be safe for us,” I said, making a scooping motion with my hand to keep him talking.

“Yes and no. I remain persona non grata. Unless the Emperor has reversed his decision, I still face the risk of being killed out of hand. That is not to say that the Emperor will not reverse his decision – indeed, I consider it perfectly likely that he will, given the brevity of his list of allies. But a zealous soldier might take a different view.”

“So you are saying that our enemies are enemies and our friends may well be enemies, too?”

“Yes. At least, for the moment.”

“I rather wish I had been left behind with Severina and the Kasar,” I said. It was my attempt at gallows humour, but I just sounded bitter and angry.

Vonvalt was about to say something when there was a shout from the far end of the alley. I instinctively looked over to see who it was, but Vonvalt grabbed me by the face and kissed me instead.

I had no idea what to do. I had not kissed anyone since Matas Aker in Galen’s Vale. I had certainly thought about kissing Vonvalt, more than was healthy, but now it was happening it was not as I had expected. His beard, for one, scratched my face, his hands smelt like soil and his breath smelt strongly of pipe smoke. But I could not deny the jolt I felt, the surge in my heart and blood, the way I ached. This was a realisation of many things, and in other circumstances might have been the beginning of something – a thing that both of us had been skirting around for many months. Instead, I found myself thinking of von Osterlen in the City of Sleep, and the great stream of blood she had expectorated over me.

In the first instance I mistook this passionate and rough kiss as Vonvalt indulging his base desires before we were captured and murdered; and in that same spirit I gave myself to it. But as I did so, he pulled away.

“Pretend you are a whore,” he whispered urgently in my ear.

“What?” I demanded angrily.

“Just kiss me and make it look like you are drunk!”

Frustrated, angry, frightened, I nonetheless went back in for another kiss. This time I felt Vonvalt’s hands pawing clumsily at my ribs – he was consciously avoiding my actual breasts, which was a good thing since it would have broken me out of the ruse – and I did my best impression of someone who was only pretending to enjoy this ordeal. That at least was not difficult.

“You two should not be out here,” the Guardsman said as he approached. He must have been a decade my senior, white-skinned and blonde-haired. Like the other traitors he had a white star painted on his breastplate, though it was crudely done and looked pathetic up close. He carried a Sovan short sword loosely in his right hand, and did not wear helmet. Had he been anything except an Imperial Guardsman, Vonvalt could have made him disarm himself with the Voice.

“Fuck off,” Vonvalt said over my left shoulder, affecting a slur, and then pulled my kirtle strap to the side and began to kiss up my neck. His beard was like the bristles of a broom against my skin.

“There is a curfew!” the Guardsman snapped. He was but a few feet from us now, and my back prickled in anticipation of his blade.

“Here, mate, you want a go?” Vonvalt said. He pulled me up with his left hand as he stood. His right, I knew, was gripped around the handle of his own short sword.

“For fuck’s sake,” the Guardsman grunted as I was thrown at him. I yelped as I expected his sword to pierce my stomach, but instead he instinctively lowered it and moved to catch me.

“Helena, duck!” Vonvalt snapped at me. I went slack in the Guardsman’s arms and he stumbled forwards as I collapsed to the cobbles. What felt like piss splashed the back of my neck and shoulders, until I looked up and saw that Vonvalt had impaled the man through the neck. The Guard, eyes wide, was not even given a chance to gurgle as Vonvalt clasped a hand over his mouth and lowered him carefully to the floor.

“Here, help me get his things off,” Vonvalt said, beginning to tug at the breastplate straps.

I stood there, looking at Vonvalt. “You pushed me at him,” I said.

Vonvalt looked up, red-faced with exertion. “Yes. But I knew what I was doing.”

“He could have stabbed me.”

“Aye, but he did not, and that is what matters.”

Unhappy, I helped to strip the corpse and transfer the man’s garments and armour to Vonvalt. It took a long time. There were many buckles and clasps to fiddle with, and Vonvalt instructed me with fraying patience, both of us acutely conscious that the slain man’s fellow traitors would shortly come looking for him.

“How do I look?” Vonvalt asked once we were done.

I took a step back and examined him. Fortunately the bloodstaining was not too obvious thanks to the rich purple colour of the gambeson. “I think it is perfectly passable.”

“It’s a little tight,” Vonvalt grumbled, adjusting himself. “But the ruse need only survive a glance.”

“Where do you plan on taking us next?” I asked. I could not keep the sarcasm from my voice.

“We will still make for the Sauber,” he said. “We will head into the Imperial Palace the same way we escaped from it.”

“Through that tunnel?” I asked.

“Through that tunnel.”

“I would not even know where to look for it.”

“Well,” Vonvalt said, sheathing his sword, “I do. Now, pretend to be my prisoner.”

“First your whore, now your prisoner,” I muttered. “Whatever next?”

The most important thing to avoid was the manned barricade at the westernmost end of the Miran Bridge. We crept to the end of the alley, having concealed the corpse. There, Vonvalt peered around the side of the building to see a group of perhaps five or six Guardsmen, and evidence of further brutalities. We also saw a purple-cassocked Neman priest, who was speaking to the soldiers there in low tones.

“There is no sense in chancing our arm here,” Vonvalt said. “Let us attempt the bank of the river further south.”

We made our way through the city, this time back towards the Victory Gate. We heard the temple clocks ring the eighth bell, which must have heralded the end of the curfew, for people began to appear in the streets. Most avoided looking at us, though some chanced a furtive glance. Some people eyed me sympathetically, which confused me until I remembered that I was supposed to be Vonvalt’s prisoner.

Eventually we reached a part of the south-eastern closure that was largely given over to housing. Here, large blocks of apartments rose into the sky with commanding views of the Sun Gate and the southern Ebenen Plains. This region of housing was for the city’s wealthy merchant classes, not the tenement slums of the westernmost boundary between the Creus Gate and the Arena. This was the only part of the city we had seen so far that had no evidence of fighting; in fact, here, one would not know that anything had happened at all.

We picked our way down to the south where the embankment was low and a stretch of slimy, rocky mud preceded the river. We could be seen here, but further north the embankment rose up a good fifteen to twenty feet in some places, and if we hugged the stone wall we would be concealed from all but the most determined of searchers.

Still, as the city came alive and the sun rose higher in the sky, it seemed like an insane gamble, and although Vonvalt was keen to press on, even he came to realise it was folly.

“I think you are right,” he said, in an exceptionally rare concession. I could tell he was annoyed. “We are going to have to hide again and wait until darkness.”

“Excellent. So now we can sit in the mud and rocks all day and hope that no one thinks to look in our direction,” I snapped. My frustration was boiling over. I knew that sneaking into Sova was never going to be easy, but even so, we seemed to be going about it in rather a stupid fashion.

“Moving down the river under cover of darkness is not the same as moving through the streets. We are hidden here. Now come on.”

We clambered along the shingle until we found a natural alcove. It was damp and smelt of seaweed, but we could not be seen, and that was the important thing.

It was another long, tedious, and tense day. At several points we heard the shouting and clash of swords that indicated a melee, and the occasional scream which Vonvalt, with his practised Justice’s ear, reckoned was the sound of someone being burned alive. I wondered if anyone had found the dead Guardsman yet, and if a search party had been sent out to find us, but Vonvalt was not troubled.

“We were not seen during or after the slaying,” he said. “Even if they look, they will never find us. Sova is vast, and they do not know where we went.”

I took no comfort from his words, but he was right, in the end. By the time nightfall came around – an intolerably long time considering the late spring hours – I was tired, my muscles were aching and cramped, my lungs were full of damp, and I had shredded every nerve in my body.

But we were still alive, and we were still undetected.

Eventually, we struck out under cover of darkness. We picked our way carefully down the embankment, our legs up to the midcalf soaking wet from the cold, filthy waters of the Sauber. We slipped and slid constantly on the slime and mud, and my hands were badly cut and chafed from gripping all of the damp rocks and stones.

Sova was again dark and quiet. It was eerie, as though the whole city were a mausoleum. The Sova that I had known was an unrelenting carnival, an overwhelming mixture of sights, sounds and smells. Now it was as silent as the grave.

It was a long journey up the embankment. The tunnel entrance was to the west of the Philosopher’s Palace, and we had come into the city through the Victory Gate. We moved as quickly as we could in the circumstances, but in the end, it was not quick enough. Passing under the Creus Bridge, we were spotted by a patrol of traitor Guardsmen, who sent up a great hue and cry.

Now we ran. Abandoning all attempt at stealth, we fled up the bank of the Sauber. But instead of running across the slime-slick mud, which was causing us to remain stationary in spite of our frantic labours, we cut up some stone steps to the left and on to the road.

An insane fear gripped me. I knew that if we were caught we would be burned alive. Despite having not eaten anything for the best part of two days, a fresh burst of energy infused me. There is nothing quite like the fear of death to get you moving.

We were now on the Baden High-Way, a long way from the secret tunnel entrance to the palace, and sprinting with cold, mud-soaked feet. But ahead I could see more Imperial Guardsmen with white stars on their chests, more immolated corpses, more gibbets and gallows and street barricades. The whole of Sova was a deadly maze; we were like frantic rats trying to find the only safe route through.

“This way!” Vonvalt shouted, snatching my wrist and yanking me into the market. It was a wide, open, flagstoned place, and there were some permanent structures to conceal ourselves behind. But we continued to run, our breath ragged in our throats and our blood singing in our veins. Behind us, a large group of soldiers gave chase.

Now we cut into the unsocial trades district. I had never known a place of such hellish noise to be so silent. As we darted between foundries and iron smiths and metallurgists and armour makers, we saw the faces of frightened people peering out from windows and doorways. No one offered to help us.

I did not know where Vonvalt hoped to go. We would soon come up against the Estran Wall, and from there our options were limited: we could either head north to the Wolf Gate, or south, to be cut off again by the Sauber. Neither helped us.

In the event, it didn’t matter. Our pursuers were too fit and determined, and we were too weak and exhausted. Vonvalt took a wrong turn and we ended up running headlong into the curtain wall of Sova, out of time and out of options.

“Get behind me,” Vonvalt said, his short sword out in front of him.

“Shut up,” I snapped, my own sword out in front of me. I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that I almost welcomed death – or I might have done, if I had not known what bleak eternity awaited me in the afterlife. Still, the prospect of being free of all of it, of all these intrigues and subterfuges and thoughts of war and violence and death, of necromancy and Entanglement and the Draedist arcana, of losing more friends, of watching more cities burn and people terrorised and murdered, imbued me with a weary fatalism. Just let it be over, I thought. Just let it all be done, one way or the other.

Our pursuers rounded the corner of the alley. Several of them had one-handed crossbows, to which we had no answer.

“Throw down your weapons!” the leading Guardsman said.

“We are not going to disarm ourselves just so that you can lead us away and burn us to death,” Vonvalt said as though they were stupid. The crossbows were raised and I let out an involuntary grunt as I waited for the quarrels to tear into me.

“Wait,” another Guardsman said, pushing her way to the front of the group. She approached us down the alley until she was standing about halfway between us and her comrades. She squinted at Vonvalt. “You are the Lord Prefect,” she said.

Vonvalt’s sword hand twitched. “Was,” he said. “The Emperor revoked my titles and sentenced me to death.” It was not what I thought he was going to say, though he had a good reason to frame it in such terms.

The Guardsman paused. “I thought you were dead,” she said uncertainly.

“Well, I am not.”

“Why are you here? What are you doing skulking about – and in that armour? Stole it, did you?”

I could tell that even in spite of the circumstances Vonvalt rankled at being spoken to so disrespectfully.

“I am here because here is all there is. I will not hide away in the countryside. I mean to set matters straight.”

“Set them straight how? Whose side are you on?”

“I am on my own side,” Vonvalt growled.

The woman considered matters for a moment. “Take him to see the senator,” she said eventually. “He can decide what to do with them.”

“Which senator?” Vonvalt asked.

“Senator Jansen,” the woman said. “Who else?”

Vonvalt managed to keep a straight face, but I could tell that he was very surprised.

“And if you even think about trying to escape,” the woman called over her shoulder, “we really will burn you.”

XV

New Enemies

“To be burned is often said to be the worst death. But even burning can be a good death. The worst death comes after learning that you have betrayed yourself and everything you hold dear for a lie. After that, the manner is irrelevant.”

ALLEGED TO BE THE FINAL WORDS OF OBENMATRIA JOZEFINA POKORNÝ

My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as we were marched through the dark streets. We were taken west down the Creus Road all the way to the Temple of Nema, and then we turned south and made for the Temple of Savare. Here there were traitor Guardsmen in great abundance. We drew a huge amount of attention, and word spread quickly of the return and capture of the Lord Prefect.

The front of the Temple of Savare was scorched black where flames had licked its white marble frontage. There was debris everywhere, too; spent arrows, scraps of armour, a discarded sohle shield – the tell-tale spatter of rust red on the flagstones. The fight here had been chaotic and bloody.

The doors of the temple were pulled open and we were led inside. The last time I had been in the Temple of Savare we had interrupted an illegal séance. But instead of the horrors of the afterlife, we were now faced with the horrors of a very mortal rebellion. It seemed that whatever seeds of treachery Claver had planted in the capital, at some point in the recent past, they had sprouted and borne fruit.

The Flame of Savare still burned in its huge brazier, filling the vast, vaulted atrium with its heat. We were taken past it, to the ambulatory, and then up a narrow stone staircase to a wide, circular mezzanine overlooking the statue of Savare the God Father himself. Then we were led down several more corridors until we reached a grand set of chambers, which must once have been the offices of the temple’s obenpatria. The door was open, and we saw inside a well-lit and ostentatiously decorated space.

Sitting behind the desk was Senator Tymoteusz Jansen.

“Yes?” he asked, not taking his eyes from some papers on the desk in front of him.

“Sire, we have Sir Konrad Vonvalt and his… er, associate.”

The look of shock on Jansen’s face – a face long used to concealing such treacherous emotions – startled me with its intensity.

“Well,” Vonvalt said with venom. “I did not think anything could surprise me any more. This must be punishment for such hubris.”

I had never seen Jansen so lost for words. He was normally so quick with his repartee, always with a jibe or wry remark to hand. He was probably the most intelligent man I knew after Vonvalt, and to see him so wrong-footed was a not dissimilar experience to seeing Vonvalt wrong-footed – that is to say, it was a profoundly unsettling one.

Jansen was clad in the same coal-black armour of the Imperial Guard, with a cloak of rich purple draped from his shoulders, fastened there with two large wolf head brooches. Like the other traitors, a white star was daubed over his chest.

He looked to the Guards who had brought us to this place. “Thank you. You may leave us.”

The Guards shoved Vonvalt and I roughly down into a pair of chairs opposite the desk – doubly uncomfortable since my hands were bound behind my back – and left, pulling the door closed behind them.

“Why, Tymoteusz?” Vonvalt asked, calmer but still angry. “Nema, why?”

Jansen let out a long sigh. He reached for a flagon of wine and poured three gobletsful. He stood and walked over to where Vonvalt was sitting. “I am going to untie you,” he said. “Or would that be unwise?”

“Very,” Vonvalt growled, though Jansen did it anyway. When Vonvalt did not move except to rub his hands and wrists, Jansen moved over to untie me as well.

The moment my hands were free, I slapped him as hard as I could.

“Fuck!” Jansen said, staggering backwards until his buttocks collided with the table and jostled everything loose – all the little trinkets and ornaments and ink pots.

“You piece of shit,” I snarled. I stood to slap him again. This time, however, he caught me by the wrist and forced me back into the chair.

We all turned as the door was opened. A Guardsman stood there, concern etched across his features. “Is everything all right, sire?” he asked, taking in the scene uncertainly.

“Everything is fine, get out!” Jansen snapped. He had a red handprint on the side of his face. “And do not loiter outside my door!”

The Guardsman slouched off, and Jansen stalked around the desk and took his seat. He gestured to the wine.

“We do not want wine,” Vonvalt said, ignoring the goblets. “We have not eaten in two days, and have barely drunk.”

“I’ll have some water fetched,” Jansen said irritably.

There was a silence. So many questions, so many potential answers. It was impossible to know where to begin. All I could think about was how both Danai and Sir Anzo had warned us, albeit in vague terms, about Jansen.

“You have not answered my question,” Vonvalt asked eventually.

“No,” Jansen said. “I haven’t, have I?” He rubbed his cheek where I had slapped him. “Quite the arm on you, Helena.” I said nothing, just glowered. “Well, it is fair to say that a great deal has happened since you have been gone.” He leant forward and picked up a quill and dipped it into a pot of ink. He wrote something as he spoke. “Some weeks ago, the Emperor received a message – or rather, the Imperial Warden received a message. To hear tell of it, the Warden was contacted by shamans from the Spiritsraad, all the way down in the Kyarai. A visitation, whilst he slept. Can you imagine such a thing?”

Vonvalt said nothing. Jansen continued to write.

“Well, it set the hares running here, I can tell you that. The message warned that Bartholomew Claver and Margrave Vladimir von Geier had together turned Keraq rogue. That Claver had been training priests in the ways of the Draedist arcana, and that he planned to strike north and depose the Emperor. An extraordinary message, though Nema knows a common enough refrain from some quarters.” He looked at Vonvalt as he spoke the addendum. “And all at once, a great many things happened – a great many things which have been a rather long time in the offing.” He finished writing and set the quill down. “You are an intelligent man; no doubt you have deduced what has come to pass here.”

“A coup,” Vonvalt said through gritted teeth. “Orchestrated by Claver and his allies within the city, no doubt.”

Was this really it? Would Claver simply march into Sova unopposed as Vonvalt had feared? It had always seemed like such a far-fetched concern. After all, so few of the commonfolk in the capital – and indeed the wider Empire – stood to benefit from Claver’s ascendancy. Why was there not rioting in the streets? Yes, there were the Imperial Guard, but they couldn’t kill everyone. For all of our machinations and clever planning, it would all come to nothing if Sova was turned before our forces could arrive.

“Aye. A coup. But touched off prematurely. The message to the Imperial Warden – and I would be very interested to learn about precisely how it was delivered – caused no small measure of panic. Panic that was… encouraged, in some quarters. What should have been a fait accompli was very nearly strangled in the cradle.” There was something about his tone I could not quite put my finger on. Jansen leant back in his chair and spoke expansively. “The Mlyanars and the Savarans have taken about a third of the city, most of the ground west of the main channel of the Sauber. We persuaded about half of the Imperial Guard to join us, thanks to Milena Bartoš.”

I had heard that name before, when Bressinger and I had visited the Senate house and watched a debate in progress. Bartoš was the Legionary Prefect, the political chief of the Sovan Legions and the Imperial Guard. She was a well-known Mlyanar lackey.

Jansen slid the piece of paper across the desk to Vonvalt. Vonvalt picked it up and held it between us so that I could read it too. Jansen continued to talk as though nothing had happened. It read:

I am still with you. I will explain when there is time. I am certain they are eavesdropping. You have many friends in the capital still.

Thereafter was listed an address, which I committed to memory. Then Vonvalt handed the note back to Jansen, who gave Vonvalt a meaningful look and then set the paper aflame on a nearby candle and dropped it to the floor.

Vonvalt did not miss a beat. “I never expected to see you wearing the white star. You always seemed as though you would land on the right side of history.”

Jansen snorted derisively. “Do you not see, Sir Konrad? I am going to fall on the right side of history. Because it will be Claver that writes it.”

“You gutless cunt,” Vonvalt said with profound rancour.

Jansen chortled. “There is nothing gutless about what I have achieved – and endured.” For the briefest of moments the mask slipped. He winced slightly, lost in a fleeting reverie. I wondered what he had done to be here, in this chamber, now. “You need not worry. In a few short days we will have mustered enough manpower to storm the Imperial Palace. No doubt you harbour fond memories of the place.”

“The Emperor is alive?” Vonvalt asked.

“Oh yes,” Jansen said, not breaking eye contact with Vonvalt. “I think we’d all like to crack open his skull and find out what he is thinking.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “I for one am interested to see how he plans to tunnel his way out of this one.” One last meaningful glance before Jansen came to a stop next to the back wall. He continued to talk about the rebellion as though he had not moved from his chair at the desk, and pressed the section of wood panelling in. It popped back out to reveal a hidden staircase. He motioned for Vonvalt and I to leave by it, but not before giving Vonvalt a dagger.

“They will kill you,” Vonvalt mouthed as we passed the senator, but he shook his head in admonition, continuing to talk as though he were on the Senate floor giving a speech. Even after we passed into that dank secret passageway and the door was quietly closed behind us, I could hear him continuing on as though none of us had left the desk.

Although I still had not overcome my initial confusion as to why Jansen was apparently at the head of an armed rebellion in the first place, I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. We moved down the damp, cold steps. It was pitch black, and we could only move quickly thanks to an iron railing bolted to the side of the staircase. Eventually, we reached the bottom and found ourselves in a low, stooped tunnel. We followed the line of it until the faintest glow of firelight began to reveal some of its detail.

We reached the end of the tunnel, where a ladder led up through a trapdoor, which itself was set in the floor of an unremarkable back room. We pulled ourselves up, closed the trapdoor, and made our way through the chamber door into an empty house. We stood quietly for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone stirred, but on closer inspection it seemed like the house was… fake, like a stage set. There was some furniture near the front windows – themselves made of cloudy, translucent glass – but other than that, the place was bare. Outside, street lanterns cast a wan orange glow.

We made our way to the door and slid the bolts back. Vonvalt opened it a crack and peered out. That warm, familiar smell of the Sovan streets bled through the door.

“It is clear. Come on,” Vonvalt said in a low voice.

We walked out into a narrow, cobbled street sandwiched between two towering and unstable-looking blocks of apartments. A quick look around revealed a glance of the Sovan arena to the south, which meant we had come out in and amongst a large residential area that took up much of the westernmost quarter of the city, running from the Creus Gate, down the Guelan Wall, all the way to the Victory Gate. It seemed to me that we were unlikely to run into any Imperial Guard here, for it was a large and tangled area of little strategic significance.

The address that Jansen had given us was in another residential district, albeit a more central one, near the Philosopher’s Palace. It was not a short journey – half the length of the city – but although it would take a long time, Vonvalt was still careful about our route. It was a tense, at times frightening, and always excruciatingly slow journey, but one that we made without incident.

About halfway through the journey, we stopped on the western bank of the Sauber in view of a small pedestrian bridge that had been built for the convenience of the residents of the Summit of the Prefects. I looked up at that natural plateau, the southern edifice of it a rocky cliff face from which an array of palatial homes seemed to sprout.

“I wonder who lives in your house now,” I murmured. I thought of the peach orchard in the back of the old residence, and the awkward, halting moment he and I had spent there, so close to speaking on our feelings towards one another.

“It is probably empty,” Vonvalt said. He sighed, taking up a small loose stone from the ground and flicking it towards the river. “I do not know what to think of Tymoteusz.”

“It was a pretence, was it not? His treachery.”

“Aye. Or another kind of betrayal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he may be sending us into another trap.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Funny way of going about it.”

“I agree. But Jansen thinks differently. He thinks like Claver. He is able to consider many different possibilities and outcomes at once and lay many different threads of a plan accordingly. He has released us, yes, but I would not be surprised if this was part of some other scheme.”

“I just do not know how he managed to get to where he is,” I said, tracing the line of what I thought was the Lord Prefect’s Palace. “If he truly is a Haugenate, then I imagine he must have had to endure some rather brutal tests of loyalty to the Savarans.”

“Oh I do not doubt you are right,” Vonvalt said. He squinted through the darkness, and I followed his gaze, but there was nothing there.

“Did I pick up his hints correctly? He means for you to speak to the Emperor?”

“Yes. And achieve the palace through that tunnel. The one that goes under the Creus Road. The one we used to escape from the dungeon,” he added, as though I had personal knowledge of several tunnels running from the Imperial Palace under the Creus Road.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a warm, dry night, and the air of the capital smelt of dust and rebellion. We had been planning for the battle with Claver and his Templars in the capital for so long, we had not even considered that a fight for the capital would be required as well. The Imperial Guard was a corrupt institution, that was well known throughout Sova, but corrupt for money, not for religion – though often there was little to distinguish the two given the riches the members of the Neman Church seemed to enjoy.

“It seems our message to Kimathi was fortuitous in more ways than one. Sova is no stranger to armed rebellion – any student of history will tell you that. But those that were successful were successful quickly. The longer this drags on, the more the rebels will lose momentum. Traitors will begin to desert as their position becomes more precarious. Coups thrive on speed. If Jansen is secretly working against the interests of the Savarans, then I expect he will have counselled caution. Holding the bridges and building up strongpoints sounds on its face like sound military strategy, but…” He shook his head, sucking his teeth. “Every day that passes that Sova ultimately remains in Haugenate hands is a day closer to failure. They had one decent chance of taking the Imperial Palace, and that was on the first day.”

“You think they are just waiting for Claver to arrive?” I asked.

Vonvalt nodded. “I expect so. All they really need to do is control one of the city’s gates. Outside the walls, ten thousand men is nothing. You would need a hundred thousand to besiege Sova. But ten thousand men in the streets is…” He sighed. “Well, that’s another matter entirely.”

We set off again, eventually reaching the address Jansen had given us an hour before dawn. It was a robust townhouse of brick and timber with a pleasant view of the Sauber, the kind of place a wealthy merchant – but not a man of exorbitant means – would own.

We made sure it was safe before approaching. There was nothing to be discerned from the outside of the building, no light from the windows, no sign of activity. I had an uneasy feeling as we approached.

“If something happens, if this goes wrong, or you have the slightest whiff of danger, I want you to just run, do you understand? You remember what I told you about that money that I set aside for you, yes? The name of the account, and the secret password?”

I swallowed, and nodded.

Vonvalt knocked on the door.

For the longest time, nothing happened. The silence was unbroken – indeed, Sova felt unnaturally quiet, as though the whole city were holding its breath. Then Vonvalt knocked again, and this time we heard some movement.

My heart thumped as footsteps approached the door. Our attention was stolen by the rattle of a small glass peephole being opened. Then came the sound of bolts being un-shot, and finally the door opened – not a crack, but wide.

“Fuck me, am I glad to see you,” a familiar voice said.

It was Sir Radomir.

XVI

An Unexpected Reunion

“Stability breeds complacency.”

SOVAN SENATORIAL APHORISM

I felt as though my brain were about to burst open. But whilst my need for answers was great, my human needs were even greater.

The sheriff led us inside and closed and bolted the door, and we immediately sought out and drank great quantities of marsh ale. Sir Radomir found some food, mostly old and cold pie, but I would have happily eaten just about anything.

“There is water upstairs, if you want to wash. There are clothes, too, though I do not know how well they will fit,” Sir Radomir said. Unlike Jansen, he wore no Savaran disguise, simply breeches and a doublet. He looked very, very tired.

“Later,” Vonvalt said through his mouthful.

“Not too much later, I hope,” Sir Radomir mumbled quietly.

“What are you doing here?” Vonvalt asked. “I am glad to see you, but your presence can only herald bad news. Please tell me our pagan host is not destroyed.”

Sir Radomir, mercifully, blessedly, shook his head. “No, they are fine. Indeed, the ranks swell. Your plan, at least in that regard, is working; a few hundred from Oldenburg, another hundred from Espa. Baron Hangmar has promised half a thousand, armed and armoured. We might even be able to pluck some Legionaries from Kolstadt, though it seems unlikely. They are all moving on Wolfenshut as you directed, but it will take some time. A fortnight, at least, and then another week to get here.”

Vonvalt breathed a huge, shaky sigh of relief. “Blessed Nema. Well done, Sir Radomir. Well done!” He clapped him on the shoulder. “I am so deeply indebted to you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There is still plenty of scope for matters to turn sour. The pagans are an unruly mob and this alliance of convenience is proceeding on faith for now. But I would not be surprised if word reached us that it had all collapsed.” He waved a hand as if to banish his own pessimism. “It has all been overtaken by events anyway,” he said, gesturing about Sova generally. “How did you come to be here?”

Vonvalt gave the sheriff the full account, including the disaster that had befallen us in the Spiritsraad, the unfortunate massacre on the Southern Plains, von Osterlen’s mission to destroy Claver’s stockpile of blackpowder before it could reach Sova, and the news we had heard that Claver was already moving on Saxanfelde.

“Aye,” Sir Radomir said thoughtfully, taking a long draw of wine. “He will move to slay the Prince Luka. Cut off the Haugenate line.”

“Tell me what happened here. You have clearly been in contact with Senator Jansen. What is he doing? What plans has he put in motion? Start from the beginning, tell me everything.”

“I know not all of it—”

“Just tell me what you do know,” Vonvalt said irritably. “Nema, I have never felt so ill informed in my life.”

Sir Radomir closed his eyes and pursed his lips as he weathered Vonvalt’s irritation. “The news I did hear was that there had been a spate of attacks along the Kova. Coordinated, it seemed, so that they all happened at a certain time on a certain day. The Legions are in disarray; some are besieged, others are routed. I have even heard that some are destroyed entirely. If you ask me, ’tis clearly a ploy by the Lady Iliyana to stop the Emperor from reinforcing Sova.”

Vonvalt grimaced. “Go on.”

“I was in Weisbaum at the time. With things in hand, I figured to make my way south to the capital and seek out your allies here. I know you are close with the senator, among others. I wanted to prepare the way for the arrival of the pagans, since the last thing we needed was some Imperial Guard force to sally north and crush us on the field.” Vonvalt nodded along at this piece of good wisdom, his decision to leave the sheriff behind completely vindicated. “Well, no sooner had I arrived then some sort of fucking rebellion happened. To hear tell of it now, some piece of news made its way to the Emperor that the Templars were striking north, intending to eviscerate Südenburg and then invade the capital. The Warden had a fucking seizure or some shit like that – it sounds to me as though you know what happened judging from your own account.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, matters moved very quickly afterwards. The Savarans and about half the Imperial Guard, led by Milena Bartoš, as well as – Nema – a fucking great mob whipped up by the patricians baying all sorts of nonsense…” he took another draw of wine and refilled his goblet “… tried to storm the palace and got a good spanking out of it. As half-baked a revolt as you ever saw. That was nearly the end of it, too, but the rebels ran all the way back to the Temple of Savare to regroup. They attacked again the following day and took some ground. Imposed a curfew.” He shrugged. “They’ve been turfing out Haugenates and what Justices remain – and they are few in number – and burning them since then.”

“But you spoke to Senator Jansen,” Vonvalt said.

“Aye, I spoke to your fancy man. I told him what you were doing, what we have been doing in the north. It was his plan, after all, as he’d relayed in Osterlen, though he seemed surprised that any of it had worked. Next fucking day I saw him in Guardsman armour with a white star over his heart. I thought I had killed us all with my big mouth. I was all set to get out of the city while the getting was good, but about three nights ago he sent someone to find me, and he and I met over on Victory Square, near the tavern there, the one with the picture of the bloke in the robes above it.”

“The Philosopher,” Vonvalt said immediately.

“Right. Well we met in there and spoke. Told me they had come for him early doors. Something he had expected, him being who he is. I confess I thought he would be murdered early too, but he is a snake. He has had irons in the fire for a long time – in every fire going. Apparently he has seen all of this coming: ‘a question of when, not if’. Polishing his Savaran credentials in secret, playing both sides. He would not tell me the precise nature of how he achieved it, but I think he has been responsible for the deaths of some of his own people to gild his subterfuge. He is a ruthless man.”

“He is,” Vonvalt agreed.

“Fuck me, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but for what it is worth, I do think he is still working in the Emperor’s interests. He let you go, after all.”

“He did.” There was a pause as we all thought for a moment. “And what are your standing instructions?” Vonvalt asked after a while. “What was the last thing Jansen told you to do?”

“There is something else, first,” Sir Radomir said darkly. “I have wanted to dismiss it for the longest time, to put it from my mind as silly pagan nonsense—”

“Out with it, man.”

Sir Radomir cleared his throat. “Lady Frost, she is a difficult woman. Her and that shaman bloke, Ulrich, all the way south they have been conducting rituals, ‘taking the health of the afterlife’. Lady Frost thinks that Claver is up to something nefarious – more so than usual. Since his setback at Keraq.”

“Go on,” Vonvalt said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“She says Claver is creating… vessels. Automata. Not quite in the same way she was doing in Seaguard… more like what Claver was doing in Keraq. Those spooky fucking sentries.”

I immediately thought of my nightmarish encounter with the demented, possessed nun in the latrine underneath the fortress keep.

“He’s using them as sentries, you mean?” Vonvalt asked.

“No. As in, he is using the same process, the same binding – or whatever it is – but taking the corpses of the slain and turning them into soldiers. I know not the nature of them,” he added, hastily, “but if they are anything like Helena’s encounter…”

“Nema,” I breathed. “One was bad enough. It was like fighting off a rabid wolf.”

Vonvalt contemplated this for a moment. “The page of the Codex Elementa that you left with him,” Vonvalt said. I didn’t realise he was talking to me for a moment. “That contained the instructions to create these vessels.”

“Yes,” I said slowly. Something in Vonvalt’s tone made me suddenly defensive.

“It is one of the few things he has left, since you burned the rest of the books in the sanctum.” He did not pose it as a question, and so I did not answer it as one.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“If you had seen those demons—” I began, but Vonvalt’s expression shifted.

“No, no, Helena, I am not blaming you,” he said, though it felt like that was precisely what he was doing. But before I could give him some choice words of my own, he said, “Well, we shall just have to think of a way to deal with those as well.”

“You are relentless, aren’t you,” Sir Radomir said with respect. “I confess… I have long abandoned hope for a successful outcome.”

“I know,” Vonvalt replied. Sir Radomir looked as though he had been slapped. “It is precisely why I must not. But seeing as we are confessing things to one another, then I have to tell you, I am absolutely exhausted of… this. All of this. Claver, the Templars, the Patricians… The whole lot of it. This ordeal will claim my life, I am sure of it. And I would welcome the end if I didn’t know what interdimensional horrors lay beyond the threshold.” He said, echoing my own sentiments. “From a living hell to a dying one. What a choice.”

Sir Radomir poured Vonvalt a generous measure of wine and passed him the goblet. With his thirst slaked, Vonvalt finally indulged.

“You asked me what Senator Jansen’s instructions were,” Sir Radomir said. “He is planning something. The coup has been a fractured and disorganised affair and I think he is deliberately orchestrating it so that it will fail. I know not the workings of his mind, but I think he is planning a move on the College of Prognosticators. There is a cabal of Nemans in there who are receiving Claver’s instructions and directing matters accordingly. There is talk of them preparing something, too. With all this pagan shit going on I have no doubt it is something appalling and terrifying.”

Vonvalt was visibly alarmed at this news. “What is your role in this plan?”

“Nothing as yet. I am to wait here in case he has need of me. What will you do?”

“I must speak with the Emperor, and soon. We will go in the same way we came out last time – you remember it, of course.”

“Aye,” Sir Radomir said wearily. He nodded to Vonvalt. “You look as though you are about to collapse.”

“I feel like it.” He looked about the place. It was slowly filling with dawn’s light. “We will spend the daylight hours here, take some rest,” he said, to my great relief. Another daylight attempt on the palace seemed like folly. “We make for the Imperial Palace tonight.”

We rose, and Vonvalt left. I heard his footsteps tramping upstairs.

I turned to Sir Radomir and immediately pulled him into a tight embrace. “Nema, I was sure I was never going to see you again,” I whispered into his shoulder. I had missed him sorely.

Sir Radomir returned my embrace, and then held me by the shoulders at arm’s length. “How is he treating you?” he asked me quietly. He looked up at the ceiling. “Our lord and master.”

“Fine. Well. The same as always. He has a great deal on his mind.”

“Don’t we all,” Sir Radomir murmured. He studied me for a moment, my face. “Look after yourself, Helena. Understand?”

I nodded. “I will. I mean—I am.”

Sir Radomir fixed me in the eye. “If you need me, for whatever reason, I’ll come running. You understand that?”

I smiled sadly and pulled him into another embrace. “I know,” I said quietly into his ear.

Then I went to find somewhere to sleep.

We departed the house that night, leaving Sir Radomir behind in case Jansen reached out to him with any fresh instructions. I felt greatly restored after eating, drinking and sleeping my fill, as well as having changed into some clean clothes. Still, another night of tension beckoned – of sneaking around, the threat of death hanging heavy over our heads.

Once again we crept through the city. We moved a little more surely, a little more quickly through the parts that Jansen had told us were largely clear of Savaran forces, though loyalist Imperial Guard were notable in their absence. Still, for all we moved cautiously, it was not a long journey, a little way down the Creus Road and then down to the embankment again. Opposite us, across the river, the Temple of Nema reared into the sky.

It took a much longer time to find the concealed entrance to the dungeon. It had not occurred to either of us that it might have been found and filled in, and fortunately it had not been. If it had, I do not know what we would have done. It already felt as though we were on borrowed time.

The tunnel, barely three feet across, was of course pitch-black. It was a long, claustrophobic crawl through reeking, effluent-infused soil – “shit mud”, as Sir Radomir would have called it – and there was no space to turn around inside. And all that was leaving aside where it led; after all, we came out into the Imperial dungeons. We ran a non-negligible risk of simply being killed out of hand the moment we emerged.

I was long used to taking risks in Vonvalt’s service, but the crawl through that tunnel I remember with particular clarity. I imagined all manner of horrible deaths – getting trapped in a collapse, suffocating in mud, being drowned by rising river levels… In the end, of course, nothing happened except a long and tedious crawl through the murk and muck.

Eventually, we emerged into the dungeons. It was not the dungeon proper; rather it was an empty storeroom or something of that ilk, a low-ceilinged and dank chamber filled with a few scraps of old paper and other paraphernalia that smelt of age. We stood there catching our breath. Both of us trembled with exhaustion; the crawl had been half a mile in which we’d no option but to propel ourselves on our elbows and knees. We were saturated with mud and we absolutely reeked. All our efforts to clean ourselves and don fresh clothes had been an exercise in futility.

“If this doesn’t work, I shall be very unhappy,” I said.

Vonvalt laughed with great mirth and slapped me roughly on the shoulder. “Come. Let us hope that I am right; Nema knows we are due some good luck.”

We fumbled our way through a succession of empty, disused chambers and corridors. The first time we had made this journey, both of us had just survived the initial stages of torture and had had our heads covered with bags. We were moving blindly, with only our innate sense of direction to guide us.

Eventually, we stumbled across a small dungeon, a far cry from the impressive – and impressively terrifying – main dungeon which housed the Truth-taker. It was an unremarkable, damp place, and largely empty. Lattices of iron bars demarcated individual cells, but the only light came from a single torch at the very far end of the chamber.

“Just stay behind me and do as I do,” Vonvalt said as we advanced down the walkway. Rounding the corner at the end, we came across a single guard, a long-haired and bearded man clad in a simple doublet and breeches who was attending to some papers in the wan firelight. Next to him on the floor was a breastplate and a short sword stacked against the wall.

Vonvalt cleared his throat, and the man looked up sharply. His mouth fell open at the sight of us.

Vonvalt held out his hand to demonstrate that he had no dagger in his hands, though he had kept the short sword from the slain Guardsman. “Please listen to me carefully,” he said. “I need to speak with the Emperor.”

The guard immediately lunged for his sword.

“Sit still,” Vonvalt said in the Emperor’s Voice, and the guard froze mid-lunge and toppled on to the floor. Vonvalt reached out and picked up his short sword, and handed it to me. Then he crouched down and helped the man back into his seat. He sat there in a daze.

“Here,” Vonvalt said, handing the guard the tankard of marsh ale which was sitting on the table. Eyeing Vonvalt unhappily, he accepted the drink, and saw it off.

“Listen to me carefully,” Vonvalt said. “I am not going to hurt you. I need your help. My name is Sir Konrad Vonvalt. Do you know who I am?”

“Y-you were the Lord Prefect,” the guard stammered, his eyes widening. “I thought you were dead, everyone did.”

“Well, here I am,” Vonvalt said. “Is the Emperor in residence?”

The man nodded.

“I need to speak with him. He will want to speak with me. Could you please arrange for that to happen?”

The guard looked uneasy.

“What will you do?” he asked.

“We shall wait here,” Vonvalt said simply.

The guard considered matters for a long time. “All right,” he said warily, and left.

We waited for what felt like an hour, but must only have been a quarter of that. Then the man returned, only this time he was accompanied by a pair of Imperial Guardsmen. One was black, a Southern Plainswoman, whilst the other was a white-skinned Sovan. Their noses wrinkled at the stench emanating from us.

“The Emperor will speak with you,” the white woman said.

Vonvalt exhaled. His grip on his short sword loosened.

“Good,” he replied.

The woman leant in close, though certainly she was not pleased to do so. “The Emperor may command us to slay you.” She looked at him meaningfully. “Know that if he does, we shall not.”

Vonvalt did not quite know what to make of that, but he inclined his head nonetheless. “Well, I am certainly grateful for that.”

The Guardsmen both turned to leave.

“You will see what I mean. Come.”

I had expected to be taken to the Emperor’s strategium, where private and extremely sensitive matters such as ours could be discussed. Instead, and to my surprise, we were taken to the Hall of Solitude.

If the hall had once felt grand and imposing, now it felt gloomy and drawn-in. Braziers, which had once kept the darkness and shadows at bay, were unlit. Instead, the only light came from the wan orange glow from the city’s street lamps, which slanted weakly through the enormous windows lining the hall.

The question of just exactly where the Imperial Guard loyalists had been was answered very quickly: here. The place was filled with them. There were at least several dozen milling about, with more visible in the chambers that sat between the hall and the main entrance of the palace. Vonvalt eyed them all with contempt. I knew precisely what it was he was thinking: why were they here? Why were they stuck inside, duplicating the job of Kimathi a hundred times over, instead of out there, retaking the city?

The wolfman himself was there, too, motionless. Armed with new context, I noticed things about him that I had not before: his armour was the same as that worn by members of the Grasvlaktekraag, and the sash about his waist was in the Westereik Dynastic colours. It was strange to think that he had a brother in Ran-Jirika, whom I had met. Hell, he had a whole family – a noble family, for all intents and purposes – back in the Kyarai.

Finally, my attention settled on the throne, where the Emperor himself was slouched. He looked gaunt and haggard, his skin wax pale, his beard and hair unkempt. Nothing – the Autun of wrought gold, the Kliner tapestry behind him, the fine marble of the pyramid beneath the throne, his magnificent cloth-of-gold robes – none of it could elevate him above the shabby, despondent old man that he was. His transformation into this wretched, deflated creature was a remarkable thing to behold.

“Sir Konrad Vonvalt,” he declared. His voice echoed unkindly across the chamber. Everyone looked over to us. We cut the shabbiest of figures, clad in our muddy, reeking rags; and yet, in spite of this, Vonvalt still managed to look the more imperious.

“Majesty,” Vonvalt said tightly. He made no obeisance, and physically prevented me from doing so as well. The Emperor regarded this spectacle with a sneer.

“So. You make a point of disrespecting me.”

“You exiled me,” Vonvalt said, his voice ice. “You disbanded the Magistratum and sentenced me to death. I am afraid you will have to endure a little frostiness.”

The Emperor’s sneer transformed to a grin, and then he laughed heartily. “Blood of gods, Konrad, you never did have a head for politics did you?”

Vonvalt made a show of looking around the Hall of Solitude. “I might say the same of Your Majesty.”

The Emperor’s laughter died immediately. There was an intake of breath from the group of advisers hovering near the door. I looked at Kimathi briefly, to see if there was any flicker of emotion there; but the huge Kasar simply stood as he always did, immobile, like a statue.

“You are currently alive, Sir Konrad, because I am intrigued. I am most intrigued. How did you come to be here? Precisely where have you been? And how did you slip past my guards? Once these questions have been answered, rest assured you shall perish.”

Vonvalt did not seem to be in the least bit concerned by this. He jabbed a thumb into his chest and snapped, “I have been doing what you should have been doing. What I have been warning you about for months. Opposing Bartholomew Claver. Calling on our allies. Gathering forces together. Trying to disrupt our enemies. And yet I find the capital ready to accept the Templars with open arms. You must—”

“Must? I must? Kasivar Prince of fucking Hell, I cannot believe what I am hearing! I can. Not. Believe. It. Truly!” The Emperor sat forward in his throne, spittle flecking his lips, his face a mask of rage. He seemed to experience a brief spasm whilst he considered his different options, before he settled on: “In the name of Nema, Rainer, kill them. Kill them both, right now!”

No one moved. Kimathi stood stock-still. The clusters of Imperial Guard arrayed about the Hall of Solitude remained where they were. Everyone else – for there were plenty of other people in there, too, from advisers to members of the Royal household – watched this scene aghast.

“I said kill them! Nema’s blood, do it! Now!”

The Guardswoman who had forewarned us of this stepped forward. “Remain where you are,” she said loudly to her subordinates.

I was surprised at how calmly the Emperor took this piece of treachery, almost as though he had expected it. He reclined in his throne. “Enemies without, enemies within,” he said, darkly amused. “What about you, Warden?” he asked Kimathi. “Would you still obey my orders as your oaths demand? Would you kill Sir Konrad, here?”

Kimathi said nothing – did nothing. The Emperor’s lip curled.

“I am not your enemy,” Vonvalt said. “Though Nema knows, I should be.”

“Well why aren’t you, then?” the Emperor snapped, petulant.

“Because some of us must rise above these things if we are to preserve the realm. I have said many times that my interest is in safeguarding the lives of the commonfolk. Your subjects. That is all I have ever been interested in. That the preservation of the Imperial throne aligns with that goal is at this point a bare convenience.”

“Do you know, Sir Konrad, that you may just be the most offensively insolent man I have ever met?”

Vonvalt opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He looked critically at the Emperor. When he spoke, it was with confusion. “Majesty… has someone…” He paused again, and took a few steps forward. There was a general stirring, but no one moved to intercept him. “You are not the man I know.”

The Emperor regarded Vonvalt with astonishment. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Vonvalt squinted at him. “You have been shown things. Things to break your spirit. There is an aura of despair about you – I can all but…” he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, as if examining some oily substance “… see it.”

The Emperor shifted uncomfortably in his throne. “I have seen certain things, aye,” he admitted. “In my dreams. My nightmares,” he added bitterly.

Vonvalt advanced another step. “What things?” he asked in a careful tone.

The Emperor’s expression hardened. “Things no mortal man should have to bear witness to!” he snapped, suddenly infused with energy. “Face it, Sir Konrad! Your mission ends in failure. It all ends in failure. There is nothing to do now but wait for the clock to stop ticking. I have seen it, you have seen it. Even your bloody girl here has seen it!”

My blood surged as attention unexpectedly fell on me. The mark of the Trickster on my chest ached like an old wound. Somewhere in the back of the Hall of Solitude, I heard a drip, drip, dripping of something pattering against the marble.

“Majesty, this matter is far from over. Sova has weathered rebellion before, and under our careful guidance, it shall do so again. The commonfolk have been led astray by promises of – well, all manner of things – but the brutal realities of a theocratic dictatorship will soon become apparent. But the time to act is now. I would share with you my plans – in private.”

The Emperor regarded Vonvalt for a long time. He had been made to look a fool – indolent, incompetent, and worse, tainted by these visions which had left him miserly and depressed – and Vonvalt was not going to give him a way to save face, either. I expected him to refuse outright and force the issue, but to mine and everyone else’s surprise, he acquiesced.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I will hear what you have to say.” He pressed himself up, and walked down the steps which led away from his throne. “Let us speak in the strategium.”

“You,” Vonvalt said, pointing rudely to the Imperial Guardswoman who had but a minute before saved his life. “What is your name?”

“Serjeant Rainer, sire,” she replied.

“You come with us, too.”

The Emperor cast a sidelong glance at Vonvalt, but said nothing.

And just like that, Vonvalt became the de facto Emperor of Sova.

We made for the strategium, up that horse-powered elevator that provided the only access – or rather, the only access that I would ever know. Once we had achieved the top, I looked out across the dark, silent city, and shivered. Sova was in the grip of a profound eeriness that night.

We sat down. The Emperor walked the length of the map table, retrieved a bottle of wine and several goblets, and poured each of us a generous measure. Rainer, unused to these private luxuries, seemed very much out of her depth.

“What has happened, Majesty?” Vonvalt asked softly.

“What has happened? Nema, what hasn’t happened,” the Emperor said, collapsing into a chair with enough force to crack bones. He took a long draw of wine, not even taking a moment to learn the vintage. “I lost control of the Senate. If I was feeling generous, I would say the process was complete by the month of Cervenkar. If I was feeling ungenerous, the reality is probably Vinkar. Sorpen, even. The Mlyanars caucused with the Nemans and all of the independents. They turned the Legionary Prefect, Milena Bartoš, may her spirit be smote upon the Broken Path. Well, you know that they had the Savarans in their pocket. Took a few other orders with them too. Patrias on every street corner spouting nonsense. Tame Imperial Guardsmen with heavy pockets doing nothing to stop them.” He shot a look at Rainer, who remained impassive. “Well, then there came the fucking mess with Iliyana, abducting her own son – my grandson! – and framing some poor sod. You heard what we did to him?”

Vonvalt nodded slowly. I thought about Ivan Godric, the insane man whom Iliyana and Claver had stuffed with false memories about kidnapping the Prince Kamil and whom the traitor and false Justice Luitgard Roza had had publicly and spectacularly executed.

“And then the Lodge was razed. Truly, I thought that was it. I tried to buy back the half of my Imperial Guard who were set to defect – oh yes,” he said, catching Vonvalt’s expression. “I knew they were being bribed. Fanatically loyal to me, until there are marks and titles and estates to be gifted.” He snorted bitterly. “Corruption is nothing new in Sova, you must know that.”

“It has long been rumoured,” Vonvalt said with what was now uncharacteristic tact.

“Well I had little choice but to denounce you, of course.” The Emperor was unused to explaining himself, and his delivery was awkward and stilted. “I did exactly what the patricians wanted all along, which was to withdraw the Royal warrant for the Order of the Magistratum. I was trying to buy myself time. Nema, what a fool I have been.”

“Foolish, certainly,” Vonvalt said. “Stability breeds complacency. I am as guilty of underestimating our enemies as anyone else. When one is faced with such naked evil, there is a temptation to believe that the commonfolk will see it for what it is. In reality it is tenacious, like a weed. It alters perceptions and tolerances slowly, insidiously. It must be fought constantly, and cut out at the roots.”

“Hm,” the Emperor grunted, as annoyed with Vonvalt’s patience as with his insubordination. There was a long silence.

“What happened after the destruction of the Grand Lodge?”

“For a while, nothing,” the Emperor replied. “Professional antagonists need something to antagonise against. The patricians had spent so long building up the Magistratum as the great enemy of the state, that once it was removed as a political force, it took away their entire raison d’etre. It was funny, watching them scramble around after that, looking to justify their own existence. It was a delicious irony.”

“Well, they managed it.”

“Aye. They managed it,” the Emperor agreed darkly. He took another drink of wine. “I was hoping to rally, but Tasa went east, taking the last of the Legions with him – against my orders. Foolish boy. I have heard nothing from him, and can only assume he has been killed. And then there is Gordan of course, widely rumoured to have been slain en route to Seaguard.” There was an uncomfortable pause. That Vonvalt had thrown his – and the Empire’s – lot in with Prince Gordan’s murderers was a nettle yet to be grasped. “And now I hear reports of Luka besieged in Saxanfelde.” He sighed, drained the last of his wine, and poured himself another goblet full. “There is no one, Sir Konrad. I am waiting here, waiting to die. Every hour that passes I feel the disapproval of my ancestors, of Valent Saxan. I feel it like a fucking weight of iron pressing down on me. To think I will have to soon face them again in the afterlife.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Vonvalt said. “I have put things in motion, certain… alliances of convenience. You will not be pleased with some of my decisions, but I urge you to consider the wider picture and what we stand to lose if we should fail.”

The Emperor sneered at Vonvalt. He pointed a trembling index finger at him. “You speak to me as though I were a child. As though I had no head for realpolitik. You forget it was I who raised you up from that gutter they call Jägeland. Do not condescend to me.”

Vonvalt bristled. “Then do not act in such a way as to require condescension!” he snapped.

The Emperor gritted his teeth as a paroxysm of anger washed through him. “I am reaching my—!”

“No,” Vonvalt cut across him. “It is time to listen to me, and listen carefully. You will not like what I’m about to tell you. But know that it has been done in the name of Sova.”

The Emperor looked at Vonvalt venomously. “Just what have you done?”

Vonvalt gave him the full account of everything that had come to pass since our expulsion from Sova many weeks before. The Emperor, who began listening to the tale with a weary, irritated countenance, shook with rage by the end.

“You have made common cause with the fucking pagans?! With the very people who have slain my son and destroyed the Sixteenth Legion? Are you fucking insane? You have the temerity to counsel me on the greater good when my thirdborn is a corpse in the Velykšuma?” The Emperor’s voice was at fever pitch. “You thought I would be happy to learn this? Truly? Prince of Hell, you’ve lost your mind. You are a traitor to Sova!”

Vonvalt launched to his feet.

“Don’t!” I shouted, standing and grabbing him by the arm.

Vonvalt froze mid-step. Rainer, too, had moved quickly to intercept him. She hovered a half-dozen paces away, hand on her sword.

“You are unfit to bear your title,” Vonvalt said.

“Get out of here!” the Emperor exploded. “Get out of my sight! I might not be able to have you killed, but I can do everything short of that. Whatever schemes you have put in motion, they will be undone. I will pass word to the lords of the north to destroy this pagan army. I will not let you carve up my empire like a beef flank. I would sooner turn it over to the Nemans! And as for those fucking wolfmen making their way up the Kova—”

Vonvalt slapped the Emperor across the cheek. The latter, who had not suffered any human contact that he had not directly solicited for many years, looked as though his heart were about to give out.

“Serjeant Rainer,” Vonvalt said stonily in the silence that followed.

“S-Sire?” she stammered.

“The Emperor is tired.”

“Tired?! Have you taken leave of your senses! I shall not—”

“See that he is returned to his chamber and kept there for the duration of hostilities. Appoint a detail of men to ensure that his needs are taken care of.”

“—strung up from a fucking gibbet where you’ll stay—”

“Then meet me back here with your closest and best officers.”

“—are to stop this madness immediately, I am the Emperor of Sova, you cannot—”

“Do I make myself clear?” Vonvalt asked impatiently.

Rainer cleared her throat. “Indeed, milord Justice.”

“Good,” Vonvalt said, and sighed. He turned to me. “Come, Helena. It seems the fate of Sova remains in our hands.”

XVII

Retaking the City

“Twice the labour

Twice the pain;

Twice the horror

Thrice the gain.”

HAUNER FOLK SONG

I couldn’t quite believe it was actually happening, but the Emperor was indeed locked away in his private chambers, by uneasy – but ultimately compliant – Imperial Guardsmen.

We spent the rest of the night moving around the Imperial Palace and its immediate environs, to allow Vonvalt to gather as much information as possible about the state of the city: the arrangement of the loyalist and traitor forces, their numbers, morale, dispositions, and a thousand other things. I followed him everywhere like a faithful dog, and felt about as useful as one.

Accompanying us was Serjeant Rainer, and latterly Sir Gerold Bertilo, the captain of the city watch and Sheriff of Sova, whom I had not seen since the Ivan Godric debacle. The old Southern Plainsman looked even older, his black moustache and hair even greyer than when I had last seen him, his skin rougher and more creased. He had been out manning a temporary fortification at the southern end of the Baden Bridge, but had returned the moment he had heard of Vonvalt’s reappearance. He greeted the latter outside the front of the Imperial Palace with untempered pleasure.

“You are alive!” he exclaimed, pulling both Vonvalt and I into an embrace. He spoke quickly, overexcited and overtired. “By Nema, I thought our plan was sure to fail. I hope you have brought some good news with you; we have all but given up here. Jansen is doing what he can to suppress our enemies. Nema, but his abilities are without rival. It is nothing short of a miracle that he is still breathing.”

“He may not be for much longer, if it is discovered that he let Helena and I slip the net. I am still not sure how he achieved such pre-eminence amongst the Mlyanars.” Vonvalt sounded uneasy, but Sir Gerold shared none of his suspicions.

“Other senators have paid for his duplicity with their lives. He may have even wielded the blade himself. But he is stopping the commonfolk from rioting, and that is the most important thing. He has convinced the traitors to discourage assembly, in favour of a curfew and martial law. I do not know how much longer he can keep them at bay, which is why your appearance is most propitious.”

“You are in contact with him, then?” Vonvalt asked.

“Infrequently. He has his messengers. He constantly counsels patience, but we are running out of it along with a great many things. With the city under curfew – and with the commonfolk choosing to remain at home even during the day – we are facing a shortage of just about everything. Sova is home to a million souls. It needs a thousand tons of grain a day. It cannot survive without a constant flow of food.”

“One thing that is clear to me is that we must act with great speed. I want to be in a position to counter-attack tomorrow, or at the very latest the following day.”

“Tomorrow works. My men are champing at the bit.”

“Aye, and mine,” Serjeant Rainer agreed. “’Tis only the injunction of the Emperor which has kept us here, in place. But my people are ready to fight. They would go now, if you were to give the order. They have long sickened of leaving the city to sour.”

Vonvalt nodded his satisfaction. “Good. But Tymoteusz is right. We must be patient – at least for the next half-day. Running headlong into an attack on the streets would be very ill advised without us knowing precisely the layout and composition of our enemies.”

“Most of them are located in two places,” Serjeant Rainer said. “The Temple of Savare, and the Imperial Guard barracks. They control everything south of the Creus Road and west of the Law Library, I would say.”

“The Law Library is important to me. I will need to examine a great many books there in the coming days – or rather, Helena will,” he said, turning to me slightly as he said it. I could not help but feel aggrieved. As much as I baulked at the idea of more violent conflict, the idea of being sent off to study books whilst everyone else got stuck into the fighting irked me greatly. But then I remembered Aegraxes’ portentous words about a “volume of esoteric lore”, and I knew that, for all it injured my ego, it was not my skill at arms that our mission demanded.

We carried on walking through the dark, quiet streets. We walked up the Baden High-Way to the junction of it and the Dubravkan Road, standing briefly in view of the Wolf Gate, before turning back, re-crossing the Sauber, and then making west to the Philosopher’s Palace which was still in loyalist hands. Finally, we returned to the Imperial Palace and then the strategium, collaring several more senior Imperial Guard and city watch officers en route, and there Vonvalt pulled out a number of map scrolls from a cabinet in one corner of the room.

“Who is coordinating Mlyanar efforts in the city?” Vonvalt asked.

“Radoslav Gautvin,” Sir Gerold said. I recognised the name as that of the egregious Mlyanar whom Bressinger and I had seen spouting toxic bile in the Senate.

“Unsurprising,” Vonvalt said, nodding. “And Bartoš is commanding the traitor Guard.”

“Yes,” Rainer confirmed.

“Have any men from the city watch defected?” Vonvalt asked.

Sir Gerold shook his head, his expression one of incredible contempt. “They came for us first. No one was even given a chance to turn traitor; they butchered us in the watch house. I escaped with those I could rally, but…” He shrugged. “Less than a hundred, I would say.”

“That would put our numbers at, what, around half a thousand?” Vonvalt asked the pair of them. He received grunts of agreement. Vonvalt tapped his teeth with a fingernail. “Sir Radomir told me that Jansen believes the Prognosticators are attempting something, acting on the instructions of Claver.”

“Claver is here in the city?” Sir Gerold asked, alarmed.

Vonvalt shook his head, irritated at the interruption. “No,” he said unkindly, as though Sir Gerold should have been intimately familiar with the unknowable arcane machinations of his greatest enemy. “He is directing them from afar. They use sacrifice as a means of creating a link through the afterlife by which they can speak.”

Sir Gerold and Sergeant Rainer shared a worried glance, but Vonvalt did not give either of them a chance to voice their concerns.

“But we will need to take care of the enemy forces first. And there are other matters that I must attend to immediately. The first of these is to recall as many of the closest Legions as we can. I have heard unwelcome news that the Confederation has sought to engage the Legions arrayed up and down the Kova, to pin them down ahead of Claver’s arrival. From a strategic perspective, this, of course, makes a great deal of sense. Pulling them back will mean losing almost all of our holdings east of the Kova, but, well. It is what it is.”

That someone could simply throw away decades’ worth of attempted expansion and all of the attendant costs – millions of marks, thousands of gallons of blood, not to mention a dozen of the most advanced and impregnable fortresses Imperial engineers could construct – in a stroke, profoundly shocked his audience. But such was the force of his presence and personality that no one dared say anything to counter him.

“It is what the Emperor should have done months ago. Now he has let Prince Tasa piss away the last of the Legions within a stone’s throw of the capital. It is no use presiding over ten thousand acres of occupied land in the Confederation if we don’t have a capital from which to command its occupation.

“Now, the commonfolk. We might be able to pull together some volunteer companies. I find it extremely unlikely that every man in the city is in the pocket of the Mlyanars, certainly not the better half. Has any effort been made to backfill the ranks?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Eventually, it was Serjeant Rainer who spoke. “The Emperor’s instructions have been explicit,” she offered half-heartedly. Not everybody shared Vonvalt’s appetite for casual treason.

Vonvalt shook his head dismissively. “Have a party sent out right now. Head for the unsociable trades – that is where all of the strongest men and women will be, to say nothing of the armourers and weaponsmiths. There will be plenty of former Legionaries to choose from. Gather up only those who have the strength and courage to fight – I am not interested in a massacre of cowards. Cross the river south of the Fleischregale and take as many who can be spared in the south-eastern closure, all the way to the Sun Gate. Anyone in the lee of the Estran Wall who wants to fight, bring them back here. I’ll warrant we will get another half-thousand by midday.”

Rainer ordered one of her subordinates to go immediately.

Vonvalt rapped a knuckle against the map table. “The next thing to do is to offer a pardon to anyone who has defected.”

All of his instructions so far had been met with a mixture of unease and enthusiasm. This was met with uproar. A great clamour went up from the assembled officers. These were the people who had chosen the difficult path, the way of loyalty and duty. Even though his logic was clear – the wisdom undeniable – I was certain he had lost his audience.

Vonvalt, completely unafflicted by self-doubt, weathered this outrage implacably.

“Listen to me,” he demanded, and achieved silence. “I am not interested in the niceties of the law. I do not care whether these people turned traitor or broke their oaths. I do not care what atrocities they have committed, who they have burned in the name of bloody Savare, and what other follies they have been exhorted to undertake. A reckoning can take place later. Now, I want to make sure that Sova is every bit the fortress it can be when Claver and his Templars come knocking at the gates. And that means degrading – completely – our enemy’s ability to fight. So, pardons for every man and woman, Guard, Templar, fucking patria, I do not care. Whoever wishes to return to the fold will be allowed to.” He held up a finger and pointed it at each of the assembled officers. “And that means quarter, victuals, and fair treatment.” He let his arm drop. “With any luck, we will not need to fight at all.”

No one in the strategium shared Vonvalt’s high-minded consequentialism; but to be taking action, to have a commander who spoke sensibly and knowledgeably, to be receiving orders designed to rectify rather than prolong the situation, ultimately conspired to assuage their doubts. Still; he asked a great deal of them, and their compliance was a slow, unsure thing.

“Have your messengers pass this on to Senator Jansen, so that he is aware of our plan. Then we will put it out more broadly. With any luck, he will be able to fan the flames of doubt. Their numbers are not so much greater than ours as to make this a certainty for them.”

“These people are not driven by logic,” Rainer said. “They believe that what they are doing is the will of Nema.”

“Do not seek to lecture me on such matters!” Vonvalt suddenly thundered, making everybody in the strategium jump. “I have been at the sharp end of this for months, and it is only now – now! – that a third of the city has been given over to traitors and I have had to forcefully remove the Emperor from office, that anybody is listening to me. Can you even begin to imagine my vexation?”

Rainer, a tall, muscular and imposing Legionary, shrank back from this. “Sire, you must understand—”

But Vonvalt held up a hand to silence her. “Not now. When matters are in hand, you and I can speak at length about all manner of things. Now you listen. You all listen to me and you do as I say, is that understood?”

Again, there was muted assent.

“The final thing to do is plan our avenue of attack. So: show me on this map, here, everything you know about their dispositions.”

The planning went on for hours. My body was exhausted, and craved rest, and I contrived to have myself dismissed. I wandered the corridors of the Imperial Palace for half an hour, searching for somewhere to sleep, and eventually found a vast and ostentatious stateroom which was unoccupied. Despite wearing soiled, reeking clothes, I made no effort to undress, but simply flopped down on to the bed and fell into a deep, exhausted slumber.

I did not expect to wake up when it was still dark. I had no way of telling the time, but the palace was still and quiet and the sun had not risen.

Something felt strange about the darkened chamber. I sensed something, a presence, though I could not see anyone in the gloom.

Drip, drip, drip. Something, some liquid, pattered against the floor in the corner. I turned sharply as someone whispered in my ear.

Ramayah.

I whimpered, unprepared for this fresh haunting. My skin erupted in gooseflesh. The darkness of the room seemed to close in and deepen, in the same way it did when Vonvalt conducted a séance. I felt a dull throbbing sound in my ears, and my hand went to my chest where the mark of the Trickster sat etched into my skin like a malignant tattoo.

I became aware of a faint shimmer. Terrified, I tried to scream out, but I was frozen in place. My throat was dry and my jaw worked to try and expel some sound, some animal cry of terror, but I might as well have been wrought from marble.

The shimmering took on an odd colour, like a brass or golden gleam. I had seen the fabric of reality both thinned and breached a number of times over the past months, and each time it had heralded the arrival of some eldritch horror. Had Claver found a way to send a squad of daemonic assassins to kill me, in the same way he had hexed Vonvalt with the Muphraab?

Then, just as my dread reached its zenith, the shimmering golden light took on the aspect of a human figure – several figures – but so faint that the barest movement of my eyes caused them to disappear. They were like wire frames made from the thinnest, finest cloth-of-gold thread, as though someone had taken a human form and removed all of its substance, leaving only the outline of their person constructed entirely from aethereal matter.

I sat, staring, wide-eyed at these apparitions, my sense of fear replaced with one of wonderment. There were ten I counted, arrayed around the bed. The number ten had some special significance in the Neman Church, though I couldn’t think of it at the time; perhaps it was the number of Saint Creus’s apostles or perhaps the number of the Deti – Nema and Savare’s demigod children. I could not look at their faces; something intangible discouraged me from doing so. But they looked for all the world like soldiers armoured in gold.

Like armoured angels. Standing guard. Watching over me.

I have no idea how long I sat there for, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. But, eventually, I was filled with a sense of calm and safety, like being hugged by a mother I could barely remember.

I lay back down, the pain on my chest fading into nothingness, and once more fell asleep.

The following day – though it did not really feel like the following day, for we had been up for most of the night – the Imperial Palace, and especially the Hall of Solitude, was a hive of activity. Many of the maps from the strategium had been brought downstairs into the hall, as well as a number of trestle tables, and I watched as Imperial Guard commanders pointed and gestured at them and discussed matters with subordinates.

All of the messages that Vonvalt had decreed be dispatched had been sent. Posses of Guardsmen and watchmen were trawling the city for fighting men and women. Guardsmen piled up equipment in various parts of the Hall of Solitude – swords, shields, armour, victuals and medical supplies – wine, vinegar, bandages. There was an air of excitement and anticipation, and it was not just about the impending conflict; people were waiting to see if anyone would accept Vonvalt’s offer of a pardon.

I asked a succession of people if they knew where Vonvalt was, and I was directed to the front of the Imperial Palace. It was just as busy out here as it had been in the Hall of Solitude. This space had become an impromptu staging area, where already I could see decent numbers of citizen soldiers being outfitted with armour.

Vonvalt was on the Creus Road, looking west towards the temple of Nema and, in the hazy distance, the Creus Gate. He himself was armoured, too, wearing the obsidian black plate of the Imperial Guard. But instead of a purple cloak, a cloak of rich cream was fastened to his breastplate by a pair of golden wolf-headed brooches. I had never seen him look so powerful, so imperious. He looked more like the Emperor than the Emperor himself.

Next to him was a fully armoured Kimathi; and next to him was a large, black hound.

A Sovan war shepherd.

“Helena,” Vonvalt said as he saw me approach.

“Heinrich!” I shouted.

Heinrich turned to me and immediately started barking and wagging his tail madly. I collided with him and he knocked me bodily to the floor, licking my face and whimpering like a pup.

I grabbed his head. “Where the hell have you been? How did you get all the way back to Sova?”

Vonvalt, who was watching this reunion with a rare smile, helped me up. “After he fled Keraq he must have made his way back to the capital. It is not unheard of. Sovan war shepherds have preternaturally good senses.”

“What secrets are locked in your head, eh?” I asked the hound, rubbing his massive cheeks and ears. It was like playing with the head of a bear. “Oh my heart!” I had never expected to see Heinrich again, and I spent a long time ruffling his fur and scratching his ears.

“Has any news come back? About the pardon?” I asked, standing. Heinrich licked my hand and I idly stroked him.

Vonvalt shook his head. “No, not yet.”

Sova was once again quiet. Some merchants were on the road, but most were put off by the sight of their countrymen hanging from gibbets, or lying by the sides of the road as blackened corpses.

“I was just telling Kimathi about our actions in the south, and the visitation,” Vonvalt said.

Kimathi nodded. “Unsettling,” he said in Saxan. It was strange to hear after weeks of Kasari and Kasarsprek, but it made sense that Kimathi would speak the language of the Sovans better than any of his brethren. After all, he had spent most of his life here. It had been easy to think of Kimathi as a piece of ostentation, an imposing, silent, statuesque guardian, little better than an automaton. What a failing that was: to overlook the lives of others, to appreciate they were – are – as intricate and tangled as our own.

“I need to speak to you about something,” I said quietly to Vonvalt.

He turned to me, though his attention remained on the Creus Road. “What?”

“Last night, something happened.”

“Oh?”

“I had this sense of a… presence in my bedchamber. Something evil.”

Vonvalt nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Unsurprising in the circumstances.”

I paused, indignant. “I was terrified.”

“I can well imagine,” he murmured, and then, when he heard my snort of incredulity, turned to me. “I am sorry to hear it, Helena. Truly. Did you get a sense of the entity? Its name, or nature?”

“No,” I said, annoyed. “But ’tis all academic. Something drove it off. I’m certain of it.”

“Probably Resi, or Lady Frost,” Vonvalt said, turning back to the Creus Road and peering through the morning haze. “Come on,” he muttered to himself.

I nearly punched him on the shoulder. “I don’t think it was either. It was like… beings made of light. Golden light.”

“Hm. If it happens again, try to make contact with them.”

“Try to—!” I began, but Kimathi shifted his halberd from one hand to the other, and grunted, and Vonvalt turned to follow the line of the wolfman’s gaze. Coming down the Creus Road were perhaps fifty Imperial Guardsmen. In the centre of them was a man whom I thought I recognised.

“Peace, Helena, We can discuss it later,” Vonvalt murmured. He shouted to Serjeant Rainer, who turned and collared a dozen Guardsmen and city watchmen. Together they formed up around Vonvalt and Kimathi. There was something non-threatening about the approaching company, though, and I did not get the sense that they were about to attack.

“That’s Tymoteusz,” Vonvalt said, squinting. I followed the line of his gaze, and saw that it was indeed Senator Jansen in the centre of the mass. “Steady everyone, he is a friend. I think,” he added in a mutter.

They closed the gap and fanned out. Jansen wore an apologetic smile.

“Sir Konrad,” he said.

“Senator,” Vonvalt replied.

Jansen spread his hands. “I am afraid these are all you are going to get.”

Vonvalt frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Your message – a stroke of genius, I had had the same idea – unfortunately was intercepted, its bearer killed. I have brought this delegation with me ostensibly to issue various threats, and so on, but in reality we are here to join you. My time as puppet master of the Savarans is at an end. There will be a reckoning this afternoon.”

“Then we must strike this morning,” Vonvalt said simply.

Jansen nodded. “I agree. I recommend that you move on the barracks first. The bulk of their force remains at the Temple of Savare, but there is a sizeable contingent of men guarding the College, too. There is something afoot there; you and I must discuss that in private. But not now. Now is the time for action. Where is the Emperor?”

“I have detained the Emperor,” Vonvalt said. “I am acting as regent, for the time being.”

Jansen’s eyes widened. I realised that the man had probably envisaged such a position for himself.

“I see,” Jansen said. He thought for a moment, completely wrong-footed. “W-who is, uh, commanding your forces here? Aside from yourself, of course.”

“Serjeant Rainer,” Vonvalt said, gesturing to the woman.

Jansen seemed to finally regain himself. “Serjeant; my Guardsmen here are at your disposal. They will fight for the Emp— for Sir Konrad,” Jansen briefly corrected himself, though it did not feel like an accidental slip of the tongue, “of that, have no fear. Do with them whatever you think prudent.”

The influx of fifty Guardsmen – a tenth of our enemy’s number, but better than nothing at all – were led away to join their loyalist brethren. In spite of Vonvalt’s entreaties for cool heads and pragmatism, the loyalists were clearly unhappy; and after a minute or so of heated argument, the former traitors were sequestered at the far end of the staging area, shamefaced and uncomfortable. I eyed them warily. I could not shake the fear that this was something orchestrated by Jansen, a scheme to seed fifty saboteurs in our ranks.

Jansen stepped closer. When he spoke it was in a low voice.

“Hello, Helena. I am glad to see you both alive and well.”

I forced a smile. “I am sorry I hit you,” I lied, but Jansen waved me off.

“In truth, Helena, I deserved it. Indeed, I deserve much worse. I have done a number of despicable things to save my own skin. I have a well-deserved reputation as a manipulator, and, quite frankly, I am something of a coward in my advancing years. I will do a great many things to avoid being killed.”

It struck me as the first honest thing the man had said in a long time.

“Desperate times call for desperate deeds,” Vonvalt said. “I think we are all going to have to get our hands dirty in order to save the Empire – or rather, the parts of it that can be saved.”

“What do you mean?” Jansen asked.

Vonvalt explained to him the bargain he had struck with Lady Frost, renouncing the Empire’s claims to great swathes of Haunersheim, Jägeland and Tolsburg.

“Good gods, you truly have taken on the mantle of regent. I hope the price you are paying for this peace is not too high.”

Vonvalt shrugged. “What are a few lines on the map compared to the lives and livelihoods of tens of thousands?”

“I can think of plenty who would disagree.”

“And are you one of them?” Vonvalt asked sharply.

Jansen held up his hands in a placatory gesture. “No. All this…” he gestured expansively around him “… is bad for business. War profits none save the devil.”

I could not help but look at Jansen in light of what Danai had said about him, and his friend Sir Anzo. The senator had always been a pleasant, gregarious, charming man; now I saw him in a different light. He seemed oily, sleazy, desperate. I believed him entirely when he said that he would do anything to survive. I hoped that Vonvalt didn’t trust him – though he seemed quite eager for this marriage of convenience to proceed.

“Come, then. We have a city to retake. And that is just the beginning of it.” He sighed. “After that we have Claver to worry about.”

XVIII

The Battle of the Barracks

“I would choose to fight almost anywhere in the world over the breathless confines of a city.”

MARGRAVE VALERIJA JONAITIS

Vonvalt tried to prevent me from joining the mission.

“You are too important,” he said to me as we walked back to the Imperial Palace.

“At this point it doesn’t seem like it even matters whether I live or die. Nema, the afterlife is like Sova on market day.”

“The market runs every day in Sova,” Vonvalt said, in a flash of pedantry which made me curiously nostalgic for the man he’d once been. “Notwithstanding,” he continued as we turned a corner. Vonvalt walked very quickly, and I had to half-jog to keep up. “You cannot join.”

“I can and will,” I said firmly.

He stopped and looked at me. “I will not have you throw your life away on some skirmish.”

“My life is not yours to do anything with, throw away or otherwise,” I snapped, suddenly hot with anger. Heinrich whined next to me.

Vonvalt gritted his teeth. “Nema’s blood, do what you will,” he muttered, turning away from me to join a gaggle of soldiers in the square. “And for Nema’s sake, someone fetch Sir Radomir!”

I got myself kitted out by the Imperial Guard. The armour was much lighter than I had expected it to be; the cuirass could only have been twenty pounds. It was also surprisingly comfortable. Given that as many women as men joined the Imperial Guard, they had armour for my frame, though I certainly didn’t have the muscular bulk to fill it. It was a little loose, even with the straps tightened as far as they would go, but of course I preferred it to nothing.

“Do you know what you are doing?” the Guardswoman who was armouring me asked. She did not ask it in a condescending way, it was a simple enquiry. She was more interested in Heinrich next to me, and she kept pausing to scratch him under the chin.

“I was at the Agilmar Gate,” I said. “In the van,” I added.

The woman looked at me quizzically. “You are a Templar?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It’s… a long story.”

Once I was armed and armoured, I reported to Serjeant Rainer, who was assembling the host of Guardsmen, watchmen and volunteer companies in the impromptu staging area to the south of the Imperial Palace. The palace itself was now closed and locked down like a fortress; neither Vonvalt nor Rainer wanted to waste any more people than they had to on guarding the place.

We must have numbered a thousand, all in. When we were all formed up, swords and shields ready, we began to advance down the Saint Slavka the Martyr High-Way. The seasoned Imperial Guard were able to move in lockstep, as was I, for marching is not difficult if you have half a brain; but plenty behind struggled with it. Still, we made very good progress down the road.

I was not as nervous as I should have been. Being in and amongst the armoured Legionaries was an entirely different experience to my brief and inauspicious stint as a Daughter of Nema. A good four ranks were interposed between me and the vanguard, which suited me just fine. In fact, I began to wonder why I had been so insistent on joining the melee in the first place. Certainly agency was a part of it – I had been whisked along by Vonvalt and events for so long, it felt good to be exercising some control – but I was also infused with a curious fear of missing out. Of missing the action. Irrespective of the risk of injury and death, I could not bear the thought of listening to Vonvalt and Sir Radomir and the other commanders trading war stories in taverns for years to come.

I just hoped we would all live long enough to be trading war stories in taverns for years to come.

We came out of the shadow of the Imperial Courts of Justice, past the City Watch House, and reached the Miran Bridge. Here we encountered the first traitor checkpoint, and I watched as, after a desultory exchange of missiles, they fled, shouting and screaming that the attack was upon them.

This brief action seemed to infuse the company with purpose. The pace quickened. We cut rapidly east down the Petran High-Way, but although there was a great temptation to start running, the formation held. I could see now why the volunteer companies had been kept in the rear; as the least disciplined, they were the most likely to try and charge forward, especially at the earliest signs of success.

We passed through a tangle of buildings until we reached the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way. This was the road that led directly to the Victory Gate. On the right stood the Imperial Guard barracks, and I could see traitors pouring out of it, ready to make their stand. Even though we clearly outnumbered them – as Jansen had said, the bulk of the enemy forces seemed to be at the Temple of Savare – it was not going to be an easy conquest. The barracks, a long, flat building which stood atop a pyramid of steps, was a subtle fortress. Assaulting it was not going to be easy.

The Guard commanders shouted orders from the head of our column. I watched as the ranks ahead of me lifted their sohle shields above their heads, so that we formed a phalanx. I did the same, as did those behind me, and it was not before time; a moment later, the first of the arrows began landing amongst us, thunking into shields or skittering across the cobbles. Even with our shields up, some of these missiles made it through. Several men and women were felled – and some of those killed – in these hasty salvos.

It felt as though we were advancing on the barracks for hours. The stress of waiting for an arrow to slip through the cracks in the roof of shields and plunge through a gap in my armour was intolerable. I comprehensively regretted insisting I be allowed to fight. Heinrich did not much care for the arrows either. He stuck to me closely, so closely that a number of times he nearly tripped me over.

Together we pressed on, quickly, inexorably.

The day grew hotter, and I began to sweat. My arms began to shake under the weight of the heavy shield, but I dared not let it fall. Once we reached the bottom of the steps, more missiles began to rain down; heavy roof tiles four or five pounds apiece; lumps of rock; cobbles that had been excavated from the road; large bales of hay which were set alight and rolled down the steep marble steps. Next to me Heinrich growled and slavered, now eager to be in and amongst our enemies.

I let out an involuntary shriek as the man directly in front of me pitched forward, killed immediately as a javelin, finding a lucky gap, pierced his sallet helm straight through the eye slit. Suddenly there was an opening directly in front of me, and an arrow, fired at a steep angle, shot through and shattered explosively against my breastplate. It all happened so quickly I barely had time to react – though I still have nightmares about this near-miss.

“Close up!” the man behind me roared with fury, physically shoving me. It was all I could do not to fall over. I hurried forward, my shield knocking into those of the people around me, taking up the space where the dead man had marched.

I was on the steps now. The Imperial Guard were grunting in unison with each step, in a manner designed to intimidate. We ascended at the same speed as we had advanced down the road – and the next thing I knew, a huge conflagration was in front of me. Several Guardsmen had been drenched in burning oil and were writhing around screaming as their flesh blackened and crisped. They turned and smashed through the ranks like banshees, all that legendary discipline evaporating in an instant. I remember watching as the fire travelled up one woman’s hair like the wick of a candle, until it began to burn her scalp. Our eyes met briefly, then she was gone, tearing back down the stairs, waiting for water or death.

“Savare! Savare victor!” the traitors screamed like lunatics from above us. Then I felt, rather than saw, our enemies charge into the vanguard. Men and women tumbled backwards down the steps as they lost balance, bringing more people down with them. One man, a traitor by the star on his chest, fell face first down the steps to my left, and I instinctively hacked and stabbed at him. My sword batted ineffectually against his plate armour, and it wasn’t until Heinrich’s monstrous jaws clamped around the man’s exposed face and tore his cheeks and nose off that I was able to complete the kill. I stabbed him through the centre of his face, and that was that.

A chaotic melee ensued. I saw behind the foremost rank of traitor Guardsmen a collection of men and women who looked as though they had been pressed into service. It was these people who continued to throw things at our company over the heads of their own vanguard. I saw one idiot make a mess of throwing a pot of boiling pitch; it splattered directly into the back of one of his own compatriots, who promptly vomited from the pain before being swiftly decapitated by a loyalist. There were plenty more of these gruesome vignettes to behold.

Eventually, I found myself at the top of the steps. With the difficult ascent complete, and with loyalists all around me and charging forward, there was little to do now except begin the bloody work of moving through the barracks, room by room, chamber by chamber, rooting out the traitors and destroying them. Many tried to surrender – especially the scratch companymen – but these people were all guilty of treason, and were killed out of hand. Heinrich was desperate to kill more, but I was frightened he would tear the throat out of a loyalist. We had taught him to attack those wearing the white star, but he had no way of telling the difference between one of our volunteers and one of theirs, and now that we were fully advanced, there were plenty of our own irregulars in the fray.

I do not know how long it took to completely clear out the barracks. I loitered in the rear in accordance with my instructions from Vonvalt, kicking down barricades and tending to the wounded. I did nearly execute one wounded traitor, but even in these frantic and fraught circumstances, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I need not have worried; a man next to me stepped on the woman’s forehead with his right foot and thrust his short sword into the meat of her throat, and she died instantly.

“Helena!” a familiar voice called out to me. I whirled around to see Sir Radomir approaching. He had not passed up the opportunity to outfit himself in fine plate armour, though he had been instructed to lead the volunteer companies. I lifted the visor of my sallet helm, my face splitting into a grin. A curious sense of elation suffused me. It left me shaky and frenetic, like I had had too much kafé. It was a sensation that only battle seemed capable of arousing within me.

I let out a trill of a slightly maniacal laughter as he slapped me on the shoulder plate and scratched Heinrich’s ears roughly. In the chaos, he did not seem to notice that the hound had been absent for several months. “A fine day for a scrap, no? Feels good to finally be doing something!”

He was very much drunk – I could smell the wine on his breath – but that did not dent my enthusiasm for seeing him again. He was absolutely right, too; even though we had not factored this mess into our plans, even though we should never have had to deal with these traitors in the first place, it nonetheless felt good to be doing something. For so long we had been on the back foot, reacting to Claver’s and his allies’ plans and schemes. Now we were finally attacking them, killing them off, and it felt, truly, unashamedly great. My blood was up and I was ready to march on the Temple of Savare.

I would soon come to regret this impetuosity.

There is not much more to say about the ‘Battle of the Barracks’, as it would come to be known. A fire broke out in the kitchens, which had to be extinguished but which eventually claimed about a sixth of the building. Some prisoners were taken, but they would be kept alive only long enough to be triaged for seniority, with the commoners hanged and the officers to be tortured first. Most of those who surrendered were from the volunteer companies; the traitor Guardsmen sold their lives dearly, as one might expect from fanatics who had nothing to gain from seeking quarter. Jansen’s defectors did not, as I had expected, sabotage our efforts.

Vonvalt, whom I had not seen for the entirety of the battle, mercifully reappeared at about noon, directing the survivors of our band to form up on the northernmost parts of the Nastjan Fields, a large grassy staging area that sat between the barracks and Victory Gate. There, aid stations were set up for the considerable number of wounded – for those outnumbered the dead three to one – water was distributed to the exhausted and parched soldiers, awnings were erected for shade, and food was parcelled out. Still, I could tell that Vonvalt and Serjeant Rainer were keen to maintain the momentum of the attack, for to give the soldiers too long to recover was to allow their blood to cool and the fight to leave them.

Sir Radomir, Heinrich and I made for the Fields. I immediately walked up to where there was a barrel full of water, picked up the wooden ladle, and drank my fill, as well as splashing some over my face and head. The sun was directly above, the only time of day when all of Sova’s enormous buildings provided no shade, and it was a hot, dusty and dry afternoon. Sir Radomir likewise drank, and then we moved to where soldiers were distributing hunks of bread. I did not feel like eating at all, but I was well enough versed in the mechanics of battle to know that I needed to keep my strength up. I made sure Heinrich had something to eat too, though I had a nasty feeling he already had a stomach full of human flesh.

It felt like we had had barely five minutes to recuperate before we were being ordered to form up for the march. Now I did feel the first stirrings of trepidation as we prepared to move back north up the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way. Even though I had not been fully embroiled in this melee, I had still come extremely close to being killed by that arrow. My hand idly went to my breastplate, where the mark of the Trickster flared and pulsed with unnatural energies. So much of our time and attention was fixated on the mortal plane, we still had to grapple with whatever dark forces were amassing in the afterlife, too.

We moved off, following some brief but rousing piece of oratory from Vonvalt. We must have left a hundred men on the Nastjan Fields, many to die. Behind us, a thick pall of black smoke rose from the barracks. Any element of surprise was now gone. For the rest of the day, our enemies would be expecting us.

We once again moved quickly up the road and then cut west down the Petran High-Way. The checkpoints that Vonvalt and I had come across when we had snuck into Sova had been abandoned. Now, only the remnants of those brutalities remained; immolated corpses bound to stakes, more bodies hanging in gibbets, the ground littered with scorch marks and errant pamphlets containing religious screed. We moved past these injustices with a tangible sense of anger.

These crimes would be answered for.

Out here in the southern closures were plenty of residences and apartment blocks, and for the first time that day people crowded in the doorways and at the windows and cheered us on. It was much needed; even a brief battle was exhausting, and in spite of the rest, food and water, my store of energy – and courage – had been heavily taxed by the fighting. I was greatly buoyed by the encouragement.

We crossed the Petran Bridge, which spanned the westernmost branch of the Sauber and cut north down the broad Veleurian Road. The Arena was on our left, for once silent; whilst to the north-west, I could see the Temple of Savare, a couple of miles away. My heart lurched as I laid eyes on it. A ripple of foreboding moved through the company as well. Once a vast bastion of faith, it had become a fortress of evil and sedition.

Whereas the citizens lining the Petran High-Way had welcomed us as liberators, those who lived in the shadows of the arena jeered. We were pelted with all manner of missiles as we passed the blackened ruins of the Grand Lodge, which felt especially inauspicious. Most of them were harmless – mouldy fruit, vegetables, offal – but there were plenty that were not. I saw at least one man collapse to the floor as a heavy roof tile clattered into his helmet, killing him instantly. I felt a furious rage at this, but heads ruled hearts in the Imperial Guard. We had few archers and fewer arrows, and no one was about to waste a javelin on some roof-bound commoner. Instead, the order was passed down for us to once again raise our shields overhead. The volunteer companies in the rear would just have to endure.

We were brought to a halt about a mile from the Temple of Savare. I had to crane my head around the ranks in front of me to see, for we were packed into a tight formation. Ahead of us, however, was not the vanguard of the remaining traitor Imperial Guard; it was a mob of commonfolk, most of them unarmed. In and amongst them I could see a decent number of Neman priests, their purple habits marking them out as such. Several of them, as priests had done in the battle for the Agilmar Gate, held displayed copies of the Neman Creed aloft on tall wooden poles. As the sound of our marching died away, a discordant medley of hymnals filled the sultry afternoon air.

Next to me, Heinrich growled.

I looked around at the men and women either side of me to see if I could yield up some explanation, taking the opportunity to lift my helmet visor to get some air to my face. At the time it seemed like desperation on the part of our enemies, for quite what hope these commoners had against half a thousand Guardsmen was anyone’s guess. But it did not take me long to realise that the Mlyanars’ purpose here was twofold.

The first part was simple delay. We would have to spend time and energy moving through these people, and even an unarmed mob could make a great deal of mischief if they were so inclined.

The second, and much more insidious part of the plan, was to force Vonvalt into committing a massacre. Even now, our enemies were thinking of the political angle. It was the kind of thing Jansen would have come up with. After all, it looked much less like a festering pocket of treason if the commonfolk supported the action. Then it looked more like a popular revolution. How would it play out if Vonvalt ordered hundreds of Sovan citizens to be slain in the streets?

Vonvalt was still at the very head of the column, and facing away from me, so I struggled to pick out the words he was shouting. But I recognised the cadence, the rhythm of what he was saying well enough to know that he was indicting them. Even though he was no longer a Justice, even though the Grand Lodge was a blackened ruin behind us, he still took the time to say the words.

The mob, driven by blind faith – and it could only have been blind faith, for Claver and his Templar warrior priests were still in Saxanfelde – stood firm, unmoved by Vonvalt’s entreaties. I watched through brief gaps in the soldiers ahead of me as he conversed with Rainer; then the signal to advance was given.

We advanced. I fell into step uncertainly, short sword gripped in my hand. I hated these people, do not mistake me; I hated them, but I also pitied them. They had been taken in by their betters, sold on a great lie. They had been convinced by well-spoken hypocrites from the Church and Senate that the source of their ills was not a complex tangle of social and economic factors, but rather a simple lack of faith. The secularisation of their government. That they had turned away from the light of heaven. It was complete nonsense, but it was nonsense that was easy to sell. “Tangled matters have tangled outcomes”, Vonvalt would have quoted to me, tangled outcomes that required careful and patient management. Only charlatans presented simple solutions, and these people had devoured them, hook, line and sinker. And certainly, they were adults – adults with brains. They could have interrogated what they were being told, could have thought about it, could have rejected it.

But they hadn’t. And now, they were about to die for it.

I found myself drifting out of the formation, until I was standing at the side of the Veleurian Road. No one paid me any heed. I watched as the Guard closed with the unmoving mob and simply began… killing them. Slaughtering them. With no shields and pikes and swords to contend with, they were able to fight with near perfect doctrine, as though they were on the training yards in the Nastjan Fields; advance, shield smash, stab to the left, advance.

I genuinely thought the mob was going to stand there and take it. Over the course of several long moments their resolve held, even as they died in droves. I watched, aghast, as men and women were just cut to pieces, shouting and screaming and singing their stupid hymns, exhorted to inaction by the Neman priests. I had never seen so many people be so utterly reckless with their lives.

The madness only ended when one of the priests was killed. His death was brutal. Short swords stabbed and hacked into him. He screamed and flailed as he died, wretchedly, pathetically. And it was that particular slaying that broke the spell. It was as though he were the last supporting beam in a dilapidated structure; after his death, the mob’s resolve collapsed.

Panic spread quickly. They routed, suddenly and en masse. And from there, matters descended into chaos.

It was the volunteer companies who gave chase. Buoyed by the early success of the battle of the barracks, and with their blood up, they broke ranks and ran around the flanks of the Guard like river water around a boulder. Despite the furious screams of the Guard officers, the volunteer companies could not be brought to heel. The moment they had caught up with the rearmost of the fleeing commoners, they were smashed into by several dozen traitor cavalryman who had been waiting in the wings for just such a moment.

“By Nema,” I breathed, watching this brutal spectacle unfold with dismay. Next to me, Heinrich whined and cocked his head. “Come on, boy,” I said; but then I turned as I heard my name being called.

“Sir Radomir,” I said as he approached. He had a face like thunder.

“These fucking idiots,” he growled, gesturing to the volunteer companies over whom he had command. His voice was hoarse from where he had been angrily screaming. “I tried to stop them, but I’m not going to piss away my life on that lunacy. Come on, let’s you and I stick together. Sir Konrad will want to close with the cavalry before they have a chance to regroup and attack us at speed.”

Sir Radomir’s words were unerringly prescient. In fact the advance had already begun; not wanting to give the cavalry a second chance to charge, Vonvalt had ordered the loyalist Guard forces forward to engage them. But even as they approached, the scratch companies were by themselves already getting the better of the traitors. They had not broken, as I had predicted they would, much less routed. Drawing on some hitherto untapped martial spirit, they set about dragging the traitor cavalrymen to the ground and killing them mercilessly, so that by the time the loyalist Guardsmen arrived, the job was half done. From there it was a matter of briskly slaughtering any lingering traitors, before we regrouped and pressed directly on to the Temple of Savare. Beneath our sabatons, the bodies of the Sovan commonfolk crunched and gurgled.

Much like the Imperial Palace, the temple was locked down like a fortress. The barricades in front of the entrance had been abandoned, and I suspected that the remaining traitors had holed themselves up deep inside, looking to prolong the fight, forcing Vonvalt to clear out pockets of them from chambers and corridors and chapels, robbing us of any advantage in tactics and numbers.

It was a huge construction, and some hours were spent surrounding, surveying, and blocking off exits. Sir Radomir and I, as well as Heinrich, ended up to the north of the building, sandwiched between the Sofijan High-Way and the Veleurian Road in a broad square filled with ranks of statues on large obsidian plinths. Here, more aid stations were set up, for the skirmishes along the Veleurian Road had claimed dozens more wounded.

It was cooler now as the afternoon gave way to evening. As the sun sank, the shadows lengthened and the Sovan streets darkened. We found food and water and traded stories of our experiences of the day’s fighting, all the while keeping an eye on the many windows and balustrades of the temple. Archery did not form a huge component of Sovan martial doctrine, but that was not to say that it was not practised, and the fear of being picked off by a surprise arrow shot from the rooftops did not fade. Yet although we were certain the traitor Guardsmen were inside – and Vonvalt was confident of this, thanks to what Jansen had told us – the place was eerily quiet.

There was nothing to do now, but wait.

In spite of the circumstances, my exhaustion was so great that I did manage some sleep. It was unnervingly dark when I awoke, for I noticed that although braziers had been lit in the various loyalist staging areas, none of the street lamps were alight. All of Sova was quiet.

I sat up, my muscles aching from the day’s fighting and cramped from lying on a bed of cold flagstones, to see that Sir Radomir was awake next to me. From where we sat, we could see in the distance the main entranceway to the temple. There, I watched as men and women were splashing great quantities of smoking hot pitch against the doors.

“They are going to burn the temple down?” I croaked, my mouth and throat as dry as paper. Heinrich, who had also been enjoying a spell of sleep, immediately leapt up at the sound of my voice. I absently patted him.

“The doors, at least,” Sir Radomir replied. “They are great thick timbers. It will take a while to eat through.”

I looked over to where the northern entrance was, a set of stout oak doors studded with iron bolts, tiny in comparison to the main gates. A cluster of at least a dozen Guardsmen stood directly outside it, waiting to engage anyone attempting to flee.

“Go back to sleep, Helena,” Sir Radomir said. “I’ll make sure you are roused when the time comes.”

To my surprise I actually did manage to sleep again, for when I was awoken a second time, having used Heinrich’s rump as a pillow, the sky was a washed-out dawn-grey, and a light haze of rain hung like curtains of damp between the buildings.

Sir Radomir himself had drifted off, and we were both jerked awake by the tremendous calamity of smashing wood. I immediately looked over to where the main entrance was, watching as the black, smouldering timbers of the gate crashed into the flagstones. Moments later, a party of two hundred Imperial Guard, led by Vonvalt and Serjeant Rainer, charged into the temple.

“They’re going in?” I asked, alarmed, pressing myself to my feet. I paused, briefly in agony as my cold muscles spasmed.

“Looks that way,” Sir Radomir murmured, casting about to see if anyone else was rousing themselves for an attack. But if orders to prepare had been issued, then they had not reached us here to the north.

We both listened intently for the sounds of steel against steel, but the city was as quiet as it had been in the dead of night.

“Come on,” I said to Sir Radomir, and the three of us walked slowly around to where the loyalists had made their entrance. There was no great sense of urgency amongst our fellow besiegers, and I became convinced we had missed something in the night, perhaps some negotiations for surrender or an infiltration mission that had revealed the temple to be empty. I could feel the heat radiating off the charred beams, and looked at the huge scorch marks blackening the stones above the gate. But still there came no sounds of battle from inside.

Eventually, a Guardsman ran back out, pausing in the entranceway.

“Pass word for a ‘Helena Sedanka’ to attend Sir Konrad,” he shouted out to us.

“I am Helena Sedanka,” I called back, my heart pounding. My first thought was that Vonvalt had been mortally wounded and wanted to speak to me before he died – indeed, judging from the grimace Sir Radomir wore, we were of one mind.

The messenger said, “Come then, and be quick. He wishes to speak with you.”

Before I could ask anything, the Guardsman had ducked back inside, and I could hear his retreating footsteps echoing against the marble.

“Go on,” Sir Radomir said. “I’ll follow you.”

XIX

A Fortress of Evil and Sedition

“For every wrong put right, for every misdeed punished, there is no shortage of fresh devils waiting in the wings.”

FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S TREATISE, PENITENT EMPIRE

Beyond the threshold of the smashed, charred gates, I expected to see a scene of carnage; instead, one would not know that anything had come to pass here. The marble floor was unmarked, the Eternal Fire was still lit, merrily burning away in its brazier, and although the candles were all extinguished, giving the place a gloomy, despondent feel, there was no hint of the fortification I had expected.

We made our way through the temple quickly, following the Guardsman who had been dispatched to find me. He led us through a succession of corridors and chambers, until eventually we came to a small, concealed chapel.

Vonvalt was standing in the doorway, and looked up when he saw us approach. His face was grim.

“Steel yourselves,” he said. “Leave the hound out here.”

With a sense of anxiety and foreboding, I bade Heinrich stay with the Guardsman posted outside the door, and Sir Radomir and I followed Vonvalt inside.

Beyond the threshold was a small, low-ceilinged chamber. It was hot – almost unbearably so – and the walls, undressed stone, ran with moisture like sweating skin. But it was not this which drew the attention.

In the centre of the room was a man – or it certainly had been. All of his skin had been removed, but not with the patient strokes of a barber-surgeon’s blade; instead it looked as though it had exploded off him. Strips of it, like discarded bandages, were scattered about the chamber, including a clump which dangled from the ceiling. A huge splatter of blood coated the floor and ceiling and flecked the walls; and upon examining those walls, I saw for the first time a great many sigils and runes daubed there.

My reaction to seeing these signs was visceral. As soon as my eyes registered them I felt a penetrating wave of nausea, and the tattoo on my chest flared with pain as though I had been stabbed.

Vonvalt did not seem unduly concerned by my reaction. He turned to me briefly, saw that I was grimacing in pain, and nodded. “Yes. It is the marks on the walls,” he said, pointing at several of them.

“They do not bother you?” Sir Radomir asked, for I could barely speak. He himself sounded hoarse.

“They do,” Vonvalt said simply, though he showed no signs of being bothered. He stepped forward to where the body of the man hung. His wrists were manacled, and secured by chains to loops of iron bolted to the ceiling. A similar arrangement held his ankles fastened to the floor, the effect being that he was stretched between the two points. His face was a rictus of agony, jarringly white teeth amongst a mess of red tissue open in an eternal, silent scream. Battlefield enemies – animals in the abattoir – had better deaths.

“What were they doing to him?” I breathed.

Vonvalt shook his head. He approached the corpse and began to examine it – even poking and prodding at it with his gloved fingers.

“What are you searching for?” Sir Radomir asked. The sheriff was no stranger to examining corpses, but even he baulked at the horror before us.

Vonvalt did not immediately answer; instead, after a few moments of probing, he said to us both, “Come here. Look at this.”

We approached with trepidation. Vonvalt was examining what looked to be an incision on the man’s upper breastbone, in the same place where the mark of the Trickster was on my own body. My hand absentmindedly traced it.

“What do you see?” he asked us as he manipulated the flesh there.

“A mark,” I said. “Like those on the walls.”

And I was right. Someone had taken a blade and carved something into the man’s chest – a rune of some kind. It had the same stylings as those I had seen in the afterlife, those which seemed to glow with a sick pink light and which filled me with dread.

Vonvalt turned to Sir Radomir. “Have someone fetch paper and a quill,” he said. “I mean to take a copy of it.”

The sheriff seemed pleased to leave, and did so quickly. In the silence that followed, I reminded Vonvalt about the priests in Keraq, who had not yet mastered the Draedist arcana and who had subsequently become violently overstuffed with energies from the afterlife and detonated.

Vonvalt nodded absently. “This certainly bears the hallmarks of a similar failure,” he said. He took a few steps back and examined the body again. Then he began to pace the chamber, occasionally stopping to wipe away a piece of viscera or thick bloodstain from the walls. “Marks of containment…” he murmured to himself.

“Like those in the chambers beneath the Grand Lodge?” I asked.

Vonvalt looked over to me as though he had forgotten I was in the room. “Yes. Precisely.” He gestured more broadly at the marks on the walls. “Like a psychic cage. It is designed to confine any… escapees. And then collapse. We used to use them for the initiates attempting necromancy. But…” he looked at the chains holding the man in place “… there were no manacles involved. This person was an unwilling participant.”

Sir Radomir returned with a sheaf of papers and a few bits of charcoal peeled from the smouldering gate beams. Vonvalt snatched both out of his hands without a thank you and began to copy down the marks. Sir Radomir and I watched in silence until he was finished. Then he stuffed the papers into his pocket and tossed the charcoal on to the floor.

“Come on,” he muttered, and we fell into step behind him.

We moved back through the Temple of Savare. Loyalists milled about the main hall, whilst the sounds of a vigorous search clattered through the large, vaulted spaces. Of the bulk of the traitor forces, there was no sign.

“How can hundreds of men simply vanish?” Sir Radomir demanded angrily.

Vonvalt’s face was a mask of contempt. “I know not. But believe me, I intend to find out.”

The answer came several hours later. Vonvalt, Sir Radomir and I were discussing matters with Sir Gerold and Serjeant Rainer in the cold morning light, when a runner, ruddy-faced and breathless, found us.

“My Lord Regent,” he said. “A great cache of armour has been found. Four hundred suits of plate, all bearing the white star. We are looking for tunnels.”

Vonvalt endured a spasm of anger, and then dismissed the runner.

“So. They have stripped themselves of any identifying feature and dissipated into the city like vermin.”

“Doubtless to coalesce at a more favourable time,” Sir Gerold said.

“Aye,” Vonvalt said, nodding. “Well. We shall have to content ourselves with the neutralisation of the immediate threat. Fortunately, we have Senator Jansen and his network of spies. People like Radoslav Gautvin and Milena Bartoš cannot disappear, even in a city as vast as Sova. I shall have to make my promise of clemency to any defectors permanent. Let us see how loyal these rebels are to their agitators then.” He gestured to Rainer. “Come. You were about to give me the tallies.”

“Of the five hundred Guard we fielded, fifty are dead, double that wounded. Of the volunteer companies, double those numbers again.”

Vonvalt considered this. “The timing of this rebellion is most inopportune. We were not exactly flush with defenders before; now we have been forced to kill off or disavow half the remaining professional soldiery of the capital. We will need to arm and train more volunteer companies.”

“I will have my people see to it,” Serjeant Rainer said.

Vonvalt thought for a moment. “Senator Jansen was convinced something was taking place in the College of Prognosticators. I am now convinced of that too. I know not what that abomination was within the Temple of Savare, but clearly our enemies are attempting… something.”

“You think they were taking instructions again? From Claver?” I asked.

Vonvalt shook his head. “They won’t have needed to make that mess to speak to Claver. No. This spoke of something much more ambitious. And that is what concerns me.” He drew himself up. “Now that we have pacified the city, we shall have to do some research. Helena, I want you to go to the Law Library – after you have cleaned yourself up and taken on some victuals. Sir Radomir will accompany you. You remember what else you need to search for?”

“A volume of esoteric lore,” I said, swallowing.

Vonvalt nodded sternly. “We will talk about it properly later. Serjeant Rainer; assign Helena a detail of your men, too. A dozen should do it.”

The serjeant accepted this instruction with a nod, though I did not get the impression she considered me worth the dedicated attention of twelve of her people.

“What do you mean to do now?” Sir Gerold asked.

“Restore the city. The curfew must be lifted. Those who are inessential or itinerant should be encouraged to leave north. We must take stock of all our supplies, and start gathering together as much food and water as we can.”

“We will need to ration grain,” Sir Gerold said. “And secure our stocks. I will look into other matters.”

“Good. First, though, you must round up all of the Mlyanars you can find. I expect most, if not all of them, will have gone into hiding, but do your very best. The patricians have their moderates, though it is hard to believe; I expect they will be in the Senate house. Take them to the dungeons beneath the Imperial Palace. Once you have detained the moderates, arrest all of the others. Do not be subtle or gentle. If they resist, you may kill them as traitors to the Crown. Do you understand?”

Sir Gerold looked slightly taken aback by these sweeping measures, but agreed nonetheless.

Vonvalt then turned to Serjeant Rainer. “You are now the Captain of the Imperial Guard and Legionary Prefect. Milena Bartoš is an enemy of the state. Track her down. Arrest her if you can, kill her if you cannot.”

Rainer had no hesitation in accepting this promotion. In fact, she seemed positively pleased by it. The Imperial Guard had long been a corrupt institution, its loyalty bought and paid for by a succession of Emperors. It was a body that promoted ambition above all else, and such bodies were inevitably ruthless.

I had only ever seen Vonvalt act from a position of absolute authority, so I should not have been surprised by the ease with which he issued these instructions. But, even so, there was something about ordering the mass incarceration of one of the capital’s political classes, on a kill-or-capture basis no less, that stuck in my craw. Vonvalt had never enjoyed political manoeuvrings, mainly because he did not have the ruthless, selfish ambition required. And that had always spoken to his credit. That he did not have the duplicity required, the callousness, the cruelty, was a good thing.

Except, now he did. He certainly had the ruthlessness. I did not have the heart for it, nor the stomach. I was happy to pick up a sword and fight other soldiers, but I was glad I had not been in the vanguard to slaughter the commonfolk on the Veleurian Road.

“We must assume that no further help will be forthcoming,” Vonvalt continued.

“But you have sent for further help?”

I thought of Lady Frost heading south, and the Grasvlaktekraag heading north. They were still weeks away.

“I have. But it is all slow, much too slow.” He fished in his pockets and handed me the crumpled papers where he had documented the signs. Then he produced a second, much neater list. “Here is a list of books to look out for. Some of them will be in the Master’s Vaults. Some of them will have been burned in Keraq. None of them will be the books we truly want, for those have long gone. See what information you can find. When you are ready, meet me back in the Imperial Palace. The strategium will be my new chambers. Is that understood?”

I nodded.

“Good. Be about it, then.”

I made my way back to the Imperial Palace with Sir Radomir, a life guard of Imperial Guardsmen, and Heinrich, the only one of the group who seemed to want to be there. With all of the excitement over, a profound exhaustion overcame me, and by the time I got back to my chamber, I was able to do little more than strip off my armour – something that took much too long with all the buckles and clasps to contend with – and collapse on to the bed. Heinrich jumped up on to the bed, too, and slept in a huge ball at my feet.

I surfaced from a deep sleep many hours later to see Heinrich’s huge nose above mine. My face was wet with his saliva from where he had roused me, since – as was evident from the strength and frequency of the thumping – the pounding on my chamber door had not.

Still clothed, I rolled out of the bed and pulled open the door, to see Sir Radomir. He was washed and dressed, wearing a fine doublet and hose, with his sword buckled about his hips. His hair, as long as I had ever known it to be, was lank and combed back, and he was for the first time fragrant.

“What did you bathe in?” I asked, making a great show of smelling the air around him. I was in a surprisingly good mood; I had endured another battle and acquitted myself well; and I had survived a night’s sleep without horrifying visions. For the first time in weeks, I was feeling well rested.

The sheriff looked incredibly unamused, to my great mirth. “Whereas you smell like shite,” he retorted.

I looked past him to see that candles were lit in the hallway. “What time is it?”

“The ninth bell just tolled,” Sir Radomir said. “You have slept the balance of the day. Sir Konrad wishes you to attend your research. Have you eaten? I know you have not washed.”

I shoved him, putting on false airs. “I am a lady,” I said.

“Aye. A stinking one. Come; wash and eat. I shall see you in the Hall of Solitude when you are ready.”

I did indeed wash and eat. Servants attended me at every step of the way, servants who had long been sidelined in these tumultuous times and who seemed pleased to have something to do. A small army of matrons drew me a scalding hot bath infused with wildflowers and herbs and scrubbed every inch of my skin, tutting over my scrapes and bruises and looking pointedly at the mark of the Trickster on my chest, which they clearly considered some sort of ill-advised tattoo. Fresh clothes were brought for me, the first an absurd court dress which I eschewed in favour of a simple kirtle, smock and headband. Then, once I was dressed, Heinrich and I made our way to the Hall of Solitude, where we ate heartily in a temporary mess which the Guard had set up in one corner.

So sated, and with my sword buckled about my hips, I joined Sir Radomir and my life guard, and soon we were making our way down the Saint Slavka the Martyr High-Way, across the Miran Bridge, and to the Law Library.

Like much of the rest of Sova, the place was quiet and dark, its staff of fussy librarians barred in their homes awaiting the end of the curfew – though, given the lateness of the hour, it wouldn’t have been open anyway. The Imperial Guard ripped away the hastily erected barricades which crowded the main entrances, mostly boards hammered into the jambs with large iron nails and stacks of crates and barrels filled with sand. I looked around at the tangle of buildings to the south which lined the Petran High-Way, and saw that many windows were gloomily lit with candles where families huddled in fear. The news of the city’s temporary liberation had not yet spread to the wider population, and probably wouldn’t now until the following morning. I wondered what fresh horrors were in store, what reprisals the citizenry had in mind. The commonfolk were a vengeful mob, and simply because the traitor Imperial Guard had been dealt with – for now – did not mean that the violence in Sova was over. Sir Gerold and his city watch were about to have a hell of a time keeping order.

We entered the Law Library. The Guard fanned out and quickly searched the place, but it was clear that it was empty. Lighting a torch, I gave the mandatory bucket of sand to Sir Radomir to lug around, and then I began the search for the books Vonvalt had told me to look for.

The bells were tolling midnight when it came time to sit down and read. I had recovered perhaps half of the books from the list; we had summoned several Guardsmen to assist us in getting down to the Master’s Vaults, but only one of the books Vonvalt had asked for was there.

I set the lantern down and began to read, whilst Sir Radomir played a game with Heinrich. They were being too loud, so I sent them further afield.

The books were old and managed to take some extremely interesting and frightening concepts and render them unreadably boring. I leafed through the pages, poring over paragraph after paragraph of dry philosophical text written by the Order’s many jurists, each more in love with the sound of his own voice than the last. But there was no denying that Vonvalt knew his books. Each work, each section to which Vonvalt had directed my attention, spoke to a number of common themes: séance, communicating with the dead, a process called “channelling”, by which necromancers could direct and divert the energies of the afterlife in novel ways, and the different Draedist runes. But these were not instructions; the books discussed these things in academic terms, in terms of jurisprudence, and their efficacy as investigative tools.

After several hours, during which I heard both Sir Radomir and Heinrich snoring – ironic, given that their sole purpose in accompanying me was my protection – I stood up to stretch my legs, when I heard a thump from somewhere in the nearby shelves.

Immediately I dipped into a half-crouch, hand on the hilt of my sword. My blood sang in my ears as I strained to hear more, but the only other sound was the soft footsteps of an Imperial Guardsman walking quietly through the shelves at the very end of the row, and the ongoing, undisturbed snoring of man and beast.

I relaxed slightly, and moved carefully and quietly to the source of the noise. The enormous shelves loomed over me like giants. There was so much here, so many books and scrolls and ledgers, thousands and thousands of words which would never be read. Millennia of Sovan literature, just quietly gathering dust.

Eventually, I came to the place where I thought I had heard the noise, and saw a volume lying in the middle of the aisle. My brow furrowed; nothing had disturbed the shelves that I could see, although the volumes were packed rather chaotically in this section.

I turned sharply. I was certain someone had whispered in my ear.

“Who’s there?” I hissed into the darkness.

At the end of the row, perhaps fifty feet away, I saw a Guardsman poke his head around the bookcase. I waved him off, and he resumed his quiet vigil.

I approached and picked up the volume from the floor. It was a thick tome entitled The Art of Phantasmic Conjuration & Binding Using Runes & Other Ideogrammic Symbols, and looked as though it would fall apart with a sharp glance.

I looked at the shelves either side. It appeared to have been wedged in a gap between several dusty scrolls, certainly out of place here, for such a volume clearly belonged in the Master’s Vaults. That was the only reason why it was not a smoking pile of ash in the bowels of Keraq, for it was of undoubted importance to Claver’s war effort.

“‘A volume of esoteric lore’,” I breathed to myself.

My hands hurt faintly as I handled the volume, as though it were bound in nettles. I realised then that what sounds had filled the Law Library had died away. Gone was the snoring of Sir Radomir and Heinrich, of the occasional bootstep from a weary Guardsman, of the sound of a book being snapped shut as my life guard occupied themselves. In fact it was so quiet it felt as though someone had stoppered my ears with wax.

I was sure I heard a whisper from somewhere amongst the shelves. In the dark silence, my flesh crawled.

I took the book back to my desk and opened it. There, someone had affixed a much newer piece of paper. It read:

This book contains extremely dangerous magicks and is for academic interest only. Its use is restricted to the highest tier of necromantic practitioners. Permission from the Master must be obtained before this book is consulted. Failure to do so will result in immediate, irrevocable disbarment from the Order.

I shuddered at this stern injunction, but morbid curiosity compelled me to turn the pages. In the table of contents was a list of ideograms, and I compared these to the sketches of the runes that Vonvalt had provided. Then, with slightly trembling hands, I flicked to the relevant pages to read what was written there.

My eyes widened. I flicked back to the table of contents, checked the sketch and the ideogram, and then flicked back to the chapter on the rune. I checked all of them in this way, over and over again, until there could be no mistake.

I closed the book, feeling sick.

“Nema,” I breathed. I stood and found Sir Radomir, kicking him roughly awake. Heinrich leapt to his feet.

“Are you finished?” the sheriff asked, rubbing his eyes. He looked up at me, slowly, and then quickly scrambled to his feet. “Gods, what ails you?”

But I was already sweeping down the nearest aisle, towards the exit.

“We need to speak to Sir Konrad, now.”

XX

Fresh Devils

“To effect even the most extraordinary and profound evil will seem like a good idea to someone.”

SIR WILLIAM THE HONEST

Vonvalt was in the strategium, asleep on a chaise longue in a chamber filled with lit candles. In spite of the rancorous clattering of the horse-operated winch which provided the only access to the room, he had not stirred, and was only roused after I prodded him awake.

“Helena,” he said blearily. “What time is it?”

“’Tis gone two the morning,” I said, flustered. “Claver is attempting to summon a greater demon.”

Vonvalt jerked awake, scrabbling into a sitting position.

“What?” he demanded, and immediately held out his hand. I stuffed into it the notes I had made, including a number of sketches of the runes. Doing so had given me a nasty headache, as though the runes were trying to avoid being read.

Vonvalt spent a few minutes in silence examining my notes with great intensity. He picked up the tome and flicked to the relevant pages of that as well. He glanced up and briefly bade Sir Radomir and I sit, for we were “annoying him”, and then he pulled out his pipe, lit that, and read some more. He muttered to himself, occasionally swearing softly.

I fiddled with the hem of my kirtle as I waited for him to say something. Eventually, I could bear it no longer.

“Well?” I demanded.

Vonvalt held up an index finger. He turned the page, finished his reading, and then closed the book.

“Where did you find this?” he asked. He looked worried.

“In the Library,” I said, my gut churning. I didn’t want this. I wanted Vonvalt to admonish me for overreacting, not to confirm my fears.

“In the Master’s Vaults?”

“No, in a different section. On the ground floor.” I gestured to my notes. “What of my findings?”

Vonvalt thought for a moment. “This was not taken to Keraq?”

“Patently!”

Vonvalt looked serious. “It should have been. I did not even ask you to look for this book, so certain was I that it would have been taken by von Geier.”

“It was concealed,” I said, “I think. Behind some other books – scrolls. Just completely misplaced. I think this may be—”

“The book Aegraxes and Resi alluded to?”

I nodded, swallowing. “Yes.”

“I think so too. I think this—” he tapped the cover of the book “—is what Claver has been working towards. Not initially, but certainly for some time.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Sir Radomir rumbled, gesturing roughly to the volume.

Vonvalt shook his head. He clacked his tongue. “Think on it. We have long known that Claver is receiving patronage from some… entity. Some creature. We have known that since the illegal séance we disrupted in the Temple of Savare. Consider what has happened since then: Ghessis, ambushing us in the Edaximae; the appearance of Claver in the City of Sleep; the manifestation of him in the Spiritsraad; and now this latest heresy in the temple. An attempted summoning, I would guess led by the Prognosticators and directed by Claver from Saxanfelde.” He massaged his chin. “The real question is, who is controlling who?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I felt as though my brain were about to boil out of my ears.

“Something is trying to manifest its way on to the mortal plane. One has to ask the question how this assists Claver.” He took a draw on his pipe, but it was mechanical. He did not savour the leaf; I realised he was calming his nerves. “Is he doing this deliberately, or has he lost control of the situation? His original goal was one of absolute orthodoxy across the Neman Church in the Empire of the Wolf. Now he is consorting with Kasivaran entities.”

“You’ve lost me,” Sir Radomir said.

“Then turn your mind to it!” Vonvalt snapped. “Claver’s goal – ostensibly – has been to transform the Empire of the Wolf into a theocratic dictatorship. He has always been a zealot! A true believer. Nema, he wanted to burn the villagers of Rill for prancing about in the moonlight! How can a man who takes only the strictest, most orthodox reading of the Neman Creed ally himself with its sworn enemies?

“Think of the steps he has taken, the people he has killed, the magicks he has learnt and employed. Claver is the most evil man in existence. He practises the very opposite of what Saint Creus preached. He is an agent of Hell, not of Nema. How has this happened? How has a man whose beliefs were so unwavering become such a parody of himself? Lunacy may describe one aspect of it, but I think something else is at play here. I think he has allied himself with entities he did not fully understand – whose motivations he did not fully understand. Perhaps several months ago he was seeking power to further his own aims, but now… It seems as though he has become a vessel. A conduit. How else could one describe his actions?”

“Naked hypocrisy,” I said. “Does that not explain it? There are good and noble churchmen, of course, but there are plenty who are greedy and unscrupulous. Monasteries stuffed with gold whilst the Neman Creed preaches poverty. There are plenty of lecherous patrias, whilst the Creed preaches chastity. Perhaps Claver was never a zealot. Perhaps it was always just a tool. Perhaps his goal has simply been power. Plenty of people go to abominable lengths for a bit of power.”

Vonvalt shook his head. “There is more to it than that. Or perhaps it is a mixture of the two things. But this,” he said, gesturing to the book, “this is really dangerous. Claver has either completely lost his mind or he has been fooled into attempting this.”

“What happens if he succeeds?” I asked.

“If he completes the summoning ritual?”

“Aye.”

“It depends what it is he is trying to summon. My sincere hope is that it is something minor, some…” he cast about the room “… devil, some malignant sprite, some creature which would go out of its way to consort with him. I know these bindings are for a greater demon,” he said, gesturing to my notes, “but I just cannot conceive of a demon of that pedigree treating with him. It has never happened before. There is no precedent. These bindings, these runes, they are an exercise in caution. Overkill. That is all.”

“‘That is all’?” Sir Radomir snorted. “You yourself have seen what happens when some mindless sprite is summoned, stuffed into a corpse and bound there.”

“Do not mistake me: it would still be remarkably dangerous. We can assume Claver is attempting to summon a being of great malignance. Such a creature would still need a human host, but… well, I should imagine its power would be beyond measure. It would be practically unconquerable. If I can bend a man to my will with words alone, what peerless death magicks could such a demon bring to bear?”

“It would be mortal, though, would it not?” I asked. “You said once that when creatures cross over into the mortal plane, they themselves become mortal.”

“It would be. But even Claver can stop a sword with nothing but his mind.”

“What about the Codex Elementa? Does that not assist us?”

“The only pages that might have assisted us are the ones which remain in Claver’s possession,” Vonvalt said, trying – and partly succeeding – to sound like he was not blaming me. “The rest is about major and minor elementals. A taxonomy of them. Some information about hexes and the like. Not conjuration and binding. Not to the mortal plane.”

“So we’re fucked, then,” Sir Radomir said. “As in, completely, irreversibly fucked.”

“We have to do something!” I shouted.

Vonvalt nodded. “We absolutely do,” he agreed. He was now outwardly calm, but it was not having the effect on me that it usually did. Panic bubbled within me, ready to foam over at the slightest provocation. “We will move on the Prognosticators at first light. Attack in strength. Round them up. Kill them. Burn the place down – whatever it takes. But,” he added.

“What!?”

“The dispersal of the traitor Guard is a problem. If they are sensible, they will keep their heads down, accrete in small groups in secret areas, and attempt these rituals with the Prognosticators in private places. We have disrupted them, that much is certain, but they will try again – and they will keep trying until they have succeeded. We must root them out. That must be our priority. And, I am sorry to say, Helena, that we shall have to think about reaching out to Resi. She will undoubtedly have more information. We will need to make plans on both sides of the mortal plane if we are to succeed. You will need to lead this effort.” He gestured generally to the city. “I have to plan the Battle for Sova.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

“When all this is over,” Sir Radomir said, “and if I am still alive, I am going to fuck off to the smallest seaside village I can find and spend the rest of my days doing nothing at all.”

Vonvalt gave the sheriff a sympathetic look. “And I would not blame you. Though I very much doubt any of us is going to survive.”

“Aye,” Sir Radomir said bitterly. “On that, at least, we can agree.”

The sheriff left to rally men for another attack, and I remained with Vonvalt. He did not seem surprised that I had stayed. He gestured to a jug of wine on a side table, and I poured us both a drink. We sat in silence for a while. My nerves had frayed to the point where I was either over my fear altogether, or it was simply so constant that it had permanently altered my constitution.

“What of you?” I asked quietly, eventually. “What is your plan, if you survive this? A hermitage, as you intimated in Port Talaka?”

Vonvalt smiled sadly. “You do not want to join me, Helena,” he said.

I shook my head. “No. I think you are right.” The admission surprised both of us. But Vonvalt and I had not spoken candidly on the topic since Südenburg, and it was time to put it to bed. “For the longest time I did. For the longest time I thought I… loved you.” I chuckled to myself, and the ridiculousness of it all.

Vonvalt looked at me. “Don’t do that. Don’t laugh. Don’t cheapen the strength of your feeling. You did love me, and I loved you. I still do love you, in many different ways.”

Once my heart might have ruptured at the very thought of this conversation. Now, I simply accepted it with weariness. “I read your letter, you know. The one you wrote me in Südenburg.”

Vonvalt looked briefly, genuinely surprised by this. “You were not supposed to see that letter.”

“I know. But I did. Severina showed it to me. She thought I should see it. And she was right, I should have.”

“I thought I was going to die. I did die.”

“Would you have not written it otherwise?”

“No,” Vonvalt said simply. “But the letter’s contents were true. Everything I told you in Südenburg was true. You know why I have not made a clean breast of my feelings in the past.”

“You were ‘protecting’ me.”

“I was. And for good reason.”

I toyed with my goblet. “You know, once I would have been furious at the thought of that. The idea of you taking the choice away from me. But actually, I think I am grateful. For us to form a relationship… I think it would have been a mistake.”

Vonvalt opened his mouth briefly and then closed it again. I had never seen him pull that expression before; one of sudden, profound pain. I could tell immediately that I had wounded him as surely as if I had thrust a sword into his gut.

“I think it would have been many things, Helena, but I do not think it would have been a mistake.”

“Your heart belongs to Resi. It always has. Your affection for me is born of circumstance.”

“Resi is gone,” Vonvalt said. “She lingers in the spirit realm, aye, but she and I will never be reunited in any meaningful way. Though it pains me greatly to say so.”

“Do you know what I think?” I took a long draw of wine. “I think I loved the idea of you. I loved the man I thought you were.”

Again, that sad smile. “Sir Konrad the paragon.”

I nodded. “But you aren’t. I think that speaks more to my naïveté than anything else, but—” I shrugged. “There it is.”

“I am not a bad person.” There was something in Vonvalt’s voice, an edge to it. It was almost desperate. I had never heard him sound like this. Vonvalt was many things, but he had never suffered from a lack of conviction. I realised then how much he valued my opinion of him – which probably spoke more to his feelings of me personally, rather than my opinions in and of themselves.

“I know that,” I said gently. “But you have done bad things. And I know that it sounds ridiculous to say that, in these times of appalling upheaval. But it is how I feel. And I cannot help myself feeling that way. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many philosophical arguments I bring to bear, no matter how I rationalise it – and believe me, I have spent many hours trying – I still feel that way.” I realised I was close to crying. My voice was beginning to break. “The Templar on the Hauner Road. Fischer. The hanging of Westenholtz. The murder of Arnulf in Rekaburg. I saw you in Port Talaka, unmoved by the plight of those ghastly hybrids, and in limbo, when you examined Westenholtz without any hint of revulsion. Sometimes I fear you are… impressed by the resourcefulness of our enemies, rather than appalled. And now the slaughter of the commonfolk on the Veleurian Road. Why did you have to—”

“Helena, what on earth was I supposed to—”

“I told you! All of these things can be rationalised. The ‘exigencies of warfare’. Consequentialism. Realpolitik. Whatever clever arguments you want to use. But I cannot help how I feel. I wish we could win this war without ever having crossed the line between good and bad. I wish we could kill off Claver and his Templars and leave our morality entirely intact. And I am not stupid. I know that our focus must be the preservation of life. And I know what you are going to ask me to do, and what that will entail.”

Vonvalt looked briefly confused. “What do you mean?”

“You said yourself that you wanted me to contact Resi. What else could that mean except travelling to the spirit realm?”

Vonvalt lapsed to silence, smoking and ruminating. I found him difficult to read in that moment; certainly a part of him wanted to engage and grapple with what I had accused him of and debate me on it – that was an ingrained part of his personality and nothing would ever change that. Another part of him was crushed that I had given voice to what we both knew: that whatever form our love had taken, it had withered irreparably on the vine, and the temptation to argue about that, too, would have been a strong one. And still a third part of him knew the truth of everything I had said, even though all of it brought him great pain.

I felt guilty for turning his mind to these matters, for realistically there were few options facing him that did not involve the wholesale slaughter of Sova’s political enemies. I detest those who seek to impress with their affected nonchalance, and shrug, and say the world is a terrible place, as though that is something we should all simply accept and that to not do so is an intellectual failing. But at the same time I was perfectly aware of the difficulties facing Vonvalt. My own idealism was not a fault – indeed, in times of upheaval it takes great courage and effort to stand by one’s principles, knowing that they might not be enough. And yet, sometimes, standing by one’s principles is objective folly, if the consequence is that a greater evil triumphs.

Eventually, Vonvalt said, “I am.” He looked at me, a hint of uncertainty about him. It did not suit his features. “Are you about to refuse me?”

I shook my head. “No. I will not be so churlish as to turn away from you and my duties now. But I think I have finally made my feelings clear. And I am glad that I did. Especially this close to the end.”

Vonvalt snorted. “Helena, you are an open book. Your feelings on these matters have been clear for many months. I am just grateful that in spite of your misgivings you have decided to stand with me.”

“My loyalty to you is beyond question,” I said. “I just wish there was a way we could do this… better. To be better.”

“My dear Helena,” Vonvalt said. He looked out across the dark turrets and spires of Sova, examining the city. “You think I do not?”

And so it was that at half an hour past the second bell, with the city still dark and cold and our soldiers still half asleep, that Vonvalt ordered the day begun.

Sir Gerold and his city watch, along with a large number of volunteer constables who had been called up per some ancient city ordinance, moved through the streets by torchlight, clearing them of corpses and debris and barricades, pulling the wounded from smashed and charred buildings, handing out water and marsh ale and bread, and a hundred other things besides. The people of Sova could not be locked in place indefinitely; many needed victuals; more still needed to simply leave. Bulletins were placed in public squares, criers were roused from their beds and set to work, and slowly the capital prepared for the arrival of Claver.

Captain Rainer and Sir Radomir were given several hours to prepare a cohort of surviving and capable Guardsmen for a dawn raid on the College of Prognosticators. Senator Jansen, who had, in spite of his impressive record of combat in Galen’s Vale, declined to take part in the fighting in Sova, was tasked with tracking down as many Mlyanars, Templars and traitor Guardsmen in the city as possible. They would be arrested by teams of loyalists and city watchmen that afternoon and thrown in gaol.

With these wheels put in motion, Vonvalt turned his mind to the task of husbanding political allies. One did not unilaterally assume the role of Imperial Regent without having friends in high places. And Sova being what it was, there would be plenty of ambitious Haugenates who would see this as an opportunity to claim some power for themselves – and who would happily do so even as the city burned itself to the ground. Haugenates and Justices had been murdered, dragged from their beds in front of their families and stabbed to death or burned at the stake. The reassertion of loyalist control would bring with it a tidal wave of retribution and grubby clamouring for fresh governmental vacancies.

I realised, as I watched Vonvalt argue for the third consecutive hour with a gaggle of pre-eminent Haugenates, that the raid on the College was going to be delayed. Dawn came and went, and I rattled about the Hall of Solitude listlessly and with a growing sense of unspent energy and frustration. It was not until the temples were tolling the eleventh bell that Vonvalt inspected the force that Rainer had scraped together. To my dismay, he quickly declared it much too incoherent and battle-weary to launch an effective operation. But he did not provide further instruction; instead, he bade her wait, and then disappeared for the balance of the day.

For my own part, mindful of the need to make contact with Resi, I spent the day trying to fall asleep and so precipitate a visitation. But I could not. Even in my quiet, dark chamber, guarded by Heinrich, as calm as I could make myself and in any event genuinely tired, I was much too agitated. I was plagued by thoughts of the City of Sleep, of the afterlife, of Ghessis and Claver and his demonic patron. A concoction provided by the Royal Physician did not induce sleep so much as an unsatisfactory night of unconsciousness. There was no dawn raid on the College that morning, either.

And our enemies gathered, and made plans.

Two mornings after my meeting with Vonvalt in the strategium, Senator Jansen caught me walking Heinrich down the Petran High-Way. In the absence of Vonvalt’s counsel – to say nothing of his person – I had turned my efforts to soldiering with Sir Radomir. My attempts to confer with Resi had been a failure; it seemed that, as we approached the endgame, both my allies and enemies in the afterlife had entered a period of caution.

“Helena,” Jansen said, jogging to catch up with me. It had been a long and exhausting day rebuilding the garrison and assisting with the training and drilling of city defenders on the Nastjan Fields, and Heinrich and I were making our way down to the banks of the Sauber. This far south there was no steep embankment like there was in the centre of the city; rather, it was a long shallow slope, at this time of year formed of dry, hard mud. The city rose enormously to the north, bathed in evening light, but here, at a lower section of wall west of the Victory Gate and staging area, it didn’t feel quite so claustrophobic.

“Senator,” I said, offering him a tired, insincere smile. The man was wearing senatorial robes, the hem at his ankles fouled from the dusty streets of Sova. A spatter of what could have been blood, but which I decided was mud, marked the white around his left leg. He was sweating slightly, but otherwise there was nothing remarkable about his appearance.

“Another productive day, I trust?” he asked me.

“Hm,” I grunted.

He patted about himself and pulled a flask out. “Only marsh ale, I’m afraid, but it is cool.”

I accepted it and took a drink, for I was still parched, despite having slaked my thirst from the water barrels in the staging area. Then I handed it back and stretched. My shoulders and arms and back were aching after a long day of training, and my spine popped in several places.

“How are the recruits?” Jansen asked.

“Fine. Though I am no authority on the matter.” With my armour safely racked in the barracks storehouses, I was wearing little more than a blouse and breeches. I removed my shoes and waded into the water up to my calves, and Heinrich splashed about me enthusiastically. I found the dichotomy of Heinrich fascinating; at all times a ferocious beast of war and a playful puppy, with only circumstances dictating which came to the fore.

Jansen reached into his pocket and casually offered the hound a morsel, which he ate greedily. “He has taken quite a shining to you,” he said, ruffling Heinrich’s fur. “You are fortunate to have such a dedicated protector.”

I relished the cold water against my feet, and played the silt between my toes. I looked over to the barracks, but from where I was standing I was concealed by a natural hill where the Petran High-Way rose up into the city. In fact we were quite hidden from view.

“I agree,” I said. “How go your prosecutions? I know that Sir Konrad was especially keen to locate the traitor Guard forces.”

“They go well,” Jansen said, his eyes on the river, nodding to himself. “There are rosters of Guardsmen, after all, and we can account for those who remain loyal to the Crown – to the Lord Regent, I should say.” I frowned. The addendum was spoken with not a little bitterness. “The families and addresses of those who betrayed Sova are known quantities. We have started there.”

Emboldened by the presence of Heinrich, I gave voice to something which had been bothering me for a while. “Did you envisage such a position for yourself? The Regency.”

Jansen had clearly not expected the confrontation. His eyes darted over to Heinrich, who was still frolicking in the water. “No, no,” he said, smiling. “No sane man would seek out such power. I am just happy to assist where I can.”

The afternoon was fading to dusk, and I did not like to be alone here, for this was a part of the city that was not well populated and I was not armed.

“I had thought to seek you out and assist you,” I said, walking back to the bank and calling Heinrich over. But the hound did not obey my command. Instead, he remained standing in the water, looking back up towards the city. “Our enemies are planning something monstrous, and Sir Konrad believes that these scattered groupings of traitor Guardsmen are integral to its orchestration.”

Jansen offered me the flask again as I approached him, but I waved him off. “Yes, well. We are moving as fast as we can. Sova is a very large place, as you know.”

I paused as my stomach clenched. It was only a brief spasm, and I quickly righted myself. “You must know many of them personally, given your… machinations…” I paused again. My stomach cramped a second time.

“Is something the matter?” Jansen asked me atonally.

I was about to say something when a third cramp seized my abdomen, so sharp and painful that I was forced down to one knee.

And then I realised. I looked up sharply at Jansen. He was watching me with complete impassivity.

“Heinrich!” I shouted feebly, looking over to where he was; but I watched helplessly as he gagged and slumped on to his side.

“Stop screaming, it’s just a fucking dog,” Jansen muttered, glancing around us. He gestured subtly, and I looked over to see that other people were now approaching, a collection of men and women who were obviously unarmoured traitors.

“No,” I breathed as my strength left me and my vision blurred.

“Don’t worry, Helena,” Jansen said absently, watching as his accomplices approached. “It will all be over soon.”

XXI

The Souls of the Things that Make Up the World

“I do not know whether I take comfort or horror from the fact that any person can affect the course of earthly events.”

PROGNOSTICATOR TERESA PAULAUSKAS

I had no sense of where I was being carried. The poison did not render me unconscious, though it did incapacitate me. The stomach cramps were unbearable, and when I was not clenched into a ball, every muscle in my body burning in protest, I was struggling simply to breathe.

They took me east past the barracks. They kept to the side streets and shadows, but we would not have aroused much in the way of suspicion anyway; a group of soldiers helping a wounded or exhausted – or even blind drunk – comrade, attended upon by a Haugenate senator.

I tried to use my mind, to map out the route in my head around eye-watering bouts of pain. It gave me something to focus on. I guessed a short trip down the Petran High-Way, and then into the tangled housing district that straddled the Klaran Road and sat in the lee of the Guelan Wall. But after that I quickly lost the thread. This was a high-density tangle of apartment blocks and houses, and our route was a random, circuitous one.

My captors encountered no trouble from anybody here either. The sight of people being plucked off the streets did not arouse any suspicion from the citizens of Sova. They had seen and endured so much in the past weeks that they were unlikely to bestir themselves to help –and that was even if they had considered something was wrong at all. Arrests and abductions had not stopped under Vonvalt’s regency; if anything, they had multiplied.

Eventually, I was taken into a building. I had long given up on anything except enduring the pain of the poison and quietly weeping for Heinrich, who by now must have succumbed. I assumed, once we were inside, that we were nearing the end of our journey, but to my surprise we were barely halfway. A succession of downward staircases gave way to long, warm and damp tunnels. I wondered what a cross-section of the soil and bedrock beneath Sova looked like, honeycombed as it must have been with these secret passageways.

I felt myself become more panicked the longer this subterranean part of the journey continued. Whereas before I might have had a fighting chance at escape, it seemed absolutely impossible that I would manage to find my way out of this labyrinth. Robbed of all sense of location, I found myself giving in to a profound feeling of despair. Death on the battlefield was one thing; this quiet murder was another entirely.

Eventually, I was deposited in a cell, and bound and blindfolded.

“Do not gag her,” I heard Jansen say coldly. “If she vomits, she will drown.”

I was left alone for what must have been at least an hour, over the course of which the cramps subsided but my world span nauseatingly and I sweated half my body’s water away. Then, the moment I had begun to relax just slightly, I stiffened again as I heard the rattling of keys in locks, bolts being withdrawn, and the door being opened. I was picked up and carried out by at least two people, and, judging by the shift in acoustics, taken into a large chamber.

I was sat roughly into a hard wooden chair, and the blindfold was pulled off. I was sitting in the centre of a large, circular and domed chamber. There was no natural light; only that provided by flickering torches in brackets on the walls. On the ground was an intricate mosaic, a large star pattern with constellations and other heavenly bodies. On closer inspection, I saw that many of these were inlaid with gems, and I wondered what manner of place this was that could afford to set the floor with precious stones.

Supporting the chamber and its dome were pillars of rich red marble veined with white, and behind those, an ambulatory ringed with intricate plasterwork. As a chamber it was eerily familiar of other secret rooms I had been in, including the inner sanctum beneath Keraq, and it was clearly a common architectural styling.

The room was silent save for the quiet flicker of the torches. In my fear, I did not notice that someone was in there with me. I immediately recognised the vivid orange robes of a prognosticator. The man could not see me, having been blinded as part of his accession to the College. His head was shaved and his scalp was covered in a network of tattoos which put me immediately in mind of those on Kunagas Ulrich, Lady Frost’s right-hand man. He carried a staff of black lacquer which had at its peak a large ruby set in a golden collet.

He approached me slowly, mumbling and muttering as he did so. This man was a member of the order that led the Neman Church. The Prognosticators were responsible for interpreting various prophecies and oracular productions – not to mention the Neman Creed itself, as set out by Saint Creus – and steering the Church in the correct spiritual direction. Vonvalt was convinced that this august body was as corrupt as any other institution in Sova, and I could well believe it. It was the Prognosticators who had once controlled the lore which now sat in the Master’s Vaults, and who had the biggest axe to grind against the Magistratum.

I had always considered Prognosticators to be gibbering lunatics, and this man did not disappoint. He approached me as though he were in the midst of some religious ecstasy, and my contempt came easily. But before I could say or do anything, Jansen stepped out from the shadows.

“Helena,” he said.

“What are you doing to me you… shit?” I demanded. Even to speak angrily caused the muscles in my abdomen to constrict painfully.

He approached me. “I am sorry, for what it is worth,” he sighed, and strangely, he did look apologetic. “You know me by now to be a ruthless man, of course, but I am afraid you have barely scratched the surface of just how ruthless I can be.”

I shook my head in confusion. “You helped us,” I said. “So many times and in so many ways. How… I just… I do not understand.” But I did understand. My misgivings had been constant since we had first seen him in the patria’s office in the Temple of Savare, and had only really intensified as he had approached us with his little band of supposed defectors on the Creus Road. My confusion turned to cold anger as I said, “The messenger wasn’t intercepted and killed. You killed him. You stopped Vonvalt’s pardon from reaching the traitors.”

Jansen had no difficulty in admitting this with a shrug and a nod. “That is absolutely correct, yes.”

I shook my head. “I just do not understand why you—”

Jansen chuckled. “Helena, I am not going to stand here and waste time explaining everything I have done to this point. It would take too long, and it is so filled with happenstance and misadventure that I rather fear it would dent your opinion of my abilities.”

“My opinion of you is as low as it is possible to be.”

Jansen nodded, accepting this, too, without compunction. “It used to be that I could see all outcomes. I prided myself on my ability to…” he smiled briefly “… predict the future.”

“You helped Sir Konrad. In Galen’s Vale. You helped us here, in Sova. You helped us to escape when the Magistratum was burned. You have done nothing but help us.”

Jansen nodded again. “You see, Helena, for much of this time I have been on Sir Konrad’s side. Well, that’s not strictly true. I have been on my own side. I go whichever way the wind is blowing. Sometimes that means supporting the forces of order; sometimes that means supporting the Church. When Sir Konrad arrived back in the capital a week ago, the shock of it could have killed me. I realised that – by Nema – you might actually do it after all.”

“You told us that you had been working both sides. That you had been undermining the Savarans.”

Jansen pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling again, sincerely, genuinely amused by my naïveté. “Helena, these are just… words. Meaningless words. Just because I said one thing does not mean… Nema, it doesn’t mean anything. You do understand that, don’t you?” He shook his hand as if to dismiss the thought. I saw a hint of frustration briefly crease his features, as though he were annoyed having to explain any of this to me. “The fact of the matter is, for a long time I was interested in seeing Sir Konrad succeed and the Mlyanars fail. They are unquestionably evil, but evil in… a stupid way. You saw them in the Senate, the rubbish they come out with. It is divisive, hateful rhetoric, but I must admit, I have never seen anything motivate the commonfolk so effectively. We Haugenates have been swimming upriver for years. If the people want some lunatic theocratic dictatorship well…” He shrugged. “Who am I to deny them. I am tired of trying to do the right thing.”

“But we retook the city.” I sounded plaintive. I suppose I was.

Jansen snorted. “Look, Sir Konrad is a tenacious investigator and I do not deny that he has made life exceptionally difficult for his enemies. He is there at every turn, only a step or two behind – and trust me when I say that these plans of Claver’s and his people have been in place for years. That you have managed to disrupt them so much so quickly is testament to his abilities. But Claver’s ascendancy is now unstoppable. His command of the Draedist sorceries is unmatched, and his allies are… Well, let us just say that they are without parallel. It has become clear to me – quite recently – that the Haugenates, Sir Konrad, the secular forces of this world, cannot succeed. And I for one do not want to be on the wrong side of history when they come knocking at the gates of Sova.”

“The wrong side of history?” I said, incredulous. “The very idea that—!”

“As, will, be, written!” Jansen snapped, losing his temper. “Have you listened to nothing I have said?”

“But you have said so little worth listening to!”

“Insolent girl!” He stepped forwards to slap me, but pulled the blow at the last moment. He took a moment to regain himself. “Just… be quiet, damn you,” he muttered.

There was a silence, filled only by the sound of our breathing.

“Was it only ever an act?” I asked him. I thought of Danai, who had little but contempt for Jansen and his compatriot Sir Anzo, years – possibly decades – before I had ever known them. “Your good humour? Your agreeable manner? Was your decency only ever a guise?” Strangely, it was that which seemed to wound him more than anything else, judging by the shift in his expression. He said nothing, though. What could he say?

“What do you mean to do with me?” I asked quietly. “Am I to be some sort of bargaining chip? A hostage?”

Now Jansen looked at me with something approaching sympathy. He truly was insane – but not insane like Godric had been in the bowels of that cog in Kormondolt Bay, nor insane like Claver in that his mind had become a vessel for the aggressive lunacy of malevolent demonic entities; it was an understated insanity, a quiet, intellectual belief in self-preservation at the cost of absolutely anything. Such calculated, selfish ambition was only possible in a person who lacked all empathy.

“I have always liked you, Helena. You are beautiful and intelligent, both in ways that belie your history. You were an orphan, no? Sir Konrad told me you grew up on the streets of Muldau.”

“Yes,” I said guardedly.

“But for a moment in time, a quirk of Fate, you would never have met him. I wonder where you would be now, if your paths had not crossed.”

“Well I wouldn’t be in this fucking chair, for one,” I snapped.

Jansen laughed heartily, as though delighted by this unexpected joke. It transformed his manner, in a stroke, from performative hand-wringing to wry and insufferable. “Would that I had found you instead. What a team we could have made. Sir Konrad was right about you; there is some… quality to you. I do not know how to put it into words.”

“Feel free to keep it to yourself.”

“Such a shame. Such a waste.”

“What do you mean, ‘waste’?”

I noticed the first time the prognosticator was making marks on the walls in the ambulatory. I squinted to see if I could make them out in the gloom, and realised, with a sickening lurch, that they were the same marks that had been daubed on the walls in the Temple of Savare.

I looked sharply at Jansen. “No,” I breathed.

“Yes,” he replied, adding, “It will be over quickly.”

I shook my head, my whole body shaking. “You do not know how to do it. You do not have the means. You are going to kill me.”

“Oh, you will die. But we are perfecting the process. Or, rather, they are.” He gestured to the prognosticator. “Lessons have been learnt. I confess I am not familiar with how it works.”

“Why are you doing this? How is Claver directing you?”

Jansen chuckled. “Claver isn’t. I need to get on his good side. After all, I have done plenty of things to stymie his efforts here – things I now must undo.” He winked at me. “This seems like the best way to do it, do you not think?”

“You will kill me out of… obsequiousness?” I said, aghast. Never had I felt so offended. So used. So violated. I would have lain under the Truth-taker in the Imperial dungeon for an eternity rather than endure this. “You stand here trying to convince me that this is some… political masterstroke, and yet you have no idea what you are doing. Just a silly child trying to impress an adult – trying to light a fire and burning the house down.”

“Careful!” Jansen snapped, pointing at me. Then he laughed at this fresh loss of temper. “You are quite proficient at vexing me, girl.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand it. Why are you helping him? If you helped us we could stop him!”

“But you cannot, Helena. You cannot. When you have been in politics for as long as I have, you know when gestures are needed. Not mere words. A demonstration of faith and loyalty.”

“So do it with someone else!” I shouted. “You don’t need me. Use one of your fucking Templars!”

“They are not my Templars.” He seemed genuinely displeased with the idea of being associated with them. His behaviour baffled me. I did not have the measure of him at all. His explanation – that he was only out for himself – was truly the only thing that fit. And that was what made him so terrifying. That he could be so completely devoid of anything which made a person decent.

“And besides,” he continued, “using you has a welcome corollary.”

I felt a surge of dread at these words, as though someone had lined the bottom of my stomach with lead.

“What?”

“The thought of you suffering such a horrifying and despicable death is sure to drive Sir Konrad completely, irretrievably insane.”

The following hours were a horror. Jansen left shortly after, and more prognosticators arrived. Each of them took to transcribing the runes on to the walls, warding the chamber so that the emerging demonic energies would be contained within my body.

I thrashed against my bonds, and screamed and cried as one might expect, but this did not go on for long. Faced with such monumental apathy, I lapsed to silence. I was sure that Vonvalt would be doing everything in his power to find me – assuming he knew I had gone missing – but with such an obscure and secret location, it seemed profoundly hopeless. I imagined him chancing across the chamber weeks later, sadly picking over my remains, having long given into despair.

It was such a brutally calculated move by Jansen that I was sure the man was not human. To have spoken with me, counselled me, eaten and drunk with me, and saved my life on at least one occasion – to have done all those things and still be capable of this monstrosity, put him on at least a par with Claver.

The prognosticators moved about the chamber, murmuring in low voices, able to inscribe the walls with a precision which belied their blindness. The longer the process went on, the darker and more filled with whispers the chamber became. I was no stranger to these eldritch goings-on, yet knowing what was to come breathed fresh terror into the process.

Eventually, the prognosticators finished their evil work. I expected Jansen to return at this point, to oversee matters or perhaps offer some parting words, but he did not. I realised with a pang that he had probably gone to continue to gild his subterfuge with Vonvalt; after all, I was the only one who knew of this defection, or re-defection. Of all the people in the world, I suspected only Jansen knew where his loyalties truly lay, or even if he could be said to possess any loyalties at all.

The chamber filled with quiet. It was a deep, abiding silence, the kind that precedes a séance. I began to tear my bonds anew, drawing blood around my wrists and ankles, which seemed only to excite and exacerbate the demented whisperings in the air around me. The prognosticators were arranged in a wide circle around the very extremity of the chamber, each with their arms outstretched, their palms facing upwards, their heads craned back. They chanted softly, and the runes on the walls began to glow.

There was that same damn dripping noise which I had been hearing for weeks.

Ramayah.

And then I felt myself buck sharply in the chair.

It was as though someone had shoved me from underneath, with great violence. The marks which had been painted on to the floor began to glow, too, bleeding a sick pink light. Blood dribbled from my nose.

Another violent shove, and all of the breath was knocked out of me. It was as though the movement was emanating from within me, my core pushing against my ribs, my skin.

By now I was breathless with fear and excruciation. Every muscle in my body was tense. It felt like someone was pulling on each one of my bones. My whole body vibrated like a tuning fork, thrumming with energies from the afterlife. These energies coursed through me like evil blood, like chain fire. Corposant light began to spark and flicker and crackle around me.

I vomited. The pressure on my midriff was unbearable. My brain bulged against the walls of my skull. My vision swam in and out of focus.

Another violent lurch. I was lifted two feet out of the chair, my arms and ankles held tightly by the manacles. Now I remained in place, held up by an invisible hand. I would have screamed if there had been any air in my lungs. For the very first time I felt a presence. My guts roiled and bulged and my skin felt as though it was about to separate from my flesh. Something was entering me, filling me like poisoned wine poured into a goblet. Some intrinsic part of myself I had never been conscious of before, something which could only be described as my spiritual essence, grated and chafed against my mortal body.

I heard a roar, as something of incredible malevolence and power began to violently stuff its way into the space occupied by my soul. And as this wretched sound enveloped me, I felt myself falling away, my mind collapsing and drifting into the aether. I began to divest myself of my mortal body in the truest sense. This was no warded descent into the Plain of Burden, the journey of some argonaut travelling to the holy dimensions on the back of pilfered magicks. I realised, with a distant part of my crumbling mind, that this was it. This was the true death. I was being killed, permanently and irrevocably.

And then something changed.

Even now I struggle to recall it. There was a shift in the quality and timbre of reality. The darkness was being beaten back by a burst of unbearable light. It was like witnessing the eruption of a volcano filled with molten gold. Soundless explosions of energy tore through the immaterial realm – and a roar, this time not of malevolent triumph but of rage and fury, ripped through that liminal hell.

My vision had changed. I could still see the chamber, still see the prognosticators standing in a circle around me. But where once there had been an arrangement of simple, earthly materials – stone and marble, gems and slate, wood and plaster, flesh and bone – now there was a second, overlapping image. It was as though I was seeing these things through some lens which allowed me to view them as a web of aethereal substance. They were not real, tangible things, but constructs of inter-dimensional matter.

But that was not all. There were things there. Presences. The same figures I had seen arranged around my bed on that bizarre night in the Imperial Palace. At that time they had been the barest hint of an image, a splinter in the mind’s eye, impossible for the brain to comprehend and grasp and coalesce into thought. Now I could see them for what they were.

Angels.

There is no other word to describe them. These were celestial beings, creatures wreathed in white light. Each wore plate armour of gold, and each wielded a sword wrought from the sun’s matter. But I had no hint of their faces; they were concealed behind visages, the kind a leper king might wear. Mounted on each one’s back were furled wings, not like those of a bird, but wrought from a spider’s web – if the spider’s web in question was made of coruscating pink light.

These beings moved amongst the prognosticators and… killed them. Slaughtered them. Dispatched them with ruthless efficiency. Their sun-blades scythed through them unresistingly, and for a moment I thought nothing was happening; then I saw that, whilst the prognosticators’ mortal bodies remained upright and untouched, their souls were cleaved in two. I watched as skeletal forms of black energy burst apart in huge welters of ectoplasm, their mouths locked open in screaming agony, issuing sounds which I have long purged from my memory.

One of the guardians was suddenly next to me. I was terrified. Its immobile, expressionless mask of gold loomed over my face whilst above its head danced a constellation of glowing runes. But whereas the runes that had been above the head of the Muphraab had filled me with dread and horror and nausea, these filled me with awe. I felt myself weeping uncontrollably at the sight of it, beautiful and terrible all at once.

Something beneath me was cut. Whatever sinews had been connecting me to my nascent possessor were severed. The feeling of release was profound and instant. I felt breath flood my mortal lungs; the incredible agony in my skull faded into nothing; my muscles relaxed, my bones bent back into shape and that unnameable, indescribable feeling, the rape of my soul, ceased.

And then something else gripped me, and I was falling, falling into darkness and oblivion.

XXII

The Broken Path

“And the Progenitor showed to Vangrid the Broken Path, which had once been whole and perfect, and was now a shattered ruin; for the Muphraab had taken the stone from the earth for his palace at Ambyr, and the Path, which had once been a place of beauty, now was a blasted and evil place that led only to the Palace of Prince Kasivar, the very Halls of Hell.”

FROM “AN ACCOUNT OF THE FIRST MEETING BETWEEN RAMAYAH THE PROGENITOR AND VANGRID”, THE SECOND BOOK OF CREUS

I was standing alone in an ashen place. To one side of me was a great void, an eternity of black nothing. Abutting this was a crumbling cliff face of grey stone.

I was standing on a plateau that in the first instance looked as though it were dusted with snow. Beyond, perhaps a hundred yards away, another cliff face of fractured black rock rose up, easily a hundred feet tall. Its crags and crevices had also collected that dusting of pale grey, and I realised that it was not snow, but ash. It floated in the air, pattering down like soft, gentle rain.

The sky above was a deep sunset red.

I was not alone in this strange, quiet place. In the distance I saw several figures sitting on the edge of the void. There was something profoundly melancholic about them. I could sense it, even from where I stood. Something about their bearing suggested a great agony of the spirit. I watched, mute, as one leapt off the edge of the cliff and into that endless void. They quickly disappeared into the apathetic darkness, nothing at all marking their passage except deafening silence.

“This is a wretched place, is it not?”

I turned. Justice August was standing next to me, looking out across the void as one might regard an ocean. She wore the same battered brown waxed cloak that I had only ever known her to wear.

“Where are we? Is it safe?”

August nodded. “For the moment.” I noticed a rune in the air above her head, this one of weak golden light.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It is what is keeping me safe here. Invisible. You have one too.”

I looked up, to see some light hovering there, like a candle, though I could not make out the detail. I did not know what I had expected.

“What is this place?”

“Come, I will show you.”

I followed her. We traipsed through the ash. It was warm to the touch, and I was soon covered in dusty grey smudges.

We watched another distant figure leap off the side of the cliff and into oblivion.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“Passing on. They cannot take it. The agony of The Fall.”

She led me up a shallow pathway which was cut into the obsidian-dark rock. I followed her unquestioningly. A part of me was frightened, but it was more like a memory of fear; as though I knew the concept of it, and knew what it should have felt like, but couldn’t quite bring myself to fully feel it. A greater part of me was curious, though August was in no rush to answer my questions.

The higher we went, the more I began to appreciate that this shallow cliff face was the side of a very long and very tall high-way. That is the only way I can describe it. It was as though someone had taken a hundred miles of enormous flagstones of onyx, each a hundred feet tall and a quarter of a mile long, and laid them in a line.

We reached the summit of this bizarre road. The view was unparalleled, for there was nothing higher except some distant fortification. This was a blasted, desolate landscape of black alluvium, veined with golden rivers of molten rock. The sky – or those parts of it visible above the ceiling of roiling dark cloud – was as red as blood. In the distance, lightning flickered and crackled into the earth.

“What is this place?” I asked again. We stood like two dormice on the floor of an enormous hall. The road, which was smashed and fractured and cracked and crumbling in many places, stretched away to an enormous structure on the horizon. That structure was a chaotic mass of blocks, each the size of the Imperial Palace by itself and each wrought in that same gothick ostentation. It was as though someone had taken the architectural tradition of Sova and magnified it a thousand times. I could not even begin to guess at the nature and purpose of such a gargantuan structure.

“Something is happening here. Something is stirring. The enemies of order are rousing themselves after a long slumber. Claver’s work on the mortal plane is part of something much broader. Its nature and purpose we still do not fully understand, but we have our suspicions.”

“Sir Konrad always said that there were no malevolent entities in the afterlife; not in the sense that we understood. That they were inscrutable.”

August shook her head. “Sir Konrad is a product of the Magistratum’s tutelage. Even Kane, for all his ferocious intelligence, could only guess at the nature of the creatures here. But the longer I have been here, the more I realise that the holy dimensions, the afterlife, the astral plane, whatever you want to call it – it is a society. A society like ours. It has its rulers and serfs, its heroes and villains, its generals and its armies and its commonfolk. It is like a giant mirror at our feet, reflecting our best and worst qualities. And like we have our necromancers, so too does the afterlife have its share of creatures willing to breach the skin between our worlds.”

“Like Aegraxes.”

August nodded. “Like Aegraxes,” she agreed. She straightened up. “There is a cowardice in ascribing inscrutability to these creatures. It removes the need for actual study, the need to try and understand. If we just…” she waved her hand “… say ‘oh, well, they can’t be studied, we can never understand them’, then it becomes a crutch. If the most learned of our necromancers couldn’t understand it, then what hope is there for the rest of us? But the truth is there is a great malevolence in this place.”

“What do they want? What is this place? Where are we?”

August sighed. “This is the Broken Path.”

“As in, the Broken Path from the Neman Creed? From the Book of Creus?” I said, incredulous.

“Yes.”

I looked down that enormous road once more, examining it with a newfound feeling of dread. According to the Book of Creus, the Broken Path was the high-way that led to the Halls of Hell. It was a road that had both literal and evangelical significance; literal in that it had been the site of the battle which had secured Kasivar’s position as the Prince of Hell; and evangelical in that it was symbolic of the soul’s journey into the maelstrom of hell.

“And those are—”

“The Halls of Hell, yes,” August said. She did not seem to be particularly worried.

“Are we not in great danger here?” I asked, taking a rather ineffectual step back.

“Some. But we are not alone.” She gestured to the rune above her head. “Come. Walk with me, and I will explain.”

We walked down the Broken Path, a pair of ants on a flagstone.

“You have heard – many times now – about the temporal pathway. Well, every so often, some unlikely sequence of events takes place which has far-reaching ramifications. The moment that Sir Konrad interrupted the pagan ritual in Rill, he embroiled himself – and you, and me – in the machinations of Fate.

“I do not know everything, but I will tell you what I do know. Magick first entered our world during an alignment, or a conjunction, of the afterlife and the mortal plane. The energies of the holy dimensions bled into the real world and transformed everything it touched. That is how we got the Stygion mermen, and the Kasar, and who knows what other creatures. It is believed that this portal opened at the bottom of the Jade Sea, at the centre of the Iris Isles.

“Entities within the afterlife, predatory entities like Prince Kasivar, saw an opportunity to harness the energies of mortals. Their life essences. Their souls. And they harvested us in great numbers. It was like a plague, ravaging the world, leaving thousands dead. But like two sides of a coin, where there is evil, there is good. And other entities within the afterlife, organised under the banner of Oleni – or Nema – decided instead to provide safe harbour for these spirits.”

“Heaven and hell,” I said.

“There was a great battle between the forces of order and chaos, and the portal was sealed. Kasivar was cast out of the purgatorial plane – what we know as the Edaximae – and founded his kingdom here.”

“And these are all… places? Countries, like the kingdoms of the world?”

“Precisely. Arranged of a different matter and existing in a different space, literal and metaphysical, but they might as well be considered nation states. Some are separated by oceans, like the Ossian Sea – which you have already seen. Others by roads, like this, the Broken Path.”

“So where do the souls go now?”

“When a person dies, their soul travels to Myočvara. It is a temporary place, an interstitial space where some transformation happens. And from there, the spirit is taken… somewhere else. Some go to the realms of Oleni, some to that of Kasivar. Some… I know not.”

“And if a soul gets stuck there, Ghessis is summoned?”

“Yes. Ghessis is the Gatekeeper of Purgatory. He cannot suffer a soul to exist in the Edaximae.”

“And whose side is he on?”

August shook her head. “Ghessis is not on anyone’s side. His job is to move souls on. And he does so. Even now, he will be looking for me. Tirelessly,” she added wearily.

“What is the City of Sleep, then? And the Izmyesta?”

August shrugged. “Limbo. Some other part of the afterlife. Or some other dimension altogether, to which both we as mortals and the creatures of the afterlife have access to.”

“And that is where Aegraxes has made his home?”

“Yes.”

“And he is working with you to frustrate… who, exactly?”

“Ramayah, the Progenitor.”

The mention of the creature’s name startled me in the same way someone jumping out from a doorway would. The attempted possession, summoning, destruction of my immortal essence, flooded back to me with a visceral clarity.

“He tried to—”

“Yes. Do not think about it. You will only upset yourself, and there is nothing to be gained from reliving the memory.”

There was a pause as I struggled to put it from my mind – but, of course, it was impossible.

“He is the one helping Claver?” I asked eventually.

But of course it was. Ramayah. I had heard that name many times now, an urgent whisper in my ear, a threat, a promise of pain and horror. I had not made the connexion before; now I realised that this thing, this beast, had been haunting me for some time.

August nodded. “I have suspected for a little while now that it is a greater demon. And given the nature of your Entanglement, Ramayah is a perversely appropriate character for this sorry episode.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Sir Konrad has crossed paths with the Progenitor before, many years ago in Baniskhaven. Do you see, now, how these matters tie together? How the smallest pebble thrown into a stream can be the one that finally dams it?”

I mulled these words over for a while, trying to process their importance whilst trying not to succumb entirely to a profound sense of despair. We had all of us hoped for something much lesser, a creature who could at least be challenged. But not Ramayah. It might as well have been Kasivar himself. “And so, what? He has seen a way to reopen the portal? The Eye of the Sea?”

“We believe so. Sir Konrad was right about one aspect of these beings’ inscrutability; their thoughts and plans and schemes are measured in centuries. It is the nature of the temporal pathway. It must be nudged and husbanded over many years until a tipping point is reached. Now you see events spiralling out of control on the mortal plane; this is a result of slow, patient evil. And, as is so often the case, the forces of order have been slow to respond, always complacent, always indolent, always failing to take the initiative. To act. Well. We acted today.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

August looked at me a little guiltily. “You are not going to like what I am about to tell you,” she said.

“I believe you,” I said dourly.

We walked along the Broken Path for a little longer. “Ramayah is a very dangerous demon. He is one of the chieftains of Kasivar. He has been gathering his forces and preparing an assault on the mortal plane. If he achieves it, then there is no knowing what damage he could do there. To answer the threat, Nema has dispatched her Shrine Guardians to stop him.”

“The angels,” I said. “The golden angels.”

August smiled. Her whole face lit up at their mention. “Yes,” she said dreamily. “They are angels. Beautiful, perfect beings. The personal bodyguard of Nema.” Her expression fell. “The mark of Aegraxes on your chest acts as a psychic beacon. You know this already. We knew that Ramayah was trying to find a suitable vessel for possession—”

Suddenly, everything dropped into place. “You used me as bait,” I said. “A trap. To ensnare him.” My immediate reaction was more muted than I thought it would be. It was to do with the strange, liminal atmosphere of the afterlife, which seemed to dampen extremes of emotion.

August nodded. “I am sorry, Helena. But for too long, all we have been doing is reacting. Trying to stopper the holes. To bale out the water. It was time to finally…” she gripped two fistfuls of air “… do something. Claver has been trying to get the prognosticators to open a channel to the afterlife and so summon Ramayah. Inducing him to choose you, the only person on the mortal plane with a psychic beacon etched on to your soul and a life guard of angelic beings, meant that we could stifle the attempt in the cradle.”

“What if you had failed?” I asked quietly, examining the stones beneath my feet.

August chewed her lip. “It was a very calculated risk,” she said eventually.

“Well. I am glad that some thought went into it.”

We came to a stop near the edge of an enormous chasm-deep crack in the Path. We could go no further.

“My task has become to keep you safe,” August said to me. “To keep your spirit anchored to your body. Every time you enter the holy dimensions, my role is to make sure you exit them again. Others better and more intelligent than me are preparing for the war to come. To try and stop Ramayah – for he will try again.”

“But the Guardians stopped Ramayah,” I said. “They stopped him.”

August shook her head. “They stopped the prognosticators from completing the summoning ritual. Even beings as powerful as Shrine Guardians are no match for an elemental like Ramayah. Once the bindings were stopped, the summoning was stopped, and Ramayah simply returned, like a stone dropped into a lake.”

“Will they try again?”

“I expect so, although a great many things must be just so. It is not straightforward piece of magick, and we have just killed off a good number of the prognosticators capable of writing the runes.”

We stood in silence for a moment.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“There is one more thing I will show you, and then you can return. Come.”

We moved down the other side of the Broken Path and on to that blasted landscape of black ash and dust. Travelling across it was like wading through sand, and such a journey on the mortal plane would have exhausted my mortal lungs and mortal muscles. Here, it was tiresome only in how tedious it was.

I did not notice the landscape shift around me. It happened slowly, subtly, insidiously. The alluvial plains broke up into jags of glassy black rock, and we had to pick our way over it slowly and carefully. At one point, in the distance, I thought I saw someone moving on the plains, some robed nomad, though they disappeared quickly.

Eventually, August led me down into a cave. At first I thought it was a simple natural formation, until I realised that it wasn’t a cave; it was a stomach. It was the innards of a beast which had long rotted away. We were standing amongst its ribcage, the bones surrounding us like racks of scimitars that had long been absorbed into the rock of the walls.

At the far end was Bartholomew Claver.

I yelped.

“Fear not,” August muttered. “It is not him. Not in any real sense. Just a manifestation, an echo of his soul.”

I approached the patria. He was naked, pale in the wan, aethereal glow, and like Westenholtz, had bled into the surroundings, as though someone had moulded his body to the rock using clay. His cheeks were wet with a constant flow of fresh tears, and his mouth moved in… fright? Terror? Supplication? It was clear that whatever this was, this spectral artefact, was in deep distress.

“What is it?” I asked.

August shrugged. “Like I said, an echo. A fragment of his soul. I chanced upon it. I was not looking for him. But such things have a way of finding me.”

I examined the man in front of me. So diminutive. So pathetic. Locked in some apparent eternal torment.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the skin of his chest—

Bartholomew Stanislaus Claver was born in Imastadt, in Guelich. It was an ordinary town. On a clear day, you could see the very tops of the royal fortress at Badenburg, which was perhaps the only remarkable thing about it.

Claver was the younger of two boys, born to parents of not immodest means. His childhood, like his hometown, was unremarkable. Intelligent, precocious, and with his older brother interested only in military service, Claver was earmarked for law or the priesthood.

Time passed. Claver and his brother grew. They attended the funeral of their father and inherited his wealth. Claver’s brother became restive and failed his squireship. One day, a Templar recruiter moved through Imastadt looking for fighting men for the Frontier. Claver begged his brother not to go, but he did. He would die in the Battle of Adalburg a year later.

Claver joined a Jadran monastery. He foreswore his father’s inheritance in favour of poverty, even though the Jadran Order did not require such. His mother, who took her own life upon the news of her eldest son’s death, would die penniless.

The deaths of the members of Claver’s immediate family over the course of several years accelerated his piety. It was clear that the Jadrans were not severe enough for him. They observed too many saints’ days with lavish feasts; they were not celibate; they did not self-flagellate, though Claver did. He would make long, arduous pilgrimages through the beautiful pine forests of Guelich, and then in silence and solitude ferociously whip his own back with a length of leather cord. I watched as on one occasion the obenpatria, as well as several nuns and a physician, tended to a number of deep incisions across Claver’s shoulders.

He would spend days and sometimes weeks fasting. He shut himself away in his room, poring over the Neman Creed. He examined the books of Creus, the Histories, the parables of Vangrid. He would inspect old Draedist texts and write lengthy treatises rebutting their tenets, excoriating them, ridiculing them as heresy. He would expend a great deal of time and energy in proselytising to his fellow monks and nuns, expounding his theories, explaining why they were wrong to tolerate the heresies of Lorn.

One morning, his obenpatria, both concerned for Claver’s welfare and probably slightly frightened of him, tasked him with taking alms to the local poor. So it was that Claver returned to Imastadt, attended by several junior members of the Order and leading two mules.

There, in the centre of the town, he stopped. Ground had been broken on the construction of a new Sovan courthouse, and he regarded the builders as they moved about the scaffolding with abject contempt. He turned to those accompanying him, agitated. He gesticulated angrily to the building. A scuffle broke out. Baskets of vegetables were overturned into the mud. Claver slapped one of the monks, and the man collapsed to his knees, sobbing. The nuns reprimanded Claver sharply, but he took no notice of them. Eventually, several constables appeared and took him away.

The Jadrans had finally had their fill of Claver. He was expelled. It should have been the end of him. There and then. He should have been reduced to a hermit, a wandering madman left to rant at the squirrels in the forest until his back wounds became enpoxed. But the obenpatria of the Jadran Kloster in Imastadt was a kind and patient man. And besides, he too was not blind to the encroaching secularisation of the Empire. He was not impervious to the many generations of grievance inherited from the Neman Church. He could find a use for men like Claver; devout men, pious men – violent men. Claver was a tool in the right hands. It was just that his hands were not the right ones.

Letters were sent. I watched the trail of this correspondence make its way along the roads of the Empire like blood through an artery. And, a few weeks later – weeks in which Claver had spent fasting, self-harming, and studying the Creed – the response from the Church came back.

Claver was sent to Sova. But it was not an official of the Neman Church who greeted him. Instead, Claver had been invited to attend dinner with a pontificate from a fringe group of Nemans called the “Sons of Sova”. They met in an establishment known to host such groups, in the centre of the capital. Amongst the attendees was a woman I recognised as Ellanher Boda, one of the Cyrillians who had been killed during Vonvalt’s purge of the Magistratum. The pontificate, an obese middle-aged man, saw great potential in Claver. He encouraged the young priest’s ravings despite being obviously alarmed by their intensity. It was like watching someone carefully nurture a tiny, sputtering flame into a conflagration.

Claver was introduced to the pontificate’s private chapel within the Temple of Savare, and several other places, including an establishment where Cyrillian Justices and members of the Sons of Sova could meet and exchange ideas. These places were hotbeds of sedition. But like many rebellious organisations, all they did was talk. They spoke for hours, morning and night. They pestered Mlyanar senators. They preached on street corners until they were moved along or arrested by city watchmen. They printed and copied pamphlets and distributed them. I watched as one day Nathaniel Kadlec snatched one such pamphlet from an associate of Claver’s without thinking. He would read the tract that evening and plant the seed of his own treachery.

As he had in the Jadran Order, so Claver grew frustrated with the Sons of Sova. They urged talk, debate. He urged action. He had heard, as had most of Sova, about the emergence of blackpowder and its use in Kòvosk. How a fist-sized pot of the stuff could blow a knight’s leg off; how a barrel of it could obliterate an armoured company. One sultry summer’s evening in the capital, several goblets of wine deep and het up after an afternoon in the Arena, Claver had urged his fellow Sons to obtain some blackpowder and use it to sabotage the Grand Lodge.

The Cyrillians baulked. Even the pontificate was concerned. Once again I saw the opportunity for disavowal raise its head. But instead of expelling Claver, they sought to tame him. His following was too great, for his activities had not been limited to these silly meetings between pseudo-intellectuals. He had been preaching, proselytising, boring all and sundry with his parochial, nostalgic, orthodox brand of Nemanism – the kind of Nemanism which had never existed except in the minds of the old, the bigoted, and the curmudgeonly. He took his evangelism seriously, and in turn had been noticed by the mainstream Neman Church.

The Neman Church was at this time already struggling with its reputation. It lacked serious men. As it swelled to absorb new nations, it was being diluted, and the answer to its dilution – syncretism – had been a strategic misstep. The Church had decided to answer this problem by fixating on the Frontier and the Templars and to make themselves indispensable as a pseudo-Legionary force; and it needed people to recruit Templars.

Who better than an angry, righteous, zealous young man?

They quietly invested Claver in a private ceremony which by any measure was a snub, for it was clear that the man frightened and embarrassed them. But, like the Sons of Sova, the Church thought they could use him.

Like the Church, Claver saw great potential in the Frontier. It was an area of the map no one was paying any attention to. The pilgrim path had fallen into disrepair, and bands of Saekas roamed freely on their ancestral lands, picking off Imperial settlements like someone peeling away the fingers of a man gripping the lip of a cliff. Südenburg and Keraq and Zetland received the bare minimum of conscripts and Imperial funds. The Legions were focused on the Kova Confederation – and the Emperor with them. Long angered by the paganism that was running rampant in the north of the Empire, Claver, with the blessing of the Church, decided to remedy the situation.

I watched as he trudged across the provinces of the Empire. At nights, he read from a small, battered copy of the Neman Creed. By day, he walked relentlessly and preached. There was no denying his skills as an orator. There was something about his imploring nature, his pleading sincerity, the way he was able to weep on command, that moved people. Moreover, he was able to induce people to believe in a version of the Empire that, as far as I was aware, had never existed. He took parables and stories from the Book of Creus and other holy works and mythologised real historical figures from the Empire of the Wolf. The commonfolk especially enjoyed this nonsense, the idea that they as Sovans were superior – had always been superior. That their superiority was ingrained in them. That the pagans of the Frontier were no match for them. He evangelised their prejudices, weaponised them. At every step of the way he was pushing on an open door. In those early years, Claver as a young man had turned out more Templar recruits than in the previous twenty.

One night, I saw him sitting next to a small cookfire in a forest in Jägeland. His back was freshly whipped and his clothes were wet with blood. In his hands was a copy of the Neman Creed, and he whispered the words quietly to himself whilst he read.

Then he looked at me, for the first time since I had begun this journey. He fixed me with a look of incredible fear and sadness.

“Ramayah,” he said through a mouthful of blood, and then something unfurled from the darkness behind him and leapt forward and grabbed him by the head and—

I was back in the cave. August was standing next to me.

“What did you see?” she asked.

“H-his life,” I said. And it had felt like a lifetime, too. I was dizzy and disorientated. It was like waking up from a coma. Twenty years had flashed by in an instant. “His whole life.”

“Hm. What little there is worth observing. Come, then.”

We moved away from Claver’s form, immobile, ghastly, a vessel overstuffed with black ectoplasm, and made our way back to the Broken Path. In the distance, the Halls of Hell, that distressing palace of insanity, sat on the horizon. It exuded malign energies. Even from our distant vantage point, I felt frightened, as though the eyes of the afterlife were on me.

“I’d like to go now,” I said.

August nodded, but her gaze was fixed on the distant palace. A curious expression had overcome her. I followed the line of her gaze, to see that something was happening. The palace was shifting, moving, reconfiguring. Great groaning and creaking sounds emerged from within its walls.

“As would I,” she murmured. “Hold still. This will be unpleasant.”

XXIII

The Slow Evil

“Ramayah the Progenitor is the patron of many evils. His coming is known to be heralded by the decay of grass, the whispers of demons, and the sound of dripping blood.”

FROM THE BOOK OF HISTORIES

I awoke in a place of quiet ostentation; a well-appointed chamber which, with its various mason jars of herbs and poultices and other concoctions lining shelves, immediately announced itself as that of a physician. I have woken up in physicians’ wards more times in those years I spent in Vonvalt’s service than all the years before and after combined.

A woman slept quietly in a plush chair in the corner of the room. I recognised her to be the Royal Physician.

Judging by the light, it was just before dawn, and a warm, cloudy summer’s morning. I examined myself, body and mind, though nothing seemed the matter. Indeed, for a good few minutes I couldn’t think of why I was there at all.

And then, the memories returned.

It was always the way. The afterlife, the astral plane, was deeply unnatural; it was as though the brain did not know how to properly categorise the experience. Like trying to grip an oiled eel. The experiences defied comprehension, and the mind was eager to forget.

But I could not forget the feeling of possession.

I sat quietly for a long time, breathing deeply, waiting for the feelings to pass. I clutched at the bedclothes as agonising fear gripped me. As soon as I felt as though I had achieved some semblance of calm, it would strike again: a sudden, vertiginous dread, like falling off a tower. It came in waves, panic washing through me so profoundly that I would go for great spells of breathless, tense excruciation, my whole body rigid, every muscle clenched.

I endured this backwash of fear for a long time. I had no interest in rousing the physician; she would simply attempt to sedate me in some way, and I did not want to sleep. I never wanted to sleep again. I hated it all, the afterlife, travelling there, this whole mess, I detested it. I genuinely considered killing myself in those moments. It was absolutely unendurable. The only thing that was stopping me was knowing that there was a fate worse than death – and I was well acquainted with it.

Eventually, as the sun’s light began to filter through the low ceiling of cloud, I quietly pressed myself out of the bed and made for the door. I opened it as quietly and carefully as I could, and exited the chamber. Beyond was another chamber I recognised, for I had been in it before. It smelt pleasantly of herbs, and less pleasantly of vinegar where various pickled specimens sat in ranks on shelves. I took a moment to examine huge, expensive astrological charts that adorned the walls, and thumbed idly through thick mathematical tomes which would be consulted in conjunction with those same charts to determine all manner of ailments and the appropriate treatment.

I had no desire to reacquaint myself with whatever ills had befallen us that day, no desire at all to discover how I had escaped – or rather, had been rescued. I also had no desire to think about the afterlife and the cosmic terrors which waited there. In those quiet moments I had no desire to do anything at all.

And so I lingered in the silent Imperial Palace, willing the silence to linger with me. I wished with all my heart that there was some other place, some other plane of existence where I could go, my mind disconnected from any conscious and rational thought, and simply… fade into nothingness.

And then I heard something. A curious noise, definitely made by a human or animal. It had a… wetness about it.

My heart raced, my nerves suffused with lightning. The noise had emanated from another one of the chambers which branched off that main room. The door to it was slightly ajar, though I could see that it was strapped with iron and had several sturdy bolts on it. I approached slowly and quietly, my breath trembling in my throat.

I peered through the gap. It was another private ward with only one bed in it. Atop the bed was a man – or the ruin of a man. He had been smashed to pieces. His face had been ripped away, leaving a bony rictus underneath. Limbs were twisted and broken, and stripped of flesh. I could see blackened blood and yellow fat where someone had hastily sealed wounds with red hot irons. A dozen other oozing welts spoke of an incredible and deliberate torture, yet perplexingly many of these were covered in salves. I saw, too, that the man’s arms and legs had been bound above the elbows and knees with strips of fabric, strips pulled and knotted so tightly that the limbs beneath had already begun to decay for want of blood.

The sheets underneath the man were brown and red with both old and fresh blood. An incredible stink rose off him.

And then the sound again.

I gasped. It was the rattling intake of breath. It was impossible. The man should have been dead. In any other circumstances a person in such a state would have been dispatched, not had their life prolonged with medicines. This was cruelty.

I should have left in that moment – a great deal of heartache would have been avoided if I had. But I felt compelled to approach. A few moments later, I had crossed the floor and was standing next to the bed. A gory skull looked up at me, eyeless. I saw that the man’s face was in fact still attached at the left side; it had simply been peeled away on the others. There was a mark, I saw, carved into his forehead like a mason with a chisel – a mark which I recognised as one of the summoning ideograms which the prognosticators had been busy scrawling on the walls ahead of my possession. But it had not been done with care and precision; just scratched on, like a child drawing in wet concrete.

My heart lurched as another rattling, sucking breath entered the man’s lungs. Blood frothed out of his mouth and from a hole in his neck. He could not see me, but I could tell that he sensed I was there. The exposed musculature and tissues of his mouth and jaw worked to expel a single word. He was parched, so it was barely a whisper, but I was able to make it out:

“Sorry.”

I frowned, and then a thought took root in my mind. I reached out with trembling hands, pinching the man’s face between my two forefingers and thumbs and, as though I were folding a piece of laundry, slowly lifted the flap up and over his glistening, cracked skull.

It was Senator Jansen.

My screaming woke the physician, who rushed in.

“You are not supposed to be in here!” she shouted at me. But, for all her anger, I could see that she was ashamed of this appalling spectacle and her role in it. “Get out, now!”

I did. Sick of it all, of this brutality, of this horror and death, I exited the chamber and then the physician’s residence entirely, bursting out into the hallway and emitting a great, heaving sob.

Sir Radomir, who had been dozing in a chair outside the door, yelled out as he was startled awake, instinctively pulling his short sword halfway out its scabbard.

“Helena!” he shouted, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. He gripped me by my upper arms. “You are safe! You are safe now!”

I could not be calmed. It all came pouring out of me like wine from an uncorked bottle. I collapsed into his arms and sobbed, hysterical. Everybody was wrong about me; I was not strong enough. Everybody kept saying that I was forged from steel, that I had a brilliant mind and an iron comportment, that my upbringing and tutelage had all conspired to make me mentally strong. But I was not. Who could endure these things? No human being was designed to deal with such constant horror and insanity. I was not becoming inured to it; it was destroying me from the inside out.

The physician rushed out, this time with a tankard of something in her hand.

“Here, give her this,” she said.

Sir Radomir took the proffered tankard, but I smacked it out of his hand. “No!” I shouted. “I don’t want your fucking potions. I don’t want to go back to sleep! Don’t make me go back to sleep, please!”

“She must—!” the physician started, but Sir Radomir cut her off.

“Just— Creus, shut up a minute,” he snapped at her as he tried to wrestle me still. “Helena, for Nema’s sake get a grip on yourself.”

I thrashed against his hold, but I was weak and in shock and I could feel my strength ebbing.

“Helena!” Sir Radomir shouted, finally losing patience. He dealt me a stinging slap across the cheek, and I collapsed to the floor, my histrionics cut short. “I am sorry, Helena,” he said, squatting down next to me. I felt his hand pressed between my shoulder blades, and he rubbed my back gently. “I am… not very good at dealing with crying maids.”

The understatement was so absurd that it actually made me laugh out loud. A moment later Sir Radomir joined in laughing; even the physician, wide-eyed and uneasy, let out a half-hearted chuckle.

And then the only thing that could have improved my mood happened; Heinrich reappeared, barking happily, tail wagging.

“Heinrich!” I shouted. I was sure he had been killed by the poison. I threw my arms around his bull-thick neck as he licked my face and whined.

“What happened?” I asked. “I thought he had been killed.”

“‘What happened’? That is a question we should be asking you,” Sir Radomir said.

My expression fell as I thought of the smashed and torn form of Senator Jansen. “Do you not know?” I asked. I gestured back to the physician’s chambers. “Has he not confessed all?”

Sir Radomir’s expression darkened. “Aye. Well, Sir Konrad has certainly given him a good going over, no mistake.”

The physician muttered, “If you are feeling well enough to leave, I can have your belongings and clothes repaired to you.”

I felt my anger drain out of me, and my world-weariness return. “Yes.” I realised that I was wearing little more than bedclothes. “Yes, I want to be out of this place.”

I had no desire to surround myself with the opulence and ostentation of the Imperial Palace. Eventually, Sir Radomir found us a common mess hall for the servants, which was, thanks to the state of the capital and the palace itself, largely empty. We sat in one corner, just the two of us and Heinrich, and the sheriff disappeared into the stock rooms and returned with some basic victuals. I did not feel like eating, but forced some bread down with several large washes of marsh ale.

“What happened to you?” Sir Radomir asked me eventually.

I told him the story. It did not take a long time, for there was not much to tell. I told him briefly about Justice August, too, but he held up his hand to forestall me, as I had anticipated.

“Save that for Sir Konrad. The less I know about it, the happier I am. And even then I am not particularly happy.”

I nodded to him. “Now it is your turn to tell me. Honestly, I did not expect to ever be found again. I—” I stopped talking as my voice cracked.

Sir Radomir idly scratched Heinrich’s ears. “Well, it is Heinrich you have to thank over and above anyone else. He came and found me at the barracks. I have seen a poisoned dog before, in Perry Ford. I did the same thing to Heinrich that I did to that dog. Got his mouth open and stuck my fingers down his throat. Fucking dog sick all up my arm and nearly lost my hand to boot. Putrid. Reckon another few minutes and he would have been beyond help.” Sir Radomir shrugged. “After that he started going berserk. Nema, I swear he could have tracked you from a hundred miles away. That hound is your guardian angel.”

I thought of the Shrine Guardians.

“Where had they taken me?”

Sir Radomir shuddered as he recalled the scene which must have greeted him. “Felt to me like a catacomb. The whole of Sova is like a wasps’ nest. Tunnels and chambers and secret halls…” He trailed off. He took a long draw of ale. “I know not the precise location of it, but where we found you was not far from the College, for we came out on the Veleurian Road.” He looked up at me. “They tried to do that… ritual, to you, didn’t they? That shit that we saw in the Temple of Savare. With the man who had been flayed.”

I nodded. The thoughts and feelings of the attempted summoning filled me suddenly like pitch in a barrel. And the name.

Ramayah.

“Well, something had killed all of the priests in there.” He gestured to his mouth and nose and neck. “Fucking… pitch or something all around their faces. I saw you in the chair. Thought you had been killed, of course. Those pictures on the walls, those runes or whatever it is Sir Konrad calls them… fuck me, but they hurt my brain to look at.”

“And so you brought me back here.”

Sir Radomir nodded. “Aye. But the physician said there was nothing wrong with you, nothing physically.”

I snorted at that. There was so much wrong with me now it was difficult to know which was worse.

Ramayah.

“And Jansen?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, when Sir Konrad found out what had happened, you can imagine his reaction. Funny thing was, Jansen had gone to him.” Sir Radomir shook his head. “He was so confident in his abilities to puppeteer us all that he never for a moment thought that it would unravel. Just playing every side, every angle. He is like a man playing handball in the Arena, but every minute he changes team.”

I shook my head, confused. “But how did Sir Konrad know? How did any of you know that Jansen was responsible? I certainly did not tell you. I was unconscious.”

Sir Radomir smiled mirthlessly. “It was his own reaction that gave him away. You’re a fancy woman; what would you call that? Is that irony?”

I nodded. “That would be ironic, yes.”

“Well, Sir Konrad could tell something was off. Apparently he hasn’t fully trusted Jansen since he took up the Regency. Smacked him about with the Emperor’s Voice. And something approaching the truth came pouring out of him. Along with a lot of blood from his nose.”

“And so he had him tortured for information?” I asked.

“Well, he certainly had him tortured. I’m not sure whether it was for information or not,” Sir Radomir said. “I have never seen a man so consumed by anger before. It was a spectacle, Helena. Believe you me.”

I considered this for a moment. I was not in the least surprised that Vonvalt had been completely overtaken by apoplexy, given his feelings towards me and the great stresses and strains that he faced. But, not for the first time, it was the effect it had had on Vonvalt which saddened me more than anything else. I just wanted Vonvalt to be normal. I wanted Vonvalt to be the man he had always been, calm, unflappable, a bastion of steadfastness and implacability. Instead, he was becoming reckless, deranged, giving in to his anger in a way that he had not before. I did not want him to perform these acts of insane violence for me. Seeing Jansen in that state had robbed me of all of my hatred for the man. Nothing would have pleased me more than for him to have been arrested and tried. Instead, Vonvalt was forcing me to feel guilt, on top of everything else, as though I were complicit in this barbaric torture.

“Where is Sir Konrad now?” I asked.

“He is in the Hall of Solitude. He is preparing to strike the College and be done with it.”

I thought for a long time about going to see him. I knew that I had to, eventually. If nothing else he had to be told about the latest developments with Justice August. But the sight of Jansen had repulsed me, and to know that Vonvalt had had a hand in it repulsed me even further. To have beheaded him – fine. To have hanged him? I would not bat an eyelid. But to have cut him apart, burned him, twisted his guts and flayed him in vinegar, and then to have sealed his wounds with hot irons, bandaged and salved and poulticed them simply so that the entire shabby enterprise could be repeated upon the man’s convalescence? That spoke of a derangement of the mind.

“Helena, you know that our enemies would not think twice about engaging in such barbarism,” Sir Radomir said after a long silence, as though the entire time he had been quietly reading my thoughts. “’Tis no different than what took place in the Reichskrieg.”

“And that is supposed to be a good thing, is it? ‘We have always done this, so it is excusable’?”

Sir Radomir shook his head. “I am not saying it is excusable. But I can see you are appalled.”

“What civilised person would not be?”

The sheriff sagged. He seemed to age before my eyes. “Sometimes I cannot believe the way you are, given how you were raised. I have known many wards of the state in my time as sheriff. They are not well-balanced individuals.”

I snorted. “I am only the way I am because of Sir Konrad’s teaching.”

“It is a curious thing, is it not, that you can be more like him than he is himself.”

I smiled sadly. “There it is again,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Irony.”

I did of course go to the Hall of Solitude, and found Vonvalt there, still clad in that magnificent plate which gave him the air and look of a warrior king. He must have sensed my presence, for he looked over to me the moment I crossed the threshold.

He turned away from the table he was standing over along with a number of other armed and armoured Guardsmen, and strode towards me. A sense of ecstatic relief radiated from him in an almost tangible aura, and I could tell he was having to stop himself from breaking into a run.

“Helena, thank the gods,” he breathed, moving to pull me into an embrace. But before he could fully close the distance, I stepped back out of his reach. His expression transformed from delight to confusion. “What is the matter? By Nema, I thought I would never see you again.” He moved to embrace me a second time, and, for a second time, I stepped away. “Helena!”

I could barely meet his eye. I could not reconcile this happy, smiling man with the rage-fuelled torturer who had ripped Jansen’s face off. I could still feel the senator’s skin between my fingers, the sensation of slowly replacing the flap of bearded flesh over his exposed skull. And as I relived this grotesque memory, something struck me; I remembered I had seen something there, some rune carved into the bone of his forehead. Where had that come from? What was its purpose?

I had planned on speaking with Vonvalt only briefly. The fact that I was up and conscious and walking was evidence of my recovery in itself. I needed only to impart the information I had about August, to fulfil my role as cosmic go-between. But now the compulsion to confront him was too great.

“What did you do to Jansen?” I asked quietly. My voice was trembling with anger.

He looked taken aback. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Vonvalt’s brow furrowed. “Helena, I saved your life. Again.”

“Heinrich saved my life.”

“Nema! Let us not split hairs.” Vonvalt’s good humour had completely evaporated. His back was now well and truly up.

“That my life even needed saving in the first place is only because I am your associate!” I snapped. It was unfair to say, although it was also true.

Vonvalt was already turning away from me, embarrassed by the attention we were drawing. “I do not have time for this. I will speak to you on my return.”

I took a step forward. “What did you do to him. Not the torture, not the maiming. That is in evidence. I am talking about the ideogram.”

Vonvalt halted and whirled around.

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed at me.

“I will not!”

Vonvalt opened his mouth and then closed it again. I watched as he gritted his teeth. “We will speak on my return. I will tell you everything you want to know. And you will tell me what it is you experienced.” He softened, briefly, a parting attempt at reconciliation. “Please, Helena. Let us not part on bad terms. Every night I leave this hall might be my last.”

“I am not an idiot. People must be killed – a great many, it seems. But torture? Excruciation? It is beneath you—”

“Do you have any idea what it was they were trying to do to you?” Vonvalt snapped. “Nema only knows how you are still here and breathing. So yes. Yes, it is beneath me, but I did it. I did it anyway. And I would do it again, a hundred times. I was terrified that they had done some irreversible damage to you. Stuffed you with some vile creature.”

“That is precisely what they were trying to achieve!”

“Do you think I do not know that? You saw for yourself the state Jansen was left in. He did not achieve such a disassembly without telling me everything he knew. It is precisely why I must leave now, before these absurd antics continue. Our enemies are trying to realign the mortal and immortal planes in such recklessly destructive ways, and it is all for its own sake! It is entirely self-serving. Who knows what eldritch horrors they will unleash upon the world for the sake of being able to sit on that fucking chair?” He pointed to the throne behind me, though I did not turn. “So. Now I must go and kill more men. And I then will kill more, and I will torture more, if I have to. I will torture and maim and put to excruciation every man and woman in this city if it means stopping Claver. Nothing else matters now. If you are not going to assist me, then get you gone! You are enough of a drain on my attention as it is.”

I felt anger infuse me as though a bolt of lightning had struck me on the crown of my head. Gritting my teeth so hard it felt as though they would buckle, I shouldered roughly past Vonvalt and collared the nearest Imperial Guardsman.

“See that I am armed and armoured, now. I am coming with you.”

“My Lady—”

“Right fucking now!” I roared.

XXIV

He Who Pays the Piper…

“The punishment must fit the crime. Light sentences breed recidivism, but neither must we indulge the unrepentant.”

FROM CATERHAUSER’S THE SOVAN CRIMINAL CODE: ADVICE TO PRACTITIONERS

The College was not far from the Temple of Nema, an outwardly modest but deceptively large building which housed the Neman Church’s conclave of rulers. I did not know what to expect, sitting in the tail end of this cohort of Imperial Guardsmen as the doors were once more smashed in. Perhaps a company of defenders, perhaps a group of priests rushing us like a vanguard of penitents, perhaps even a black mass of demons.

But there was nothing.

The College was dark, its cavernous, cathedral-like interior stretching away like a vast underground vault. The Imperial Guard made an unholy racket as we swept through that place, ransacking chambers, pulling up carpets and rugs, tearing down tapestries, overturning plinths and braziers. It was not long before pickaxes and lengths of iron were produced and thick heavy flagstones and – priceless, ancient – tomb plates were being levered up.

Jansen had told us that preparations for some ritual were being made in the College, though it seemed like we had already disrupted that. If there was anything left, any form of organised arcane resistance, and it was to be found in the College, then this surely had to be the last pocket to clear out before we could concern ourselves with the physical defence of the city.

We ransacked the place for hours. Vonvalt was at pains to avoid me, though eventually I found myself alongside him. It was just after the third bell; we were in some random chamber hundreds of feet deep into the College, and one of the Guardsmen had chanced across a gust of hot air coming out of a fresh aperture in the ground like breath. The flagstones were levered away and crashed down on to the floor. Vonvalt gestured for several men to go in first, and they lowered themselves down into a tunnel. Vonvalt followed, and after him went Captain Rainer. I brought up the very rear.

My heart pounded as we pressed through. This was no earthy pipeline buttressed by three-quarter squares of thick timber planks; this was a corridor – and a well-travelled one, judging by the smooth grooves in the floor. It stretched into the darkness in both directions.

We clattered through that tunnel, perhaps ten of us. Ahead I could see the faint glow of firelight, and soon we were in another domed chamber almost identical to that which I had been kept in for the attempted possession.

Immediately, a commotion broke out. I heard shouts from the foremost Guardsmen, though I could not see what was going on.

Something happened; there was some flash of light and a soundless blast and blood splattered the end of the tunnel as though someone had detonated a barrel of wine. For a moment I thought Vonvalt had been killed and it was all over, both as quickly and simply as that; then I watched a second later as he bodily tackled Captain Rainer back into the corridor.

From the brief gap this created I could see prognosticators standing in the chamber, obvious in their orange-and-yellow robes. Their eyes – what should have been eyeless sockets – glowed and bled pink light. They moved haltingly, twitching and jerking as though each were locked in a seizure.

I realised immediately what had happened. I thought about Bressinger, dying on the bank of the moat around Keraq; of the demons there, ravaging and eviscerating Templars inside. I thought of myself tearing the pages out of the Codex Elementa and stuffing them underneath Bressinger’s lifeless body, the pages that provided instructions on how to bind demons into the recently vacated bodies of killed people. I thought of the possessed nuns in Keraq, even of the automata patrolling the walls of Seaguard as created by Lady Frost and her pagan shamans.

“Sir Konrad!” I shouted. Only he knew how to banish them.

He looked up, his features twisted in surprise, as though he had forgotten I was there. “What?!”

“They are thralls! You must unbind them!”

Perhaps I had only succeeded in distracting him at the crucial moment. Either way, more Guardsmen died. A coruscating flash of lightning flickered through the space between us and the possessed prognosticators and struck a Guardsman square in the chest. I watched as the man skeletonised before my eyes.

A sudden, horrific urgency overtook us. Captain Rainer charged forwards, recklessly brave, cutting down the nearest thrall with a single stab to the chest; then she was blasted backwards, colliding roughly with the wall as another burst of that vile corposant energy scythed through the air.

Vonvalt leapt forward, hand outstretched, and uttered the rite of banishment. The closest prognosticator collapsed to the floor, her skull cracking sickeningly against the flagstones. Behind, another was felled where a Guardsman launched her sword like a javelin, impaling the thrall through the neck. It fell backwards soundlessly, sending a burst of corrosive fire into the ceiling.

Vonvalt closed fully with the remaining thrall and grabbed it by the hand, dragging it bodily to the floor. He punched it once, twice, three times in the face, his heavy, armoured fist pulverising the flesh and cracking bones. The thrall, however, seemed not to fully appreciate what was happening. It seemed to be torn between struggling violently and then lying completely still, as if its two halves were wrestling for control of the whole.

And then Vonvalt said something that I did not expect.

“All of you out!” he snapped over his shoulder. When everyone hesitated, he added, “Now!”

The Guardsmen – those who had survived – bustled back into the corridor. Captain Rainer tried half-heartedly to interpose herself between me and the chamber, though I irritably shoved past her. There, I watched as Vonvalt retrieved three volumes from a satchel strapped about his waist. The first I recognised immediately as the grimoire necromantia; the second was The Art of Phantasmic Conjuration, which I had unearthed in the Law Library. The last was the Codex Elementa.

Taken together, Vonvalt had at his fingertips a powerful collection of sorceries – more than even Claver had access to. Even so, I knew not what he hoped to do with them. It was true that Vonvalt was already an accomplished practitioner of the arcana, but he would never wield them as weapons. The Magistratum had long forbidden such uses.

And yet… I thought of Jansen, and the ideogram I had seen carved into the bone of his forehead. I thought of Vonvalt’s reaction to seeing Sir Anzo’s creations in the Kyarai, or to seeing Westenholtz bound in agony in limbo – that of interest, curiosity, surprise, but never horror or revulsion. These things individually might be explained away, but when taken together, I realised, demonstrated the beginnings of a pattern. Like Claver, Vonvalt was becoming interested in the potency of these magicks. They were tools, under-exploited tools, which could be used to great and devastating effect.

He pinned the struggling prognosticator’s arms under his knees and the man’s forehead under his left hand. Then with his right hand he began flicking through the pages of the three tomes, opening up pre-marked sections.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Not only was it a violation of every fundamental principle of ethics, it was just wrong. Plainly wrong. I did not care how powerful these sorceries were. Even if they were used for good, the method itself was evil. And using an evil method to achieve a good outcome tainted the outcome permanently.

The old Vonvalt would have smiled, and called me a deon tologist.

But the old Vonvalt was gone.

“Don’t do it,” I called out to him. I was surprised at how calm I sounded. That was the thing about coming within a hair’s breadth of being possessed by a demon; it gave you a healthy sense of perspective.

Vonvalt, who had been about to start the incantation, looked sharply over to me. “I told you to leave. It is not safe to be here. Go, now. I will see you back in the palace.”

I shook my head. “You are better than this. We can defeat Claver using—”

“Using what!” Vonvalt thundered. “Using what, Helena? Swords? Arrows? Stout walls? Our honour?” He laughed, a cruel, brittle sound. I had never heard him speak in this way. Vonvalt was never sarcastic. He considered it to betray a weakness of the intellect. “This is what Claver understands. Naked, elemental force. It is time he had a taste of his own medicine. He and his cronies do not have a monopoly on the arcana. As they are about to find out,” he added, turning back to the weak, struggling form of the prognosticator. He pulled out a dagger, and consulting the ideograms, began to carve into the priest’s forehead with the precision and dispassion of a barber-surgeon.

I felt a strange calmness overcome me. A small part of me even agreed with Vonvalt. Why should we deny ourselves the most powerful weapons? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps these magicks could be used to enforce an ultimate good.

Then I thought of what I had seen in the afterlife; the wretched artefact of Claver on the plains of Hell. Westenholtz and the Tree of Death. The rapacious hatred of Ramayah. And I realised that Vonvalt was not simply tapping into these energies; he was corrupting himself. There was evil here, malevolence. The Draedist magicks were not agnostic of morality. Where they were siphoned off from Prince Kasivar’s realm, they were tainted with malignance. It had turned Claver from an overzealous and deeply misguided priest into an instrument of horror and insanity. The Magistratum had kept these powers under lock and key for centuries for a very good reason.

“You cannot control it,” I said. “I saw. I saw Claver. His life. I saw it on the Broken Path. How it changed him, twisted him, corrupted him. You think you can control it, but—”

“Shut up! For Nema’s sake, just shut up!” Vonvalt roared. “Will you go away! Get away damn you!”

But I did not move. “You have not seen what I have seen. You have not—”

I was cut off by a deafening buzzing noise. The chamber filled with it. Vonvalt’s eyes had gone as white as balls of cut marble. He had been ignoring me. Muttering the incantations. I should have known that his unparalleled intellect could tolerate my interruptions and still complete the incantations.

I did now take a step back further into the corridor, colliding with Captain Rainer who had moved forward so that she was just behind me. Vonvalt continued to incant and carve ideograms into the prognosticator’s face. He finished one such rune and the prognosticator suddenly stopped struggling, killed. And then, as he lay there, an empty vessel, Vonvalt consulted the tomes next to him, and completed his curse.

The chamber was plunged into sudden, profound darkness.

The temptation to flee was almost overwhelming. The only thing that was keeping me there was the presence of Vonvalt himself. After all, he wouldn’t willingly put himself at risk. In spite of everything, in spite of his recklessness and haste and anger, I still trusted him implicitly. I trusted him to get the incantations right, to get the wards and runes right. There was no one else in the Empire I would have trusted with this evil. What a curious confession to make.

“Sir Konrad?” I asked. Memories, memories which felt old but which were terrifyingly recent, surfaced. Once again I felt my soul bulge as Ramayah tried to pull himself up from the immortal plane. “No,” I breathed, turning to run, my hands finding Rainer’s breastplate. She grabbed me.

“We have to get out of here,” she said. Her grip on me was iron. Her fear was a tangible thing.

“Please, no,” I said again and again.

“Suit yourself,” Rainer spat. “I shall not be a part of this.”

She had mistaken me. I had not been saying “no” to her; I had been pleading for Vonvalt to stop. It had been a refrain of dismay. But she left, along with the rest of the Guardsmen, and I turned back into the chamber. I reached out blindly, trying to find Sir Konrad, desperate not to be alone.

“Please, no,” I whispered, like a mantra. “Please, no.”

I saw then in the darkness a pair of eyes – like cat’s eyes. They flashed briefly in the light of the retreating lanterns.

And I fell very quiet.

“Sir Konrad?” I asked in the stillness.

And then I touched him.

For the longest time I heard a sound like screaming.

I had a sensation of immense movement, of wind on my face, and the smell of a city; damp bricks and cobbles, street effluent, human beings smelling of a day’s work and fear. I felt panic saturating the air in a great cloud of vapour.

I felt my hands scrape along the wet cobblestones. My world shifted, rotated, and now I was clawing my way along walls, my fingernails ripping out chunks of ephemeral matter from the background world which I inhabited. My tongue was out and hanging from my jaws, and I could taste the air. Always that rancid stink of fear. It thrilled me.

Where I went, I left in my wake death and fear. Weeds perished at my touch. Grass sagged and died. Insects, foxes, wild pigs, all froze, their hearts stopped in their chests.

I was through the city fast. Some part of my mind, an echo of an echo, a memory of a memory, knew that this was not Sova. But the word, the place, Sova, was important to these people. It had meaning. It was a target, a goal, something to be attained. They wanted it desperately.

All the while there was screaming. Constant, like desert wind.

I vaulted a wall and was in and amongst a large staging area. Now I could taste iron and steel, the putrescence of decay, of mud and soiled bandages, the reek of siege latrines overflowing with the shit of ten thousand men.

The thing I wanted most in the world pulsed with light. It was a beacon like those in Kormondolt Bay. An ideogram had been cut into the fabric of the aether, and through it, light from the holy dimensions flowed.

I felt fear. Felt it. Men all around me, encased in metal, felt suddenly sick with it as I passed. Some cried out. Some cried. They had no stomach for what was to come.

I reached a tent. I passed through its sturdy waxed fabric as though it were nothing except a curtain of air. Inside were men. I recognised two of them. The part of me that was still Helena knew they were my enemies.

The urge to destroy my target was sudden and incredible and overwhelming. I needed to do it. The desire was consuming. I could think of nothing else.

As I leapt to destroy Bartholomew Claver, something shifted in the air. He looked me dead in the eyes, startled and angry. A shield, invisible but as solid as a marble slab, blocked me. I crashed into it, senses ringing.

I felt my grip on this body slip. I realised that the constant screaming I could hear was coming from the prognosticator whom Vonvalt had vacated. He was locked away in some hellish interstitial space, forced to endure this puppetry of his life’s essence.

Enraged, confused, frightened, like a trapped animal, I reached out to the nearest unshielded soul.

“Margrave, run!” I heard Claver scream.

Vladimir von Geier looked at Claver with contempt.

“What in Kasivar’s name are you talking about?” he sneered.

My hands gripped his soul. His shadow in the background world. I pulled a spectral version of him free from his body and, with a guttural howl, I squashed his head between my hands until his skull buckled.

The mortal body of von Geier collapsed, outwardly unharmed, but undoubtedly dead.

The wrecked soul of the man transmuted into a cloud of black smoke.

And then something was coming for us, something boiling with fury, something a long way away but closing fast.

Vonvalt severed the connexion.

“You really meant it, didn’t you?”

Vonvalt looked at me. We were sitting in that same chamber, amongst the gore of dead priests and Guardsmen, the only light provided by a single, guttering candle. We sat on opposite sides of the chamber, each resting our backs against the wall. I could not speak for Vonvalt, but I felt… tired. Of everything. I was tired of being surprised and I was tired of being horrified. And I was tired of pretending Vonvalt was something he was not.

“Meant what?” Vonvalt asked quietly. The ritual had drained him. He did not seem outwardly pleased with the slaying of von Geier, though there was no doubt it marked a significant strategic victory. Von Geier was the tactician, the soldier, the general. He was evil and ruthless, and he was a commander without peer. Claver was many things, but he was not a natural captain of men.

Still, Claver had been the target. And something had stopped Vonvalt’s psychic assault dead in its tracks.

“Meant what?”

“That you would do anything. Use any tool.”

“To stop Claver?”

“Aye.”

Vonvalt nodded. “Yes. I meant it. Did you not believe me? I told you a long time ago that I was not the paragon you thought I was.”

“There is not being a paragon, and then there is this.”

Vonvalt gestured to the books at his feet. “You do not trust me to wield the power?”

“I do not trust the powers themselves. They are changing you in ways that you do not even appreciate. Claver has always been a zealous, unpleasant man, but it was not until he began to dabble in the arcana that he became completely untethered from reality. It changed him and it will change you.”

“I am nothing like Claver. I have been trained. I have a lifetime of practice under my belt. I can control the arcana’s more undesirable elements.”

“If you think that – if you truly believe that – then you are a fool.”

I had never spoken to Vonvalt with such insolence before, but I was long past caring. These were not trifles. This was like shooting a burning arrow at a stack of barrels where one in every ten was filled with blackpowder. Certainly it was possible to wield these incantations and curses and hexes in a selective and strategic way; but it seemed just as possible that one could accidentally precipitate the end of the world.

“You should not speak to me in that way, Helena,” Vonvalt said, though it lacked force.

“Why not? No one else will.”

“You would reduce your role to that of my court jester?”

“You have imprisoned the Emperor. Assumed the Regency. You are purging groups, razing ancient buildings of state, torturing dissidents – with serious fucking brutality I might add – and now you are using ancient pagan sorceries to assassinate your enemies.”

“Blood of gods, Helena, you make it sound as though I am the enemy!”

“You are an enemy to yourself!” I shouted. “What happened to our being the force of order? Champions of the rule of law?”

“Must we have this conversation again?” Vonvalt asked. He sounded exhausted.

“I will never not feel this way. No matter what I see. No matter what Claver and his cronies do. No matter what horrors I have witnessed in the holy dimensions – and believe me I have seen enough horrors to last me a thousand lifetimes. I do not want to become them. I do not want us to be those people. I want to be good. I want us to prevail because we are good.”

“And what if we can’t?” Vonvalt asked me softly.

“‘It is better to die in service of the law than serve a regime which does not uphold it’,” I quoted.

Vonvalt snorted quietly. For the briefest of moments I saw in him a flash of the man I had once known; the man who once would have been delighted to hear me remember such an obscure reference. It passed like a cloud passing across the sun. “Rudolph Blix,” he muttered.

We lapsed to silence, tired from fighting and tired of each other. But, as usual, I had information to relay.

“It is Ramayah,” I said after a long pause.

Vonvalt looked incredulous. “Ramayah? The Progenitor?” he said. “From the Book of Histories?”

“’Tis him who sought to possess me. He is Claver’s patron.”

Vonvalt shook his head. “No. That cannot be right.”

“Well it is,” I snapped.

“Well it cannot be!” he thundered. He stared at the floor. He was quiet for a long time. “Blood of gods,” he whispered. He looked as close to despair as I had seen him. “I cannot… I cannot do this.”

“We have to,” I said tonelessly.

He shook his head. “I have not the mettle for this, Helena. To say nothing of the knowledge. Ramayah – he is not just a greater demon, he is one of the chieftains of Kasivar himself.”

“I know. I saw him… infest Claver. Near the Broken Path.”

Vonvalt gave me a look of abject confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw Claver in the afterlife. Resi took me to the Broken Path and…” I shrugged. “He was there. Some spiritual echo. An artefact. I touched him and I saw his life. And at the end, Ramayah was there, on him. Like a parasite.”

Vonvalt shook his head. “Why did Resi take you there?”

“I am not sure she did.” I told him of everything I had seen – the Shrine Guardians, the golden runes, the Claver-echo, his life’s story… Vonvalt listened with astonishment. It was difficult to know what it was that he had kept from me over the years, as a way of preserving my sanity, and what aspects of the afterlife he genuinely had no working knowledge of. He had seemed deflated and angry about Claver hexing him with the Muphraab, but never surprised that such a thing had been possible. It was likely, then, that he was at least aware of these things and places as being real and tangible parts of the holy dimensions, even if he had not been there himself. But I do not think he had expected it to be so literal.

Once I had finished talking – and I took a very long time to tell the tale, for dredging my memory of these things was like taking a knife and cutting away the sutures of a freshly knitted traumatic wound – Vonvalt rubbed his face with his hands. He did not speak for a long time; but when he did, the first thing he said was, “I have met him.”

Now it was my turn to be confused. “What?”

“Ramayah. I have met him before. In Baniskhaven. Ten years ago – maybe more.”

“What are you talking about?”

Vonvalt sighed bitterly. “Just that. I was working on a case with another Justice – Lady Sokol. She wanted to commune with the body of a local baron. He had been… I can’t remember, eating people – murdering them and eating their brains, or something.” He paused, thinking. “I cautioned her against it. It is never wise to commune with an insane mind.”

“But she did it anyway?”

“She did it anyway. And he was there.”

“Ramayah?”

Vonvalt nodded. “He was drawn to the deranged soul, as though the afterlife had been chummed. He was… not pleased to be disturbed.”

“What was he doing?”

“Harvesting the baron’s soul. It is what he does.”

“That’s what Resi said. That Kasivar and others reap human souls. That is why Ramayah wants to break through. To possess me.”

“Blood of gods.” Vonvalt rubbed his face with his hands. “I have been deceiving myself for so long about the severity of matters that I almost truly believed it. An elemental, a minor demon, a sprite, an incubus, a drude – these things I can deal with. But not Ramayah. Not him.”

He paused. The candle was nearly out, and neither of us fancied being plunged into pitch blackness. He took a moment to light another. I said nothing; his despondency was infectious.

“What did he look like?” he asked me.

“Who?”

“Ramayah.”

My heart and gut surged at the thought. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick. “Please,” I said, pressing a hand to the stone floor to steady myself. “Do not ask me that again. If you are so desperate to find out, you can travel to Hell yourself.”

“You are right. I am sorry for asking. Call it professional curiosity.”

“It may be professional curiosity for you, but it is a blight for me. I am consumed by it. I would take my own life right here and now, but I am terrified of where I might end up.”

“Don’t you dare!” Vonvalt suddenly thundered, making me start. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Don’t you dare do that. I need you.”

“Well, you can’t have me!” I shouted. I felt anger, fear, excruciating pain fill me to the brim and suddenly boil over in a great welter of emotion. “Do you understand me? You can’t have me!”

We stared at one another across the chamber, each of us armed and armoured and smeared and spattered in gore. If someone had presented to me a painting of this scene three years before I would have laughed in their face at the profound insanity of it.

“Well. You have made yourself very clear,” Vonvalt muttered.

“It is you who has made yourself clear. You have sought to keep me at arm’s length at every turn. ’Tis no wonder that I should remain there.”

“I regret that.”

“A lifetime of regret awaits both of us.”

Vonvalt looked so wretched I genuinely thought he was about to weep.

“I suspect you are right,” was all he said.

Eventually, we stood and left that awful place.

XXV

… Calls the Tune

“There is a reason why we ‘cut’ to the heart of a matter, rather than ‘talk’ our way to it.”

GENERAL GERNOT LAMPRECHT

We repaired to the Imperial Palace.

With Vladimir von Geier killed, I hoped that Claver’s plan would be put to some disarray, though given that they were now clearing north of Saxanfelde, either way it would not be long before they were marching up the Ebenen Plains. Of von Osterlen and the Grasvlaktekraag, there was no news.

Once again I found myself in that strange melancholic phase that always followed a fight. As the excitement and fear ebbed out of me, I was left feeling flat and listless, and no amount of bathing, fresh clothes, sleep, and time spent with friends – for I was happily reunited with Sir Radomir and Heinrich – could cure me of my emotional malaise. A part of me wanted to simply distance myself from Vonvalt completely; to treat myself as a retainer, an employee, and no more. But no matter how hard I tried to put the man from my mind, I could not. I realised after several days of convalescence that there was simply no point in trying to disentangle myself and my emotions from him. That would have to wait until one of us died, or we parted ways forever.

This turmoil of indecision left me in a black mood. Several more times, especially at night, I saw the shimmer of gold in my bedchamber where the Shrine Guardians stood watch over me. What I was seeing in those fleeting moments, before I fell unconscious, was the mortal afterglow of their physical presence around me in the City of Sleep. I should have taken comfort from these silent protectors, but in truth they did little more than remind me of the horror I faced at every turn. They also had the unwelcome effect of spooking Heinrich, and he would not sleep in the chamber with me.

I slept and ate poorly. I was sent to the Imperial Guard armourer and quartermaster to be properly fitted out with armour and a decent short sword and sohle shield, and I was surprised at how thin I had become, how gaunt. The armourer tutted as he fitted me out, as though he did not approve of such a thin slip of a maid being an Imperial Guardswoman.

On the third day after the slaying of von Geier, I was walking down the Creus Road with Sir Radomir and Heinrich. In line with Vonvalt’s many decrees, non-essential personnel had begun their exodus to the north. Great lines of people formed at the Wolf Gate, where a cohort of Imperial Guard checked every cart for enemies of the state.

“By the gods,” I said, looking at those huge queues of people. Men and women of fighting age were to remain unless they were ill, or the only available carers of small children, and as a result the lines were exclusively the very young, elderly and infirm.

“What’s this,” Sir Radomir murmured, pointing. I followed the line of his finger to where a couple of Guardsmen were shouting into the side of a wagon. A moment later, an old man was dragged out of a concealed compartment by his hair, so forcefully that his scalp was torn.

“Nema,” I breathed. The fugitive hit the cobbles. A few words passed between the guards, and they both drew their short swords and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest and stomach. Screams and cries from the nearby children carried in the warm morning air.

The victim, whom I assumed was a Mlyanar, for he looked too old and fat to be anything else, was dragged to the gutter at the side of the high-way and left there to drain.

“He does not want for company,” Sir Radomir said, eyeing the pile of corpses there.

We walked on, ambling in our armour and with our swords like a pair of constables. The air in Sova was charged with foreboding. In spite of the exodus, the city still felt too full of people. Many of them had nowhere to go. For the wealthy, they could retire to their fortified country mansions, and the merchants could return to wherever it was they had come from. But although Sova was routinely swelled by a huge itinerant population, that did not mean that its native population was small. Indeed, it was overstuffed, and that was even before one took account of the workers and pleasure-seekers who filled it from the provinces and beyond.

Sir Radomir clacked his tongue as he eyed the children of commonfolk running and laughing through the streets, oblivious to the city’s peril. Looking down alleys we saw laundry being strung between windows to dry in the mild weather, housewives chatting, tradespeople leaving for the day’s labours.

“These people have no idea what awaits them,” I said as we paused to let a small girl chase a cat past us.

But the sheriff simply shrugged. “What is it that they can do?” He gestured to a pair of teachers, a man and a woman in scholarly robes corralling a group of students, each clutching a tablet and stylus. Behind them, a gaggle of housewives were examining a torn pair of hose. “They cannot fight. They are good only for getting in the way. For now they must live their lives and hope the soldiers can protect them.”

“They have no inkling of the demonic nature—”

Sir Radomir cut across me. “And what good would it do them to learn of it?” he asked sharply.

“It might encourage them to leave the city in greater numbers.”

“Aye, it might. But then what? What to do with a hundred thousand useless mouths? They would pick the countryside clean. More likely than not half would die from disease.”

“And the other half?” I asked.

“Starvation,” the sheriff said grimly.

We were quiet for a little while. I watched soldiers patrol the Guelan Wall where it rose into the morning haze. The activity atop those huge battlements was much more noticeable these days. Not only were there more soldiers, but great stockpiles of missiles, too. Arrows in great abundance, stones for the trebuchets, iron balls for the cannons, though they were few in number and more effective as a demolisher of walls than a protector of them. The great mural towers and catapult bastions swarmed with black specks of men and women like ants surrounding a piece of discarded fruit. The clank and rattle of ballistae being wound and the thrum of them being test-fired carried on the warm air. Pennants and flags, which snapped and fluttered in the abundant wind seventy feet off the ground, rose and fell as the signalling system was tested.

“Do you think we can win?” I asked.

“Without his pagan sorceries, Claver would barely register as a threat.” Sir Radomir gestured to the walls, and to the city more broadly. “Sova could withstand an attack from an army ten times bigger than his Templars. A hundred times bigger. A place such as this could sit pretty for two years before seeking terms.” He sighed. “But with everything I have seen, and everything you have told me, I do not know if there is a place on this earth that can withstand him. Our biggest hope is Sir Konrad. I just wish we had more like him.” He grunted. “There is a thought; where are all the other Justices?”

“You mean the ones that we did not have executed, or who were murdered when the Grand Lodge was burned, or who were sought out and killed while we were away in Haunersheim and the Kyarai?”

Sir Radomir spat against cobbles. “Nema. These people don’t know what is good for them. Perhaps the city should burn. Perhaps we should just leave it to Claver after all.”

We had not been walking with any particular purpose. Stretching Heinrich’s legs, particularly after his poisoning, gave us a convenient pretext to wander around the city. I could not stand to loiter in the Imperial Palace, which felt more like a prison or mausoleum than anything else, and I was no expert in siege warfare, which currently monopolised all of Vonvalt’s attention. There had been no more activity in the afterlife, no more communications, no more portents, and so I had nothing further to report to him; nor was he keen to utilise any further death magicks, now that he knew of Ramayah and his schemes.

We rounded another corner, turning north off the Creus Road and on to the Veleurian, until we were confronted with a large public square which sat to the west of the Temple of Nema. Now I came up short. We both did. A large crowd was gathered, and at the far end of the square was a scaffold. On top of the scaffold were two dozen men and women. The people were jeering at them, and throwing things as the people of Sova were wont to do – fruits, vegetables, stones and shit. Some of the people on the scaffold were weathering this verbal and physical onslaught with stoicism; others were shouting back, their faces red and strained with rage. Others were slumped – though not so much that the nooses picked up the slack – weeping and pissing themselves quietly.

“A fresh batch for the afterlife,” Sir Radomir murmured. Standing directly in front of the scaffold was a line of Imperial Guardsmen, and behind them a line of city watchmen. Both lines were the victims of ancillary splatter, but stood as silent and immovable as statues.

“Here,” Sir Radomir said, not so much tapping as hitting a man to the rear of the crowd. The man whirled around angrily.

“What?”

“What’s going on,” Sir Radomir said, tilting his chin upward towards the scaffold.

“They are hanging Mlyanars.”

Both Sir Radomir and the man turned to me, for it was I who had spoken. I extended an arm and pointed to someone I recognised. It was Radoslav Gautvin, the man I had seen making wild, ridiculous accusations on the Senate floor months before. I had hated him then, detested him even, watching as he had spewed out ludicrous mistruths and delighted in the outrage that they had caused. Now he cut a wretched, pathetic figure.

The others were the same. Almost all were patricians, but there were a few independents mixed in, too. The one thing they had in common was that they were all about to die.

The man turned away. Some city watch official was reading out a list of charges, most of which centred around treason. A warden was standing near the rear of the scaffold where a Justice might once have stood.

“Serves them fucking right,” Sir Radomir said. “All the shit they have caused, the people they have killed with their prattling on.”

I found myself nodding my agreement. It was easy to hate the Mlyanars. They themselves had acted entirely selfishly, saying whatever words suited them, no matter how abominable. They had irrevocably shifted public discourse, openly speaking of things that the Sovans, with their legendary even-handedness, had stamped out over the course of centuries. They had stirred up the commonfolk who, taking their cues from their political betters, had rioted, looted and murdered. They were as guilty of our current situation as the Templars and Claver.

The order was given and the trapdoors opened. About half were killed outright, their necks broken. One Mlyanar was decapitated where the rope had been cut too long. The rest strangled.

As I watched them die, I wondered if I was a hypocrite for taking satisfaction from their execution. Killing people solved many problems, but it created others. Capital punishment didn’t dissuade people from committing the sorts of crimes that warranted it. Murder and treason continued unabated in spite of the institution of death as a punishment. Even the threat of torture did not stop people conspiring against the state.

How then to deal with such people? It was an impossible question to answer. One could imprison them for the rest of their lives, but to what end? The murderer might feel remorse, but the traitor would never change. What then was the purpose of imprisoning them? Was it a means to cause them to fixate on their crime, to ruminate on it and so elicit remorse and empathy? Or was it to punish? Or both? If they would eventually die in gaol, why not kill them from the off, and spare the state the expense of their custody?

Perhaps I was simply against the idea of killing people for committing crimes at all. I did not know. I still do not know. Sometimes people are just evil, and simply need to be removed from the population. But sometimes, we think people are evil when they themselves are the product of evil treatment. Was it right to punish a beaten dog for biting its master? With death? It seemed better and safer not to take the risk of executing an innocent person at all.

What Vonvalt was doing now – for this mass hanging could have proceeded on no one else’s authority – was the same thing he would have vociferously criticised another for. And for all Vonvalt claimed that he had never been a paragon of justice, a good man, an honourable man, he was in fact all of those things, at his core. It was what made him such a beguiling and infuriating person to know. There was a righteousness within him, but it was being corrupted by the twin prongs of the Draedist arcana and the unlimited power of the Imperial Regency.

The Mlyanars kicked and choked and slowly died. Once they had expired they were cut down, and executioners’ assistants came forward to drag them away to a large wooden cart, which stood ready to take them to a convicts’ pyre.

“Come on,” Sir Radomir said, who had witnessed hundreds of hangings in the course of his life and who was unmoved by this spectacle. “’Tis done with.”

But as we turned to leave, there was a fresh commotion.

“Hold on,” I said, grabbing the sheriff by the forearm. I watched as another two dozen patricians and their associates were brought out to face the noose. “Prince of Hell, how many is he doing?”

Sir Radomir shrugged. “As many as is needed. What is the point of keeping them all? Feeding them, housing them. They will all go to the noose eventually. That is the price of treason.”

“We should set ourselves above such things,” I murmured. “This hanging is precisely what the Mlyanars would have ordained if they had succeeded in their coup. ’Tis Haugenates who would be dangling now.”

“Aye, well. We can let the fancy men weep into their books about it when the war is over.” He spat again on to the cobbles. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

Once again, Heinrich would not sleep in my chamber that night. I could hear him whining and pawing at the door from the hallway, but every time I opened it he would not come in; it took me a long time to realise that he wanted me to come out. But I was tired, and in no mood for what I considered to be his silliness, and so eventually I closed the door in his face.

I stood, peering through the gloom, the only light provided by a solitary candle next to my bed. For the first time in a long time I had no sense of the otherworldly, which often manifested as an intangible… awareness. It is one of those things that is very difficult to put into words. I suppose it was like the kind of sense that Heinrich and other dogs and cats seemed capable of experiencing, a feeling of being observed.

Of anticipating danger.

I undressed and put my bedclothes on and climbed into the bed itself. This part of the day was often the worst for me, where the mortal horrors gave way to the eldritch. The darkness frightened me. I had tried to not sleep, but with all of the physical exertions of fighting and preparing the city for battle, there was simply no way I could keep my eyes open for longer than a few minutes. Still, every night was now full of terror, and not even Heinrich would stay with me. I was almost tempted to go and sleep in the hall, or summon someone to stay in the chamber with me, but after I had been possessed and tried to murder Justice Roza in Linos, I felt like I could not run the risk.

I rolled over on to one side to extinguish the candle, and then endured a spasm of fear as the room was plunged into darkness as black as ink.

As black as the dead eyes of the hanged Mlyanars.

I imagined them standing in a ring around my bed. Even in death, they would have a ghoulish desire to frighten and offend, I was certain of it.

I opened my eyes as the darkness lightened to gloam. I looked askance at the end of the bed, for the first time in a while hoping to catch the golden shimmer of the Shrine Guardians. But there was nothing. Although their presence had frightened me, their absence that night frightened me more.

I closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to claim me. But something changed in the chamber. There was a subtle shift in the quality of the air which I was all too familiar with. Heinrich’s breathing, loud enough to be heard through the door, faded away into nothingness. The distant taps and thumps and echoes which continued unabated throughout the night in the Imperial Palace also diminished. A profound quiet claimed the chamber, as if it had been excised from the building and set into some airless aethereal space.

I opened my eyes again and glanced at the end of the chamber.

There was something there.

My heart lurched. I saw the pale gleam of obsidian black flesh; the subtle glint of moonlight against skin. A figure easily twice the height of Vonvalt and twice as broad stood there. Most of the creature was shrouded in shadow, but I knew exactly who it was.

Ramayah.

I did not move, could not breathe. I became aware of a pattering, trickling sound, like someone slowly tipping water out of a jug. The boards and rug around Ramayah’s feet were darkening with some black liquid. At first I thought it to be ectoplasm, but I realised with a lurch that it was blood.

He took a step forward. A part of my brain was telling me to run, to make a mad dash for the door and flee; but my body would not obey. I was rooted to the bed, so frightened that my heart felt as though it were about to give out.

Another step forward. And then another. A shrill, keening whistle, like the humming of a tuning fork, was ringing in my ears. It was growing in volume. It was the sound of a thousand screaming souls, screaming with calamitous intensity, never pausing, never stopping for any mortal breath. The terror and agony of their ongoing existence was rendered in one unending, unyielding shriek.

Somewhere in the distance, a hundred miles away, I could hear Heinrich barking dementedly at the door, scratching and thumping against it with his bulk.

The blood began to flow upwards now, as though someone were turning back time. I watched as the droplets pattered from the floor up to the ceiling like rain in reverse, and spread there, too. Soon both the floor and the ceiling were covered in blood. The screaming never stopped. It faded, but never went entirely.

Ramayah was at the foot of my bed now. I could not see his face. The shadow clung to his features like a veil. The bedclothes began to turn red like soiled bandages. He reached out a hand to me. Still I could not move. I felt it close around my ankle. For the first time I let out a grunt. I had meant it to be a long, bloodcurdling scream of terror, but a single, guttural grunt was all my rigid body could muster. There was no air in my lungs to expel.

Ramayah began to pull me towards him. His grip was strong and unyielding. I slid down the bed towards him.

“I need you,” he said in Vonvalt’s voice.

Heinrich was barking still. The screaming gave way to a pounding sound. It was like listening to the heartbeat of the earth.

Suddenly the blood was draining away. Ramayah’s grip on me relaxed. In the distance, I heard the caw of a rook. I saw many things; a two-headed snake; Lady Karol Frost; a man tied to a stake in a wildflower meadow, flames licking at his feet.

There was a flash of golden light. I saw a city of gold under a fast blue sky. A statue of a deer-headed woman.

Ramayah withdrew. The door burst open. Heinrich launched in, barking madly and frothing at the mouth. He ran to the end of the chamber where Ramayah had first appeared and agitated madly at invisible interlopers. Several Imperial Guardsmen including Captain Rainer followed him in, swords drawn.

“Helena!” Rainer shouted. “Are you all right? We heard screaming.”

I shook my head, stupefied. “It was not me. It was not my screaming,” I said. For some reason it felt important to clarify, though when I said the words, my throat was raw, as though I had indeed been screaming at the very top of my lungs.

The three Guardsmen overturned the chamber anyway, opening drawers, wardrobes, even looking under the bed as though I were a frightened child. Of course there was nothing. No Ramayah, no blood. Just a nightmare. They were constant now, and so real.

But just a nightmare.

“Sir Konrad has asked for you,” Rainer said, striding across the chamber. “A great host has arrived from the north. We are to have a council of war this morning.”

My features creased in confusion. I had only turned in perhaps five or ten minutes before.

“It is still night-time, is it not? I have only just gone abed.”

Rainer threw open the heavy curtains, filling the chamber with grey light.

“Nay; ’tis dawn, milady. And the pagans are arrived.”

XXVI

An Alliance of Convenience

“A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

SOVAN PROVERB

I could not help but feel a thrill of excitement as I watched the procession pass beneath the Wolf Gate. I exchanged a glance with Captain Rainer. I do not know what honey Sir Radomir had poured into the ears of the Hauners, but whatever he was being paid, it wasn’t enough. The lords of the north had turned out in force.

At the head of the column was Duke Hofmann himself, the foremost Lord of the Hauner Vale. His device was three honeybees against a purple shield, which was being carried by a retainer to his right. Immediately behind Duke Hofmann was Count Maier von Oldenburg, surrounded by his own men, and behind him the first of the lords I recognised, the blond-haired and blond-bearded Baron Hangmar, who had answered Vonvalt’s frantic summons for help in Galen’s Vale.

All of these men were riding armoured and caparisoned warhorses, as were the retainers around them, so that a huge clattering rumble echoed off the flagstones of the high-way. The colours, too, were extraordinary, bold reds, yellows, greens, blues, purples, whites and blacks, intricate heraldic devices, expensive polished plate armour, fine destriers with plaited manes and glossy coats. This was not the brutal functionality of a Legion on the march, where armour was packed away in strongboxes on wagons and horses were given as little weight to carry as possible. This was a display of force and pageantry and confidence as much as anything else. It was a stroke of genius, for the watching commonfolk let up great rapturous cries and the mood in the city was lifted immediately.

Following the Hauner lords and their retinues came the pagan leaders: Lady Frost, Kunagas Ulrich, a sizeable Draedist life guard, and Captain Llyr ken Slaineduro, as well as her own life guard of Brigalanders. In fact it was easy to miss them; the Hauners and their martial ostentation were sucking up all of the attention in the same way a fire drinks all of the air in a room. Captain Llyr looked like a man-at-arms; Lady Frost could have been just about anyone, perhaps a private matria that the more pious lords liked to keep on retainer.

They headed directly for the palace, and I watched the long tail of soldiers follow them through the gate: not just the armed peasantry, auxiliaries and men-at-arms of the Sovans, but thousands of pagans too. Behind them there were more, a further mass of men and women shepherding a vast number of horses, donkeys and oxen who in turn pulled wagons piled high with food, armour and weapons. They moved straight down the Baden High-Way, to the Nastjan Fields staging area in the southern closure of the city.

“Come,” Captain Rainer said, unable to keep the optimism from her voice as she drank in the procession of soldiers. “The Lord Regent is waiting for us inside.”

The strategium was too small to accommodate everybody, and the Hall of Solitude had effectively become a secondary barracks, too open and too filled with Imperial Guardsmen and their equipment. We therefore set up in what had once been a private dining chamber for the Emperor, a large, bright, rectangular room which overlooked the Wolf Gate. In here, heavy mahogany tables were dragged across expensive rugs and boards until a cluster of them made a rough square in the centre of the hall, around which was placed every available chair. In an adjacent kitchen, Vonvalt bade cooks to prepare a light meal, and it was not long before large flagons of ale and wine and dozens of Sovan tankards rendered from ceramic and pewter thumped down in great quantities.

Lady Frost and her pagan associates sat quietly. Hived off from their army, I expected they were actually intimidated by these rambunctious Sovan lords, all of whom made a great display of hugging one another and clapping each other roughly on the shoulders, shaking hands and forearms and making great exclamations of mirth. I myself was clapped on the shoulder a few times by Baron Hangmar, though he might as well have punched me.

Everybody smelt like the road; horses and dogs, mud and muck, hastily consumed victuals, body odour, damp hauberks and oiled mail. The room was so full of heraldry it was like wandering past one of those little pennant stalls that abutted the Arena on games day.

The conversation continued whilst servants fetched maps down from the strategium, until Vonvalt called for order and the hall felt silent.

I studied those around the table. Opposite me and at the far end was Lady Karol Frost, her chief shaman Kunagas Ulrich, and the Brigalander and general of the pagan army, Captain Llyr. Next to her was Sir Gerold Bertilo, and next to him were several Hauners in Legionary colours whom I did not recognise. To my right were the three Hauner lords, Duke Hofmann, Count Maier and Baron Hangmar, whilst opposite them to my left were several more Legionary captains and Sir Radomir. Rounding out the count was a pair of Haugenate senators, and Valter Lončar, who was the most senior ranking Templar from the Order of Saint Saxanhilde, Severina von Osterlen’s order and the only remaining loyalist Templars in the city.

Finally, the head of the table, there was Vonvalt, Captain Rainer, and of course, myself.

“Thank you,” Vonvalt said, standing. It seemed strange to see him out of his armour, for he had taken to wearing the Imperial Guard cuirass and heavy white cloak that had fast become the symbol of his Regency. “Thank you for coming here. For listening to Sir Radomir and my entreaties. For trusting me, and my judgement. For taking the threat seriously. For the longest time I was myself blind to the danger that Bartholomew Claver posed to this Empire. Now I have seen – many times – the great evil he is capable of.”

“Before we go any further, Sir Konrad,” Lord Hofmann said. He was a sour, red-faced man, the oldest at the table by some considerable margin, and not someone I would have taken as a natural ally of Vonvalt. “There is the question of the Emperor to address.”

A murmur of grumbled agreement went up from the other Hauners and Legionaries around the table.

“I have deposed the Emperor,” Vonvalt said simply.

Various noises were produced, most some degree of incredulous. “By what authority?” Hofmann asked.

“Not authority, my lord. Obligation. The obligation of any Sovan citizen to preserve the realm and all its holdings and persons. The Emperor is not himself. His mental faculties are much diminished. I have good reason to believe that the enemy has penetrated his mind and turned it inwards. When I arrived in Sova, I found it in disarray. Mlyanars and rogue elements of the Imperial Guard had attempted a coup, which the Emperor had done almost nothing to detect, avoid and combat. It was clear to me that extreme measures were necessary to preserve the Sovan state. And the holdings of those who owe it their allegiance,” he added pointedly.

Hofmann grumbled. He gestured roughly to Lady Karol Frost. “‘Extreme measures’ is the right phrase. You have forced me and my lords—” he gestured to Count Maier and Baron Hangmar, the former who nodded his agreement vigorously, the latter remaining impassive “— to tolerate – nay, accommodate – those who but several weeks ago we would have been moving to crush.”

“Vi estus provinta,” Captain Llyr muttered.

“What was that?” Lord Hofmann demanded, but the Brigalander simply offered him a sarcastic smile.

“Lady Frost and her host are here at my invitation,” Vonvalt said. “I know that for centuries we have considered the Draedists of the Northmark and beyond to be our natural enemies, but together we all have an enemy in Bartholomew Claver. It has taken a great deal of foresight and level-headedness for you all to have come here in the spirit of alliance, and I – and the commonfolk of the Empire, certainly – are grateful for that.”

“As well you should be. There are plenty more who did not answer the call,” Hofmann grumbled. “And you,” he said, now addressing the two Haugenate senators at the table. “You are fine with this arrangement?”

Both of these carefully selected and positioned political allies inclined their head. One of them said, “Kardas gero žmogaus rankoje,” an old proverb which translated as “A sword in hand of a good man.”

Hofmann rolled his eyes. “He has the Imperial Guard, and now the city is his. It is like Valentina’s Rebellion all over again.”

“Peace, my lord. Sir Konrad answers to none of us. To the contrary. He is a Justice,” Baron Hangmar said.

“Was,” Hofmann groused. “I see the Grand Lodge is burned. And neither hair nor hide of another Justice. Or is Sir Konrad the Magistratum as well as the Emperor? Perhaps we should make him the Senate, too. Seems to me we have simply traded the risk of one dictator for the reality of another.”

There was silence. Hofmann had gone too far, and he knew it, judging by his expression. I knew that his comment about the absence of other Justices would especially have stung Vonvalt given the purge of the Magistratum he had led in weeks gone by.

“Are you finished?” Vonvalt asked.

Hofmann mumbled something. Vonvalt decided to leave the matter there.

“The fact of the matter is, the Empire is in a precarious position. The Legions have struggled to find success along the Kova. I have sent instructions for every garrison to be abandoned and for every Legion to return to the capital as quickly as possible, but—”

“You have not had the news?” Baron Hangmar asked. The way he said it made my blood surge.

“What news?” Vonvalt demanded, his temper flaring, both at the interruption and in anticipation of more bad tidings.

“More of a rumour than news. The Prince Tasa is killed at Reussberg. Word is by the Lady Iliyana herself, though personally that is a little neat for my blood.”

“A bard’s fancy,” Maier agreed idly.

Vonvalt gritted his teeth. “When did this take place?”

“A week ago perhaps? The talk in Wolfenshut was that the whole Confederation was on the move. Reussberg has fallen, as has Kolstadt and Kovaburg. Blackpowder, vast quantities of it detonated in a rash of attacks all up the length of the river.”

“There was talk of a Kovan host east of Haugenstadt,” Maier added.

Hangmar nodded. “Aye. We had thought to stay in Wolfenshut for another few days, for Baron Mlakar said there was another hundred coming from Zlatkosberg, but we left immediately when we heard. There will be some Legionaries cutting down from the north-east, but they could well be overrun en route.” Hangmar looked apologetic. “Just to throw another few troubles on to the pile.”

“They do not wield the arcana.” Everybody turned. It was Lady Frost who had spoken. “The walls of Sova can hold them. They cannot hold Claver. He remains our primary concern.”

Vonvalt nodded along at this piece of wisdom, even though his expression was darkened by the news of an assault from the east. I knew his thoughts had immediately turned to von Osterlen and the raid she was orchestrating with the Grasvlaktekraag. That had always been a desperate throw of the dice, but nonetheless I felt as though we had all come to rely on it as a fait accompli.

“Were there any other rumours? Anything to do with Kasar?” Vonvalt asked.

Hangmar shook his head without even considering the matter for a moment. “No.”

“Why would there be a rumour about Kasar?” Hofmann asked sharply, but Vonvalt did not answer. Instead, he let out a long sigh.

“We are living in dangerous times,” Vonvalt said. “You must have many questions.”

“Not least about the arcana,” Hofmann grumbled. “It is being said that this Neman, ‘Claver’, is able to compel people in the same way a Magistrate could. That he has some other dark sorceries under his belt. What was it you were telling me?” he asked Hangmar directly. “That he can move people with his mind alone?”

Hangmar nodded. “It happened in the Vale of Galen. After Westenholtz and his insurrection.”

“Damn that man,” Hofmann muttered. “He always was such a sour cunt.”

The irony of that statement coming from a man as disagreeable as Duke Hofmann seemed to be lost on him. Still, he had come, and he had come with an army. It was more than most. Vonvalt could weather a great deal of surliness if the ultimate outcome was compliance.

“We do not know precisely what powers he has managed to acquaint himself with. But I do know that Helena managed to curtail them by burning the old lore in Keraq.”

“That was well done, milady,” Hofmann said to me.

I inclined my head in thanks. I was grateful for the compliment, but all I could think about were the demons and the death of Bressinger.

“What can he do, then? Aside from this… psychic battery?” Hofmann asked.

“He can wield the Emperor’s Voice. With it, he can compel a man to disarm himself. He has taught this power to a great many of his acolytes, too, and I expect these warrior priests will be in abundance in the Templar vanguard.”

“Put the Imperial Guard in our van,” Hofmann said dismissively. “They are trained to withstand the Voice, are they not?”

Captain Rainer nodded. “We are.”

“What else has Claver acquainted himself with? What is to stop us feathering him from the walls at a hundred paces?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Vonvalt said dourly, immune to optimism. In truth, though, I was taking some comfort from the old duke’s aggressive confidence. “Unfortunately, he is able to shield himself. It is as though he has a second suit of armour on, an inch thick and made of air as hard as iron.”

“Hm. That’s no fun,” Hofmann said, sounding a little incredulous in spite of the circumstances.

“It gets worse. Claver is able to create thralls. Demonic thralls. He vacates a person of their spiritual matter and then allows an entity of great strength and malevolence to possess them. So harnessed, they make formidable fighters.”

There was a tense silence. I looked up to see Lady Frost looking at me. She had a peculiar look in her eye.

“Prince of Blood—” Hofmann swore, but I cut across him.

“Please don’t say that,” I said quietly.

The duke gave me a quizzical look. “Eh?”

Vonvalt shot me an irritated glance.

“Ŝi finfine vidis lin,” Lady Frost said. There was sympathy in her voice. Next to her, Kunagas Ulrich nodded his agreement. His expression was pained. Even Captain Llyr looked sympathetic. It was funny how in a room full of fellow Sovans, it was this odd coven of Draedists in the corner whom I felt the closest connexion with, even when I could not understand them.

No one knew what to make of this bizarre exchange, but I could tell that with perhaps the exception of Baron Hangmar, the Legionaries and Hauners around the table were having not a little difficulty in swallowing this talk of magick and sorcery and demons.

Well, they would be grappling with the sharp end of it soon enough.

“We are dealing with dark forces here. You know me by reputation. Many of you know me personally. I’m not a credulous man. And I am aware that many people will never witness the exercise of the arcana in person. You will have to take it from me that this fight will test your very sanity. These are monsters – very real monsters. How else could it be possible for ten thousand men to threaten Sova? Do you think I would have taken the actions I have, the extreme measures, the recalling of the Legions from the Confederation – for all the good that seems to have done,” he added darkly, “the defrocking of the Emperor himself, and all of these curious alliances of convenience if I were not absolutely convinced of the magnitude of the danger we face?”

“And we around this table are all that is available to fight them,” Sir Radomir said.

There was another silence.

“Well,” Hofmann said, gesturing to Lady Frost. “We have been travelling south with the pagans. They have shamans. Can we not summon some monsters of our own?”

Lady Frost smiled thinly. Now she looked pointedly at Vonvalt. I wondered if she knew about the killing of Vladimir von Geier.

“No,” she said. “It is possible, but we should exercise extreme caution. There are other matters at work here. There is a war in the holy dimensions. What we are witnessing in Sova is the end result of a great many dark schemes.”

Lady Frost was no fool. She knew that to delve into the specifics of these matters risked making her sound profoundly unhinged. Vonvalt clearly felt similarly, for he had not – and would not – divulge the details of everything we had seen and experienced in the afterlife.

“The truth of the matter is, there are certain things that we can do, and that will be a matter for Lady Frost and I,” he said.

“The ‘pagan queen’,” Lord Hofmann sneered.

“Your being amongst your fellow Sovan lords has emboldened you, Duke,” Lady Frost said icily. “Your tone was much friendlier on the Hauner Road.”

Baron Hangmar broke the uncomfortable silence that followed with a hearty laugh, clapping the duke on the shoulder. “’Tis true. We are not natural friends, and if the pagans are indeed responsible for the wholesale destruction of the Sixteenth Legion – which Lady Frost assures us that she is – then I expect one day there shall be reckoning.”

“There shall be no reckoning,” Vonvalt snapped. “If Lady Frost and Captain Llyr are responsible for helping us defeat Claver and spare Sova its untimely end, then they shall have earned their reward.”

“The precise nature of which continues to escape me,” Lord Hofmann said pointedly.

I realised then, of course, that Vonvalt had not explained to the Hauner lords what was to become of the Sovan Empire if and when Claver was defeated. It seemed extremely unlikely that Hofmann would willingly accept the partitioning of the northern half of Haunersheim.

Vonvalt exchanged a glance with Lady Frost. “There are terms, of course. A truce, the release of some prisoners, some payments.” He conveniently left off the addendum, “of land”. I had to stop myself from visibly wincing. I was not looking forward to the time when Vonvalt had to grasp that nettle. “But enough of this. We must discuss dispositions of forces. The city is as emptied of useless mouths as I can make it, and for the useful – or at least the immovable, Sova has stores for a siege of at least six months. And, were it just a siege, I would not be worried at all. I would let Claver’s lack of numbers, extended supply lines and inevitable disease take care of his army while we sit quietly in the capital.

“But, even leaving aside the Draedist arcana – and we cannot be sure precisely how that will play out – the biggest threat is blackpowder. The Confederation has been stockpiling it for many months. Lady Iliyana has struck a bargain with Claver that she will assist his venture in claiming the Imperial throne, provided he withdraws any and all of the Autun’s claims east of the Kova. She is a fool for trusting him, but, trusted him she has. And Kòvosk has the largest supply of blackpowder in the known world. Which means the walls of Sova can be undone in fairly short order.”

“It would take a vast store of blackpowder to undo the walls of Sova,” Hofmann remarked. “They must be twenty feet thick at least.”

“The walls of Südenburg were not much thinner and a single barrel of it put a hole in those,” Vonvalt said dismissively.

The conversation moved to more tactical and strategic considerations. Everyone clamoured to talk, to have their say. Victuals were provided. Tension between the pagans and the Sovans ebbed away as everybody got stuck into the detail of the defence of the city. Maps were pored over and studied, and detailed lists of available forces and their strength were drawn up.

Hours passed. The afternoon wore into evening, until all of the plans that were going to be laid that day were laid. The lords were tired after a long journey, and needed rest.

So it was that we dispersed, tired, but with a renewed sense of purpose. A little time before dusk fell, I found myself standing atop the walls about a hundred yards west of the Victory Gate. This aspect of Sova was an impressive one, where the Sauber’s two sun-silvered southern branches recombined near the Poor King’s Bridge. For at least a mile and probably more, the city spilled out into the Ebenen Plains, an unofficial surplus closure that was filled with the houses of lesser merchants and pedlars, their last chance to secure passage to the Frontier this side of Saxanfelde.

The sky was a sick, dirty yellow, whilst bruise-purple clouds scudded overhead on the breeze. Pennants and flags flapped and snapped around me, tugging against their poles. City watchmen in the red, yellow and blue livery of the Empire traded idle conversation. Nearby, several men checked the ropes on a ballista, whilst a huge iron cannon, one of only about ten on the walls, was inspected by the duty serjeant.

“How are you, Helena?” sounded a voice to my left. Next to me, Heinrich wagged his tail and groaned happily as Lady Karol Frost scratched his ears. To Lady Frost’s left stood Ulrich. I could smell his pungent, herby scent even with the strong prevailing winds.

I turned away from her and looked back out over the view. “I am losing my mind,” I said. I was quiet for a moment, considering what I had just uttered. I nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think that’s right.”

It was right. There were no two ways about it. I was simply not equipped to deal with the constant horror I found myself confronted by.

Lady Frost did something I did not expect; she put her hand on my shoulder, and squeezed it gently.

I was overwhelmed by this simple gesture. I had spent so long in the company of gruff, taciturn men twice my age that I had not realised just how much I missed the company of another woman. The matronly squeeze; the motherly embrace; the sisterly giggle. My life and circumstances had hardened my soul, forced me to become inured to the despicable and the horrific – to say nothing of the arcane. And whilst it would have been easy for me to portray my twenty-year-old self in this account as some stoic heroine, the reality is far less impressive. These dark years broke me.

“I understand, Helena. I do,” Lady Frost said, seeing that it was taking all of my fortitude to simply stand still and watch the city to the south. “If you take any comfort from this, know that we approach a reckoning. It will all be over soon, one way or the other.”

“Here, perhaps,” I said eventually. “And that’s just it, isn’t it? Here, on this… world, plane, realm.” I gestured broadly out to the Ebenen Plains. “We might defeat Claver here. Kill him, destroy his Templars, cut his poisonous ideology out of the world like a rotten heart from a corpse. But then what? The powers are there. The sorceries, the magicks. These means to commune with and puppeteer the dead still exist. And that is to say nothing of the afterlife itself. That is what vexes me the most.” I felt my blood surge as the first stirrings of panic began to reassert themselves. It was always just below the surface now, a feeling of acute desperation. I knew that if I indulged it, even for a moment, it would overwhelm me. “Death is not even a release. I cannot even die and be rid of this nightmare.”

I spoke the last words quietly. It felt good to say them to someone who had no personal investment in my survival. Telling Vonvalt had simply made him angry and upset; Sir Radomir, too, would be upset, and that would mean managing their emotions as well as my own. I just wanted to tell someone how I felt and not have them get angry because they loved me, or break down because the thought of my dying made them distraught. I wanted someone to deal with it like a physician might, as a problem to be solved.

Lady Karol nodded. “It is not all bleak,” she said. “This is a problem – one of the great many problems – with the Autun. With the Neman Church. They have never understood the afterlife and the arcana. To them it is like a fortress to be besieged. They broke into the holy dimensions a few centuries ago, ransacked a few chambers, and left, and now have proclaimed themselves experts and masters of the magicks.” She snorted bitterly. “Even the most learned members of the Church and the Magistratum, the likes of your ‘Master Kane’, know so little. Yet to speak to them, to speak of them, you would think they were the wisest and most learned spiritualists in the land. They attack the afterlife, attack it like a problem to be solved. They treat everything there as either unknown, unknowable or hostile, because to them it is. And everyone listens to them because what they say sounds like wisdom and it is all you have ever known.

“But there is a balance. Like all things there is a balance, an equilibrium that exists. There is no plane of existence that can subsist in a constant state of flux and chaos. It is the way of all things; there may be cycles of violence and destruction, but no being can endure when there is nothing but misery and death. Even the most evil amongst us cannot survive in such circumstances. If we lose, if Claver survives and claims the Imperial throne and brings all of the Sovan provinces under his yoke, even that will not last. It may last for the balance of our lifetimes – for the balance of his lifetime – but not in the great natural schemes of the earth.”

I looked over to the pair of them, these old Draedists. How was it that they could have accrued so much wisdom? I found years of anti-Draedist prejudice a difficult thing to overcome. Who were they to swan in and declare everything the Magistratum had achieved to be null and void?

Feeling reckless, I said, “If you are so well versed in the arcana, why do the Draedists of the Northmark not command the Sovan Empire? Why allow yourselves to be crushed under the sabaton of the Autun for decades? Centuries? Why not do what Claver is doing now?”

Lady Frost regarded me. “All you have known is conquest. Manaeisland – what you know to be “Tolsburg” – was taken when you were a child. Draedaland when I was a child. We have simply accepted that the conquest of peoples, that expansion, is a normal, natural thing, so much so that its absence baffles us. What is so difficult to understand? That we simply wish to exist in peace? To till the fields, to feed our families, to explore the afterlife in a respectful way, to practise our own religion? Without the need to force everybody else around us to accept those same beliefs? That same way of living? Sir Konrad is so important to us, because he is the only one who trusts us to simply… exist. The Northmark is not valuable to the Empire. It is not even valuable to Haunersheim! A bit of grass for sheep grazing, enough tillable land to feed us, and enough timber to keep us warm in the winter. And yet the Autun built Seaguard, one of the largest fortresses in the Empire, to watch over it. The Sovans will never let us go because they distrust us. They think that as soon as we are left to our own devices, we will gather and husband our forces and then attack. Sir Konrad understands the value of self-interest. He knows what it is the people want; to live. Happily and without the threat of death hanging over them. Everything else, all this talk of conquest and empires… it is all so meaningless.”

I let out a long sigh. I regretted bringing it up – not because I disagreed with anything she said, but because it was important, and yet my mind was elsewhere.

“Justice August spoke with me,” I said. “She explained to me what was happening.”

“Then you understand your importance in these affairs?”

I shook my head slowly. “I do not think I will ever understand.”

Lady Frost took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. We watched the clouds over the Ebenen Plains. There was a great deal of activity in the farmlands to the south. What I thought had been braziers turned out to be the beginnings of bonfires. They were burning the crops ahead of the arrival of the Templars. In the distance, men were cleaning the moss off the painted stones that acted like range markers for the trebuchets.

“I see angels,” I said quietly. “Around my bed every night.”

“I know. The Shrine Guardians.” Lady Frost put her hand on my shoulder again. “One day, if you would like to learn about it, about the significance of all of these entities and how they sit within the structure of the afterlife, I will teach you.”

I nodded. But in truth, I was not interested. I just wanted it all to be over.

“I saw Ramayah. He was in my bedchamber.” The words were so quiet they could be barely heard over the wind.

“I know that, too,” Lady Frost said sympathetically. “I am sorry to say it will not be the last time. I will give you a charm, which should stop the nightmares. But he will be there.”

I felt my chest pulse painfully for a moment, and looked down, placing my hand over the tattoo of Aegraxes on my sternum.

“We are doing what we can,” Lady Frost said, observing the gesture. “I know that the lack of information is frustrating, but we must be so careful, so very careful with what we say and do. To misdirect the temporal pathway now could undo everything we have worked hard to achieve.”

“Here,” Ulrich said. He produced a small box from inside his robes, half the size of my palm. Something rattled inside it. Heinrich whined. Somewhere far away, I heard a shout of rage.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Keep it about you. It will help with the visions.”

The three of us stood in silence for a while, looking out over the sprawl of buildings, vineyards, fields, wharves that spread beyond the walls. The air was thick with smoke where gangs of soldiers moved south, burning crops to deny Claver and his Templars subsistence. Nearby, the farmers and labourers watched.

“Not long now,” Lady Frost said. She nodded to herself, then exchanged a glance with Ulrich.

“Not long now.”

Vonvalt was back in the Imperial Palace. I had to ask a succession of people where he had gone, and was surprised to learn that he was with the Emperor himself.

The Emperor’s stateroom was on the first floor of the Imperial Palace, accessible by a single narrow staircase which itself was followed by a single narrow corridor. The old Haugenate emperors had clearly been a paranoid mob, filling the fortress-like Palace with checkpoints and holdouts and murder holes that would be more suited to the Templar castles of the Frontier.

At the end of the corridor, Kimathi stood guard, as statuesque as the day I had first seen him. He did not prevent my entry, as I expected he might, though he did hold out an enormous, clawed hand for my sword. I handed it over without ceremony, and then my dagger, too. I felt as though I should talk to him, but for all I had seen of his homeland and his kin, I found the huge Kasar to be as enigmatic as the day I had first laid eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled to him. “For… Nema, I don’t know. Everything that has happened.”

Kimathi regarded me with his huge, lupine eyes. Then slowly, he laid a hand on my shoulder. He left it there for a moment; then he pulled open the door.

Beyond the threshold was a chamber of breathtaking size and ostentation. The Emperor was lying in his bed, clad in white bedclothes and a cloak of maroon satin. He looked like an unkempt old man, an invalid. Next to him, Vonvalt looked like a giant, his black breastplate and white cloak giving him an imperious air. He wanted only for a laurel crown; then he could have been one of the Kliner oil paintings in the Hall of Solitude.

If either man was bothered by the interruption, they showed no sign of it.

“Scouts have reported a large host moving up the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way,” I said. “They will be here in a matter of hours.”

Vonvalt nodded. “So. We begin.”

I glanced at the Emperor, and was startled to see he was staring at me.

“Your master has stolen the throne from me,” he rumbled.

I looked to Vonvalt, but he did not visibly react.

“A regency, Majesty. Not a supplantation.” I said it not because I thought it was true, but because I wanted it to be true. The fact of the matter was, I had no idea what Vonvalt’s intentions were, though I suspected he thought he was about to be killed in the battle for Sova. Indeed, I suspected he would contrive to be killed in the battle for Sova, even if a victory seemed in the offing, if only to avoid the burdensome politicking that was sure to follow.

The Emperor snorted. The snort turned into a cough, a deep rattling basso in his core. I frowned at that.

“Yes,” he grumbled. “I look forward to the day when Sir Konrad defeats Claver and the Templars and the Confederation and then steps down and hands the reins of power back to me.”

“I have explained to—” Vonvalt started, but the Emperor cut him off.

“Bah!” he snapped. “You have explained what you believe yourself to be capable of. It is nonsense! It is a power none willingly part with. It fills you, wraps itself around your core, and permeates your every fibre. You could no more surrender the Emperorship than your own heart and lungs.”

“You forget; I have enjoyed unlimited authority for most of my life.”

“A power that I bestowed upon you!” the Emperor roared. The surge of anger seemed to empty him of his energy reserves. “And you are not a Justice. Not any more. There is no Magistratum.” He snorted quietly. “You are ‘the last Justice’. There is a poetry in that, is there not? And an irony,” he added pointedly. “You call yourself Justice, but you are not one; and you call yourself Emperor, yet you are not the Emperor.”

“I do not call myself the Emperor,” Vonvalt said. “I call myself the Lord Regent. It is an historically precedented title.”

I wondered why Vonvalt was bothering with this. It seemed like a pointless discussion. The Emperor was right; Vonvalt was the ultimate authority in the Empire and the only way that was going to change was if he died or surrendered the power. All any of us could hope for now was that he was as even-handed, level-headed and pragmatic as he had both promised and intimated he would be. But how many kings and queens and emperors of old had assumed the throne with the same good intentions?

The Emperor let out another peal of coughing. It was an ugly, rattling sound.

I looked at him, really studied him for the first time in a long time. It was easy to forget, surrounded by all the trappings of state, that the Emperor was just a man, as vulnerable to a pox as any peasant.

“You have taken ill?” I asked the Emperor.

He looked at me, as though he had forgotten I was there. “Aye,” he said, and then, as if in secondary answer, coughed again. I winced; it was the kind of cough that preceded an untimely death. “Is it any wonder?” the Emperor muttered. “Your master has poisoned me.”

I looked sharply at Vonvalt. He looked nakedly surprised. “Majesty, I have not—”

“Not with a physical substance,” the Emperor sneered. “With your treachery. You have crushed me, crushed my life force and my spirit. Now I must face Valent Saxan as a failure. Deposed, humiliated. Nema, Konrad, how I detest you.”

The look of surprise on Vonvalt’s face hardened back to contempt. “None of this would have happened had you listened to me in the first place.”

But the Emperor waved him off. “Leave me. Leave me to fester with my nightmares. I tire of this malignant earth.”

Vonvalt stood in silence for a moment. “Well, I have said what I have come to say,” he said.

“I said go!” the Emperor thundered.

It was the last time I would see him alive. He would perish but a few days later, an ignominiously unremarkable passing that barely registered amongst the calamitous events overtaking the city.

“Indeed,” Vonvalt said. “Come, Helena.”

I followed him out. Vonvalt paused at the threshold to speak in low tones to Kimathi.

We parted ways awkwardly, sick to death of one another’s company. I made my way outside, to where my life guard and Heinrich awaited, and together we were carted down to the barracks to snatch a few hours’ sleep in anticipation of the attack.

The next day, the sun did not rise.

XXVII

The Sky Turned Black

“It is easy to praise the saints whilst the sun is shining.”

SOVAN PROVERB

The charm that Ulrich gave me seemed to work, and I had a night free of terror. But I still did not sleep well. The Imperial Guard, city watch, Hauner and pagan forces and Sovan volunteer companies, close to fifteen thousand men and women, plus their horses, mules, and war dogs, provided a constant cacophony of noise – and that was at a time when most of them were trying to sleep. Indeed, that was not even the entire force, for although Claver was approaching from the south, there was no guarantee that he would attack from the south. Smaller detachments of soldiers needed to be spaced out around the city and its gates.

In truth, and in spite of the many planning sessions which had taken place hitherto, nobody knew what Claver’s plan was. Most agreed that a lengthy siege was extremely unlikely; the Templars simply did not have enough men to besiege a city the size of Sova, and with Imperial Legions fleeing west from the Kova, the Ebenen Plains would become a dangerous place for any marshalling host. Especially if von Osterlen and the Grasvlaktekraag had failed – which seemed all but certain – and Claver had stacks of blackpowder, then he could simply blow one of the walls to smithereens and force an engagement on his own terms.

But it was not just soldiers and blackpowder that Claver had on his side. Malevolent entities from the afterlife, demons, elementals of considerable power bolstered him and his dark designs at every step. Who knew what small actions they had effected over the weeks, months, years, centuries, to steer the hand of Fate and divert the temporal pathway? The man who, in a fit of rage, murders his child, who could have grown up to become the patria who sought to improve ties with the Magistratum, rather than set the two institutions at odds; the mule lugging a cart full of important volumes which is spooked by a pack of wolves, tipping the irreplaceable magical tomes into a nearby river; a secret meeting of conspirators prevented by heavy rains, turning a road impassable, scuppering plans to assassinate an important Justice. Individually, these things were almost inconsequential. But taken together, and when viewed through the long lens of history, they dictated the course of human events.

It was difficult to know where Claver’s designs began and Ramayah’s designs ended, and who was taking advantage of whom. I did not want to excuse Claver any of his actions. He might have been manipulated, but he had allowed himself to be manipulated. His mind had always been fertile ground for malevolence. Perhaps Ramayah had taken root in the fortress of his brain, but it had been a fortress with its gates open.

My biggest worry was that, even if we succeeded, even if we killed Claver, his ideas would persist and survive. Perhaps in killing him we would martyr him? We certainly considered him evil – and he was evil, be in no doubt – but there were others who did not. Hundreds, perhaps thousands. Sova was not just Sovan any more. It was not confined to the liberal urban sensibilities of its elite in the city. In expanding, in taking on the provinces, it had taken on their least-desirable elements too; fusty old power-hungry aristocrats, ill educated and bigoted commonfolk, blinkered religious traditionalists. These were the kind of people who praised men like Claver and the Mlyanar patricians for their “straight talking”, “salt of the earth” credentials; who loved and championed the Templars not because they believed that their mission was a holy one, but because they wanted to see brown and black Qareshians and Saekas and Southern Plainsmen killed in droves; who despaired of change, the secularisation of society, the advances of technology and the fraternal compact of nations. To these people, having a brutal religious fundamentalist on the throne was preferable to a secular Emperor kept in check by a representative Senate, because someone like Claver would preserve their way of life and destroy the way of life of others. It was these selfish, stupid, often older people who would resent Vonvalt and his pagan compatriots forever if we won.

My mind was a maelstrom of these dark thoughts as I was roused by the clarion call of horns. It was still dark outside, which was odd given that I felt intrinsically that it should have been at least dawn. I had slept in a large shared dormitory, and everyone around me roused themselves and began to prepare for war.

No one had known what to do with me. Vonvalt wanted me near him for my own safety, but not so near him that I distracted him. I took the decision out of his hands by insisting that I fight, but he would not put me with the Imperial Guard, for they were to be in the vanguard, and they would not put me with the volunteer companies, for although most of them were Reichskrieg veterans, it was widely accepted that they would be the first to break if it came to a straight fight. In the end, I was secreted in amongst Baron Hangmar’s men. I explicitly rejected the appointment of a life guard, though judging by a small collection of sturdy and hard-bitten men and women who kept looking over at me, I suspected that one had been appointed anyway.

I donned my armour, buckled my short sword about my hips, and hefted up my sohle shield. The people whom I knew – Sir Gerold, Sir Radomir, Captain Rainer – all had their own responsibilities, and were not nearby; but I had Heinrich with me, and I took a great deal of comfort from that.

Baron Hangmar’s men were billeted in tents on the Nastjan Fields. Given that they had travelled the length of the Empire alongside Count Maier, Duke Hofmann and Lady Karol’s pagans, they had already formed a moderately cohesive force, and I watched the Hauner lords as they discussed matters with Captain Llyr and her serjeants at the northern end of the fields next to the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way. But it was not these preparations or manoeuvrings which held my gaze. In spite of the hour – for the city bells were tolling six – it remained dark. Not dark like the dead of night, but a gloomy predawn darkness, a strange gloaming, as though time had frozen. Above, the sky was filled with a mass of oppressive black cloud, which exuded pressure on the city like a physical weight. Around me, a very tangible tension rose from the assembled soldiers like a cloud of malignant vapour. Already I could see unease filtering through the ranks. Only Lady Frost’s pagans seemed to be immune; they laughed and traded jokes and taunted the frightened Hauners around them.

Horns were sounded. I could see atop the wall soldiers gesticulating frantically to one another, and signal flags were raised around the city. The Templar host was finally here, on the Ebenen Plains, several miles south of the burned farms and outermost townships which abutted the Estran Wall.

The waiting was the worst part. I had no way to see the approaching host, though I could hear them singing hymnals, which carried on the breeze. Instead, all I could see was the huge Victory Gatehouse and the Estran Wall either side of it. In front of me stood the Imperial Guard, silent, disciplined. The city watch stood in ranks behind them, though they were much diminished given they had the rest of the city to patrol and keep secure; and then the pagans and Hauners of which I was a part. It set us a good distance away, to the northernmost parts of the Nastjan Fields, so that the rearmost of our ranks abutted the Imperial Guard garrison steps.

I expected there to be some frenzy of activity then; the big trebuchets and cannons and ballistae to fire, though of course their range was measured in the low hundreds of yards, perhaps more when fired from the top of the Estran Wall, but certainly not the miles needed to hit Claver. Archers and crossbowmen, too, standing atop the wall made no effort to even take arrows out from their quivers or wind their firing mechanisms. I hoped that as Claver advanced some random archer or artilleryman would strike lucky and simply obliterate the man, for yes, he could stop a sword cut with his mind, but could he stop a cannonball travelling at many hundreds of feet a second?

The darkness remained. Around me, soldiers began to shift uneasily. Standing still, armoured and carrying shields soon caused the back and knees to ache, and an earthly restlessness began to set in alongside a spiritual one. No one was talking now. I turned behind me, taking in the volunteer companies who were on the high-way itself. They were actually pretty well turned out, most in mail rather than plate, but mail would stop most things by itself. In front of them stood the loyalist Templars from the Order of Saint Saxanhilde, resplendent in their black and white surcoats.

The day stubbornly refused to lighten. The whisperings continued. And then, cutting through the uneasy silence, a loud scream penetrated the air, causing everyone to jolt suddenly.

We all searched for the source of the noise. I turned to the man next to me, and yelped; his face was gone, and a grinning, bloody skull looked back at me. It was Senator Jansen, his face flap hanging open, black ectoplasm drooling from his mouth. I backed away, bumping into the woman to my left, who shoved me.

“What’s the matter with you?” she snapped. I looked to her, then looked back to the man, but the gristly visage of Jansen had gone, to be replaced with the baffled expression of a regular, slightly dishevelled looking Hauner.

Another scream went up. Once again we all started, and looked around nervously; but again, there was nothing.

Then I heard the clicking sound, the tapping of bone against bone, the trickle of blood on to flagstones, the rattling like dice in a cup.

Ramayah.

“Illusions,” I said. I had to say it again, for the first time had been little more than a whisper. Next to me, Heinrich whined, his canine senses much more sensitive and attuned to these unearthly goings-on. “Just illusions.”

I willed it to be true. I heard cries of “Stay, there!” and “Stand fast!” from serjeants around the assembled host, particularly in the volunteer companies. But these calls for calm were being drowned out by more screams. Some of them were bloodcurdling aethereal shrieks, but some were very human cries of pain and anguish. They were just visions, tricks, but everybody was so on edge, so highly strung, that already I could see the beginnings of discord being sown.

I had no idea how long this psychic assault went on for. Men and women turned sharply as though tapped on the shoulder; I saw a couple flinch violently as though someone had raised a hand to them. One Templar several hundred feet away gasped and scrabbled back madly away from a gargoyle which he swore had moved and spoken to him.

I found myself gripping the charm that Kunagas Ulrich had given me. Somewhere in the distance, I fancied I heard a laugh. For the briefest of moments, no longer than the space between two blinks, the whole of the Nastjan Fields transformed into a pool of blood, as though someone had placed an enormous plate of red glass atop the entire staging ground. The Estran Wall and Victory Gatehouse were transformed into huge monoliths of bone, bleeding entire waterfalls of blood. And there, atop the walls themselves, was a figure—

Ramayah.

The vision disappeared. I heaved in a deep breath. The people around me were eyeing me nervously. I could not even berate them for being superstitious; their fears were very well grounded.

I heard the voice of Vonvalt to my left and turned. He was marching down the high-way, conspicuously unafraid, flanked on both sides by an impressive honour guard of ostentatiously armoured Imperial Guardsmen.

“Hold, there! Hold! Parlour tricks! Do not be afraid, defenders of Sova! Stand fast! Hearts of iron will prevail!”

He swept past us, and none could deny the powerful calming effect this was having on the assembled soldiers. I found myself heartened, too, though this was quickly tempered by a small black creature which I saw scampering behind Vonvalt. To start with I thought it was another Sovan War Shepherd like Heinrich, but it moved strangely, almost like an ape. I realised that it was a gargoyle – the same gargoyle that the Templar had shrunk back from in terror.

I blinked ferociously and then rubbed my eyes hard. The thing vanished. No one else remarked on the horrible creature.

We were in much more trouble than I had anticipated. I was well acquainted with these horrors; but for most of these people, the Draedist arcana had only ever been some random, distant concept. It was an accepted practice of the Magistratum and pagan shamans in the borderlands, certainly, but something that most people would never encounter at any time in their lives. Now they were about to confront its most appalling aspects at a time when they needed to be at their bravest.

We had not even started the battle proper, and already I was sure we did not have the stomach for it.

Vonvalt continued to sweep down the high-way, leaving a calming, soothing balm in his wake. But a moment later, a cataclysmic explosion filled the air. A great hue and cry went up all around me. For a few moments, complete confusion and panic reigned. For my own part, I thought a great peal of thunder had split the sky, given the thick banks of black cloud which sat low over the city; but then I looked over to where Vonvalt was, and saw a pile of bodies. A great splatter of blood marked the flagstones.

“No,” I whispered. My breath caught. If Vonvalt was killed, then our efforts to defend Sova truly were strangled in the cradle. I squinted through the haze. At least one member of his life guard had been obliterated. Another had lost a leg. The flagstones had been smashed, with great cracks radiating out from the centre like they had been hit by an enormous mallet.

Then another thunderous report cracked through the air, and I watched as a group of Imperial Guardsmen collapsed in various states of dismemberment about fifty yards away. Scraps of armour and pieces of person spun through the air.

Panic spread. Initially, I thought that the Templars were lobbing stones over the walls, and they were much closer than I had anticipated; or even that Claver had somehow learnt to have the sky rain down huge balls of iron. But as I pulled my way through the panicking crowds of soldiers towards Vonvalt, I looked up at the Estran Wall and Victory Gatehouse and realised that it was the cannoneers there who were firing on us. Our own people. Our first line of defence. No one had been watching. They had simply turned the cannons about and shot them straight into the defenders.

The ballistae were next. Huge iron bolts the height of a man began to gut swathes of soldiers. Only the steep angle stopped them cutting through the entire army; instead they stuck three men at a time deep into the earth. They penetrated the flagstones and sent chips of stone scything loose with all the force of bodkin arrows.

I pushed and shoved and shouldered and smacked my way through dozens of people. At one point a massive bolt smashed into the head of a man to my right and jammed into the ground in front of my feet, tripping me over and covering the right side of my face in blood. The man’s helmet clanged off the side of mine with all the force of a war hammer, and for several long moments I was deaf in my right ear.

I pressed myself up, pressed myself on.

Hauners and pagans were backing away, not breaking and routing – yet – but confused and panicked. We had expected many things in the opening trade of artillery, but being attacked by our own cannoneers was not one of them.

I reached Vonvalt. His white cloak had been shredded, but I realised – though he was doused with blood – that he was unhurt. The cannonballs were a ghastly revelation, turning walking, talking and breathing people into smears of muscle and viscera and bone splinters.

Vonvalt looked at me, his eyes wide. He took a few moments to realise who I was.

“Helena?” he said, his features creased in confusion. The impact of the cannonball had robbed him of his senses. “What are you doing here?”

“The cannoneers!” I shouted in his face. We were both shouting.

I looked up to the wall and the Victory Gatehouse. The men and women there were moving like automata. I realised what had happened: they had been enthralled.

“They’ve been possessed!” I shouted. I flinched as a crossbow bolt cracked off the flagstones to my right, and a splinter of wood stuck into my right cheek. I whirled around to see the bowmen shooting indiscriminately into the crowd below. The Imperial Guard had raised their shields overhead, but the other forces had no such discipline. And besides, sohle shields didn’t stop cannonballs. The only thing working in our favour was that the cannons were monstrously slow, taking an entire team of people many minutes to prepare and fire them.

“Helena, I…” Vonvalt said, still insensible. He rubbed his face and eyes with his hands, trying to blink away the confusion. “The walls. Captain Rainer… We must retake the walls.”

“Nema,” I spat. I looked around. I could see Rainer in and amongst the Guard, easily picked out by the captain’s markings on her surcoat. She was frantically directing men and women, drenched in a great splatter of gore.

I ran to her. The arrows were coming thick and fast now. Several times I came within a hair’s breadth of being feathered. But although I made it to her side quickly enough, I hadn’t been needed to give the instruction. Already several companies of Guardsmen were on the move, some heading to the gatehouse, others heading for the nearest set of steps that led to the top of the Estran Wall. Their sohle shields were feathered with dozens of arrows.

I was wearing Guard armour, so I should have seen what was coming next; nonetheless, I was surprised when someone grabbed me roughly by the arm and threw me into the rear of one of these formations.

“Get your shield up!” someone roared at me. I did so just as another dozen arrows thunked into the shield wall; one cut halfway through my shield, splitting the wood with the sound of an axe against a stump.

I was pulled onwards with the rest of the company. In seconds, I had gone from volunteer messenger to a part of the very thing Vonvalt had contrived for me to avoid; the vanguard. Around me, men and women grunted, teeth gritted, faces – framed by mail hoods or sallet helms – grim set. We moved up the stairs quickly, and I stumbled as I tried to keep up. My arms were on fire with the effort of keeping my shield overhead and interlocked with those of the people around me. I was so preoccupied with the physicality of what we were doing that I barely registered the creatures, dancing in the corners of my vision, flickering in and out of existence.

The Estran Wall was seventy feet high, and by the time we crested its punishingly steep steps I was exhausted and glad I was at the rear of this formation. But by some horrible twist of fate, a ballista bolt slammed into the column of men and women in front of me, impaling them like a skewer through a rotisserie chicken. Once again I was treated to a face full of human matter, and when I had wiped it clear I found that I was now the foremost soldier on the left-hand side of the company.

I had a clear view of the ballista crews and cannoneers. Their movements were precise, with only the rudiments of autonomic movement left. They moved completely heedless of us, mechanically preparing the huge iron cannon to fire again into the host below. Beyond I could see more men and women doing the same, and in and amongst them archers and crossbowmen shooting arrows as though they were on the range. Others lay dead, perhaps too strong-minded or – if the term was the right one – pious, to have been taken over.

An odd pause followed. Clearly, we had expected to be set upon, but the thralls ignored us, so bent to their task that the Imperial Guard killed them almost hesitantly.

But kill them we did.

I do not know by what power Claver or Ramayah managed to turn these people against us. The air atop the walls had a bizarre quality to it, almost as though it were thick, like soup. The whispers that had plagued me since the beginning of the battle were all the louder, and my mind physically hurt as though grasping fingers were threading through my ears and nose and mouth and scratching insanity into my brain. I saw several Guardsmen shake their heads, discarding their weapons and clutching at their faces and ears. One even hurled himself over the side of the battlements.

For my own part, I staggered forward and cut halfway through the wrist of a crossbowman, feeling my sword squeal against bone. He turned to me, hand dangling by a few threads. There was no expression on his face. His eyes were glassy and vacant. A brief flash of surprise widened his eyes as I stabbed him through the throat. It felt like a crime, killing this man who but a few minutes before was prepared to give his life in the defence of Sova. But I managed it.

As the slaughter continued, I moved to the parapet. I gripped the merlon and looked out across the southern aspect of Sova and the Ebenen Plains. My stomach dropped as I saw the mass of thousands of Templars there. They were moving up very quickly now that the trebuchets and cannons and ballistae and crossbowmen had been neutralised. Their ranks were festooned with poles with open codexes, braziers, flags and pennants. They sung hymnals and held relics aloft. Battle priests stripped to the waist were daubed in runes. I saw one explode with a wet pop and douse his fellows in gore. Still they had not fully mastered the power.

And yet, the walls stood. The gates stood. There was no sign of a mass of barrels of blackpowder, though their baggage train was enormous and very long indeed. How on earth did they plan to get in?

I was about to find out very quickly.

I wish they had used blackpowder.

XXVIII

Hearts of Iron

“Courage cannot exist without fear.”

SOVAN APHORISM

Lady Frost’s pagan shamans now crested the steps of the Estran Wall. The last of the thralls of this section were dispatched, their throats ruthlessly cut and their bodies thrown over the side. The shamans spoke powerfully, exhorting the air around them to shed its malignant qualities. They brandished relics, blessed bones and gripped scrolls of illuminated texts. I watched, mesmerised, as these sacred pagan artefacts glowed like torches. No one else seemed to notice.

With the wall and its foul vapours cleared, I hoped then for some respite, however brief; but mere moments later, an enormous rumbling groan thundered through the air. Many looked up, expecting the heavens to open – for it had sounded like a great timpani of thunder.

But no. The flagstones trembled beneath my feet, and the unmistakable clanking rattle of chains filled the air, and I realised that the Victory Gate was being opened. Those guarding the enormous gate winches had been possessed in the same manner as the cannoneers. Vonvalt’s worst fear was being realised: that Claver would not even need to breach the walls of the city to take it. He would waltz into Sova through an open door.

I looked frantically over to the gatehouse. That itself was the size of most provincial castles. I felt my fear return tenfold. Heinrich growled next to me, his ears twitching and flapping as though he was being troubled by some bothersome fly. He was focusing on something which I could not see.

“Fuck,” I panted, close to despair. I turned to the nearest Imperial Guardsman. “We need to get in there!” I shouted, pointing to the gatehouse with my short sword. “They are opening the gates!”

He said something but I did not hear; my attention was drawn by a sudden flurry of movement below. I looked over the battlements to see, charging down the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way, a mass of men and women. They moved like rabid dogs, making feral, inhuman noises. Some carried weapons, but many did not. I squinted, some small detail catching my eye, and saw with horror that many of them wore iron claws which had been grafted to their fingers. Behind, in the rear and now completely unmolested by the city’s artillery, the Templars stood. In the vanguard were Claver’s battle priests, each one’s features a mask of intense concentration.

In the centre of the mass, surrounded by a life guard of knights, was Claver himself.

He looked up at me.

“To the gatehouse!” I shouted, and Guardsmen began to charge in. “In the name of Nema, quickly!”

I turned away from the merlon and Heinrich and I made our way back down the steps – pushed our way back down the steps, for they were now thronging with a great press of soldiers seeking to surmount the Estran Wall. “Get back!” I shouted, shoving my way through and earning a barrage of unspeakable oaths and curses and insults in response. Heinrich barked and growled madly next to me, sensing my urgency. “Get back! Down, down! The gate, watch the gate!”

The gate continued to rumble open, but haltingly. Whispers and shadows plagued me as I burst out of the rearmost of the Guardsmen and back on to the compacted dust and dead grass of the Nastjan Fields. Here the pagans were moving up with the Hauners to take the place of the Imperial Guard who had now mostly gone to retake the walls – walls that did not need retaking! – and I could see the first crack of grey daylight appearing through the Victory Gates where they opened.

I saw a solitary arm, scrabbling and clawing madly through the gap.

“What the fuck is that?” I heard someone say as I sprinted past. Many others echoed the sentiment. I looked for Vonvalt, and found him next to Count Maier, urging him and his men up, directing with his short sword.

“Thralls,” I said breathlessly. Sweat dribbled down my face. I heaved in great lungfuls of air.

Vonvalt looked sharply over to the door. “I need to get on to that wall,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He seemed distracted. We had attempted to expect the worst, plan for the worst, but no one had anticipated such calamity this early.

“What is the matter, girl?” Count Maier called down from his horse.

I looked up to him. “They are thralls,” I said. “Demons, inhabiting the bodies of men.”

“Bloody Nema,” he muttered, looking over to the gates. “Are we undone so soon? How do we deal with them?”

A sudden memory came to me: the words of the dying Templar in the bowels of Keraq, and of my desperate fight with that rabid nun in the castle latrine.

“Fire,” I said, remembering. “Fire – the Flame of Savare!”

Both men looked at me as though I were a simpleton.

“What?”

I gritted my teeth as frustration welled up within me. I didn’t have time to explain it. It was arcane. It defied explanation.

I held out my two hands in front of me as though I were holding a ball. “I set fire to the nun in Keraq. I said ‘Flame of Savare’ and something happened, something transformative. Something acted through me to give the fire a special property which burnt the demon away.”

“How on earth are we going to get consecrated fire?” Maier asked.

“The Flame of Savare. In the temple,” Vonvalt said immediately.

“Not the bloody great bonfire that burns there?”

“The Eternal Fire, yes,” Vonvalt said, and then he stopped. We all stopped. I had heard something, a voice speaking in my ear.

“Did you hear that, too?” Maier asked uncertainly. His horse snorted and whinnied, spooked. Heinrich lay down, whining.

I started as Sir Radomir appeared at my side. “What the fuck is going on over there?” he asked, pointing his short sword at the Victory Gate. Dozens of soldiers were there now, doing everything they could to jam it up and stop it from opening. The pagans, who seemed to have a glut of reckless bravery, had formed what was, in essence, a large cork in the wine bottle neck of the gatehouse.

“Demons wearing human skin. They need to be set afire, and quickly,” Vonvalt said grimly. Several knights of Maier’s retinue glanced over to us as they listened to this insane exchange; most, however, were preoccupied with trying to calm their horses, which foamed and champed and whinnied, spooked. Some presence had interposed itself amongst us, and it was driving the animals mad with fear.

“There is enough pitch up there to drown half of Sova,” Sir Radomir said, nodding to the Victory Gatehouse, “if fire is all you need—”

He was already moving away to give the order, but I grabbed him by the wrist. “It has to be blessed. It has to be the Flame of Savare.”

Sir Radomir squinted at me as though I had lost my mind. “How the fuck are we going to do that?”

“The Eternal Fire in the Temple of Savare!” Vonvalt shouted, now with great conviction. “Go there now,” he said to me. He jabbed a finger into Sir Radomir’s chest. “You go with her. Bring a torch back, lit from the brazier. We will set the pitch afire with it and hope to Nema it does the trick.”

“Here, take my horse,” Count Maier said, dismounting. “You will not find a faster beast. Sir Dalibor! Give this man yours.”

Sir Radomir and I mounted up. “For fuck’s sake,” Sir Radomir muttered to himself, and kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Come on then!” he shouted, and he and I charged down the high-way.

We thundered through the streets, the warhorses putting on an extraordinary turn of speed. I saw people in spite of the strict curfew. Many had turned their faces to the sky, frightened and confused by the stubborn darkness. Plenty were crying and wailing in despair as the city was saturated with malign energies and became a living nightmare for its inhabitants.

We took a now familiar route through the main roads of the western closures of the city, up the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way, west down the Petran High-Way, then north up the Veleurian Road. Our horses’ hooves thundered against the flagstones, and I knew that such a hard surface was jarring for their joints, especially given how laden with armour we were. It was not a short journey either; we must have covered nearly three miles at full tilt. There was no way the horses would be able to gallop back. We had exhausted them and would need to find replacements.

The Temple of Savare was in the same state of disrepair as when I had last seen it, its façade scorched where the Imperial Guard had burned the doors down. Sir Radomir and I dismounted with reckless haste, especially foolhardy since a turned ankle would render me as useless as if I had lost a leg. We charged through the door of the temple—

—and I slowed to a stop. It had changed. This was not the wide, vaulted main hall where the Eternal Fire burned and where the large statue of Savare the God Father stood next to an Autun colossus.

No. This was not that place.

What I first took to be stalactites hanging from the ceiling were in fact bodies. Thousands of bodies. Many of them were desiccated and grey; many more were skeletal, their skin hanging down like strips of dried leather or banana peel. They dangled down in great ribbons, sometimes dozens of feet long. Every one wore the same wound; a deep incision from the base of the throat all the way down to the groin. Every one of them had been emptied, opened and filleted and drained like livestock. The floor was covered in an ankle-deep pool of blood. It dripped and trickled in that dark space like rainwater in a cave.

The statue of Savare had changed, too. Instead of the striking alabaster colossus, it was now a ghastly demonic figure, obsidian-black, eyeless, its head distended and phallic.

It grinned at me.

“S-sir Radomir?” I whispered. But he had gone. I turned sharply: there was no sign of the door through which I had come.

I turned back. At the far end of the hall was an enormous throne. It seemed to be made from flesh, but mottled and decayed. A great stink filled the temple.

“Girl.” A figure appeared in the gloom: it was Sir Radomir, but his flesh was black, and as he spoke great quantities of blood flowed from his mouth, running down his chin and chest.

I backed away. A low rumbling pulse, like a monstrous heartbeat, boomed somewhere in the back of my mind.

“Who are you?” I asked, keeping my voice as level as possible.

“One who would be your friend,” the Sir Radomir doppelgänger said, in a voice that was not the sheriff’s. “Let us exchange names.”

I took another step back, conscious of the hot blood sloshing around my ankles.

“What is this place?”

“It matters not. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Then we can talk about what you should do to save the lives of your friends, and loves.”

“Tell me your name first.”

Sir Radomir smiled. It was ghastly.

“You have been told many things about the place you call the afterlife, the holy dimensions, the astral plane… Many things, and yet, so much of it false. You fear us, we who dwell in this place. You have been taught to be frightened of us. That we are monsters. But it is not true.”

“What are you?” I asked.

“We could have been together, girl. We could have spent an eternity entwined. I could have taken your spiritual essence and melded it with mine as surely as coal dust and iron.”

Sir Radomir was suddenly in front of me, caressing my face – though I could not feel his hand on my cheek. A great stink emanated from his mouth. Maggots writhed there, nestled in and amongst black gums. Blood dribbled from his mouth. His entire surcoat was soaked in it.

I took a faltering step back, terrified. My hand clutched the charm that Kunagas Ulrich had provided me with. Sir Radomir’s eyes widened and he suddenly recoiled like a startled cat, screeching.

“Tell me your name you fucking cunt bitch!” Sir Radomir roared—

And the vision disappeared.

I was standing in the Temple of Savare – just the empty, cold, vaulted hall, with the statue of the God Father looking over us. The Eternal Fire crackled and blazed in its iron brazier.

Sir Radomir – the real Sir Radomir – stood next to me, rubbing the back of his head.

“Did you hear something?” he asked.

“Ramayah!” I shouted, my whole body trembling. “I know you are here!”

Both Sir Radomir and I whirled around as someone appeared in the main entranceway, picking his way over the charred beams. It was Kunagas Ulrich.

“He is here,” the shaman said hurriedly and in thickly accented Saxan. “You must be quick. I have spare horses, come.”

Broken from our inaction, Sir Radomir and I rushed over to the brazier where the Eternal Fire burned. The heat from it was intense. The sheriff cast about the place, and quickly darted off to snatch a pair of unlit torches from their brackets nearby. He returned and we thrust them into the bonfire.

“Flame of Savare,” I said as I withdrew the torch.

“Benita flamo de Irox purigu ĉi tiun landon de la Princo de Sango kaj lia ŝaŭmo,” Ulrich intoned quietly. The moment he stopped, a sudden curtain of darkness fell over the temple. It was immediate, as though the sun had been extinguished. Not even the bonfire produced any light. The darkness was thick, like oily smoke, but entirely without substance.

“Sir Radomir?” I whimpered. But he had gone.

A low chanting filled the space. It sounded like Kunagas Ulrich, but I could not be sure. Gripping the torch tightly in my hand, I started feeling my way towards the exit.

The chanting grew louder and more intense. It was in that same pagan language I had heard Ulrich use. And then suddenly there was a brief, violent choking sound, and the chanting stopped abruptly.

Shortly after I collided with something – something soft.

Then all at once the light returned.

In front of me was Kunagas Ulrich. He was suspended three feet off the ground, and completely naked. A great incision had been made from the top of his breastbone down to his pubis, and a vast quantity of blood was sloshing out of him in an impromptu waterfall. His eyes were wide in horror.

Behind him stood the statue of the black demon.

“Give me your fucking NAME!” it roared, and leapt at me.

I shrieked, ducked, sprinted, legs weak with terror, I couldn’t move fast enough, the muscles of my legs were not strong enough, I ran, blind with fear, willing my legs to move faster damn it—!

I burst out of the temple and into the street.

Sir Radomir was sitting atop his horse, torch in hand.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he muttered, pulling the reins around. “Come on. We don’t have time for this.”

Sir Radomir seemed to have no idea about what had taken place in the Temple of Savare. There was no sign of Ulrich, either, nor the fresh horses he had supposedly brought. Indeed, we nearly killed ours getting back to the Nastjan Fields. They were too disciplined not to respond to our constant urgings, but I could tell we were squeezing the life out of them.

I did not have time to dwell on the visions. As we cantered down the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way, I saw that the Victory Gate had finally been forced open, wide enough to admit four men walking abreast, and a brutal, chaotic melee had engulfed the gatehouse.

“Come on!” Sir Radomir roared; but his horse, exhausted, collapsed. The sheriff was thrown clear and tumbled across the flagstones with a grating screech of armour. His torch smacked into the ground and broke apart, the flame extinguishing.

I blinked away a brief flash of a shadowy figure, and the kicking, writhing, spectral form of a horse.

I pulled my own horse to a stop and dismounted as quickly as I dared. I ran over to Sir Radomir, cupping the flame with my left hand to protect it from the wind.

“Gods, please tell me you are alive,” I groaned at his prostrate form.

He pressed himself up off the floor, spitting blood from where he had bitten his tongue. “Fuck me,” he said, wincing and stretching. His armour had taken a great deal of the sting out of the impact, but that same armour had jolted and pinched and bruised him as he had fallen.

He saw the broken dead torch and let out a roar of frustration.

“Never mind that, just help me with this one!” I shouted.

Sir Radomir recovered his shield, and we began forcing our way through dozens of ranks of soldiers and city watchmen. The air was filled with the smell of shit and the sound of rattling, grinding teeth. The men and women of the volunteer companies did not look as though they would stand their ground.

Sir Radomir and I pushed and shoved and shouted, until we were spotted by Count Maier and his retinue, and then they were pushing and shoving and shouting, too, clearing a path for us.

The pagans damming the Victory Gate were overwhelmed as we were about one hundred feet from the Estran Wall. I could see thralls throwing themselves at the defenders, teeth gnashing, claws ripping. They keened like banshees, scratching and tearing and ripping at faces and throats and hands. Each was coated in blood.

“The torch! The torch!” I shouted madly, desperately holding it aloft as we pressed into the pagan rearguard. Moments later, Count Maier and a half-dozen knights in heavy armour appeared around us. They shoved the pagan soldiers roughly out of the way, encasing me and Sir Radomir in a protective bubble.

“Where is Sir Konrad?” I shouted.

“Who knows?” Count Maier grunted, shoving a Brigalander in the back to prevent a collision. The man snarled something in his rough, Northern tongue.

“I need to get to the top of the wall!” I shouted above the din.

Something suddenly cleared this impromptu life guard of Hauners and landed in the middle of us. It was a feral human, a good third of its head missing, its brain roughly excavated by some instrument of war. It gave me a ghastly grin, brandishing its iron claws, and lurched forwards to open me chin to groin.

“Nema fuck!” I grunted, jerking backwards as a claw raked my breastplate. The ring of knights moved quickly to butcher the creature with their short swords, stabbing with relentless, ruthless efficiency. The thrall jerked and spasmed and screeched, but even so it raged at me, its eyes never leaving mine. Eventually, Sir Radomir tackled it to the ground, and the knights cut its hands off at the wrist, and then its head, and it still took a good few moments to expire.

I was sitting on my arse, still gripping the torch handle with all my might, when something shifted in the air. I became aware of an… attention, as though a collective consciousness had shifted its focus.

To me.

If the thralls had been crazed before, now they were utterly berserk. Count Maier and his knights began to shout themselves hoarse to bring men up around them; not just other Hauners, but watchmen and members of the volunteer companies, too. We were perilously close to the gates, but there was no way to avoid that if I wanted to get atop the wall.

The thralls smashed their way through the gap as effectively as any detonation of blackpowder. Frenzied, they carved a brutal, bloody channel through Captain Llyr’s Brigalanders until the centre of the pagan force folded entirely. And who could blame them? They were a hardy bunch, and better acquainted with the Draedist arcana than most, but they were still human beings. Even their store of courage had its limits.

I wondered how long it had taken Claver and his priests to create so many of these puppets, how much energy it had taken, and how tenuous their grip on this hellish reality was. But I was not given long to dwell on it. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes and waited for my evisceration was Count Maier’s life guard as they jammed up against one another, their sohle shields overlapping, their sabatons braced against the flagstones, fighting for their lives.

I gritted my teeth so hard it felt as though they were about to buckle. I fancied I could feel the scrabbling, grasping fingers of the thralls at my throat already, raking away the meat of my neck, pulling out the veins and cutting them open, letting me drain away—

“Prince of Hell, Helena, get the fuck up!” Sir Radomir shouted, grabbing me by the arm and roughly pulling me to my feet. I saw, incredibly, that the Hauner knights had held, along with a motley collection of individuals – Captain Llyr, several large pagan brutes, Sir Gerold, and a random collection of Saxanhilde Templars including Valter Lončar himself. They formed a crescent, the bow of a ship against a raging ocean of thralls, and with an enormous, superhuman feat of courage and martial skill, held them back.

Sir Radomir and I made our way to the Estran wall, pushing through several ranks of Guardsmen who had formed a human barricade there. Out of nowhere Heinrich rejoined me, his muzzle red with the blood of thralls, and together the three of us surmounted the steps and achieved the wall. I saw Captain Rainer was here, alongside several other armoured lords. The battlements were strewn with corpses; far below and beyond, Claver and his Templar host waited for the thralls to complete their ghastly business. They were in no rush to squander their lives in the melee.

“I need to set fire to the pitch with this flame!” I shouted at her, though the noise was not particularly great up here.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she snapped.

“We don’t have time to explain,” Sir Radomir snapped back, taking a step forward and jabbing his finger into her breastplate. She looked at the offending digit with great fury, but did not slap it away. “It will mean the difference between saving the city and losing it.”

The captain, who had already had her fill of this exchange, and who had been briefed by Vonvalt to expect all manner of bizarre requests, signalled a Guardsman from nearby.

“Take these two to the pitch vats,” she ordered. She caught my expression and then eyed the flickering torch in my hand uneasily, as though it exuded some strange, tangible energy. She pointed to it. “Make sure it is that flame which sets it alight.”

The Guardsman, who had no problem in following these odd instructions, led us into the Victory Gatehouse. Here the stink of battle was strong; blood and shit and vomit in great quantities. Freshly spilled viscera has a peculiar smell which I find impossible to describe, though a trip to the butchers will remind me of it quite quickly. In the close, low and dark confines of the chambers of the gatehouse, corpses lay in abundance, blood pattering and dribbling through the boards.

The mark of the Trickster on my chest began to pulse painfully as we approached the pitch vats. I scratched at it, my fingers finding nothing but intervening steel. Heinrich whined next to me. Dark whispers filled my ears, urging me to turn back.

“Here,” the Guardsman said as we reached the long, broad chamber that sat directly above the gate itself. Several floors beneath us, I heard screams and thumps and the muted ring of steel against steel as men and thralls hacked each other apart for the prize of the gate winches.

We had to surmount a ladder and achieve a stout wooden mezzanine to where the vats themselves were. Here huge metal tanks of scalding hot pitch were being kept heated by small braziers. A lever was next to each one, which, when pulled, would tilt the vats down and channel the pitch directly on to the attackers beneath.

“How do we do this?” I asked. My first instinct had simply been to tip the torch into the vat, though that would have been catastrophically stupid, since the gatehouse would have gone up in flames.

“Tip the vats first, let the pitch catch as it goes down the channel. But we must be careful not to let the torch be overwhelm—”

The lights were extinguished. The tattoo on my chest flared with pain. Heinrich began to bark madly.

Something clattered into me from the side. I flailed madly to keep the torch from going out. It was Sir Radomir. The Guardsman who had led us here had pounced on him. By the light of the Flame of Savare which I carried, I saw the guard savagely biting Sir Radomir’s face just below his right eye. His arm was crushing the sheriff’s windpipe. All semblance of rational consciousness was gone.

I scrabbled madly for my sword, but it was Heinrich who leapt first. As the Guardsman bit off Sir Radomir’s cheek, so in turn did Heinrich crush the man’s skull. Trapped between those muscular jaws, I saw his face bulge in the firelight, and then collapse outwards. Something warm and wet with the consistency of a boiled egg bounced off my cheek – an eyeball.

Whilst Heinrich continued to savage the Guardsman, Sir Radomir heaved in deep lungfuls of breath through his crushed windpipe. Blood dribbled from his ruined cheek; the Guardsman had ripped it away so completely that I could see the sheriff’s bare teeth.

“Just do the fucking fire!” he screamed, rolling around on the floorboards and swearing over and over and over again.

I snatched up the torch and yanked the first lever, and held the flame to the pitch as it cascaded out. I realised – too late – what Sir Radomir had been trying to tell me before. Yes, the pitch was flammable, but a great waterfall of the stuff would still overwhelm the flame. The torch was extinguished as though I had stuffed it into a bucket full of soil.

“Fuck!” I shrieked in rage and frustration—

—and then I was blasted backwards. I hit the floor, my face scorched, the acrid smell of burning hair in my nostrils.

The pitch burned with incredible radiance as it roared down the channel and splattered on to the thralls still jammed up beneath the gatehouse. An enormous, mind-rattling screech went up as the demons there had their souls sluiced away with holy fire.

I shrieked with fright as Ulrich suddenly appeared before me, floating in the air. He regarded me with an expression of abject contempt. The front of his body hung open like a pair of curtains, and rivers of blood, more blood than any human body could ever hope to contain, gushed out of him.

“You are going to regret that, you Neman whore,” he snarled, and then there was a brief flash of golden light, and he disappeared.

Shaking and nauseous, I ran over to Sir Radomir. He was propped up against the wall, pushing Heinrich’s face away where the hound kept trying to lick his ghastly wound. Rags of flesh hung from the sheriff’s face, and blood mixed with saliva kept leaking out the side of his missing cheek.

“Are you all right?” I asked stupidly. Heinrich whined, pawing at Sir Radomir’s chest.

“Fine,” he replied from behind his hand. He waved a hand at me irritably. “No talk.”

I helped him to his feet. We made sure we had our weapons, and then Sir Radomir walked up to the second vat of pitch and pulled the lever for that one too. Then together we made our way back out of the gatehouse and looked over the battlements of the Estran wall.

“Fuck me,” Sir Radomir said. The holy fire had left hundreds of the thralls a charred ruin beneath the Victory Gate, but the heat and horror of it had also driven back the last of the pagan vanguard, allowing the remaining few hundred thralls to cut through their centre. They had smashed through the ranks of everyone behind until they had reached the volunteer companies, who had broken and fled. Now, the surviving thralls were dispersing into Sova to wreak bloody havoc there.

And finally, with the gates open and unguarded, Claver was moving in.

XXIX

Nema Has Left Us

“The intelligent man learns from his own failures; the wise man learns from the failures of others.”

SIR WILLIAM THE HONEST

The Nastjan Fields were in a state of chaos as we descended the steps. Sir Radomir looked pale, and in other circumstances he would have retired from the field to a surgeon’s tent in the rear. But now there was no choice. If we did not hold them here, if we did not defeat Claver that morning, then we never would.

The pagan vanguard was in disarray. Here at the southern end of the Nastjan Fields, well to the west of the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way, I saw Lady Frost standing there, armoured and – to my great surprise – bloodied. Around her was a collection of enormous Brigalanders wielding an array of weapons. There was nary a short sword in sight; these were brutal instruments of war, axes, spiked hammers, clubs. Captain Llyr was there as well, her face sheened with perspiration, her hair lank, her ornate armour rent in a dozen places. A few dozen Draedists, their warpaint smeared and their faces blanched, as well as a couple of shamans, stood around too. Whilst the Sovan volunteer companies, almost five thousand men and women, fled back into the city, and the Imperial Guard regrouped under the directions of Captain Rainer – abandoning their attempt to secure the Victory Gatehouse entirely – it fell to Duke Hofmann and Count Maier’s collection of Legionaries and retainers, plus a few dozen Saxanhilde Templars and the balance of the city watch, to hold the line against at least ten thousand Savarans. Forces were desperately rallied at a natural chokepoint that ran parallel to the southern face of the guard barracks, several hundred yards into the city.

We limped our way over to Lady Frost, my spirit broken. The whole point of having the Imperial Guard in the vanguard was because they were immune to the Emperor’s Voice. Now they were strung out, their corpses filling the gatehouse or lining the battlements. A few hundred exhausted souls remained, but they were scattered to the four winds; and besides, what could a few hundred do against ten times that number?

“Now we shall have our reckoning,” Lady Frost said as I reached her. Next to her, Captain Llyr spat roughly on the floor, and wiped someone else’s blood from her cheek.

“The fire was well done,” she said in her rough Brigalander accent. She took in Sir Radomir’s ruined face. “Made a good go of you, Hauner, eh?”

The sheriff grunted his displeasure.

“I know not how the hand of Fate bends,” Lady Frost continued. “But we are on the right path.” She pointed to my chest. “Did it hurt?”

I nodded. “We have not the strength to resist them,” I said, still breathing heavily. “Please: do you have something for Sir Radomir’s cheek? He was bitten by a thrall.”

Lady Frost sneered as she directed one of the shamans to the sheriff. “Oh yes, our enemies are hard at work here. They claimed Ulrich some time ago. Dropped dead before me, without warning. That is a sore loss, I’ll not deny it.”

“I have seen him,” I said, enduring a brief spasm of dread. “He appears to me, floating and eviscerated.”

Lady Frost nodded grimly. “He will seek to confound you with grotesque visions. I am afraid to say it will get worse before it gets better.”

“He? You mean Ulrich?”

Lady Frost shook her head patiently. “No. The other one. We should not say his name, not whilst the skin of the aether is so thin.”

“He keeps asking me for mine.”

“Do not give it,” Lady Frost said. “It would be wise not to utter it to anyone. Anybody who needs it already knows it. Let them call you ‘girl’, or ‘milady’.”

We all turned sharply. The horns of the Templars blasted feverishly in the dark morning air. They sounded like screams. For a moment I fancied I saw not ten thousand Templars, but a procession of demons, a grotesquery of forms, each a parody of a human being. Hands for feet, eyes on chests, mouths for ears, skin the colour of burnt charcoal. They gnashed their teeth and tugged out their own guts and fistfuls of their own brains, delighting in the appalling spectacle. The high-way had vanished, to be replaced with a river of blood, and they sloshed through it, kicking up great foamy sprays of crimson.

Just as quickly as the vision had come, it went.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” I said with great sincerity.

“Very possibly,” Lady Frost replied. Next to me, the shaman had finished applying a salve to Sir Radomir’s cheek which had the effect of stemming the blood and providing immediate relief from the pain. Nonetheless, he would remain mute for some time yet. The attack had rattled him.

“Come,” Lady Frost said. She nodded to the high-way, where I saw Sir Gerold in his city watchman’s breastplate and livery, directing men with his sword with unflinching pragmatism.

“Where is Sir Konrad?” I said again as we set off.

“He is there,” Lady Frost said, nodding to where a cluster of knights sat on horseback perhaps a hundred yards back from Sir Gerold. I realised then that Vonvalt had shed his cream-coloured cloak, for it was that that I had been looking out for. Vincento was resplendent in a caparison of Vonvalt’s knightly heraldry, green with the prancing white horse and two peach trees. Vonvalt himself had cocked his head to one side and was clearly conversing with Duke Hofmann, pointing to various elements of the Templars in front of them. Behind them, a detachment of knights, perhaps twenty all in, was cantering down the high-way, tasked with rallying the volunteer companies and eliminating the errant thralls who had begun the ghastly work of slaughtering as many commonfolk as they could reach.

“How do we stop the thralls?” I asked, plagued with visions of those horrible creatures bursting into households and tearing into cowering families.

“Stop Claver, and you stop the thralls,” Lady Frost called over her shoulder.

“And how do we stop Claver?”

Lady Frost paused for a moment. “We are working on it.”

We reached the rearmost Sovan forces just as the Templars began to force their way through the gates. Claver himself was mounted on a destrier somewhere close to the centre of the army, surrounded by a life guard of a dozen Templar cavalrymen. He radiated a dreadful energy. Every time I blinked or looked away slightly, something shifted in the air around him, some cloak of black, a haze of eldritch energy. Above, the dark sky darkened further, now swirling with a huge vortex of storm cloud which put me in mind of the enormous funnel which sat over the Plain of Burden.

Everybody around me flinched as a great peal of thunder exploded through the charged air. Moments later, a great torrent of rain fell.

No. Not rain. Blood.

Ramayah.

A crackle of corposant green lightning flashed and left an after-image of an enormous demon that occupied the same space as Claver.

“What’s your name, girl?” the man next to me asked. It was a Saxanhilde Templar; he gripped a short sword in his right hand and a sohle shield in his left.

I hadn’t been going to tell him, but Sir Radomir punched me in the back anyway. I turned to him sharply, and he gave me a meaningful look. “I know,” I snapped. I turned back to the Templar. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I am coming for you.”

I frowned, turning back to the Templar. “What?”

“I am coming for you. And when I find you, I am going to drain you.”

I took a step backwards. The Templar’s face briefly transformed into an eyeless screaming visage.

“Nema save me,” I muttered, looking away.

Sovan soldiers, pagans, Hauners, Legionaries, Saxanhilde Templars, volunteers, coalesced to close what gaps there were as our enemy approached. I was not optimistic. The Templars were an organised, cohesive force. They moved as though they were one gigantic organism. Battle priests exhorted them to all manner of calamities, and I could see that the men and women of the Savaran ranks were exercising themselves into a righteous fury.

“Straight from the Halls of Hell,” someone said near me, a watchman who could not stop shaking.

“Aye,” another said. “Nema truly has left us.” He looked up at the funnel of cloud above us as he said it.

I wasn’t so sure; to me it felt as though she were merely… otherwise engaged.

“Kill the priests,” I said to all who would listen. “They have been trained in the Emperor’s Voice. They will make you do things you do not want to.” I looked around desperately, for any sign of an archer or crossbowman, but there were none.

I looked back up at Claver. Already, he wore a smirk of triumph on his ghastly face. Gods, how I detested him.

There was nothing left to do except fight. How strange, how curious that the fate of an entire people, many of whom had no idea that this battle was even happening, could be reduced to one brutal melee. If Claver triumphed here today he would consolidate his position in the capital. I doubted that the scattered remnants of the Sovan Legions fleeing west from Kòvosk would be able to make much of a difference.

No. It was down to us, here and now, this motley collection of professional and amateur soldiers.

The clash finally happened, and the exquisite agony of waiting was over. I was not in the vanguard, mercifully, but I was close enough to the front ranks to see the shields clatter, the swords stab, the hammers and axes fall, and the blood spray.

And then it began.

I had heard Vonvalt use the Emperor’s Voice enough times by now to be fully immune to its effects. But for those exhausted soldiers in the van, it was a psychic bludgeon, impossible to withstand. I watched as men and women discarded their swords with horrified expressions. Others turned their weapons on themselves. I saw a priest command a Legionary to impale herself on a spiked hammer, and she did so; a city watchman next to her opened his throat from ear to ear with his dirk.

It wasn’t just the suicides; using the Emperor’s Voice, these vile priests were able to command people to murder each other. Fratricide and sororicide was in great abundance. I watched as friends, colleagues, possibly even lovers, turned their weapons on each other. I saw one man strangle the life out of another next to him, weeping the entire time he did; I saw a Saxanhilde Templar reach under the mail shirt of his companion and begin the busy work of stabbing him to death; I saw a city watchman press his thumbs into the eyes of an Imperial Guardsman before someone dispatched him with a battle axe.

Panic spread, and quickly. How had it come to this? Were we really to be defeated so easily? Had we really been so outmatched, outclassed, and outfought at every turn? Had all of Vonvalt’s efforts really been for nothing? Could such an obviously evil scheme as Claver’s truly be met with such little opposition? We were barely two hours into the day’s fighting and already it looked hopeless.

The Templars churned through our front ranks. Blood and offal and broken armour littered the streets. Screams filled the air. Men and women fell back, injured or exhausted. With Sir Radomir and Heinrich next to me, I rotated to the front of the mass of defenders and took my turn in trying to stem the tide. I landed one blow on the steel-strapped apex of a Templar’s sohle shield before a matria behind him, a ghastly old hag, commanded me to slit my throat.

I felt the Voice wash over me. It was like grasping hands, scrabbling, corded fingers reaching into the depths of my brain, unpicking the nerves there, trying to unstring them and puppeteer me like a marionette. I felt the desire to run my neck across the edge of my short sword – even felt my hand twitch – but it was not enough. Not for someone like me.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that,” Sir Radomir said, and stabbed her in the face. The Templar let out a snarl of rage and attempted to kill Sir Radomir, but he was brought down by Heinrich, who quickly tore his throat out.

I do not know how long I was fighting in the van. It cannot have been long; one’s life expectancy in that place – or at least one’s capacity to fight – was measured in the tens of seconds. The Templar battle priests continued to sow horror and discord amongst the Imperial ranks, but as Lady Frost’s pagan shamans entered the fray, the Nemans’ monopoly on the psychic war ended. Now sorcerers on both sides grappled in the aether, and the lull gave the loyalists a precious few moments in which to rally and consolidate.

For a second or two I was filled with a wild burst of optimism as I saw a half-dozen Templar war-priests killed; but then three things happened, and they all happened very quickly.

The first was that I was struck with a war hammer on my shield. The moment it happened I thought it had broken my arm; the jarring, crunching impact made the whole limb go completely dead, and my sohle shield dropped out of the formation, exposing a crucial gap in the line.

The second was that Sir Radomir next to me was overwhelmed. Templars forced their way through the new gap and created a salient, splitting him off and away. As I thrashed madly within this new press of bodies, I lost Heinrich, too. In fact, I became so jammed up I could barely breathe; the only reason I managed to survive the sudden crush was because no one had enough room to draw back an arm and stab me.

The third and final thing was that my chest flared in sudden pain. It was the only thing capable of distracting me from the excruciation in my arm. It was so intense that as soon as I was able to, I folded and went to one knee. I did not hear the thunderous clatter of hooves until the cohort of warhorses was practically next to me.

It was Vonvalt.

Vincento and a dozen other Hauner warhorses smashed into the Templar ranks. I saw hooves kicking, smashing faces in, breaking bones. Chest plates were dented, helmets were stoved in. Angry, anguished shouts filled the air.

It was insane. Insanely reckless. If Vonvalt was killed, that really would be the end of our efforts. And he knew that, too. But he would still have given his life to save mine. In spite of everything we had been through together, in spite of our relationship being at its lowest ebb, in spite of our disagreements and arguments and distance, he would still have sacrificed himself for me. In the moment, with my blood singing and my nerves overtaxed and my entire body vibrating with energy, it filled me with an abiding, almost worshipful gratitude.

Hands grabbed me. I was hoisted up and thrown over the back of a horse, and then bounced and jostled unceremoniously as my rescuers cleared their way west of the melee and then north up the high-way. Cradling my arm and trying to catch my breath, I chanced a look back, to see an overwhelming mass of black surcoats emblazoned with the white star of Savare. Behind them the Victory Gate burned. We defenders looked so few in number, and dwindled by the minute.

“Where are you taking me?” I rasped, but my saviour – it was Baron Hangmar, I realised – could not hear me. It didn’t matter. I got my answer very shortly thereafter.

I was deposited roughly on to the flagstones several hundred years up the road. Sir Konrad pulled Vincento still next to me.

“You must do as Lady Frost says,” he said, ruddy-faced and breathless. Blood drooled from his short sword. A great deal more spattered his armour, as though someone had flicked him with a monstrous paintbrush doused in crimson. He was soaked in sweat, and his hair was lank with it.

“What is happening?” I asked, confused from my abrupt rescue and too dazed from battle shock to weep for the deaths of Sir Radomir and Heinrich.

Vonvalt kicked Vincento on the flanks. The huge black destrier whinnied, and carried him back into the fray. His entourage of Hauner lords followed.

“They have Resi!” he called over his shoulder.

XXX

The Soul of the Empire

“And the Genothians trembled, for although they had smote the Legions of Sardach on the ash wastes, Ramayah vowed to one day rise again; and they knew, in their hearts, that he would; for the schemes of Ramayah were measured in eons, and his evil was patient.”

FROM THE BOOK OF HISTORIES

“Why does it have to be me?” I asked.

No one answered. The defenders were minutes from breaking. We had to get as far away from the Victory Gate as we could.

We thundered up the road – me, Lady Frost, her life guard of pagan warriors, and a small collection of shamans. At the foot of a block of soot-stained apartments, I saw one of the thralls goring a young man. He twitched as it pulled great strings of tissue from his neck, a large pool of blood thinning in the rain on the cobbles. One of the pagans dashed the thing in half with his two-headed axe. It let out a furious shriek as it smacked into the wall, leaving a bloody halo there, and expired.

We rode on. Behind us, the screaming war horns of the Templars sounded. Soon the host would advance up the high-way, and then what? We had lost. The city was lost, the Empire was lost, the soul of the world was lost. Never before had I felt such a crushing weight of failure. I had not the energy nor the spirit to do whatever it was Lady Frost was about to ask of me; and yet, I could not even die, and make all of my earthly troubles disappear.

Eventually we reached a small Neman Temple – one of hundreds across the capital – nestled in some tiny offshoot road of the Petran High-Way. The horses were pulled to a stop outside of it. It was a humble construction of yellowing blocks of limestone, stained with age. At the very top was a statue of Nema the God Mother, wrought from sun-bleached stone. I fancied I saw a flicker of golden light there.

“Come, girl,” Lady Frost said briskly, dismounting. I followed suit. Several of her life guard stood watch at the door; the rest of us entered.

The temple was exactly how I expected it to be, perhaps a little more ostentatious than an equivalent in the provinces, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was a jarringly quiet, peaceful place. After the noise, horror and chaos of the battle, it felt as though I had gone deaf.

“What are we doing? What do you need me for? Why must it be me?” I asked to Lady Frost’s back. I was not plaintive, or frightened. If anything, I was annoyed.

She ignored me. She went to the altar and snapped her fingers. The shamans produced several effects, similar to the little charm that Ulrich had given me. They incanted softly, arranging these trinkets and muttering words in the ancient Draedist tongue. As they did so, Lady Frost turned to me, and took my face in her hands.

“We are approaching the end of it,” she said softly. “We have been doing what we can for the longest time, but even the most carefully laid plans can be scuppered at the last moment.”

“Sir Konrad said that they had Justice August.”

Lady Frost nodded solemnly. “I am going to send you directly to the Izmyesta, to Aegraxes’ castle. We cannot use the Nyrsanar Navi,” she said, “he is too close.”

I nearly said the name, but caught myself.

Ramayah.

“Aegraxes will help you. Do not be alarmed by his appearance when you leave Limbo.”

“What do you mean?”

“It will be much better for him to explain matters to you. Time moves differently there. Here, we have none.”

“What has her?” I asked quietly.

Lady Frost paused. “It is likely to be the Gatekeeper,” she said quietly, grimly.

I thought of Ghessis, and I knew I did not have the stomach for this.

“You still didn’t answer my first question,” I said, trying to delay the inevitable.

“What question?” Lady Frost asked impatiently.

“Why me? Why does it have to be me?”

Lady Frost pressed one of her hands into the tattoo on my chest. “Because you have been marked. Not just by Aegraxes, but by the hand of Fate. There is something… important, about you, Helena. None of us know what it is, only that you are capable of diverting the temporal pathway in a way that no one else seems to be.”

I shook my head. “But I am nothing. I am not special.”

“I agree. You are not special. But there is something special only you can do.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Far away, I heard what had to have been the Templars smashing their way up the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way. I thought of Sir Radomir, and Heinrich.

I thought of Vonvalt.

I took a deep breath.

“All right,” I said, fixing Lady Frost in the eye. “Send me down.”

Lady Frost lay me on the altar and gave me a special concoction which both put me to sleep but didn’t; my physical body was knocked unconscious, but I was left in a lucid state as I descended. It was one of the most disorienting things I have experienced.

Beneath me, stretching for a hundred miles in every direction, was the City of Sleep. I descended through the air as though being lowered by an invisible rope, and felt a sudden dread at the thought of one of the huge squirming watchtower eyeballs picking me out against the sky. But before I could take up my bed in this grim metropolis of half-death, I found myself snatched – in the space of an eyeblink – into a much more familiar place.

“Hello, Helena Sedanka,” Aegraxes said to me.

I was sitting in a castle chamber, a small octagonal room at the very peak of a very tall tower, itself connected to Aegraxes’ flying fortress. The sky, an endless plane of blue rife with white cloud – and not a hint of ground beneath – filled the windows. A pleasant breeze ruffled the hem of the Trickster’s robes.

He looked the same as he had always looked: a dark-skinned man, clad in ostentatious robes and holding a black lacquered sceptre topped with a skull wrought from a ruby the size of a fist.

“Matters are reaching a head,” he said. Gone was the wryness I had become accustomed to; now he looked serious, worried even. He walked across the room and took a chair opposite me. “I think you have some idea, thanks to Resi, of what is happening.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face. “You may speak freely. Here, we cannot be harmed.”

The way he said it suggested that, where we were going, we absolutely could be harmed.

“Claver has made a pact with Ramayah,” I said. “I do not think Claver realises quite what it is he has done; Ramayah is sustaining him and his acolytes, using them as tools. He is enabling them to wield the Draedist arcana in a way that they should not be able to.”

“And do you know who Ramayah is?”

“He was one of the chieftains of Kasivar.”

“Correct,” Aegraxes said. He tapped the stem of his cane against the floor. “Probably the foremost of his chieftains. He has long had designs on the mortal plane. He was one of the first to harvest the souls of the living. He poisoned the blood of Creus. He cut out the heart of Vangrid. He is a being of considerable power that… delights in evil. Or, what you would consider to be evil.”

“You would not?”

“As it happens, I would. Which is why I am trying to stop him.”

I took in a deep breath, and let it out in a great sigh. “If you want my help – and I cannot think why – perhaps you had better tell me what is going on. All of it.”

Aegraxes nodded solemnly. A goblet appeared in his hand.

“Ramayah is one of the princes of Hell. He resides in the Palace of Blood, in a region known as Sardach. He was not always so, but he is now, and that is all that matters. A very long time ago, when this place was nascent, and the great elementals of state were carving out their palaces and kingdoms, a channel was formed between this plane and your mortal plane.”

“Resi told me. You stole us. Our spirits.”

“That’s right. To us, you were… Cattle. Lambs. Livestock. It isn’t quite like that, but the analogy is appropriate for our purposes.” I waved him off. “Eventually, some of my brothers and sisters decided that this conduct was unconscionable.”

“Nema.”

“Oleni,” Aegraxes corrected, “and her husband, Hava, who you all insist on calling Savare.”

“The God Mother and Father.”

Aegraxes inclined his head. “Precisely. And so began the great war for the realm. It would take an age simply to recount the events of it; suffice it to say, Oleni and Hava prevailed, the conjunction of our planes was ended, the bridge was severed, and Kasivar, Ramayah and others – including the Muphraab – were exiled to the abyss. Weakened, chastened, they have done little more than plot and make mischief and war amongst themselves and the broader realm for – well, for more time than you can comprehend. And then Fate intervened.”

“Who is Fate?”

Aegraxes considered how to answer this for a moment. “Fate is a being which answers neither to us, nor to you – nor to anyone, for that matter. I am not sure anyone truly comprehends what it is. It may not even be a being. But nonetheless, it guides and guards the temporal pathway, which we all, in our own way, can affect. Many months ago Sir Konrad crossed paths with Bartholomew Claver. You saw, already, I think, how Claver was earmarked for malevolence.”

I nodded as I thought back to the surreal fly-on-the-wall vision I had had of Claver’s life.

“Their meeting, and their subsequent argument, has had important ramifications.”

I snorted. “Quite.”

“These small things, chance encounters, all add up to a singular course of action. And we here in the abyss, in the Edaximae, in the Izmyesta, watch as matters play out on the mortal plane and so affect the future of us all. And beings like Ramayah watch you with a hate which is difficult to comprehend for its intensity. Imagine if one day the daydreamings of oxen could dictate the course of human events. It would drive you people insane.

“So: they do what they can to take your souls as they descend into what you call the afterlife. They consume them, use them, tease and torture them, and many other things besides, whilst Oleni does what she can to prevent it.

“Ramayah has seen a way in which the conjunction can be replicated; the bridge between our plane and yours restored.” Aegraxes pulled an expression of distaste. “For a very long time he has sought out the appropriate puppet, and has found one in Claver. I am afraid that many of us underestimated his cunning and his patience. To borrow one of your human expressions: we have been watching the weather, not the whale.”

“How can he reopen the bridge?” I asked.

“He can’t. But Claver can. He already tried, remember?”

I remembered the abortive attempt at my possession.

Aegraxes smiled darkly. “Yes, you remember. You are likely to remember for the rest of your life.”

“The Shrine Guardians saved me,” I said. “Can they not simply do it again?”

“Would that they could.” Aegraxes smirked. “Think on it for a moment. Let us say that some mischief took place in the Kasar Kyarai, something which only a special force of Imperial Legionaries could resolve. And so the Legionaries travel from Sova to the Kyarai, and they give battle there, and they prevail, and perhaps some of them are killed. And then let us say that a little while later, the same threat appears in the very tip of Haunersheim, and so that force of Legionaries travels all the way from the Kyarai, a journey of many weeks, and gives battle there, and prevails, but again loses some men. And maybe they return to Sova and their numbers are replenished – but then their enemy appears on the Gvòrod Steppe, and as they are halfway there, the enemy appears in the middle of the Grall Sea, and then in Qaresh.”

“I take the point.”

“I’m sure of it. The Shrine Guardians are an élite company whose job it is to protect Oleni from the many threats of Hell. They must be judicious in their interventions. Claver is not the first man to attempt this lunacy – to fall to the charms of Ramayah – but he is the most accomplished and the most powerful. He has about him many demonic entities.” Aegraxes snorted bitterly. “Parasites.”

“And so we are at the tail end of plans millennia in the making?”

Aegraxes nodded. “If Claver succeeds, it will be the end of the Empire of the Wolf.”

“Why am I special? Why must it be me?”

“It is not you. It is what you will do. What only you can do. And I, and my own puppets, Lady Karol Frost, and Resi, and others, are contriving to ensure that you fulfil that end. If all of these little events are pebbles thrown into the temporal stream, then now we are rolling in boulders, left, right and centre. We have failed many, many, many times before. But this time Sir Konrad has you. He picked you up in Muldau three years ago, a useless urchin. Why?”

“Why indeed,” I muttered, stung.

Aegraxes sat back. “We are confident that it will make the difference. When the time comes.”

“You are not telling me what that thing is for a reason.”

“Now you have it. Our machinations must be subtle. If we were to tell you, then the moment you return to the mortal plane, the knowledge is there, planted in your mind. We have artificially diverted the stream. Our enemies will know what it is they must prevent. We cannot have that. It must be natural, and it must be a surprise.”

I sighed. “Tell me what it is I need to do.”

“We need to sever the connexion that links Claver to Ramayah. And we were making great strides in that direction. But we have run into a problem.”

“Resi has been captured.”

“Resi has been captured. Ghessis, the Hunter, the Gatekeeper of Purgatory, has finally caught up to our talisman. He has taken her – and she has finally retrieved the means to sever that connexion. Which means we must rescue her, and quickly. If she dies, then the knowledge dies with her.”

“She is already dead.”

“Not in a way that matters to us.”

I thought a moment. “What is Resi? How is it she has come to occupy such a singular position?”

“Resi occupies a special place in Purgatory. The manner of her death is not unique, but very rare. Her mind was killed on the mortal plane, but her body lingers on in a hospice in Galen’s Vale. Not only that, but she herself is experienced in the Draedist arcana, being what you call a ‘Justice’. Such a person can, with the right help and guidance, achieve many things which we elementals cannot.”

“Where will they take her?”

“The Palace of Blood, eventually. Ramayah being Ramayah will want to put her soul to great excruciation. But he will also want the weapon she carries.”

“Weapon?”

Aegraxes nodded. “It is a very special blade. On the mortal plane you would call it an ‘attenuation artefact’. Here it is a spirit knife. It was the same blade used to cut out the heart of Vangrid. It will sever the bond between Ramayah and Claver. It is the only thing that will.”

“Why can they not take her there now? To the Palace of Blood?”

“Because: she is not dead. Her body is not dead, and therefore she cannot leave Purgatory. Yet.”

Aegraxes stood. He looked, for the first time, apprehensive. “Come, then. We had better leave. Time moves slowly in my fortress here, but it moves nonetheless. I warn you, what you are about to witness will be chaotic.”

We made our way to the Plain of Burden. The moment we emerged, I saw that Aegraxes was no longer a well turned-out Southern Plainsman, with his neat, trimmed beard and robes of ostentatious wealth; rather he was a two-headed snake. Much like the Kasar, it was a human body – and a thickly muscled one at that – but scaly, and the neck bifurcated into two snake heads. Both were black with vibrant red, yellow and orange markings, like those most venomous species found in the Kasari rainforests.

When he spoke, he sounded exactly how I would expect someone with the head of the snake to sound: sibilant.

“Let us go, then,” he said. A sword materialised in his right hand, one that seemed to be made of sunlight and runes. “Rough deeds await.”

We moved quickly across the marshland. But where it had once been a silent, dead place, an endless plane of leaden stillness, it was now a place of screaming. Spirits plummeted through the enormous funnel above like the bodies of suicide victims leaping from buildings. It took me a moment to realise that they were the bodies of the soldiers – and, more alarmingly, the thralls – from the battle in Sova. So thin was the fabric of reality, and so entangled were we in the temporal pathway, that their souls were appearing all around us.

The thralls were ghastly, once human forms corrupted by parasitic demons. They came at us with demented ferocity. Aegraxes’ sword cut through them as easily as a hot knife through butter, and they discorporated in great bursts of foul, screaming black smoke.

“Where do they go from here?” I asked.

Aegraxes shrugged. “Somewhere else,” was all he said.

We sloshed on through the necrotic water. I saw flickers of movement; a flash of gold, a flash of black, runes of pink and blue. All of these fresh spirits were being claimed, some by the forces of Kasivar and Ramayah, others by Oleni and Hava. Those who were gripped by the former seemed to be overcome with a sudden horror, overwhelmed with the certainty of everlasting oblivion. Those who were snatched up by the forces of order, conversely, looked profoundly ecstatic. It seemed random, unfair, brutal. But this was not the afterlife as the Neman Church told of it, where a lifetime of moral behaviour earned you a place in heaven. These souls were chum in the water.

And this was a feeding frenzy.

“This way,” Aegraxes said, straining. I followed him blindly. Though I could see no discernible difference in the land ahead, it was shifting, coalescing, in much the same way as it had when we had entered through the dreadport. So many ways to enter, so few ways to leave.

Now the ground began to change. Gone was the marsh. The landscape was green, a mixture of fields and uncultivated grassland. In the distance were foothills, rising up to a range of grey mountains. A walled city lay in the lee of these foothills – a city that was very familiar indeed.

The only strange thing was that this scene was above me. It was as though we were moving through the soil underneath, or the bedrock itself, but we passed through it without hindrance, and it was glass-clear. I remembered the last time I had experienced this: it was when I had seen the Muphraab beneath Rekaburg.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Hush now. This is a very dangerous place.”

And then, with a jolt, I realised: the city was Galen’s Vale. We passed underneath the Veldelin Gate. Above us, townsfolk bustled, oblivious to both us and the wider upheaval in the Empire. When last I had seen the place, much of it, especially around the southern gatehouse, was in ruin. Now all of the burnt debris had been cleared and most of the buildings had been replaced.

We glided through that strange, unconstructed space. I saw ahead of us the kloster, occupying its fortress-like position above the town. Beneath, honeycombing the bedrock, was the network of secret tunnels I had become intimately familiar with, and where Matas had lost his life.

The mere thought of him seemed to cause some reaction in the aether around us, like stirring up sediment at the bottom of a lake.

“Helena,” I heard him say.

I stopped, overwhelmed with heartsickness.

“Ignore it,” Aegraxes commanded.

“Matas?” I said.

“Don’t,” Aegraxes snapped. “It is not him.”

A chill ran through me.

“Helena, I miss you,” Matas said. I couldn’t see him, but his voice sounded close.

“Shut up,” Aegraxes hissed.

Matas let out a long, plaintive moan. “You killed me, Helena. All I did was love you, with all my heart. You were everything to me!”

“Shut up!” Aegraxes said again.

“You fucking killed me, you bitch!” Matas snarled. The moan turned into a horrible laugh. “You killed my father as well, do you know that? Drank himself to death, didn’t he?”

I stopped. The corpse of Vartan – Matas’ father – was laid at my feet.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling myself begin to panic.

“You’re sorry?” Matas snapped. “Fuck your apology, you whore. Whore of Nema. I’m going to gut you like a fucking fish.”

I felt something brush against my cheek. I turned sharply, and saw, for a time no longer than an eyeblink, an image of Matas, his face a skull, worms in his eye sockets, his mouth a horrible skeletal grin.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered frantically. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it,” Aegraxes said. “He is not here. It is not him. Come on. We don’t have much time.”

Matas’ laughter faded into the distance, to be replaced by another sound, one I had long come to associate with a feeling of deep-seated dread.

The steady, distant sound of monstrous footsteps.

Aegraxes led me to the kloster. Here I saw for the first time a stream of light, a thread of gold which plunged down into the distant depths of nothingness below our feet. I looked up, and saw that it was tethered to the body of Resi August.

She was in the hospice of the kloster. With her mind gone, her body simply… existed, like a ship with no crew, drifting along the currents. But her mortal form was clearly in the grip of something; she tossed and turned and groaned. Several worried-looking nuns tended to her.

But they could not see what we could see.

Standing next to August was what looked initially like a naked man with skin the colour of coal. But then I saw that he had six very long, very thin arms, one of which was placed on August’s chest, as though he were pressing her into the bed.

“The Decapitator,” Aegraxes said with profound dismay. “I have miscalculated.”

The creature turned to face us. It had a mouthless and eyeless black visage, with some sort of bony crest that could have been a halo. A single rune of pink light floated above its head. The space where its stomach should have been was given over to an enormous mouth. Blood dribbled from this disgusting maw, as though the thing had taken a huge draw of red wine but had neglected to swallow.

“Helena, listen to me carefully—” Aegraxes began, but the thing’s arms suddenly uncoiled and lashed out like whips, flickering across several hundred feet of aether and latching on to us like limpets. Before I had time to scream, both Aegraxes and I were yanked headlong into the room.

I could focus on nothing except that enormous stomach-mouth as we raced towards it like loosed arrows. In the space of an eyeblink it had clamped over one of Aegraxes’ heads and torn it off in a great fountain of ichor.

I found myself suddenly released as the Decapitator busied itself with crunching the snakehead bones. I fell bodily and scrabbled backwards as Aegraxes’ second head let out a horrified shriek. From where I sat, I saw that the golden thread of light attached to Resi was wrapped around the demon’s hand and wrist.

The stomach-mouth finished devouring the lifeless snake head and let out an insanity-inducing roar. Aegraxes staggered backwards, clutching vainly at his jetting stump, throwing his sword to one side. Chaos reigned. My panic was overwhelming. Aegraxes had always seemed to be so certain, so sure, so wise and powerful. This was like watching Vonvalt suddenly get stabbed by a random peasant.

“Helena!” Aegraxes’ second head wailed. “I was wrong! Get back! Get out! Get away!”

The Decapitator turned its eyeless face to me. Those empty sockets regarded me with penetrating intensity. It took a step towards me, the ground smoking beneath its feet. Behind, Resi moaned and thrashed. The nuns, oblivious to this ghastly immortal struggle, soothed and shushed her and bathed her forehead with cold flannels.

“No,” I breathed. It was no use Aegraxes telling me to flee. I had no idea how to. The wall was solid behind me, the floor unyielding beneath my buttocks.

I reached out and snatched up the sword from where Aegraxes had dropped it. It felt hot and heavy in my hands, the iridescent golden light of the blade like liquid sun.

I stood.

The Decapitator came at me.

I tried to think of my swordplay tutelage, but there was simply no time. I brought the sun blade down in a great stroke from high to low, but the Decapitator danced backwards. The blade seemed to cut the aether itself, leaving an incision in the fabric of the air. Beyond, deep into the reality-wound, I caught the briefest hint of a city, a place of white marble and gold beneath a turbulent grey sky. For a moment I thought it was Sova, but it was not – it was so much more than that.

And it was at war.

The incision knitted itself closed.

The Decapitator was there.

I shouted as it smacked the flat of the sun blade with its hand. I held on to it, but the force of the blow knocked me off my feet and wrenched my arm badly. The demon staggered backwards, clutching its wounded hand. A great pall of smoke was rising off it, bleeding into the air. The sun blade, whatever its substance, was anathema to it.

I scrabbled to my feet, swinging the sword back and forth, shouting as I did so. I had no idea what my endgame was; even if I managed to defeat this despicable creature, I was trapped here. Aegraxes was motionless and still on the floor.

The Decapitator came at me again, arms whipping out. It moved with jarring speed, not like a person, but as though reality itself were skipping forward fractions of a second. I couldn’t predict its movements. I swung once, twice, wildly, my panic rising—

And then again it was on me.

I screamed and squirmed as it pinned me down, its enormous stomach-mouth directly above my own midriff. A great stink came off it that caused me to gag and retch. Insane with rage, its enormous jaws clamped down over my hand which held the sun blade.

And it tore it clean off.

I gaped at my missing right hand. It was a ruin of flesh and bone. Blood jetted from the stump. Worse: a horrible darkness was spreading from it, an iridescent purple-black bruise of malign energies snaking up my forearm like oil on water.

It was agony. It was like my arm was on fire. It was like someone had peeled off my skin and was bathing my nerves in vinegar.

The Decapitator was not faring much better. In biting my sword hand off, it had idiotically sliced its mouth open. Stinking black ectoplasm gushed from where it had cut its cheeks into four flaps. It bit at the air stupidly, mad with pain. Its six hands flailed about the chamber, crashing off the doppelgänger walls. The sun blade smoked and hissed on the floor next to Aegraxes.

And then, finally, they arrived.

I knew not what had summoned them; certainly I had not done anything deliberate. Perhaps cutting open the fabric of reality, breaching the wall of aether between this place and the realm of Nema, had alerted them. Perhaps it had been the death of Aegraxes. Perhaps this monstrous calamity simply made so much fucking noise that intervention was inevitable.

Whatever the reason, the Shrine Guardians arrived. Or at least, one did. Perhaps it was all they could spare.

The Decapitator shrieked dementedly in the corner, clutching the golden thread attached to Resi and winding it desperately around one of its arms. The Shrine Guardian, impassive behind its faceplate of beautiful ivory, strode the length of the room. It drew its sword. In its wake, footsteps of flickering white flame, like chainfire, coruscated in and out of existence. The air in the chamber suddenly felt cleaner, fresher, more vital and fragrant.

Sensing its doom, the Decapitator screeched and lurched forwards, trying to bite at this celestial interloper – but it was thrown backwards with an incredible, bone-crunching punch. It landed awkwardly on the floor, sprawling, insensible. A moment later, the Guardian stomped its sabaton on the demon’s neck and cut off its hand – the one holding the golden thread anchored to Resi.

And then, it decapitated the Decapitator.

I watched this execution unfold with a sort of baffled, horrified fascination, until I was jolted by a noise to my right. My heart lurched. I scrabbled for a weapon, fearing the very worst, but I quickly discovered it was Aegraxes. He was stirring. I had thought him to be dead – and felt perfectly justified in so thinking – but he was not. Nor would he die. I wasn’t even sure if he could die, at least in a way that meant anything to me.

His neck stump appeared to have sealed itself off, and he slowly pressed himself up into a sitting position.

“I told you,” his surviving snake head croaked. “Judicious intervention.”

The Shrine Guardian took up the golden thread and manipulated it in some way. It seemed to disappear, or fold back into Resi’s body.

A rook appeared in the chamber, perched on the windowsill. It cawed at the Guardian; the Guardian stroked the bird’s cheek.

And then the Shrine Guardian was gone.

The rook flew over to me and landed on my ruined arm.

And then I was gone, too.

XXXI

Blades of the Sun

“Only a death witnessed may be glorious.”

LEGIONARY APHORISM

I was standing next to August in a place of chaos.

But it was not the chaotic maelstrom of dark energies which swirled around the Halls of Hell. This felt like a much more mortal chaos – a mortal chaos perpetrated by immortals.

Here was the Palace of Blood. It sat at the nadir of an immense slope, though the slope was no natural formation. Instead, it was a vast plane of marble which cut a shallow angle towards the Palace, like an enormous drain.

In fact it quite literally was.

Arrayed in perfect ranks were thousands of marble slabs. Tens of thousands. Perhaps millions. They stretched up into the crimson sky, which presided over this nightmare in a perpetual sunset. On top of each slab was a person, or what had once been a person. Each was headless, inverted, and being slowly drained. At the base of these long ranks of slabs were channels which siphoned the blood down into the Palace. The quantity of it was beyond comprehension.

The Palace itself looked to have been constructed entirely from bone. Its outermost curtain wall had set upon it two huge faces, and from their closed eyes fountained thousands of gallons of blood in a great sanguinary lament. It pooled on to the plane beyond, and it was on that plane which August and I now crouched, an infinite, ankle-deep lake of blood like a never-ending plate of red glass.

In front of the walls, sloshing across this revolting moat, were two armies.

“Thank you, Helena,” August said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “That took no small store of courage.”

I could only concentrate on the stump of my right hand, where the black corruption of the Decapitator spread. It was up to my elbow now. My wrist stank, and pustulent yellow fluid and black ectoplasm drooled from it. I was dissolving. I could think on little else except the pain.

August eyed it warily. “Come. We must be quick.”

I gripped the stump and followed her, whilst the forces of Oleni stormed the palace and the Legions of Sardach, Ramayah’s personal demonic armies, met them on the plane. Oleni’s soldiers reminded me of the Shrine Guardians. They were a mirror-image of the Sovan legions, clad in armour of gold and flowing cream-coloured cloaks. Amongst them were standards and pennants bearing the white deer of Nema, not flapping in the windless air, but swirling as though underwater. They wielded weapons forged from light, and directed crackling corposant blue energy at their enemies.

The Legions of Sardach were the black to Oleni’s white. Like the demons I had summoned in Keraq, their skin was leathery and black. Each was headless, though that seemed to be no impediment. They moved more like enormous spiders than people.

These armies met in a great melee, the sun blades of Oleni’s warriors carving through the demons as though they were little more than clouds of smoke. I was not sure if either the angelic host or the Legions of Sardach bled in the traditional sense, but there was so much blood being kicked up in great sprays that it was impossible to tell.

“Come on. This is not our concern.”

We had been crouched behind an outcrop of obsidian; now we moved towards the great sloped field of death, sloshing through the blood plain like children playing in a stream. Away to our right was a wretched and gloomy metropolis of dull brown stone which put me in mind of the City of Sleep. In the centre of it was a hill, and crowning that was a structure which looked like a Savaran monastery.

“You were caught,” I said, clutching at my forearm. “Something had you.”

“Ghessis found me,” August said. It was clear that the experience had rattled her.

“That was not Ghessis in the hospice.”

August looked at me sharply. “Please: I do not want to know. Don’t tell me about that.”

I could not fault that kind of thinking.

“Is he still after you?” I asked.

“Always,” was all August said. “Hurry. We must be quick.”

We moved closer to the gloomy city. There was little sign of habitation. It was as still and silent as the grave. Perhaps it was the settlement in which the soldiers of the Legions of Sardach lived – which would account for its being empty. It seemed bizarre to imagine the creatures just… existing. Eating, drinking, arguing, carousing. Perhaps they didn’t; perhaps they simply sat in silence forever, waiting until they were needed. That was a bleak thought, too.

We achieved the settlement, cutting figures of midnight thieves. Our footsteps seemed unforgivably loud on the cobbles.

“They are watching us,” I murmured. Now I did see flickers of movement in the upstairs windows of each dismal lodging: dark presences, the flash of eyes, an imagined hand pointing. I heard whispers, too.

“They do not like us being here,” August said. “Nor should they.”

She pulled me into an alleyway and unbuckled the weapon from about her hips. It was a blade forged from golden light, nested in an ornate scabbard. It was the same sort of sword that the Shrine Guardians used. She helped me to strap it on whilst I held my wounded arm out of the way. “Ramayah’s connexion to Claver has its nexus in that building,” she said, nodding to the monastery.

“You mean to sever it?” I asked. I gestured to the sword she had given me with my remaining hand. “This is the spirit knife?”

“No; this is the spirit knife.” She pulled back her cloak to reveal what looked more like a spearhead than a blade, wrought from gold and still attached to a short length of broken haft. Its sides were so razor-sharp they looked as though they could cut the air itself. I could feel powerful energies radiating from it.

“The blade that cut out the heart of Vangrid,” I breathed.

August nodded. “Only an attenuation artefact such as this has the necessary power to sever the connexion between Ramayah and Claver.”

“Why can Ramayah not simply use this to cut his way into the mortal plane?” I asked. “I have incised the fabric of the aether with something much less potent.”

“For one, its holy energies would be agony. It is said that he was so affected by the weight of his heresy in murdering Vangrid that he cannot bear to look at it, much less hold it. Secondly, he cannot exist on the mortal plane without a human host; he will simply discorporate. And thirdly…”

“Yes?”

“Thirdly,” August repeated, as she finished buckling the scabbard about my hips, “he does not have it.”

I eyed the monastery warily. “How do you sever the link?”

“It is a simple case of cutting a—”

She stopped, cocked her head.

“I hear it too,” I said.

“Run.”

We ran.

Ghessis smashed his way into the street. I looked back only once, to see the – dismally familiar – sight of that alabaster-skinned colossus, an enormous man naked except for his grotesque iron mask. His feet and shins were scratched and bloodied from where they smashed through the brick and bone of the structures lining the streets. He pulled entire handfuls of tiles and roof beams free in his haste to clamber after us. A bone-shaking roar of animalistic rage filled the air.

If he caught me, that would be it. No more dipping in and out of the afterlife like an indecisive bather. No more returning to the mortal plane, frightened and shaking, but ultimately safe. No. If he caught me, it would be oblivion. My body would be rendered nothing more than an empty vessel like August’s. Who knew what excruciation awaited my soul?

I tore recklessly across the cobbles, driven to fresh urgency. The only good thing about being chased by Ghessis was that it made all of our other problems disappear. The creatures of this wretched city were as frightened of him as we were. Where once they might have tried to stop us attempting the monastery, now they cowered in their houses.

“Come on!” August shouted at me breathlessly. We cut right, then left up a wide boulevard. The monastery sat atop a hill of black rock, and seemed to exist in its own in time and space. The air was curiously quiet and muted here; the sounds of the battle outside the Palace of Blood died away – itself an enormous feint, I now realised, for this much more important task. Still, could not even a small detachment of them be spared?

“Can they not help us?” I shouted at August’s back as we barged our way through a large pair of iron gates at the bottom of the path leading up to the monastery’s entrance. Behind us, Ghessis roared again, smashing over a house and crushing its occupants. They disappeared in explosions of black smoke.

“Not them,” August said. She was looking frantically up at the sky. I noticed she had something in her hand, a small charm or amulet. She kept whispering into it, talking to it, pleading with it. She rubbed it with her thumbs as she ran.

Ghessis roared again.

“Who then?!” I asked.

The answer came a half-second later. There was a shift in the air behind me. I whirled around. The aether had split, cut open like a sword cutting skin. Three Shrine Guardians stood there, shields and spears in hand, forming a protective rearguard.

The last thing I saw was Ghessis ripping one of them in two in a great welter of glowing white ectoplasm and golden light.

“No!” I shrieked, and then the monastery doors boomed closed, and we were alone in that hellish place.

Inside it was quiet and gloomy.

August led me at a run across the floor – formed, I observed, of a mosaic of bone chips. The walls were draped in tapestries of tanned skin, and the pillars which held the roof aloft were great accretions of human spines strapped with iron. I saw that what I had first taken to be wood grain in the panelling on the walls were in fact faces, groaning quietly, shifting in slow agony. Just another horror in a realm of horrors, no more or less remarkable than a thousand other things I had seen.

We moved at speed through the silent, dark corridors. It seemed unlikely that the Shrine Guardians would be able to hold Ghessis for long. The place was set out much like a Neman kloster, and August was leading me to what I would have recognised as the chapterhouse. As we approached, I felt a horrible pull of energies, like underwater currents swirling around my feet and ankles.

Inside was Claver.

I came up short, but August was untroubled. She shouldered straight into the chapterhouse, and I realised that this was another artefact of Claver’s soul, a spectral doppelgänger, the same as what we had seen on the ash wastes of Hell.

He was in agony.

He was strapped – no, nailed – to a large X-shaped cross of wood. He was naked and covered in bloody rents, as though a large clawed beast had raked him up and down. The floor of the chapterhouse was awash with blood. From Claver’s chest sprouted a thin column of what I can only describe as black light. Much like the golden tether which the Decapitator had tried to unpick from August’s body, this thread rose up through the roof of the chapterhouse and into the sky.

“Quick,” August said to herself, pulling out the spirit knife. She moved forward, ready to cut the tether—

—when the wall of the chapterhouse beyond dissolved in a great welter of cracked bone. A Shrine Guardian, thrown as though from a catapult, smashed through the wall and into the wooden cross, knocking Claver’s bound spirit face down. The tether jerked away, and August’s knife missed it by an inch.

The Shrine Guardian righted itself and recovered its spear and shield. August lurched once more for the tether, but she was batted away with a sideswipe from Ghessis’ hand and sent sprawling.

“Resi!” I shouted, making to dash over to her; but then Ghessis reached in to the chapterhouse, grabbing at us madly, fingers grasping, clutching at rubble.

“Do something!” I yelled at the Shrine Guardian, but it was already up and moving. It stabbed Ghessis in the hand, cutting a deep gash into his index finger. It was another wound to add to the tally, for I saw now that Ghessis had several more; a great rent where the skin of his chest was laid open, and a deep stab in his side, judging by the way he held it and hunched slightly. With a clearer view, I saw also that Ghessis’ movements were sluggish. The Shrine Guardian’s, to the contrary, were nimble, and for several short moments I actually thought the latter might have the better of the former.

And then there was a foetid stink in the air, and the buzzing sound of a million flies. An enormous entity thumped into the roof of the monastery, cracking the beams and dislodging a thousand millennia of dust in a great grey waterfall. As the Shrine Guardian leapt forward to plunge his spear into the eyehole of Ghessis’ mask, both of them were crushed under the hook-clawed feet of an enormous black demon.

“Blessed Nema,” August said, her voice cracking with the most profound fear. She lurched once more to try and slice through the tether, but Ramayah smashed the entire roof off the chapterhouse and yanked the tether away, grasping it as though that unending coil of black aether were simply a rope.

“Too long have I tolerated these absurdities,” Ramayah said in a voice that hurt my ears. He knocked Ghessis roughly to the ground and stamped four, five, six times on his neck until it snapped; then he picked up the shattered body of the Shrine Guardian and pulled off its head and sucked out its glowing white innards. Once this appalling display was complete, he reached down and plucked up Claver’s groaning spirit, still nailed to the wooden cross.

Ramayah looked at me – except he had no eyes. None that I could see. His face, an enormous black oval, was simply… mouth. Three mouths – three sets of grinning jaws, stacked one on top of the other. His skin was the texture of coal-black tree bark, or melted fire-mountain rock, or hewn obsidian. Two horns, like great antlers, sprouted from his head. He wore a crown of pink light, a jagged, spiked, unholy thing.

This was the Progenitor. The Prince of Blood. Chieftain of Kasivar himself and the foremost lieutenant of Hell.

Eyeless, he regarded me with penetrating intensity. His attention was a physical force, burning me, stripping away my skin and flesh. What could I do against such a being? What could any of us do? To even be here felt like the most absurd hubris. We were like mice trying to take down a tyger.

Ramayah pointed an enormous finger at me. I wilted and wept.

“I know you, girl.”

He threw away the body of the Shrine Guardian, tossed it over to where the forces of Oleni and the Legions of Sardach still battled in the shadow of the palace. That fight was about to become a very one-sided affair.

“I have tasted you.” His mouths didn’t synchronise with the words he spoke. Sometimes they gnashed; other times they remained still, and his voice simply issued from the air about my ears. “Such sweetness.” The middle mouth licked its lips. The upper whispered; the lower burped blood.

I stood, frozen in place, mute with fear.

“The temporal path flows in a strange way, does it not? Fate, making us all dance to her tune.” He snorted, a ghastly sound. “You all think it is that rancid wench Oleni who is your saviour, but we all answer to Fate in the end. Even I.” He pointed at me, at the sword I held in my remaining, trembling hand. “That blade. You are unworthy to hold it, girl. You sully it with your mortal touch.”

“I-I…” I stammered.

“DROP IT.”

I screamed and fell over backwards, landing heavily on my buttocks. I was so terrified I couldn’t breathe. For a moment I said nothing at all; and then, with all of my sense and pride leaking out of me, I began to jabber and plead for my life.

“Courage, Helena,” August said quietly from next to me. She gripped me under the armpits and hauled me to my feet. Then she moved so that she was standing next to me, shoulder to shoulder. I felt her press something cold and hard into my one remaining hand. It was the Vangrid blade.

“Ah, Ghessis’ plaything,” Ramayah mocked. “What an interesting creature you are. Tell me your name, woman, and I shall make your cadaver sing sweet music.”

“I shall tell you nothing,” August said, her terror wearing a mask of ferocity.

“Whore of Nema!” Ramayah exploded. “What exotic patrons you rally to your banner!” He gestured to the broken form of the Shrine Guardian. “Where is your soul’s anchor secreted, eh? In the Golden City? Tell me your secrets and I shall permit you life.”

“When I say, you must cut the tether,” August whispered to me.

“How?” I asked desperately.

“In a moment. You will know.”

Ramayah’s mouths suddenly roared in unison: “I will not permit a half-corpse to ignore me! Disgusting bitch of soil and bone! Your spirit is mould! I should have let Ghessis take you. When I sack the Realm of Oleni it will be your soul I put to the longest excruciation! Tell me of Her plans or I shall unstring them out of you like veins—”

It all happened very quickly.

August vanished. For a moment of dizzying, profound resentment I thought she had abandoned me entirely; but then a huge rook flapped away from the place she had just been standing. The bird, almost the same size as me, tore towards Ramayah’s face as surely and swiftly as a javelin, plunged into his middle throat, and tore out his uvula.

Ramayah roared and lurched backwards, flapping his wings, gnashing his jaws, achieving nothing except a mouthful of feathers. He swung wildly with his hands to try and grab August out of the sky – and in so doing, released Claver’s soul tether.

“Now!” August shouted. At the same time I became aware of hundreds – no, thousands – of creatures converging on the monastery. Drawn to their master’s agony, alerted to what was unfolding here in the chapterhouse, the Legions of Sardach were abandoning the palace and swarming towards us.

I brought to bear every last ounce of courage I had and ran over to where Claver’s spirit artefact lay, the Spear of Vangrid gripped in my hand.

I froze. A cry of rage filled the air. I looked up to see Ramayah grab August’s avian form.

“No!” I shouted.

“Do it!” August cried.

I slashed the blade through the tether. August cried out the words of the Nyrsanar Nexi. They were her last. Ramayah squeezed.

I closed my eyes.

And I vanished.

I awoke on the altar.

Lady Frost was there, holding my hand – my right hand. She stroked it like a nurturing grandmother. The flesh looked black and discoloured, and it pulsed with dull pain, but it was still there. My wrist was wrapped in strings of prayer beads and ribbons. One of the shamans was holding my hand, too, thumb pressed firmly into the centre of my palm. He muttered some ward under his breath.

I sat up slowly.

“Easy, girl,” Lady Frost said softly, her expression one of tenderness and concern. “Slowly.”

And then I felt something hard and heavy in my left hand. Stunned, confused, exhausted, I looked at it dumbly.

It was the Spear of Vangrid. As Resi banished me, I had unthinkingly and unwittingly brought it with me. Gripped tightly in my hand, it had cut its way through the aether; now it was here with me on the mortal plane.

Lady Frost’s eyes widened as she saw it. She looked at me. “What happened?”

“I cut the tether,” I said hoarsely. I felt exhausted. “The link between Ramayah and Claver, I severed it. I did as you bade.”

“You did, Helena,” Lady Frost breathed, overcome with relief. She kissed me on the cheek and pulled me into an embrace. “You really did,” she whispered into my ear. “Bless you. Thank you. You have done it. It is finished.”

“Here, drink this,” one of the shamans said gently, offering me some concoction. I took it in a trembling hand, and drank the hot, pungent liquid inside. Immediately I felt my fatigue dissolve away in much the same way I had after a mug of kafé in the Kyarai.

“What happens now? What is the result of severing the connexion?”

“It means that we can kill Claver. Very soon,” Lady Frost said.

“What about Resi?” I asked. Unlike my previous misadventures into the afterlife, which faded like old dreams the moment I returned, this one still felt fresh and visceral. It was as though Ramayah was still there, but a few tens of yards from me, standing beyond the splintered ruins of the chapterhouse. The urge to cower was a strong one.

Lady Frost shook her head sadly. “I know not how you parted, but… we can no longer sense her. At least, not in the Edaximae.”

I steadied myself as a sudden wave of grief washed through me. “He killed her,” I said quietly. I realised that the memory of it would haunt me forever. That was a bleak thing.

“You are certain?”

“I did not see her expire, but her situation was utterly hopeless.”

Lady Frost rubbed my back. “There will be time to grieve, later.”

I nodded, though I did not believe it. Only now did the sounds of mortal battle – how pathetic, how inconsequential it all seemed! – begin to re-register in my mind.

I swung my legs off the side of the altar.

“Even without Claver, we are outmatched,” I said. I could conjure no positive emotion whatever. In spite of Lady Frost’s words, her praise, her encouragement, I simply wanted to fold in on myself. I had neither the stomach nor the strength for more fighting.

Lady Frost signalled to the shamans and the other pagan warriors who had accompanied us to prepare to leave.

“Then we had better do something about it, hadn’t we?”

XXXII

A Sword in the Hand of a Good Man

“Tyranny loves apathy, but it fears a sword in the hand of a good man.”

FROM CHUN PARSIFAL’S THE INFINITE STATE

We mounted our horses and made our way to the Klaran Road. Thralls milled about in the streets, mindless and mute. Corpses lay at their feet, but they did not feast. I saw at least one bludgeoned to death by townsfolk emboldened by their sudden inaction.

We could hear the sounds of fighting all down the Veleurian Road as we rounded the western face of the Arena and charged up through a large housing precinct. Here we were untroubled by the Templars, though the same could not be said for the Sofijan High-Way. At the nexus of the Sofijan, Creus and Veleurian Roads, with the Creus Gate itself but a few hundred yards to the west, a fresh skirmish was taking place where a group of Imperial Guardsmen had collared perhaps a thousand from the volunteer companies and were forcing them to hold the junction.

Here, Templars were bunched up outside the Temple of Creus and the College of Prognosticators – the latter now just a burnt shell. Something had happened to stymie their advance, which was odd, for there were many thousands of them and they should have been able to sweep through such a small defending force with ease.

I flinched. In and amongst the Templars was an explosion, something which I first took to be blackpowder since a great plume of detritus and vaporised human tissue burst into the air. But then I saw another one: the body of a Neman priest buckling, launching into the air, splitting in half, and landing amongst the Templars like a pile of wet laundry.

“That is your work, Helena,” Lady Frost said from next to me. She sounded like a proud parent.

It took me a moment to realise what she was talking about. The priests took their powers from Claver, and Claver was drawing his power from Ramayah. In severing the connexion between Claver and Ramayah, I had cut off their ability to sustain these magicks. Just like the priests in the inner sanctum of Keraq, their bodies were overfilling with malign energies; and with no way to discharge the powers, they were bursting apart.

“To the Temple of Nema, quick,” Lady Frost said.

We crossed over the Creus Road well to the west of the fighting, down a succession of small roads and alleyways where frightened city folk called out to us, desperate for some update on the state of the battle, and then down a southern branch of the Dubravkan Road before it turned into the Dubravkan Bridge. We approached the Temple of Nema from the north, dismounted, and entered.

I had followed Lady Frost and her pagan life guard blindly, for she had moved and acted with such surety; but now that we were in that enormous cathedral, I wondered just what on earth we were doing here. It seemed as though we had done little more than damn ourselves. If the Templars stormed the Temple of Nema there would be no way out.

I voiced these concerns to Lady Frost as we moved through the northern part of the cathedral, but all she would say was, “It will happen here.”

Eventually, we came to the main chamber. Here, bustling around the great deer-headed colossus of Nema, was a collection of several hundred knights – a ragtag outfit of Hauners, pagans, Saxanhilde Templars, and some of the bolder Sovan volunteers. They moved with great purpose, ripping up pews and forming barricades.

In the centre of this mass was Vonvalt.

I ran directly to him. He turned to me, his cloak gone, his armour dented and scratched, and with a large welt on his forehead where it looked as though someone had made a good go of braining him. He offered me a tired smile, unprepared for the tight embrace which I gave him.

I felt his hands against my armoured back as he returned it.

“We did it,” I said, fumbling out the Spear of Vangrid. “We cut the link. His power is gone. Already we can see the priests dying. Exploding!”

Even this piece of unbridled good news was not enough to coax any sort of optimism from Vonvalt. The best he could do, as he gripped me by the shoulders, was nod. He looked absolutely exhausted, physically and spiritually.

“Well done, Helena,” he said tiredly. “Truly. You are magnificent. There is no one else who could have done it.”

The words sounded leaden, hollow. My own sense of achievement, a brittle thing already tempered by the death of August – not to mention Heinrich and Sir Radomir – shattered. Precisely what was it that I had done? Ten thousand Templars stood more or less unopposed on the Veleurian Road. So what if the priests were dead? They would take the city by the end of the day. Those Legionaries fleeing west from the Kova would be crushed between the immovable object of Sova and the unstoppable force of the Confederation armies. I had endured unimaginable horror and taken on enough mental trauma to last ten lifetimes, and the end result was the same. Claver would attain the throne; it was just that he would do it as a mortal despot, rather than an immortal one. We had stopped Ramayah, but Claver would have years, decades, to rebuild the Church and scour every inch of the Empire and beyond for the lore which would let him try again.

Even all of this felt insignificant as the forces of Oleni battled the forces of Kasivar in the holy dimensions. Who was to say that all of this meant anything? A small skirmish in a war for the right to grant the gift of life itself.

“Resi?” he asked quietly, as though he already knew the answer.

I simply shook my head. Vonvalt gritted his teeth. “Well. That is that, then.”

We both stood in silence for a few moments as the people around us laboured to barricade the entrances. Here, then, under the watchful eyes of Nema, we would make our last stand. I might have faced the end with courage if I had not seen souls being dragged away from the Plain of Burden to Hell.

Something thumped in the distant warren of chambers, something that might have been the smashing of heavy doors.

I looked at Vonvalt.

“Here they come,” he said.

“It is not too late,” I replied. “We can still prevail here.”

It was nonsense, of course. We had not a hope of winning.

“No, Helena,” Vonvalt said tiredly. He pulled his sword out of its scabbard. “This is very much the end.”

I stood next to him near the colossus. In front of us, knights and soldiers readied themselves for the inevitable. I watched many offer up a prayer to Nema, kissing their hands and touching the marble hem of her dress, not knowing that the statue’s celestial namesake and her soldiers were utterly preoccupied with a battle of their own.

Not knowing that their prayers were useless things.

“We must try,” I said. I wished Heinrich was next to me. I wished Sir Radomir and Bressinger were still here. “We cannot let this evil win.”

Vonvalt sucked in a deep breath. “Sometimes, Helena, evil wins. That is the way of the world.”

I felt a surge of anger flush through me. “You are not the man I once knew.”

Vonvalt looked at me sharply. It was funny; of all things I could have said and done, it seemed like that, above everything else, wounded him.

The crashing, clattering sound grew. It was as though the temple was being overcome by a tsunami of steel. At least the whispers had gone, the chittering, the buzzing, the trickling sound of phantom blood rivers. The peril we faced was of the purely mortal kind. After everything I had seen, the thought of being stabbed didn’t trouble me much any more.

Eventually the doors were smashed down. With a great blast they flew off their hinges and crashed down on to the marble floor. Standing front and centre of the Templar host, framed in the doorway, was Claver.

Vonvalt actually growled – an animalistic cry of rage.

“JusTICE!” Claver thundered as the Templars around him surged forwards. The main hall came alive with the sound of steel on steel as the attackers crashed into the barricades and the defenders killed them. It was insane; the first two or three ranks of Templars were entirely reckless with their lives, assaulting with none of the prudence one would have expected from soldiers on the verge of an historic victory.

Vonvalt lurched forward. I tried to stop him, but he charged away from the colossus with such a sudden turn of speed that I was left shouting at his back. I ran after him, as did most of the rest of us, save for a few of Lady Frost’s life guard.

The barricades were being ripped to pieces by frenzied Templars. I watched pagans with spiked war hammers lurch forwards and smash the closest Savarans right through the tops of their skulls, but more Templars were right behind them, grasping and grabbing at the pews and wrenching them away. Some didn’t even have a choice; as more Templars crammed into the main hall they crushed the front ranks together. Soon the whole mass of enemy soldiers was practically immobile.

We resumed the busywork of killing. Pinioned Templars who were squeezed into the barricades were stabbed ruthlessly anywhere they were unarmoured. Faces, throats, hands, all were hacked at. Many of the corpses were left stuck upright. I saw one man with his nose and lips sliced off looking about frantically, screaming, his arms locked in place by his fellows. Even when a pagan smashed the top of his head with a hammer, with such force that one of his eyeballs bulged out of its collapsed socket, he could not move.

No effort was being made to stop this senseless and chaotic advance. It was the height of madness. Why go about attacking us in this way? It seemed to me all they had to do was burn the temple down with us in it. But Claver was in charge of these men, and Claver was driving them forward with cruel and bloody exhortations. What was the point of it?

I looked at the priest. He looked back at me. For all he hated Vonvalt – and he hated Vonvalt – I think in that moment he might have hated me more. And he was right to.

Vonvalt and I were in the centre. I could see Claver getting increasingly frustrated with the Templars in his way, until eventually he let out a great screech and blasted a channel through his own men.

“No,” I breathed.

Templars were flung like cannonballs out of the way. Some of them went headlong into our own lines. One collided helmet-first with a pagan defender and stove his face in. Another was hurled screaming past me, to be set upon by Lady Frost’s life guard.

Claver stood in the centre of that space. He was clad in white plate. His face was a mask of molten fury.

Vonvalt stood opposite him, short sword gripped in his right hand. His expression mirrored Claver’s.

“Don’t,” I shouted to Vonvalt. “He still commands the arcana!”

Vonvalt ignored me. I watched helplessly as he ran forwards, now well and truly in and amongst the Templars. Claver closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath, both arms by his sides, palms facing forwards. Then, as Vonvalt closed with him, swinging a blow which was sure to take the priest’s head clean off, Claver batted the sword aside with his palm.

I gasped. The blade should have cut the man’s hand in half; instead, it glanced away. It happened again, and again. Templars were watching now, none daring to intervene – though the majority were still attempting to hack their way through defenders. Thanks to their weight of numbers, they were enjoying the beginnings of success.

I hauled myself back out of the chaotic melee and sought out Lady Frost, who was stood admiring the colossus of Nema, her hand on the cold marble of the God Mother’s leg. She looked as though she were standing in a peaceful garden, admiring the flowers.

“How is he doing this?” I demanded, breathless with anger and indignation and fear. “We cut the tether!”

Lady Frost did not take her eyes from the statue of Nema. She looked sad, though she smiled. “You already know the answer,” she said softly. “We have cut his link to Ramayah, and now that ghastly creature is denied the mortal plane. And Claver’s so-called priests will die. But Claver acquainted himself with the old lore many months ago. He still has a little oil left in the barrel. He will exhaust it soon.”

“But he will kill Sir Konrad!”

Lady Frost nodded. “I think we will all die here.”

I shook my head angrily. I was still waiting for some miracle to take place. I had seen so many things that couldn’t be explained, so many celestial interventions, so many horrors. Was it really beyond the pale to expect some intercession now? In spite of these hopeless odds, would something, the hand of Fate, Nema – anything – not stop this injustice from taking place?

“I will not believe that this is it!” I shouted. I turned back to where Vonvalt was still swinging his sword madly at Claver. The priest was not so well armed with the arcana, nor reckless, to be treating the encounter lightly. It was taking all of his effort to channel the power to move the matter with his mind in a way that localised it entirely to his hands, and so in effect create a blade out of the air. But he was emboldened by his enormous Templar army as they continued to crush their way into the temple, and the cheers of those closest, who saw only their leader toying with Vonvalt.

My attention was stolen by a great crash to the right, as the barricade finally toppled over and the Templars surged forwards, overwhelming the defenders there. I moved to stand in front of Lady Frost. She turned back to the statue of Nema and quietly prayed, as though she were the only person in the world.

I had no hope of reaching Vonvalt now. Screams of the dying filled the air. I felt curiously peaceful as the Templars approached, butchering anyone who had had the temerity to hold them up. Whatever my fate, I was determined not to go to my death with my mind a miasma of fear and hate. I would fight, but I would try to make my death as quick as possible.

The Templars closed in on me. I hefted my shield up into my left shoulder and adopted a stance that Bressinger had taught me.

Bressinger. Would I see him again, soon? I hoped so.

The first man came at me, swinging hard. I blocked the blow with my shield and swung at him in turn, but did nothing except clip his mail. Another man smashed my shield with his, hoping to push me over, though I stayed upright. An unsubtle flail opened the man’s cheek, and he snarled his anger, but that was about all I achieved.

More Templars came in from my left. I couldn’t turn without exposing my own right side, so I did not see Lady Frost killed. From behind me, I heard her say, “Goodbye, Helena.” She did not cry out as she was stabbed over and over again. I heard her body hit the altar and collapse to the floor.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I moved frantically to parry blades. Eventually I was de-shielded. I lost sight of everyone and everything except the Templars in front of me. I backed away, until the unyielding marble colossus of Nema arrested my retreat.

“I tried,” I said. I wasn’t sure who I was speaking to. I thought of August, Bressinger, Sir Radomir, Heinrich, Matas, my parents, the many other thousands of people who had died and would die. I thought of the afterlife, infinite, uncaring. I thought of the life I was about to lose. I was only twenty years old. An entire lifetime of experiences gone. I wept for the person I could have been.

I was knocked to the floor.

As the ring of steel closed and I closed my eyes in preparation for death, I found my last thoughts were of Vonvalt.

Of course.

And then—

And then—

And then—

Noise.

Screams. Was I screaming?

No.

Roars. Roaring.

No death – not for me.

“Not yet,” someone whispered in my ear.

I opened my eyes.

The Templars were moving away. All of them were looking back, back towards the doors.

I heard carnage. It sounded like someone had released a pack of war shepherds a hundred strong into the hall.

I pressed myself weakly to my feet. Around me Templars were fleeing past me, screaming. Hundreds of them were leaping over the barricades and corpses of their brothers, the corpses of the Sovan defenders, and heading beyond, into the warren of chambers behind me. None spared me a second glance. I might as well have been invisible. For those defenders who had survived, they too were being ignored.

I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

It was the wolfmen. The Kasar. The Grasvlaktekraag. Dozens of them – hundreds of them. All dressed for battle, wielding their enormous halberds and scimitars. And there was Severina von Osterlen – and Luther de Rambert, and all the Südenburg Templars. By the gods, they had survived. They had succeeded.

And they were here!

“Blessed Nema,” I breathed. I took a step forward. A mad elation overcame me. Claver’s Templars were being massacred. Bodies were being hurled into the air like bits of paper in a hurricane. The Grasvlaktekraag were unstoppable. It was like watching a pack of dogs fighting over offal.

I stood, mouth agape, trembling, exhausted, elated, completely still whilst the Templars were killed, or fled, or surrendered. A celestial intercession indeed.

And then I saw Vonvalt and Claver.

It was difficult to tell at first what had happened. Claver, his skin mottled with countless purple bruises where his veins had burst with the effort of sustaining his power, was standing stock-still, blood running in great rivulets down his hands and forearms; and Vonvalt, exhausted from a long day of battle, stood still in front of him, seemingly unable to produce the coup de grace that was required to finish the priest – for one good, strong stab would be the end of it.

And then, as I approached, I saw it. Vonvalt’s short sword had connected with Claver’s hand. The blade had cut between the priest’s middle two fingers and split his hand to the wrist. The two halves of it were flopped open, hanging loosely, and Vonvalt’s sword was stuck in the bones of Claver’s forearm.

Claver let out a disgusted, horrified grunt, and collapsed to his knees. There was no one left to help him; the hall was emptying of the living and filling with the dead. He clutched his wrist awkwardly around the blade, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

Vonvalt stood over him, dripping with sweat, heaving in deep lungfuls of air. “Now that it finally comes to it,” he said, his voice weary, “I feel nothing.”

Claver gripped his arm, squeezed it, trying to stop his life’s blood flowing away. “What are you talking about?” he breathed. He sounded annoyed, wretched, exhausted.

Vonvalt shook his head. “Everything you have done, all the people you have killed and caused to be killed. All of the pain and misery you have brought to this world – and the next. I thought I would hate you. Despise you.” He snorted. “I suppose I do… but…”

Claver gritted his teeth. “For Nema’s sake, take the blade out!” he pleaded. Angry tears welled up in his eyes.

“I feel – nothing. Stripped of all your power, what are you? A thief. A brigand. A murderer. A fool. You wear the armour of a great lord. A prophet, even. But in the end, what did you do? You took something that did not belong to you. You stole something you did not understand. You thought you could be something that you are not. And now, thousands of people have paid the price for your hubris.”

Claver said nothing. He just knelt there and wept.

Vonvalt raised his sword.

“Wait!” I shouted.

Vonvalt paused. He turned to me. At the end of the hall, the slaughter of the Templars at the hands of the Kasar continued unabated, but here, we were untroubled. It was an incredible juxtaposition.

“He must die.”

“I know,” I said. “He must. But not here. Not now. Take him prisoner.”

Vonvalt’s features creased in frustration. “What?”

I felt serene in the shadow of Nema. I was calm. I knew with great confidence and clarity what my purpose was. Once I had tried to barter for a man’s life in Rekaburg. I had failed, and that was the point at which I knew that I had lost Vonvalt.

Here, now, was a chance to find him again.

“You told me once about procedure. The importance of it. We were in Denholtz, near Leyenswald. Do you remember that conversation?”

Vonvalt shook his head, but I knew he did. Vonvalt didn’t forget anything.

“Even when you know a man is guilty, you must honour the procedure. Who knows what might come out of it?”

“Helena, there is no way on this earth that Claver is walking out of here alive.”

I placed my hand on Vonvalt’s forearm. “Who knows what acolytes he has? Who shares his sentiments? How many people did it take to allow this to happen in the first place? A man such as this does not exist in a vacuum. Claver has only ever spoken on his own terms, appeared on his own terms. Now you would let him die on his own terms?”

“These are hardly his own term—”

“Hearken to me!” I said sternly.

Vonvalt fell silent, as though I had slapped him.

“If you kill this man now, all of his abundant fallibilities and failures die with him. Lay them bare. Indict him. You know it is the right thing to do. And if death is the punishment, then death is the punishment. But killing him here, away from the eyes of the commonfolk, will not cut out the rot. You will simply martyr him.”

Vonvalt looked at me for a very long time. Then he looked back at Claver. The man, for all his extensive bruising, looked quite pale. He sweated and bled and trembled. Such a wretched, pathetic creature. And yet, still, so much more.

Both Vonvalt and I turned as, for the first time, relative quiet seized the hall. The Grasvlaktekraag had finished slaughtering the Templars. They stood heaving in great lungfuls of breath, their fur and armour and loincloths drenched in gore. In and amongst them, the loyalist Südenburg Templars moved through their former brethren and dispatched the survivors without mercy.

Severina von Osterlen, looking every bit the force of nature that I knew her to be, approached.

“Better late than never,” she said matter-of-factly, and gestured to Claver. “Are you going to kill him?”

Vonvalt looked at Claver, and then he looked at me.

“No,” he said.

“I am going to try him.”

XXXIII

Aftermath

“Any general worth his salt will tell you that victory comes down to the three S’s: strategy, speed, and most importantly, supply.”

GENERAL ARNOLDAS KAZLAUSKAS

Vonvalt had once told me that the Sovans had been able to create the Empire because they did one thing better than anyone else: logistics. They knew that the key to successful campaigning was not strategy – it was supply.

If the preparation of the defence of Sova had been the molehill, then dealing with the aftermath of the battle was the mountain.

The timely intervention of the Grasvlaktekraag and Südenburg Templars had turned the day, there was no question of it. But they did not simply kill ten thousand men. Claver was captured, his eldritch power dissipated, his priests exploded like overripe melons; but there was still the busywork of securing the city to come.

Exhausted from my many ordeals on both the mortal and immortal planes, I hadn’t anything like the store of energy required to do what needed to be done. But, as with all these great exigencies of state, there was no choice.

Claver was dragged away before he could bleed to death, to have his wounds tended to by a cohort of von Osterlen’s men. He was too white in the face and overcome by the weight of his failure to give voice to the great hatred I knew he held within him. Lady Frost’s body was also carried off by those surviving members of her life guard, but gently and with great respect.

I stood, surveying the carnage. The hall was far from silent; the groans and cries and screams of several hundred wounded and dying men and women filled it. The floor was awash with great quantities of blood, and I could not help but think of Ramayah’s palace.

Vonvalt, von Osterlen and the Kraagsman, Zuberi, fell to discussing the vast number of things that required attention. But I did not feel like taking part.

I left my shield, splintered and scarred, on the ground, and slid my sword back into its scabbard. Then I rolled up my sleeves, headed for the nearest wounded defender, and began to do what I could to preserve a few more lives.

The next few days passed in a blur. There was an enormous amount to do. Finally shorn of the great burdens that had been placed on me, I was pleased to simply provide manual labour where it was needed.

Securing the city was the most pressing task, and took priority over everything. A large chain gang was formed and water siphoned off from the Sauber, and the fires were extinguished around the Victory Gatehouse and Nastjan Fields. I helped with that. As the loyalist forces swept through Sova to kill off those of Claver’s force who had escaped the massacre on the Veleurian Road, men and women were required to carry lumber to the Victory Gate. I helped with that, too. There, a small army of carpenters, most stripped down to undergarments in the oppressive summer heat, chiselled away the charred wood from the gate, and sawed and cut fresh timber and strapped it with iron. Work gangs used pulleys and cranes and oxen to put the beams in place. Not long before, the air had been filled with the ringing of steel on bloody steel; now it filled with the incessant hammering of dozens of expert craftsmen.

It was not just lumber we carried. Strong men and women from the houses lining the Petran High-Way were pressed into service, lugging great blocks of stone from the masons’ reserve. Mortar was mixed with ox blood, and I watched workers, their limbs caked in grey dust, as they cut and hammered and lay fresh blocks, replacing smashed merlons and cracked embrasures.

Nearby in the Nastjan Fields, field hospitals were set up, great tents covering several acres of ground. The finest physicians and barber-surgeons in the city descended on the place. They worked tirelessly, and I helped with this, too, scouring the city for medical supplies – huge quantities of vinegar and reduced wine, salt, herbs, bread, honey and oil, bandages and ligatures, mason jars filled with freshwater leeches, and as many astrological and mathematical charts as I could lay my hands on.

Everybody worked day and night. As darkness fell, braziers were lit to drive it back. I watched exhausted barber-surgeons, stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat, arms red up to the elbows, exit tents to douse themselves in water, or drink ale, or vomit. Outside, orderlies piled up great bundles of soiled rags and burned them. Commonfolk wheeled up carts stacked up with barrels of marsh ale, wine and water. With the demand on the Imperial Guard barracks too great, an enormous kitchen had been set up to the north of the fields, and great lines formed of soldiers and city watchmen and – to the astonishment and deep gratitude of many – Kasar. Many of the wolfmen had been garlanded with flowers, and were thanked constantly for their timely intervention. Zuberi himself had become a minor celebrity.

For my own part, I did not seek out congratulations, or even recognition. I was pleased to have survived, certainly, and pleased to have prevented not just the destruction of Sova, but the ascension of a profound interdimensional evil. It was odd that most people would never know just how close we had come to oblivion, but I think I preferred it that way. Vonvalt had always said that it was better that people simply did not know. For the first time, I found myself agreeing with him.

It took three days, in the end, to secure the city to the point that Vonvalt, as its Regent, was satisfied. Several thousand more Templars were turned out, and most were killed out of hand or put to the sword shortly after. Some were imprisoned, but only long enough to be given the noose. The thralls were dispatched, too, insofar as they even remained thralls, rather than simply vacant automatons. One was ensnared as far north as the market, near the Wolf Gate, but they were all killed off in the end.

The biggest fear was the arrival of Kòvoskan forces from the east, for Severina von Osterlen had warned that Legionaries fleeing the Confederation were indeed being pursued by forces from House Casimir. Vonvalt despatched fresh messengers, seeking to parley and with guarantees of Confederation independence, but nonetheless, on the morning of the third day, the surviving defenders, weary and exhausted, were marshalled for a proper head count.

It was at that time, as we all stood-to to wait for another attack, that someone came to find me with a rare morsel of good news.

“Uck ’ee,” Sir Radomir croaked from his bed. Next to him, Heinrich, missing his left ear, half his tail, and his left hind leg, whined and nuzzled and licked my face and hands with great urgency.

I lay my hand on Sir Radomir’s shoulder, too overwhelmed to do anything except quietly cry. The sheriff was naked except for a sheet about his hips – he was much, much hairier than I had expected him to be – and was slathered in huge quantities of salve where he had been burned down his left side. His cheek, which had been torn away by the thrall, was strapped up in bandages and a poultice, and a splint sat between his teeth.

“’Ou are still alithe then?”

I nodded, and tears pattered down on to his chest. Next to me, Heinrich once more buried his face in my hip, and I stroked his big black head with my right hand. It still ached from where the Decapitator had ripped its ghost from my wrist.

“Will you live?” I asked him quietly.

“I hucking ho’e so.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. My heart ached with relief. He asked me what had happened, and I gave my account of it, omitting the vast majority of what had taken place in the afterlife. I spared him giving me an account of his own misadventures, not that it seemed there was much to tell. I think he was suffering more from withdrawal from alcohol than from his wounds, for he sweated and trembled, though the physicians would not let him take on the great quantities of wine that his body was used to. It was ironic that these injuries, grievous as they were, would ultimately kill off the worst of his alcoholism – though it made his convalescence diabolical.

I sat with him for a long time, holding his hand, talking with him, passing the time. Towards the evening, I heard a great commotion rising up from the Nastjan Fields outside, and I left, bidding Heinrich to stay with Sir Radomir. My heart raced, for I had neither the energy nor the stomach for another battle, and my biggest fear was that the host from the Confederation had arrived. But instead of soldiers and Kasar readying themselves for another battle, I found the host marshalled on the fields there cheering.

“What’s going on?” I asked a man nearby.

“It is over! The Lord Regent has made peace with the Kovans! It is all done with, Nema be praised!”

I felt relief wash through me. But I did not stay there to celebrate. Exhausted, mentally, physically, spiritually, I turned away up the high-way, across the Sauber, past the watch house, and to the Imperial Palace. By the time I reached it, I had walked for the better part of two hours. I trudged through the Hall of Solitude, through the southern chambers and hallways and corridors, and sought out my bedchamber.

There, finally in silence and at peace, I lay down on my bed, and slept.

Sir Radomir had survived, but where he had, many others had not.

The cream of the Hauner lords who had ventured south, those few who had listened to Vonvalt’s pleas, had given their lives defending Sova. It was like watching an abused, estranged child sacrificing himself for his father. They were given lavish, ostentatious burials in the coming days and weeks, and that was only right; I was just bitter that any of this had happened in the first place.

Count Maier had died; the curmudgeon, Duke Hofmann, too. Captain Rainer, who had already done so much, had been grievously wounded on the Aleksandra the Valiant High-Way and would succumb a fortnight later. Baron Hangmar, who had saved Vonvalt in Galen’s Vale and who had pledged himself and his men to Vonvalt’s cause here in Sova as well, suffered life-changing injuries that would claim him several years later.

Llyr ken Slaineduro, the Brigalander captain who had led the cream of the pagan force into battle, had survived, with several new scars to add to a no doubt impressive tally. I was pleased to see Sir Gerold had lived, too, which I was surprised about given I had seen him at the front of some of the direst fighting.

It is a strange thing, to continue, to survive where so many have perished. It felt wrong to consume life in their wake, to see things, taste and touch and hear things, to endure and experience where they could not – and never would again. Whilst all around me were elated to have survived such historic times, and saw little except the opportunity to trade war stories, I felt only… guilt. A profound weight of guilt.

But I had to carry on.

There was so much to do, so many demands on Vonvalt’s time, that I barely saw him until most of a week later. It was in a meeting in the strategium of the Imperial Palace. A collection of Hauner lords were present, those I knew only by sight, standing in for their slain lieges. Most notable amongst the attendees was Captain Llyr. I could tell that her presence rankled slightly with the Sovans, in spite of everything the Draedists had done to save them. Had it been Maier and Hofmann and Hangmar, the atmosphere would have been very different.

Also attending was Zuberi, Ran-Jirika and his brother Kimathi. I had not seen it, but apparently the latter had heard – and smelt – the arrival of the Grasvlaktekraag and left the Imperial Palace to join in the fighting. With the Kasar Kyarai so far south, it was only the Templars who frequently saw the wolfmen, and their presence in the capital was causing a great stir amongst the commonfolk.

Severina von Osterlen and Luther de Rambert were there, too. I was glad to see both of them, though we were not given much chance to speak.

The most notable aspect of this gathering was the lack of armour. I had grown so used to seeing everybody clad in mail and plate and surcoats with swords buckled about their hips. Now, everybody wore simple clothes, doublets and hose, hats in some cases, sarongs for the Kasar. Von Osterlen wore a headscarf as she did when she was not dressed for combat, and it was interesting to see that this, her concession to Nemanism, had survived, given all that had come to pass.

“My Lord, what of the priest?” one of the young Hauner lords called out to Vonvalt.

Vonvalt, who looked oddly diminutive out of his ostentatious plate, nodded to himself. He looked grey and drawn. Helming the Empire did not suit him.

“My plan is to try him.”

I could tell that this did not sit well with those assembled. Many had tried to impress upon Vonvalt the importance of killing Claver as soon as possible – so much so that I had even begun to doubt my own injunction. But Vonvalt had made up his mind, and when Vonvalt made up his mind, no force on heaven or earth could move it.

“The Magistratum is disbanded. Does that mean that you plan to re-establish it?” It was von Osterlen who had asked the question, and there was an edge to it. Now that the immediate threat had been neutralised, there was the thorny issue of Vonvalt’s legitimacy to grapple with. Sova was no stranger to armed rebellion, and not a few of its leaders in the past had achieved their position through violence. But although there was no question Vonvalt had saved the city, and had been one of the very few people with the foresight and bloody-mindedness to bring about its salvation, the quiet and unexplained death of the Emperor had raised the eyebrows of those most loyal to him.

Vonvalt shook his head. “No. I have thought long and hard on this. And although it is my belief that the Magistratum was a force for good in this world, I think it is time we removed the arcana from mortal hands entirely.”

This caused quite a stir around the table.

“What do you mean?”

Vonvalt gestured to me. “Some months ago, now, I mounted an expedition to the Frontier. Claver had stolen a number of codexes from the Master’s Vaults. He wielded the magicks therein to terrible effect, as we have seen. Helena here had the presence of mind to burn those books in the sanctum of Keraq.”

It was interesting to see the reaction to this. Most people in the Empire never saw the arcana in action. But to many people it represented a secret weapon that the Sovans possessed, something which gave the Empire an edge over the other civilisations of the world. Especially given that other practitioners would remain – the Kasar, for one; the Draedists to the north, for another – it seemed like we were divesting ourselves of an important tool to maintain parity with these countries.

But Vonvalt was unmoved. “The greatest risk to Sova is Sova herself,” he said. “There would be no war in the Confederation without Sova. There would be no risk to the Kyarai without Sova and the Templars, or to Qaresh, or to any of the nations on the Southern Plains.” He paused. “No. For Sova to truly achieve peace, it needs to stop making war.”

“You sound as though you have designs on the Legions!” someone said, alarmed.

Vonvalt shook his head. “No. But the Empire’s aspirations in the east are at an end. The war with the Confederation – a fool’s errand if ever there was one – is finished. The problem with having abilities such as the arcana is the temptation to use them never goes away. Claver achieved a great deal in a very short space of time, and he was not a particularly intelligent man. What if Nathaniel Kadlec, ten times the man Claver could ever hope to be, had had more ambition? What if he had sought to play a larger, more active role in the downfall of the Empire? No. For the same reason that the Magistratum cannot be re-established, so too must the arcana be purged from Sova. For too long the nation has sought to invest and consolidate power in individuals. Power must be dispersed, not consolidated.”

“Sir Konrad,” one of the Hauner lords asked, “what is it you mean to do? Please speak plainly on the matter.”

“I have done nothing but,” Vonvalt said. “But you are right. Let us speak with precision. I mean to dismantle the Empire.”

There is not much point in reflecting in this volume the great outcry that ensued; one should have no difficulty imagining it. I was as surprised as the rest of them. I knew of course that Vonvalt had promised to repatriate huge swathes of Haunersheim and Tolsburg to the Draedists in return for their assistance. But a part of me did not think he would have the strength of will to go through with it.

I should have known better.

“So. That is why you have the Legions encamped outside of Sova,” von Osterlen said, after Vonvalt had explained the undertaking he had given in the Velykšuma all those weeks ago. “You mean to pass word to them of your designs before opening the gates.”

“Indeed,” Vonvalt said.

“I don’t know what you are all getting so het up about,” Captain Llyr said to the assembled Sovans. “Without us you would all be dead.”

“My Lord Regent, please,” one of the Hauners implored, ignoring the Brigalander. “You cannot trust the Draedists. They have been making war in the north for decades.”

Llyr laughed heartily. “And just who do you think started that war?”

“I give not a pauper’s piss for your opinion, Northerner—”

“Enough,” Vonvalt said, his voice iron. “In exchange for a force of three thousand men and shamans – and I do not need to remind you of the instrumentality of the latter – I promised to turn over the northmarks of Haunersheim and Tolsburg. These are Draedist lands, and were for many thousands of years.”

“You will give them Seaguard!”

“They already have it.”

“This is cowardice!”

Now there was another uproar, but this time it was in defence of Vonvalt. Vonvalt held out his hand for peace, and got it.

“This is nothing of the sort. I gave my word, and I mean to honour it.”

“The people in the north will revolt,” another Hauner said, weakly.

“The people in the north are all practising pagans,” Vonvalt said. “Every last one of them. The only thing I am doing is making a de facto situation into a de jure one.”

“The Legions will not stand for it.”

“The last time a Legion tried to tame the north, they were killed to a man and the Emperor lost a son.”

“What do you mean to do with the Templars?” von Osterlen asked.

“Keraq will be abandoned, as will Zetland. There is nothing further south of Südenburg that anybody can sensibly claim is holy land. You can retain the title of Margrave if you so wish, and restore Südenburg. The Templars there, those of the Order of Saxan Knights, shall continue to protect the pilgrim path to Balodiskirch, though I hope it shall have no more need of protecting. I shall ensure that the Order is recognised on the Imperial Roll of Honour. The Empire owes you its life.”

Von Osterlen inclined her head in gratitude. “If the Empire owes my Order its life, then it owes the Kasar the same.”

Vonvalt nodded. “I agree. I have asked Kraagsman Zuberi and Ran-Jirika to think of an appropriate reward.”

“I suspect with the abandonment of the Frontier you will have given them it.”

“Yes, I suspect I have.”

I studied the table’s occupants, and not without a sense of pessimism. The goodwill that Vonvalt had incurred in saving Sova would only stretch so far. But what he was decreeing – the abandonment of thousands of miles of Imperial territory – were things that would come to pass anyway. If Vonvalt did not cede the north, the Draedists would retake it with force. There were no Templars to garrison Zetland and Keraq even if Vonvalt had wanted to, and so the Frontier, too, would be reclaimed by the Saekas. In fact, the Legions who had fled west from the Kova would have difficulty in simply maintaining what remained of the rump Empire, let alone the occupied lands in Kòvosk. Rather than let all of those things play out with violence, Vonvalt was simply cutting off the limb now in the hope that the body would survive. If he had to incur the ire of a few lords, he would.

“And what do you mean to do, Sir Konrad?” It was Sir Gerold who had spoken. It was the first thing he had said since we had all assembled.

“You mean, over and above everything I have already done?” he said. There was a wryness to his voice which I do not think everyone there detected.

Sir Gerold, however, smiled broadly. “Indeed.”

“I have told you. I mean to try Claver.”

“In what capacity?”

“In my capacity as a Justice. The last Justice.”

“And after that?” the sheriff pressed. “The Emperor and his sons are all dead. The Haugenate line is finished. Do you mean to rule Sova?”

“I have not decided yet,” was all Vonvalt said, and the meeting was over.

I did not get some time completely alone with Vonvalt until the following evening. Even then, there were plenty of demands on his time. But he seemed untroubled by these endless petitions.

“If you let people think you can be bothered at any time, they will try and bother you all the time,” Vonvalt said. It was a warm, pleasant evening, and he and I were sitting on the rooftop terrace which abutted the strategium. We were clad in loose, casual garments, enjoying goblets of unspeakably fine wine. As we drank it, I thought of the Emperor and the first time I had met him. He had offered me a bottle of sixty-year-old Pjolskimis as though it were nothing.

“Why did you listen to me?” I asked, after we had spent the better part of an hour talking about the battle.

I had expected Vonvalt to ask me what I meant, but he knew precisely what I was referring to.

“In the Temple of Nema,” he said. He looked out over the city, lost in thought. From where we were, here in this small, pleasant oasis above Sova, one would not know there had been a battle at all.

“Yes.”

Vonvalt was quiet for a very long time. He studied the Spear of Vangrid, which I had shown him and which he held for the duration of our conversation. He was drawn to it, instinctively, like a moth to a flame; but the thing was so unremarkable, so inscrutable, it defied examination. He had insisted I keep it close, until I could decide on the best thing to do with it. After all, it was an attenuation artefact; in the wrong hands, one could cut through the aether and directly into the holy dimensions with it.

“You remember what I told you in Südenburg?”

“That you were not – are not – the paragon I considered you to be? I shall never forget that conversation.”

Vonvalt was quiet again. Eventually, he said, “Well perhaps I wanted to be.”

“A paragon?”

“Something approaching it.” He took a deep breath, and let out in a long sigh. “I think I just became so… tired of evil men succeeding. Not because they are right, but because they are bull-headed. Brazen. And it is not just on the Frontier, or to the east, or on the northern coast. You see it in the Senate; men and women saying things, terrible things, things that no one would have dreamt of saying ten years ago.” He pinched his index finger and thumb together and held them out to me, an intense look on his face. “They test the water, first with things designed to irritate, and then offend, and eventually to outrage. And nothing happens. Nothing is done to stop it. We who sit on the side of good, of law, of order, who believe that those who govern society should lead by example, allow it to happen. We are so consumed by playing fair, by sticking to the rules, that we lame ourselves. I was just so very tired of evil men, chancing their arm with these malevolent acts, advancing their malice in increments, until the time to remedy the situation had passed. It is like… like sitting on the top floor of a burning house. First you smell the smoke; then you feel the heat of the flame. By the time you decide to leave, all the exits have been consumed.” He shrugged. “I wanted to fight for good. To do something. Not to wait around, to let the house burn, but to get a bucket of water and start…” He held out both hands as though he were gripping two balls of air. He shook as he spoke. “Fighting the flames. And it felt good, Helena. It felt good to be doing, something.

“I want to live in a world where we can arrest evil men, try them, and imprison them. I have always wanted to live in that world. But what if the man in question represents some greater evil? What if he is privy to powers that no earthly force can defeat? What if he stands at the head of an army?”

“Few people are going to complain about your methods,” I said. “An army of men seeking to overthrow the Emperor is hardly a legal matter; it is a military one. You saved the city.”

“You saved the city,” Vonvalt said with great sincerity. “Most have no idea—”

“Honestly, I would prefer to keep it that way.”

Vonvalt paused, and looked at me askance. But eventually, he nodded. He understood. “I wonder what is happening down there,” he mused.

I wondered myself. The last I had seen of the afterlife, Oleni’s forces had been assaulting the Palace of Blood. I had explained as much to Vonvalt in the previous days, but he had no desire to enter the holy dimensions himself, especially with the erasure of Justice August’s soul. Besides, he was intent on sealing off that gate forever. A great many questions concerning the immortal plane were about to go unanswered.

Perhaps those questions should never have been asked in the first place.

“I try not to think about it too much,” I said.

“In the circumstances, I think that is wise. We can only hope that the forces of order prevail. But our time of meddling in these affairs is at an end.”

It is funny, thinking back to this conversation, how easily Vonvalt lied. How convincingly, too. I should have known better. The idea that he would simply walk away from these matters, knowing what was at stake, was ridiculous. But I believed him at the time. I think it was his way of protecting me. And for once, I was glad of it.

“You really will bring about the end of the Empire?” I asked.

Vonvalt nodded. “Certainly large parts of it, yes, though I doubt the history books will see it that way. I’m not even sure it will last. Memories are short. Reckless stupidity is in great abundance. Perhaps one day I will be seen as an aberration – a villain even.” He snorted. “That would not surprise me. Saint Claver, seeking to save the Empire. Nema, why do any of us even bother?”

“What will you do after you have tried Claver?”

“I told you I have not decided yet.”

“You told a room full of lords that you have not decided yet,” I said, pointedly.

Vonvalt smiled sadly. “My place is no longer in Sova.”

“And what about my place?”

“Your future is what you will make of it. You are, what, twenty? You have your entire life to live.”

“And what will I do? Knowing what I know? Having seen what I have seen? With no friends, no family, no career or purpose?” The bitterness surprised me with its intensity. Vonvalt was abandoning me in the purest sense, and yet… Did I even want to spend more time with him? Perhaps I didn’t. I certainly didn’t want to be his lover, or his wife, and there seemed to be nothing to be gained from simply accompanying him as some kind of platonic companion. How could our relationship with one another ever be normal? Was there even a need for it to be normal? Stranger couplings existed.

“Helena, you are not tied to me. You do not owe me anything – or, if you ever did, then you have discharged the debt a thousand times over.”

“Everything I am, everything I have become, every facet of my being, is a result of my time spent with you. For years I sought nothing except to impress you and earn your praise. I have come to define myself by how I am perceived. By you.”

“I know,” Vonvalt said simply. “I will not pretend that our relationship is not complex. But it is precisely because you have come to define yourself in such terms that your being apart from me feels so cataclysmic. I promise you this, though: in six months I will be a distant memory, and you will wonder how you ever let yourself become so entangled with one person.”

“It is an entanglement which you have encouraged,” I said. I felt as though Vonvalt were condescending to me, which of course he was not.

He nodded. “I have. And now it is time to extricate ourselves from that knot. There is nothing more you can learn from me. If you were to remain with me you would damn yourself to mediocrity. And frankly, I would rather die than let you squander your potential in that way.”

“My potential,” I said bitterly.

Vonvalt said nothing, just drank his wine. I watched the sun disappear behind the Temple of Creus. The shade made no appreciable difference to the hot and humid air.

“I am frightened,” I said eventually. “I feel as though… I can do so many things. Fight a battle, travel to the afterlife, combat a demon… but afterwards, when my blood is cooled, I feel as though I am not capable of doing it again. The fear returns. I doubt myself and my courage. I look back on the Helena who snuck into Keraq, or who fought in battles, and it is like I am remembering the life and deeds of someone else.”

“Oh, that never goes away,” Vonvalt said, almost dismissively. “You are a thinker, Helena. Like me. It was the same in the Reichskrieg. Campaigning. Fighting. A few times a month. Sometimes days on the trot. You survive and then… Your mind just turns it over. You think about how close you came to dying. A foot wrong here, a turned parry there…” He shrugged. “It is just the way your mind works. Do yourself a favour and accept it now. You will never be free of self-doubt. It is part of what makes you a good person. The evil in this world are entirely unafflicted by it, and that is the problem. Would that we were all a little more introspective, a little more empathetic.”

There was another long silence. Vonvalt’s words, wise, spoken with such casual authority, resonated with me so strongly that they only made me feel worse about the prospect of our parting. But I knew he was right. He had to leave Sova. And I was going to have to strike out on my own. The thought filled me, out of nowhere, with an incurable sense of urgency.

“You want to know what I think, Helena?” Vonvalt said. He had pulled out his pipe, and was packing it as he asked me.

“About what?”

“Why I listened to you? In the Temple of Nema.”

“Why?”

“Because I think only you could have stopped me. From killing Claver. I think that was the purpose of your Entanglement in the temporal pathway. I think our meeting in Muldau was preordained. I think our relationship was precisely what Fate wished it to be. And I think you achieved exactly what it was you were meant to achieve; what Oleni and Aegraxes and Resi and Lady Frost hoped you would do. You are right: killing Claver would have been a mistake. I am convinced that trying him now is the only way to make sure he dies forever.”

I took a moment to digest this. “That still doesn’t really answer my question,” I said.

Vonvalt smiled, and lit his pipe. He took a deep draw of smoke, and then one of wine. “You said just now; that for years you have defined yourself by what I think of you.

“Well, perhaps I have come to define myself by what you think of me.”

XXXIV

The Murder of an Idea

“An idea is like a pox: it can persist long after its host has died.”

CHUN PARSIFAL, THE INFINITE STATE

Sova slowly returned to normal. Within two weeks the Victory Gate was completely fixed, as were all of the siege weapons atop the Estran Wall. The Grasvlaktekraag, having achieved their purpose, left with the gratitude of the Sovan people, and guarantees that they would never be troubled by the Templars again.

The Legions encamped outside of the city remained, re-formed and reorganised, fed and watered and rearmed. They remained for many months, in case the Kova Confederation decided that peace did not in fact equal justice and attempted to take the city whilst it was weakened. But House Casimir, led by the indomitable Iliyana, had been stripped of its blackpowder thanks to the raid led by the Kasar and von Osterlen, and like the Two-Headed Wolf, lost its appetite for war.

This was a time of death. Not only of the Templars, who were hanged en masse on a special scaffold erected outside the Royal Imperial Courts of Justice, but of their many supporters and enablers throughout the city. Some of these people met their end very messily. I heard talk of the residences of Mlyanars being stormed, and the senators and their staff dragged into the streets and beaten to death. Others were tried, and given the noose. Still more had fled during Vonvalt’s earlier purge of the city, to live out their days in obscurity, claiming no responsibility for their actions.

Yet there was one notable death missing from the tally. And it was one that Vonvalt would not be moved on.

“You don’t even need to try him,” von Osterlen said. It was dawn on the morning of the trial. We were in a private chamber in the Royal Imperial Courts of Justice, one which Vonvalt had taken over as his personal office. I was in there, as was Sir Gerold. His city watchmen were busier than ever trying to restore Sova.

“She’s right,” the sheriff said. “He led an army against the capital. Kill him as a traitor. The case could not be cut clearer. Every day he lives is a day’s succour to our enemies.”

“You doubt me, Sir Gerold? After everything I have done?” Vonvalt asked.

The sheriff cleared his throat, missing the wryness in Vonvalt’s tone. “Not at all, my Lord Regent,” he said. It was amazing how quickly everybody had adopted the moniker. In spite of the increasingly public misgivings of the Haugenate loyalists, Vonvalt could certainly have stayed in power if he had wanted to.

Vonvalt waved him off, having neither the time nor the inclination to toy further with the man. “I know that. But more is at stake here. I don’t just want to cut his head off. If I was going to do that I would have done it in the Temple of Nema. Do you know why I didn’t?”

“Because Helena told you not to,” von Osterlen said drily, glancing at me.

Vonvalt gritted his teeth. “Helena realised something that I myself should have realised. A man like Claver does not ascend so quickly and comprehensively without the support – overt and tacit – of a great many people. And for all we know the man to be evil, there will come a time in the future when people lament his passing as a great martyr to the cause of Nemanism.” He shook his head. “No. If I execute him, Helena is right: he escapes with some of his honour intact. My way? People will remember him for what he is. A coward. A despot. The word will spread, and those of his supporters who have escaped justice, and who are planning on making mischief? Their cause will wither on the vine. I want to pull Claver and his lunacy kicking and screaming into the harsh light of the sun and lay it all out like a cadaver on a barber-surgeon’s slab. I want to dissect his insanity in front of everyone in the city. And when they see what it was all in the name of, all the horror and death and destruction for the mad exhortations of one power-hungry priest?

“They will despise him for it.”

Of course, no one would represent Claver. This was in spite of the convention that required the first lawman presented with the case, and who had the time, to take it on. I had only ever seen it happen once before, in a small town where no one would take on the defence of a child molester. In such circumstances, the defendant was forced to represent themselves. They always made a terrible job of it.

We left Vonvalt’s private chambers and shouldered our way through a huge press of people. Vonvalt had been involved in cases that had attracted large crowds before, but this was something else. This was the mob on games day. These people were spitting blood. Sir Gerold and his city watch were out in force, forming a human corridor down which we walked.

The people cried out to Vonvalt. They reached out to him, too, trying to touch any part of him they could, in the same way one might try to touch a living saint. They wept in gratitude. They named him “saviour” – the “saviour of Sova”, and prostrated themselves. They urged him to stay, to make his regency permanent, to take up the Emperorship.

Not everybody was pleased. For every nine people singing his praises, there was one shouting “despot”. Vonvalt, a veteran lawman, took these calls in his stride.

He had of course selected the central courtroom within which to conduct the trial. It was far from the first courtroom I had stepped foot in, but it was by far and away the most impressive. It was more akin to a stateroom within the Imperial Palace than a place of administration, with darkly abundant – and abundantly ornate – wooden panelling and fixtures, a frescoed ceiling, walls festooned with oil paintings and busts, and a heavy sprinkling of Autun imagery.

The layout was the same as any court in the Empire, with the southern wall given over to the warden’s bench, an elevated dais where a large leather armchair sat below an imposing two-headed wolf rampant. To the right was the jurors’ box, with accommodation for twenty or so persons, and with the prosecuting and defending lawman’s benches facing the warden. To the left, enormous arched windows of patterned stained-glass let in a glorious volume of light.

The thing that surprised me most was that Vonvalt brought nothing with him except a volume of the Neman Creed. I saw a few bits of paper sticking out of it where he had earmarked some passages. Normally he would have a roll of papers with him, some volumes of precedent, perhaps some notes on all the cases which he had asked me to find from the nearest courthouse library. Now he had that one holy text, and nothing else. I did not know what he was going to say. The only thing he had asked me to do was bring the Spear of Vangrid, though I kept that strapped about me at all times anyway.

The public gallery was filled with twice as many people as the space permitted. There were some commonfolk, but most were lords and ladies. Such was the way of things in Sova. There were many knights, too, who had partaken in the battle. They deliberately wore their colours; I saw plenty of the red, yellow and blue of the city watch, and the purple of the Imperial Guard.

The warden was a woman from Zobryv Gardens. She obviously relished in the task of presiding over these proceedings, for there would never be a greater opportunity to gild her reputation. She steered through the procedural preliminaries with a professionalism untempered by the obvious historical importance of what was taking place, and the jury – a collection of twenty ennobled men and women – were sworn in.

And then Claver was produced.

Vonvalt had not visited Claver at all during his time in gaol. But I knew that Vonvalt had gone to great lengths to ensure the man was treated like a common criminal. His only injunction – and it had been a strict one – was that Claver was not to be harmed in any way. He was not to be beaten or starved of victuals, and he was certainly – most assuredly – to be prevented from suicide. There was to be no question of the man’s fitness to stand trial.

It was funny; the first time I had seen Claver he had been at pains, as most Neman priests were, to affect humility and poverty. He wore threadbare habits, often went barefoot, and seldom washed. Then I had seen him in Galen’s Vale, and then in and around Keraq, and finally here in Sova, and he had looked like a living god. As much as I hated him, and as great the temptation to portray him as a miserable, wretched failure is, the truth was he had cut a striking figure. Clad in his ornate armour, fleshier and more muscled thanks to months of living off a castle larder, and more often than not sitting at the head of an army, I had lost that initial impression of him as a weaselly, skinny man.

Now, that initial impression returned in force.

The failure of his earthly mission had deflated him. Divesting him of his power, both martial and eldritch, had humanised him – literally. I almost didn’t recognise the man standing in the dock. He was so diminutive. His flesh had sloughed off him as though he were in the grip of a wasting disease. And yet he still wore his perennial expression of distaste. His face was a sneer of resentment. He had lost everything, killed thousands, and yet nothing would humble him.

“Bartholomew Stanislaus Claver. You are accused of… well, to be perfectly straight, more crimes than we have time to list. But the nub of it is treason, blasphemy, incitement to blasphemy, the theft of illegal magicks and the practice of the same, unlawful association, rabble rousing, an…” the warden squinted at the papers in front of her “… extraordinary number of counts of murder, countermanding the orders of a Justice, assaulting a Justice, assaulting a Justice’s retainer, and…” again she flicked through the pages of the indictment “… a great deal more. I understand that a full list has been made available for you to inspect?”

Claver said nothing.

“That is correct, my lady,” Vonvalt said.

The warden smiled gratefully at Vonvalt. She turned back to Claver, and the smile vanished. “How do you plead?”

Claver said nothing. He did nothing, except glower at Vonvalt.

The warden, who might have been administering the case of the theft of a loaf of bread, spoke to the clerk in front of her, though loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear, “Let it be known that the defendant has said nothing, and that a default plea of ‘not guilty’ will be entered.”

This was met with great roar of outrage from the public gallery. Vonvalt waited patiently for it to subside. Eventually, silence was achieved.

“My Lord Regent,” the warden said to Vonvalt, “you may make your remarks.”

Vonvalt stood. The courtroom was silent. Nothing like this had happened before. Nobody knew what to expect.

“Systems,” he said, turning to the jury. He had one hand on the Neman Creed, fingers splayed, leaning on it like a prop. His other hand was held out in front of him, thumb and forefinger pinched. He looked more like a professor than a lawman. “I want to talk to you, my lords and ladies, today, about systems. We are surrounded by them. Every facet of civilisation, and what makes a civilisation, is a system. Our very society, a hierarchy of emperors, senators, lords and commonfolk, is a system. How we interact with one another is a system. Language is nothing more than a system of noises which we make, and to which we ascribe meaning.

“Systems, ladies and gentlemen, produce order. Certainty. We as human beings like certainty. As a man I knew and once greatly respected liked to say, when I wake up in the morning I want to know three things.” Vonvalt duly held up three fingers. “That the Emperor is alive; that the value of a mark is the same as it was yesterday; and that the borders are secure. If those three things are true, then another day of prosperity awaits.

“Certainty is the opposite of chaos. Certainty is knowing that when I wake up in the morning I can go about my day in safety and security. Certainty is knowing that a productive day’s labour will benefit me and my peers. Certainty is paying my social dues, paying my Imperial taxes. Attending my temple. Respecting my elders and enjoying my leisure. It is being able to speak my mind without fear of undue reprisal.

“Chaos, conversely, is the herald of evil. There is a reason why the Neman Church has long described Prince Kasivar as the chief agent of chaos. It is the antithesis of good. Chaos is rampant, uncontrollable communicable disease. Chaos is plague. Chaos is warfare, slaughter, death. It is a total lack of structure which makes civilised existence impossible.

“Certainty, and the systems which precipitate it, all stem from our belief that some things are absolutes. Immutable. Moral and ethical principles which exist above man-made laws. In my line of work, we would call this the natural law, and I give it a great deal of weight. It is not difficult to see why; there are many things which we know intrinsically. Things that, however we contrive to structure our society, apply to all men and women. We are born free. We have a right to our lives. A right to our freedom. The right to be free from the malicious infliction of pain. The right to avail ourselves of a system of law common to all citizens.

“The common law is something that we Sovans have developed to give meaning to these natural laws. To codify the things that we know instinctively. The common law is a set of rules which provides certainty. Not simply a reference guide for moral behaviour, but a tool to enforce what is right and what is wrong. To bring structure and procedure to the resolution of conflict. The legal system is a system by which everyone, from the lowliest villein to the most elevated lord, can seek redress.

“These things are important, ladies and gentlemen, dry, philosophical concepts though they may seem. We are talking about the beams which make up the structure of our world. In the same way that we would not tolerate a man walking up to our house and smashing it down with an axe, so must we find intolerable the actions of a man who would destroy the scaffold about which we construct our society. The actions of Bartholomew Claver were not just egregious because they were illegal and wicked; they offended the very core of the fabric of our existence.”

Here, Vonvalt paused. The courtroom was silent. Claver had not moved. He sat like a sullen statue. Vonvalt replaced his hand on the Neman Creed next to him. I saw that it was an expensive, unabridged version, illuminated beautifully.

“Much like the system of common law, religion is its own system. In our case, we of course refer to the Neman Creed, the orthodoxy as transmitted from Nema, as well as Savare, the Deti, and a whole pantheon of angels and demons to, predominantly, Saint Creus. Saint Creus, for those of you ill-versed in the Creed, spent a period of time which we know as the Long Insanity in a place south of the Empire, called Balodiskirch. There, Creus was told a number of sacred principles which they committed to paper. Over time the Creed has been added to by various other saints and holy men and women. And because it is a medley of teachings, histories, recollections, and parables from so many different people, it is inherently inconsistent. It is why the canon law, which gives effect to the Neman Creed and the Book of Creus, was itself largely abandoned. As a system, it does not produce certainty, the wellspring from which civilised existence flows.”

Now I saw Claver, for the very first time, react slightly. It was no more than a twitch of the muscles of his jaw, but I saw it even from where I sat.

“Nonetheless, the Neman Creed remains the official and only legal religion of the Empire. And thus we must look to its tenets in order to evaluate the actions of a man who purports to act in furtherance of it.”

Vonvalt now opened the volume and turned to the first of his bookmarks. He turned briefly to the warden. “Apologies, my lady; I was about to go straight into my questioning.”

The warden turned to Claver. “Indeed. Mister Claver—”

“Obenpatria.”

There was a sudden and pregnant silence. The word had come out of Claver’s lips like the bark of a dog.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not Mister: Obenpatria.”

The warden looked at Vonvalt.

“Who elevated you? Out of curiosity?” Vonvalt asked.

Claver said nothing.

“As far as I am aware, you went to Keraq, and then somehow became an obenpatria, but we have only your word that you were properly so ordained.”

Claver looked venomous. He would do anything except explain himself to Vonvalt – which was unfortunate for him, given the circumstances.

Vonvalt looked up at the warden. “Let us settle on ‘patria’, shall we, since that at least was properly imparted.” He managed to inject a lifetime of condescension into that sentence.

“Very well. Patria Claver. Would you like to make any opening remarks before your questioning?”

“I do not recognise the legitimacy of these proceedings,” Claver said, unable to help himself.

“It is not your business to recognise the legitimacy of them,” Vonvalt said, in the same way he might have lazily slapped the man. “Say what you are going to say, if anything, though your actions have already done a great deal of talking for you.”

“I have nothing to justify to you or anybody in this room.”

The warden all but rolled her eyes. “In which case, my Lord Regent, you may proceed.”

Vonvalt placed his finger on a line in the Book of Creus. “You are familiar with this book, I take it?” he asked Claver.

Silence.

“Patria? Are you able to hear me?”

Silence.

“I have before me an extract from the Book of Creus. This is from a chapter called ‘Pillars’. If you will permit me to read it, it says: ‘No man shall slay or cause to be slayed another without righteous justification.’” He closed the book again. “A simple phrase, isn’t it? Not so much a divine injunction as a reflection of simple human nature. At the risk of sounding a little disrespectful, I don’t think any of us needed Nema to tell us that, did we? Patria Claver?”

“What is it you want me to tell you?” Claver sneered.

“Well, I’m just curious as to how you would interpret that. ‘Pillars’, after all, is one of the fundamental chapters of the Book of Creus, is it not? That which sets out some of the most immutable tenets of the faith?”

“My actions were righteous.”

We had to wait a little while for the inevitable storm that this comment engendered to die down.

“We have several ways to evaluate the moral value of an action, do we not? The action in and of itself, or the consequences of that action.” Vonvalt nodded over to where the laughably lengthy indictment sat on the warden’s bench. “Let us look at the actions themselves then. You conspired with Margrave Westenholtz and Baron Naumov to lead a collection of five hundred armed men on the Hauner town of Galen’s Vale. Why did several hundred of the city watchmen and commonfolk of that town die?”

Nothing.

“You used the Rune of Entrapment to bind the mind of Justice Resi August into the body of a fox, thereby enabling Margrave Westenholtz to kill her. Do you deny that?”

Claver of course said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Vonvalt could have had the man executed on that charge alone.

“I do not think anybody in the Empire, let alone this courtroom, would agree that the slaying of the commonfolk of Galen’s Vale in order to secure the release of Obenpatria Fischer was righteous. Do you think it was righteous?”

“Yes,” Claver said immediately.

“I suppose you would say the same thing about leading a Templar army on Sova?”

“Unquestionably.”

“You have no problem at all with the many thousands of deaths you have caused?”

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

“I would like to hear it said.”

“I was on a divine mission—”

“And what was that mission, exactly? What was it? What was the thing that you needed so desperately that it was worth the lives of thousands of people and the disintegration of the Empire?” Claver opened his mouth to speak, but Vonvalt cut across him. “Do not tell me, tell the jury.”

Whatever Claver was about to say died in his throat.

“Let us hear it. You have a thousand gallons of blood on your hands. The people in this courtroom want to know what their husbands, wives, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and friends and lovers died for.” He spoke louder and louder until he was practically shouting by the end. “Tell them!”

Claver did not tell them, and Vonvalt reopened the Book of Creus. “Was the nature of your mission divine?” He paused, but there was no answer. “I think you believed it to be, at the beginning. You have long detested the fact that the Draedist arcana—”

“Do not call it that!” Claver snapped. Then, surly, he added, “Draedism is a rot.”

“—was given into the custody of the Magistratum. The secularisation of the Draedist magicks.”

“I told you—”

“I do not care,” Vonvalt said smartly. “You hated it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You have resented it for as long as you have been capable of resentment.”

“It was theft!”

“Blasphemy?”

“And more besides!”

“Because you believed your mission was divine? A calling? From the mouth of Nema?”

“It was divine!”

“It was divine will that you return the magicks to the Church, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And to dismantle the Magistratum?”

“To destroy it! Yes!”

Vonvalt sneered. “And the common law with it?”

“There is no common law! There is only the will of Nema!”

Vonvalt jabbed a finger at the book. “And you would go to any length to achieve that mission, would you not?”

“Any length, aye!”

“But you would not blaspheme yourself?”

Claver’s response caught in his throat. After a moment, he said, “Of course not.”

“Think on it! Would you blaspheme in order to achieve your mission?”

Claver paused. “No,” he said firmly.

“You would not use methods forbidden by the Neman Church?”

“No.”

Vonvalt flicked to his next bookmark. “‘… for the man who does not follow the example of Vangrid the Martyr, who consorts with the agents of Prince Kasivar and who does not renounce their teachings, shall be guilty of the crime of apostasy.’ Do you recognise that passage?”

Claver gritted his teeth.

“I asked you a question. Do you recognise the passage?”

“I give no weight to the apocrypha.”

“Do you recognise the passage?”

“Of course I recognise it,” Claver snapped.

“From the Prophecy of Zabriel.”

“I do not recognise the apocrypha!” Claver thundered.

Vonvalt affected confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that…” Claver gestured impatiently, unable to hold back in the face of Vonvalt’s affected ignorance and heresies. “The Prophecy of Zabriel is illegitimate.”

Vonvalt frowned, and picked up the Creed. He inspected it as one might inspect the inside of a horse’s mouth. “I took this copy from the office of Matria Martinović in the Temple of Creus. Are you saying it has been tampered with?”

“I am saying that not every part of the Creed is correct. The Neman Church does not give equal weight to all parts of it.”

“So what you are saying is that it is permitted to consort with demons?”

“No I’m… Do not twist my words with your lawman’s tricks.”

“That’s fine. I’ll say nothing. You explain whether it is or is not acceptable to consort with demons. Take all the time you need.”

Claver faltered. “The Prophecies have long been considered by the Neman Church to be apocryphal.”

“But they remain in the text.”

“As curiosities.”

“And so every aspect of them can be disregarded?”

“Obviously not!”

“I want to know whether the passage I have read to you should be considered a valid Neman teaching.”

“No.”

“No, it is not valid?”

Claver floundered. “The prophecies are invalid – no, many parts of them are. Not all.”

“So you are saying that a man can consort with demons without committing the crime of apostasy? That seems a little contradictory, does it not? To ally oneself with the enemies of the very Church one is purporting to serve?”

“I know what you are doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“You are trying to get me to confess.”

“I am not trying to get you to confess. I do not need you to confess. What I am trying to do is to explain to the people in this courtroom how a man who considers himself to be one of the holiest men in the Empire could prosecute such an objectively evil course of action and still consider himself to be a Neman. To consider his mission a divine one. To consider himself to be a good man.”

“I am not an apostate.”

“But you are. According to Zabriel Himself.”

“Zabriel was a fool! No weight should be given to the Prophecies.”

Vonvalt drummed his fingers on the cover of the Creed. “All right, Patria. Let me ask you this, then. Do you consider yourself to be an adherent to the Book of Creus?”

“Obviously I do.”

“To the teachings of Nema?”

“Yes.”

“And of Savare?”

“Yes!”

Vonvalt opened the volume. “This excerpt is from the ‘Letters of Saint Creus’. Can I count on your familiarity with this part of the Creed?”

“Yes!”

“These do not form part of the so-called ‘apocrypha’?”

“No,” Claver said, now more guardedly.

“You know what these letters say?”

“The majority. I have not committed the entire volume to memory.”

“Then allow me to refresh it.” Vonvalt cleared his throat. “From a letter from Saint Creus to Giselbert. ‘You have heard it said that there is no separation in the dominion of angels and demons; that in the holy realms the word and teachings of all creatures are to be afforded equal weight. But I tell you this: those who dwell in Kasivar’s Country, who know well the stones of the Broken Path and who have dined in the Halls of Hell, their words are to be disregarded as poison, a pox of the soul, a moral rot, for no man who truly heeded the tenets of Nema could weigh their words and find favour in them. Such a person would have fallen away from the light of heaven, and would be shrouded in evil. Apostate I name you. Heretic I name you, to have taken on this most malignant wine and so embalmed your soul.’ Has a rather familiar ring to it, does it not?”

Claver’s features were so twisted in displeasure that he looked as though he were about to spit on the table.

“Do you think that a man who stole, studied and deployed forbidden and illegal magicks to summon and consort with a demonic entity known as Ramayah the Progenitor, could be considered a holy man?”

“It depends on his intentions.”

“No, it does not.” Vonvalt gestured to the book. “It says right here in the Creed, from the very lips of Creus. If you consort with demons you are guilty of apostasy.”

Claver was quiet for a moment. “I did not consort with demons.”

Vonvalt cocked an eyebrow, and took a step back, folding his arms. “So now you simply deny it outright?”

“I did not ‘consort with demons’.”

“Perjury is a crime.”

“You have no evidence.”

“Do I not?”

Now Claver looked uncertain. “No.”

Vonvalt turned to me. He nodded, and held out his hand, and I unstrapped the Spear of Vangrid from my waist. It was swathed in a small parcel of cloth, and Vonvalt carefully unwrapped it.

“Do you know what this is?”

Claver blanched.

“Patria?”

“How do you have this?”

“‘This’? What is this, Patria? Tell the court.”

“It is the blade that cut out the heart of Vangrid,” he whispered.

“It is indeed the blade that cut out the heart of Vangrid. A sacred Neman relic. It was said that after Ramayah cut out Vangrid’s heart, he could not bear to lay eyes on the blade nor touch it, so great and profound was his heresy. It is from the Book of Histories. You are familiar with it? Or do you reject the Histories, too?”

Claver was trembling. He did not look at Vonvalt. He could not look at Vonvalt.

Vonvalt casually approached the jury. “Take it, ladies and gentlemen; examine it. A rather extraordinary blade, is it not?”

He passed it to the nearest man, and the jurors, somewhat uneasily, passed around and examined the weapon. Eventually, it made its way back into Vonvalt’s hands.

“Vangrid the Martyr, murdered by Ramayah, with this very blade. A profound heresy, and a well-known episode within the dogma of the Neman Church.”

Claver was as white as a senator’s toga. Perspiration marked his forehead, and he gripped the bench in front of him.

“Justice…” he said.

“Did you consort with demons? Did you seek to manifest Ramayah in the mortal plane?”

“Justice, please…”

Vonvalt advanced on Claver with the blade. “Take it. Look upon it. If what you say is true, you should have no difficulty in doing so.”

Claver’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed himself away from the blade.

“Justice, stop!” He was changing. People within the courtroom gasped. Veins bulged against Claver’s skin. A scream welled up in his throat. As Vonvalt came to within a few feet of him, Claver was supplanted by a flickering image of a ghastly, spectral form, a demonic entity screaming in agony. Runes of pink light, hitherto invisible, appeared in the air around him. It was as though the blade revealed the truth of things, cutting away the skin of the aether as surely as it had cut out the heart of the Martyr.

“Lord Regent!” the warden shouted, alarmed.

“Did you consort with Ramayah!” Vonvalt shouted at Claver.

“Please!” Claver wailed, in profound existential agony.

“Tell me!”

“Nema, please! The… pain!”

“Tell me the truth!” Vonvalt roared.

“Yes! Yes! Stop, please, I did! I did! I did!”

Vonvalt moved away immediately. He returned to the prosecutor’s bench and passed me the blade. I was too shocked to take it, and he had to poke me with it impatiently. My reverie broken, I took it from him, wrapped it in its cloth, and put it away.

Vonvalt seemed oblivious to the chaos and uproar in the courtroom. The public galleries were in chaos as frantic, terrified people backed away from the spectacle. Only the stern entreaties of the warden kept the jury in place, though she had to shout at them.

It felt like it took a long time for some semblance of calm to reassert itself. Claver spent the entire time hunched over in the witness box, sobbing like a child. Those in the public galleries, torn between witnessing the trial of the century and fleeing from the horror show it had become, mostly chose to stay. The warden, who spent a great deal of time banging her hand on the bench in front of her and shouting at people to shut up, eventually achieved silence. The whole process must have taken quarter of an hour.

Eventually, when silence had reclaimed the courtroom, Vonvalt said: “The Empire requires that you, as a patria, practise the teachings of the Neman Creed. The law allows for nothing else. A man who consorts with demons is guilty of apostasy. You have confessed to such. Apostasy under the canon law carries the same penalty as avowed heresy under the common.”

I took no small measure of satisfaction in watching Claver’s expression as he realised just how completely he had been outmanoeuvred.

“And what is the punishment for avowed heresy?” Vonvalt asked Claver, leaning forward at the lectern.

Claver looked at Vonvalt, too dazed to fully comprehend what was happening. He simply stared, mute, tears dribbling down his cheeks.

Vonvalt snapped the Creed closed.

“It is to be burned.”

A stake was hammered into the earth in one of the wildflower meadows on the Ebenen Plains. A length of timber from the ruins of the Temple of Savare was chosen. The Sovans liked their symbolism.

As I – and a great many people – watched, I could not help but shake the feeling I had seen this somewhere before.

Claver was stripped naked, as the peasants of Rill had been, and as was customary for the burning of avowed heretics. He was much too weak, defeated in mind and body, to resist, and the hands of the two Imperial Guardsmen who held him might as well have been iron clamps. Nonetheless, as he was dragged to the stake, he began to writhe feebly, and scream. This failure of Sovan stoicism elicited a great jeer from the crowd.

Vonvalt had always said that burning was the worst death, and I had seen nothing to disabuse me of that notion. Hanging was bad enough, particularly if the neck did not break – and it frequently did not – but burning carried with it a special type of excruciation. Still, it was no less than he deserved. Claver had tied defenceless men and women, both old and young, to similar stakes in Rill and immolated them. The idea of a young child being burned alive brought tears of righteous fury to my eyes.

Vonvalt stood next to the stake, alongside Sir Gerold, the two foremost lawkeepers in the Empire. Representatives of other institutions – the Senate, now much hollowed out; the Imperial Guard, also halved in number; the Neman Church, itself in for a brutal reckoning – stood in solemn silence.

Vonvalt killed Claver with no ceremony. There were no long speeches, and no opportunity was given to Claver to gild his infamy. Vonvalt let the image speak for itself; a pathetic man, divested of everything, the great lie of his mission laid bare. With the former priest tied securely, and with diarrhoea trickling down the backs of his legs, Vonvalt took up the torch and set the kindling aflame.

The fire swelled quickly – as did Claver’s screams. A light breeze kept the smoke away from his face and prevented his premature suffocation. He wailed and screeched for a long, long time. His skin crisped and blackened and fizzed where its oils and fats were burned away. His eyes turned white like those of a roasted fish. The smoke blossomed until the wind could not drive it off, and hoarsened his voice until he could no longer breathe. He coughed until he retched, and then his head sagged, his hair burned away, and he expired.

There was no cataclysm. No echoes throughout the aether.

The wildflowers on the Ebenen Plains nodded in the afternoon breeze. In the distance, a thunderhead gathered. Later, there would be rain.

Behind us, Sova went about another day.

XXXV

Parting

“The exigencies of state make devils of us all.”

MASTER EDVINAS

I saw Vonvalt the following day in his chambers in the Royal Courts. I felt instinctively that it was the last time I would see him.

He looked well. Clean-shaven for the first time in a long time – years, in fact. His hair was trimmed and his clothes, subtly expensive, bore none of the ostentation one would expect of the Lord Regent. On his desk were a great many papers. Wax seals and coloured ribbon were in abundance. I picked up the nearest one.

“You have changed the Imperial device?”

Vonvalt looked up from his writing, and smiled impishly. “I have.”

The device of the Empire had always been the Autun holding a shield, with the shield split into four. In the centre, in a yellow shield-within-a-shield, was a castle, which represented Sova; the left third was red, overlaid with the displayed Eagle of Guelich; the right third was blue, striped with white for the Kzosic colours; and the lower third was black, with the white star of Savare, and which represented the Savaran Templars and the Neman Church.

Vonvalt’s corrected device had one of the heads of the Autun cut off, so that a bloody stump remained. Everything else was the same, except the lower third had been replaced with the device of the Templars from the Order of Saxan Knights who had remained loyal in Südenburg: a white background, with the black cross of Saint Saxanhilde and centred by the deer’s head of Nema.

“A little on the nose,” I said, returning the paper to the desk.

“I think the time for subtlety is long past us, don’t you?”

I smiled and nodded. I walked over to the window behind his desk, which looked out over the Saint Slavka the Martyr High-Way and one of the wide, deep branches of the Sauber. The streets bustled with people. It was a muggy morning, hazy and hot. There would be storms again later in the afternoon.

“Who will succeed you?” I asked.

“Do you want to know the great irony of the situation?”

“What?”

“I am going to do the very thing that the Mlyanars have been trying to achieve for years. I’m going to turn power over to the Senate.”

I considered this for a moment. “They will just end up electing a ruler anyway.”

Vonvalt shrugged. “That is not my concern.”

“What of the Church?”

Vonvalt sighed mightily. “There is not much I can do about that. I have abolished the canon law, and both the Temple of Savare and College of Prognosticators are in ruins. I shall just have to hope that the people of Sova have long memories.”

“You know they do not.”

“Long enough for me to die of old age somewhere in peace.”

I left the window and returned to the chair in front of him. “What else is in these papers?”

“The dismantling of the northern Empire. The terms for the surrender of the territory we hold in Kòvosk. The abandonment of Keraq and Zetland, and the whole of the Frontier south of Südenburg.”

“The end of the Empire,” I said.

“In its present form, yes.”

“You would leave Iliyana of Casimir alone? After all she has done to assist Claver?”

Vonvalt shook his head. “I am not sure her rule will survive the ignominy of the Grasvlaktekraag raid.” He shrugged, and waved a hand dismissively. “Something else for someone else.”

We sat in silence for a little while. Eventually, Vonvalt said, “I know I have done bad things these past few months. Things which I would hang others for. And I know that simply doing good things does not erase the bad.”

“You do not have to explain yourself to me,” I said.

“No,” Vonvalt said, nodding to himself.

There was another pause.

“Is it ever possible?” I asked. “To achieve good by doing only good? Could we have stopped Claver by adhering to all of our rules? Our systems, as you said. Are we evil for using evil methods?”

Vonvalt thought for a moment. “Imagine painting a portrait of a person,” he said. “Imagine you are Kolst. Can you capture every one of the subject’s features? Every freckle, every hair, every blemish?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“But your eye sees everything.”

“Right.”

“Think of the subject as the natural law, and the common law as the painting. The latter is an impression, a filter, a tool. It can never be perfect. It codifies and structures our intentions, but the spectrum of human behaviour and emotion and activity is too broad a canvas to be contained. All we can ever do is use it in the right way, for the right reasons.”

“But what about killing—”

“There is no answer, Helena,” Vonvalt said, smiling sadly. “There will never be an answer that satisfies you. If our lives are inherently meaningless, then what matters is our actions and how they affect others. There is no world in which everyone lives a life free of suffering and untimely death. All we can do is be the best people we can be. ‘The exigencies of state make devils of us all.’”

“Edvinas.”

Vonvalt inclined his head. “Live a life of a justice, wisdom and fortitude. Be kind to others. What was it that Saint Creus said? Do unto others what you would have done to you.”

“Aye, well. You certainly did for Claver.”

Vonvalt scoffed at that. He stood. “It is too early to be laughing about such things,” he said in mock admonishment. He gestured to the papers. I noticed then that there was a volume on the table, one that I recognised. Vonvalt saw me look at it, and he quickly tucked it away under some papers.

“Come,” he said. “Enough of these matters of state. Let us have at least one day together to simply enjoy.”

It was a wonderful day. We walked the warm streets. Vonvalt, shaven as he was and dressed subtly, did not turn many heads. We ate street food, took a late lunch in a public house, drank our fill of the most expensive bottle of wine Vonvalt could lay his hands on, and then caught a game of handball in the Arena, which proceeded irrespective of a sudden and torrential summer downpour. Vonvalt had decreed, as Lord Regent, that the games continue, to give the commonfolk something to distract them and focus on. He spent lavishly, and we enjoyed a couple of hours together in a private box on the lowest level.

We spoke about Bressinger, trading fond memories of him. Vonvalt told me about Justice August and their experiences together, long before I had ever met him. We spoke about a great many things, for a great many hours.

That evening we visited Sir Radomir. He had been moved to one of the city’s hospitals to complete his convalescence. Vonvalt had invested him with a barony, and wanted to deliver the news personally; but the hour was late, and the sheriff was asleep, and the nuns warned us not to wake him. Heinrich snored next to him, exhausted after a long day of adoration from the hospital orderlies.

Vonvalt lay a hand on Sir Radomir’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He looked at me. The unspoken message passed between us, and I nodded.

We returned to the Royal Courts. Vonvalt had taken to sleeping in his chamber there; the staff in the Imperial Palace had begun to treat him like the Emperor, which he found vulgar and problematic. Many of Vonvalt’s detractors would accuse him of usurpation, but I think in all of Sova’s history, he was the only man who had always intended to renounce his power.

“Goodnight, Helena,” Vonvalt said gently as we reached the door to his chamber. It was a hot, stuffy night, and I was feeling het up and heartsick after such a perfect day. A lifetime of uncertainty began tomorrow, and for all I had seen and experienced, I still wasn’t sure I was ready for a life without Vonvalt.

“Goodnight,” I said, pretending that we would see one another the following morning.

But our embrace was much too long, much too tight, to maintain the fiction.

Sir Gerold oversaw the retrieval of the books from the Master’s Vaults. They were piled up in Grünewald Square, hundreds and hundreds of ancient, irreplicable volumes of magick and esoteric lore, and burned. I did not personally witness it, but there were many stories afterwards of ill omens; a child born with three eyes, a donkey foaling, the Sauber turning red. Many claimed to have heard the books screaming.

Vonvalt’s proclamations were copied and pinned up in many prominent public spaces – including the declaration of the founding of the Republic of Sova and the permanent proscription of the practise of the Draedist arcana. The Haugenates, many of whom returned from their hiding places in the provinces, filled the Senate to debate and discuss this new state of affairs and begin the dismantling of the Royal government. There was an enormous burden of administration to come, but for now a cataclysmic war had been averted. With Confederation armies in the east and pagan armies to the north, the Autun’s claws were finally clipped.

Vonvalt was not seen in Sova again. The reactions and theories as to his disappearance were as diverse and far-fetched as one might expect. But the fact of the matter was, there was no one person strong enough within the Empire to fill the vacuum as might have happened in other circumstances, and the Senate operated as Vonvalt had intended.

It helped, of course, that the city watch was run by his staunch ally, Sir Gerold Bertilo.

On the same day that Sova was declared a republic, I visited Ekkebert and Reinhold Mercantile Bank in the city’s financial district. The clerk greeted me warmly as I presented myself at the front desk.

“Lady Sofie Esser,” I said. “You are holding a strongbox for me. The code word is ‘magnolia’.”

I waited patiently. Eventually, a large steel box was produced by a member of staff, and I was taken to a small side chamber where I examined its contents in peace.

Inside was exactly what Vonvalt had told me about in Südenburg; personal devices, seals, patents of my nobility, a certificate of my ostensible family tree as well as a few other bits and pieces. There was also a bar of solid gold the size of my palm, and most surprisingly, the deed to a large manor house in Jägeland.

I replaced everything in the box. Then I unstrapped and placed within it the Spear of Vangrid, wrapped in its cloth. I had not then decided what to do with it, nor shall I write in this account what ultimately became of it, for that information is much too dangerous.

Finally, I relocked the box, and exited the room.

“Thank you,” I said. “You may return it to the vault.”

“Will you be making a withdrawal today, milady?” the clerk asked me. He had on the desk an old, dusty ledger, and his finger tapped where the balance of my account was. My eyes widened briefly.

“Yes, just give me fifty marks,” I said. It was my attempt to remain nonchalant, but it was an absurd sum of money to be walking around with.

The clerk did not bat an eyelid, and handed over a stack of paper banknotes which I knew I would have extreme difficulty in spending anywhere outside of Sova.

“Can I have half of it in coin, please?”

I must have said something distasteful, judging by the man’s expression, but he acquiesced.

Sir Radomir was waiting for me outside with Heinrich. I had expected the former to disdain his barony, but when I had informed him of it, he had declared of Vonvalt that it was “the least he could fucking do”. He wore fine clothes of dark fabric and silver buttons, and with his hair cut, his beard trimmed, and all of the blood and grime washed off him, he almost suited the role of noble.

“Richer than Nema, are you?” he asked me. He was chewing on a stick of cured beef and dabbing the small hole in his cheek with a kerchief as he did so. In spite of the efforts of the surgeons, the scar tissue there had stubbornly refused to knit.

Next to him, Heinrich worried at a large ball of gristle.

“More money than I could hope to spend in ten lifetimes,” I said. “And that is on top of my accrued wages as a Justice’s clerk.”

“Aye. I’ll say one thing for being Sir Konrad’s retainer; it has left me a lot bloody wealthier.”

“Baron Dragić. Lord Dragić,” I said. “Sounds rather severe, doesn’t it?”

“Wait until you see my castle,” he said, and I laughed.

It was well and truly summer in Sova, and the city was hot and sultry. We walked a little while, aimlessly, two people whose lives had been imbued with a great deal of weight and meaning and were now adrift.

“What will you do?” I asked Sir Radomir.

He shrugged. “Sir Konrad has left me his old manor on the Summit of the Prefects. Perhaps I shall grow peaches. Take a wife. See if Sir Gerold needs a hand keeping order in this snake pit.”

“I thought you would go back to Haunersheim,” I said.

Sir Radomir shook his head, and finished his cured beef. He wiped his cheek, then folded the kerchief away. “I don’t think I could suffer it. To have done all this.” He gestured to the city about him. “To have done all the things we have done, to have fought to save the city, the Empire – or the Republic, or whatever the fuck it is now – and then to go back? To Galen’s Vale? To Perry Ford?” He shook his head again. “The quietness would be unbearable. It would kill me. I feel as though I have to be here now. Keep an eye on things. Make sure all these fancy men do as Sir Konrad directed. I’ll be fucked if I have to go to war again. I’ve got a few decades of life in me yet. I want to live them in peace.”

I nodded, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I hope our paths cross again.”

Sir Radomir looked at me sidelong. A flash of melancholy crossed his features. “You do not mean to stay in Sova?”

I shook my head. “Not for the moment. I have some things I want to do first.”

“I shall miss you.”

“And I you.”

We walked in comfortable silence for a little while.

“Where do you think he has gone?” Sir Radomir asked after a while.

“Sir Konrad?”

“Aye.”

I thought of the book I had seen on Vonvalt’s desk, one that had survived the burning. I thought of the other magickal races in the world, the Kasar, the Stygion, and more besides.

“South, I expect. He mentioned something about exploring the Southern Plains when we were in the Kyarai. So much of the world still to see.”

“Sova did not deserve that man.”

“No. But it did not deserve Claver, either.”

We passed the ruins of a Neman temple. Several city watchmen stood outside it, speaking to a patria with two black eyes.

“Do you think it will last? The calm? The peace?”

“For now, aye. People are sick of it all. Claver should never have been allowed to get as far as he did. That was where Sir Konrad was wrong. Sometimes to do the right thing you have to get your hands dirty. Cutting that priest’s throat in his sleep would have saved all of us a lot of fucking trouble.”

“Even though it would have been murder?”

“Aye. Even then.”

“Sometimes I think the world must be very simple through your eyes.”

“A few months ago I would have taken that as an insult from you.”

I shoved him, and he laughed. Heinrich barked happily, jumping up to join in with the game.

“Come on,” he said. “The day is young and you are wealthy. If you are to leave Sova then you can buy me dinner. And a bottle of something expensive, so I can drink to your health after you have gone.”

Epilogue

The Great Decline

“—But rather this; all deeds are deeds,

To gods we must account, and pay;

Like stones on scales, no good trumps bad,

but good can bad outweigh.”

FROM “THE MERCHANT’S PROLOGUE”, BY DUŠANKA LILJANA

I had not expected Badenburg to be abandoned; but with the Prince Gordan long dead, and his household disbanded, there was no one in residence. It seemed bizarre that an entire castle could simply be left to ruin – but these were strange and uncertain times, as the Royal Haugenate line, and all of those entities parasitic upon it, was dismantled.

I reached the fortress in the middle of the morning. It was a blustery, sunny day, and the air was filled with the susurrus of rustling leaves as the pine forests of the Westmark of Guelich swayed in the wind. The last time I had passed by Badenburg, the 16th Legion had turned the ground outside it into a stinking quagmire. Nature had long since reclaimed the damaged earth. Now there was a carpet of rough grass and flowers. The surrounding farmland, too, had been left uncultivated. The result was a place that felt truly wild.

I dismounted my horse and walked through the open gate, Heinrich by my side. I called out many times, but there was no one, or certainly no one who presented themselves to me, nor could Heinrich smell anybody. We spent perhaps an hour or two walking through the castle’s empty hallways and chambers, and then we took our lunch on the battlements, drinking in the view. Above, clouds scudded through the blue sky.

We finished our food and made to leave, when I stopped by the gate.

“There you are,” I said with a smile.

The Duke of Brondsey, our donkey who we had left here several months before, was standing in the shade underneath the gatehouse. He hee-hawed, and I stroked his face.

“Come on,” I said, as he nestled his head into my chest. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

I went from one abandoned fortress to another. I took several weeks to travel south down the pilgrim pathway. The Duke of Brondsey could not move quickly, but he moved steadily, and I was in no hurry.

Several times I was met by Templars from the Order of Saxan Knights, once near the holy stones of Balodiskirch, where a team of Imperial architects and masons had encamped and were drawing up plans to rebuild the shrine; and then several miles north of Südenburg itself. There I was pleased to meet Severina von Osterlen, who looked healthy and happy, consumed with the importance of maintaining a holy vigil in this part of the world and of rebuilding Südenburg. Thanks to Vonvalt’s impromptu redesigning of the Imperial device, and his various decrees honouring the exploits of these most loyal Templars, the Order of Saint Saxanhilde and the Order of Saxan Knights were enjoying their newfound standing as the foremost martial orders of the Republic.

“I have a great many plans,” she said as we took some wine in her private chamber in the cathedral keep. She was dressed casually, and looked hale and healthy, unscarred – physically, at least – from the Battle of Sova. Behind her, a pair of doors opened on to a modest balcony, and a warm breeze rustled the curtains. It was a hot day, and the margrave was in a pleasant mood.

“What will you do now?” I asked, after she had regaled me at length with the story of hers and the Kasar’s raid on the Kòvoskan blackpowder stocks.

“I mean to create a brotherhood with the Grasvlaktekraag,” she said. Her enthusiasm was an alien thing even to herself, and she seemed to be slightly embarrassed by it. “Perhaps even the Hyernakryger, as well. I think we share many similarities. My relationship with both Ran-Jirika and Zuberi is a good one. I am hoping to begin an exchange programme. Foster a fraternal compact between us.”

I took a draw of wine. It was nice to see her in such a good humour. Not once had I witnessed her so calm and relaxed. She was like a different person entirely.

I toyed with my goblet for a moment. I had not meant to ask her about matters spiritual, at least not directly; but my curiosity was incredible, and I was emboldened by the alcohol. “And will you continue to practise Nemanism?” I asked. I knew I ran the risk of offending her and ruining the conversation, but she did not seem troubled by the question.

“I will,” she said. “Perhaps the precise nature of my faith has been blunted. But there is great value in adhering to a code. To maintaining spiritual vigilance. To living a life of service. I still take comfort from the word of Creus, and the parables, and Histories. And prayer… prayer still gives me time to still my spirit. To reflect. Even if there is no one or thing to listen, it is…” She paused, smiling. “Good for the soul.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” I said, and meant it very sincerely.

There was a moment’s silence, as von Osterlen looked briefly uncomfortable.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” I asked, keenly aware that in every respect that mattered, I was to von Osterlen, and all of the Templars, a Neman prophet.

She smiled, but it was a brief, brittle thing. “Sir Konrad told me that during your… experiences, you saw the…” She cleared her throat. “Golden City.”

I nodded, hoping that my expression was one of comfort and reassurance. “I did.”

“Could you—”

“Tell you what it looked like?”

Another uncomfortable smile. “I should like it very much.”

And so I did. And by the end of my account, she wept quietly, and took a lock of my hair – and I was pleased to give it.

I left Südenburg in a good mood.

I had told von Osterlen that Heinrich was the only protection I needed, but simply because Kòvosk and the Republic were at peace did not mean that the Saekas of the Frontier did not still hate everything Sovan. Several times I caught sight of a small company of white-surcoated Templars in the distance, trailing me, ensuring that I was unharmed. In spite of how cavalier I had become about my own life, several times during those long, chilly nights I took some comfort in knowing they were close by.

Eventually, Keraq came into view. Even from a mile away I could tell the place had been ransacked. Emptied as it was of Templars, the Frontier natives had drained the moat, taken the last of their blackpowder, and breached the walls. Evidence of the fortress’s comprehensive looting lay everywhere, scattered amongst the scrubland and wildflowers.

I approached it slowly, cautiously. Above, a low ceiling of grey cloud pressed down like a physical weight, and a warm breeze ruffled my hair. I half expected to see demonic entities stalking the walls; but like Badenburg, there was no one. I felt as though I was standing on the edge of the world. I couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to be a Templar garrisoned even further south in Zetland.

I spent a little while picking through the fortress. I was amazed to see how far the fire had spread from the inner sanctum, and how much damage it had done to the cathedral keep. Even if Claver had won, Keraq would have needed substantial rebuilding.

Everything of value had gone, taken by the Saekas. Every scrap of armour, every short sword, every shield, every tool. The grain stores were empty, the larders were empty. There were dead goats in the wells, which was annoying as I had hoped to refill my water skin there. There were a great many corpses, too. Most were Templars. Some were Saekas. Some were the remains of other, ghastly entities. Keraq was a mausoleum, and I did not want to spend any more time here than I had to.

And yet, it took a very long time to find what I was looking for. Longer than the afternoon I had banked on. I did not want to sleep amongst the old stones of that fortress, but nor did I want to be out on the plain after dark. Hugging Heinrich close to me, I wedged myself into a corner near the gatehouse next to a small fire, and snatched a few hours of sleep whilst I waited to be haunted.

That night I had a strange dream. It was of Bressinger. It was not so much a dream as an old memory, one in which he was teaching me how to peel an onion using his special Grozodan technique. I remember it well because it was one of the first things he did. Vonvalt had picked me up in Muldau, and Bressinger had met us a day later. I had expected him to be horrible to me, but he was kind, in his rough way. Just before I woke, I felt a feeling of great tenderness and comfort; and then as I opened my eyes to the cold grey of dawn, Heinrich was nuzzling me and licking the tears from my cheeks.

I knew then where to go. It was the chapel in which Sir Radomir, Bressinger and I had fought with Claver. Inside it was cool and dry, and much of the ornament had been ripped out. But there in the corner lay the remains of a man. He had one arm, and there were incisions in the bones of his ankles and legs where he had met his end. What remained of him sat within borrowed Templar mail and a white surcoat crossed with black. I wept quietly as I ran my hands over him, angry that he had died here. They had brought him inside this place, from beyond the moat where he had died in my arms. To what end? For what evil purpose?

I did not want Bressinger to rest in Keraq, so Heinrich and I walked quarter of a mile away. With all of the tools stolen I had to dig a grave with my bare hands. Fortunately, one of Heinrich’s favourite pastimes was to dig holes, and between us we were able to excavate a decent plot.

It was past noon by the time I was able to carry Bressinger’s remains to their final resting place. I cried the entire time I did so. I said a few words and then we covered him over with earth. I hoped – hope – with all my heart he found rest, and saw his wife and children again. I’m certain that he did.

I bade him farewell, gathered up my various animals, and left Keraq forever.

Unencumbered by the “exigencies of state” as Vonvalt might have put it, and with my heart a few shades lighter with Bressinger in a proper grave, I took several months to travel a circuitous route back north. It was a long journey, and one marred by a profound feeling of listlessness. Even at the very lowest ebb of our relationship, Vonvalt had been a constant in my life. I had long defined myself by his patronage, long measured my intrinsic value in my utility to him. By rights we should have returned to Sova after Galen’s Vale, put the matter of Claver to bed, and I should have been studying to become a Justice in the Magistratum. Instead, the world had been turned on its head, and I was alone.

This time following the end of the Empire was a difficult one in my life. It sounds absurd, given what I had endured in the previous months. But whilst my existence hitherto had been freighted with earthly and spiritual horror, there had always been a purpose to it, a goal. It was impossible not to feel like the most important thing I would ever achieve had already happened. How was I supposed to find some meaning to my life in the decades to come? I had a whole life to live, and yet it felt as though I had already lived a whole life.

I arrived in Galen’s Vale as the summer faded to autumn. But whereas the months of Cervenkar and Galenkar would have been filled with warmth and long days of sun in Sova, here, even in the Southmark of Haunersheim, it was already getting cooler. Bressinger could have told me something about the weather patterns, for he had always been Vonvalt’s cloudreader. Nonetheless, the damp chill suited the place. Certainly I had never known it any other way.

I avoided everyone who might have remembered me, especially Lord Sauter, though I did not see him. In any event, I was only in the town for one reason, and passed through it quickly on my way up to the kloster.

“Yes, she is in here, miss,” one of the nuns said, leading me into the hospice. It was a quiet place, and smelt of incense. Somewhere in the kloster I heard the choir practising ahead of luncheon.

I was led to a chamber which I recognised. The last time I had been within it, I had been attacked by the Decapitator. My hand and arm pulsed painfully at the memory in a way that it had not for many weeks.

“Are you all right?” the nun asked me.

I grimaced, nodding. “Just a pain in my arm. It’s nothing. An old injury.”

“Everyone has an injury these days. Have you come up by Sova? All manner of trouble there. We heard there was a battle a few months ago, near Midsummer. And now the north is gone, returned to the pagans.” She tutted.

“Yes, I heard about it,” I said.

“Here she is.” The nun showed me to where Resi lay. It was clear that she was being well taken care of; her hair had been braided, and she was clean and wearing fresh bedclothes. But she was as vacant as when I had last seen her in person, all those months before when Galen’s Vale had been attacked by Westenholtz.

“Hello, Resi,” the nun said in a sing-song voice. “Let’s get some fresh air in here, shall we?” She opened the window above August’s bed, and a fresh, mild breeze filled the chamber.

“Has she said or done anything?” I asked.

The nun offered me a pained smile. She shook her head gently. “A few months ago she was tossing and turning. We thought she might be about to regain her wits. But she settled down a little while later.” The nun gently stroked August’s forehead. “Two visitors in as many months. Who are these friends of yours, eh?”

I looked sharply at the nun. “Who was the other visitor?”

“Oh, a very handsome gentleman. Came and spent half a day with her. He was so tender, he must have been an old beau – though we didn’t pry,” she added conspiratorially.

I could not help myself. “Did he say where he was going?” I blurted.

The nun thought a moment, then shrugged. “No. Only that he would not be back. He made a very generous donation so that we could continue her care indefinitely, though we would have done that anyway. Still, he insisted we take the money. He was a very kind man.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Would you like me to leave you two together?”

I nodded again, and the nun left.

We sat in silence for a while. August did not seem to know I was there. Instead, she lay still, her eyes open and staring up at the ceiling.

“It seems strange to be talking to you like this after everything we have been through,” I said quietly to her, taking her hand in mine. “I do not know where you ended up, or even if you can hear me, but I just wanted to say…” I let out a long trembling sigh. “Thank you. For helping me. For protecting me. For… Nema, sacrificing yourself for me. I wish there was something I could do. I wish I could bring you back,” I whispered quietly, gripping her hands, holding them against my forehead.

I looked up. A rook had fluttered down and was perched on the windowsill. It cawed once, and I smiled, my cheeks wet with tears.

Then the rook flew away, and I gently put August’s hand down and left.

It is a strange thing to think that the end of the Empire of the Wolf, and all the death and devastation that came with it, traced its long roots back to the tiny and insignificant village of Rill.

It was the last place I wanted to see before I left the Republic for a while, though of course I was no longer in the Republic. This part of Tolsburg had reverted to being “Tolland”, bordered to the east by “Draedaland” and to the south by “Manaeisland”. Still, there was no appreciable difference between one country and the other, and I was not stopped by anybody, for all the wayforts were empty.

I rode past the watchtower on Gabler’s Mount, and then on to the village proper. It was strange seeing the place without a carpet of white snow, but it was still cold this far north, and the sky was grey, and the leaves were turning every shade of orange and brown. Snow would not be long in coming.

Heinrich ran off ahead of me as I approached the village. But whilst I had been expecting to find a ruin, instead I saw the ground had been cleared, the burnt, blackened beams removed, and in their place, a walled garden containing several dozen graves. I looked about as though I might see Lady Frost and her pagan warriors nearby, standing at the edge of the forest, watching. But there was no one.

I dismounted and approached. Heinrich would not come in with me, sensing something. I felt it too. A feeling of cosmic weight filled me as I crossed the threshold into the garden. It felt as though a loop were being closed, as though something in the aether which had been stuck or jammed was now loose. It was as if the entire world had been holding its breath; now it was quietly released.

I brushed my fingers over the cold stone of the graves. I read the names. I sat amongst them in silence, my hands on the grass, as though I might commune with them. As though I might apologise to them. I felt a deep sadness, but also a sense of renewal and optimism.

I stood a while later. It was beginning to gloam, and a light drizzle filled the air. I left the garden, and prepared the animals to leave.

“Come on,” I said to Heinrich. I looked south. Ahead of me stretched a broad green country, once desolate and frightening, and now a place that was filled with opportunity. I took a deep breath. “We have a lot of the world still to see.”

The world has already changed so much in the threescore years since I left Rill for the second time. The pessimists call this era the Great Decline, as the Republic slowly fell apart; first the north and south being repatriated to the pagans, and then the alliance of Western Kingdoms – Grozoda, Venland, Jägeland and Denholtz – seceding. In my twentieth year I had considered my already storied life over. In fact, it was just beginning.

Our parting of ways following the end of the Empire and the beginning of the Sovan Republic concludes my tale of Sir Konrad Vonvalt. As he predicted, he is already a controversial figure. His supporters say he ushered in urgent reform without which even the Sovan rump state would not have survived; his detractors call him the “architect of the decline and fall”. I consider that latter moniker to be a little dramatic.

The life I have lived has been one full of adventure, and which Claver’s heresy and rebellion now forms a small and distant part. What happened to Sir Konrad afterwards? A great many rumours abound. Some say he returned to the life of a travelling Justice, one no longer confined to the borders of the Republic. Others say he lived the life of a hermit and achieved nothing more of note, dying in obscurity. I have even heard that he lives still, his life prolonged unnaturally by magicks, as he seeks to unlock the secrets of the holy dimensions and so discover the eventual fate of mankind.

Yes, a great many rumours abound as to the eventual fate of Sir Konrad Vonvalt, though – of course – there is only one true account.

But some things I shall keep for myself.

Acknowledgements

I can remember sitting down and planning what would become the world of the Empire of the Wolf. It was in June 2019, and I had just been on a long weekend break to Bruges with my wife and (then only) son. Inspired by the city and its heritage, I soon found myself deep down a rabbit hole of research on medieval France, Imperial Flanders, and the Holy Roman Empire. During lunch breaks in the offices of my law firm in London, I pored over maps of the Carolingian and Holy Roman Empires, the Hanseatic League and the Confederation of the Rhine; and from there I began to sketch out the Haugenate family tree, draw my own maps of the Sovan rump state, provinces and suzerainties, and think of customs, languages, religions and social mores which would define the Sovan people and those living under the yoke of the Autun.

A few months before this, we had been on a trip to Exmoor in the south-west of England. It was a cold, dreary weekend in February, and we spent most of the time hiking through the wintry moorland, taking it in turns to have my son strapped to our chests. It was and remains a strikingly beautiful part of the world, unpopulated and desolate, and it was there that I wrote a short, self-contained story entitled The Witch of Rill. I spent some time in the following weeks trying to sell this story – which would go on to become, in an almost unadulterated form, the first two chapters of The Justice of Kings – to a number of short story publications, and those efforts were unsuccessful. However, pleased with what I’d written, seeing potential in the characters of Vonvalt and Helena, and invigorated from that weekend in Bruges, I returned to the world to see if I could tease a novel out of it.

Suffice it to say that I did not imagine, exactly four years later, that I would be finishing my final readthrough of the copyedited manuscript of The Trials of Empire. As I write this, the paperback edition of The Tyranny of Faith is still not out for several months, and yet the Empire of the Wolf series as it currently stands has sold well in excess of fifty thousand copies and has six extant and planned foreign language editions. It has been a long and, for me, extraordinary journey.

It is a wonderful and satisfying thing to complete a trilogy of novels; it is a harder thing still to bid goodbye to a world and its characters which have formed the focus (though not the totality) of my creative labours of the last four years. For the longest time, the manuscript for The Justice of Kings was just another book. I have, after all, been writing since my early teens, and even self-published a number of science-fiction novels – The Art of War trilogy and its attendant spin-offs and novellas – the better part of a decade ago. But after I finished The Justice of Kings and immediately began work on a new science-fiction novel, I felt that perhaps I’d struck upon something more deserving than an eternity languishing on my hard drive, or mostly unread on my KDP account.

It isn’t an exaggeration to say that being published by a major SFF imprint had been my life’s ambition. I’ve been writing since I was twelve, and I can still remember being so hungry for it. I wanted to be published so urgently and desperately, with an intensity that only seems possible in adolescence. I wrote novel after novel, thinking they were brilliant, knowing they were terrible, all the while hoping that publication was simply a matter of when, not if.

Whilst the act of writing is a solitary one, it is of course not possible to write anything without the help and support of many people over many years. Having the time, and the physical, mental and emotional ability to even indulge in the act of fiction writing, stems in the first instance from being raised in a stable and loving environment. That my creativity and love of genre fiction was encouraged from a young age – be it by my dad taking me to see the Pokémon movie at the cinema, or by my mum letting me take home armfuls of A L I E N S graphic novels from a rural Lincolnshire library – was as much an influence on me as anything else. That I was ever able to write these books at all is thanks, in the very first instance, to my parents, Mark and Jackie.

I would also be remiss if I did not mention my secondary school English literature teacher Jo Lawrence, whose active encouragement of my writing went well above and beyond the call of her teaching duties. It is difficult to overstate the impact you had on me as a seventeen-year-old.

Thanks go to my literary agent, Harry Illingworth, and my editorial team at Orbit – Hillary Sames, Bradley Englert, and especially the point-man, James Long. Taken all together we have a wonderful creative partnership, and the world of the Empire of the Wolf is much richer for your input. Thank you for taking a chance on me and my work, and for making it into the success it has become.

Thanks to my beta readers and dear friends, George Lockett (and it is thanks to your advice, George, in one of those rare Sliding Doors moments, that these books even exist in their current form), Will Smith, and Tim Johnson. I’m grateful for your patient and thoughtful feedback over the years.

Thank you to Martina Fačková for the beautiful book cover illustrations – the sort of beautiful artwork I always desperately hoped for and never thought I would get – and to Lauren Panepinto for your creative vision and direction. Thank you, too, to my publicists, Nazia Khatun and Angela Man, for spreading the good word about the trilogy.

Thank you to my friends in the Write or Die Growlery Discord, a collection of some of the most wonderful and talented writers operating today, for providing me with a place to both celebrate my successes and to vent my spleen. The world of book publication can be a difficult one to navigate; I am grateful to have found my tribe.

Thank you to book bloggers, Instagrammers, book Twitterati, podcasters, YouTubers – you are the unpaid and often underappreciated champions of genre fiction. My heartfelt thanks go to you for spreading the word about the Empire of the Wolf, for plugging these books, and for letting readers everywhere delight in your infectious enthusiasm.

Thank you to my beautiful wife, Sophie, and my precious sons, Scott and Leo. I couldn’t ask for a better trio of cheerleaders. The Empire of the Wolf trilogy is dedicated to you.

Finally, thank you to my readers. Ultimately, it’s all for naught if nobody actually reads the damn things. You are legion. Thank you for giving me the honour of entertaining you.

Lots more to come.

Richard

Sydney, June 2023

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By Richard Swan

EMPIRE OF THE WOLF

The Justice of Kings

The Tyranny of Faith

The Trials of Empire