10
The first glimmer of dawn. Sunlight lanced through the canopy of a great forest, making trees loom ghostlike in the dissolving mist. Silvery dew melted in the warmth, and birds began their morning chorus. The start of a day like any other.
Where the forest ended, pasture lands took over. Farmhouses surrounded by patchwork meadows, cottages sitting prettily on gentle hills. Herds of cows waiting to be milked, fields dotted with sheep softly bleating.
Abruptly, the birds stopped singing. The cattle fell mute. Even the drone of insects faded away.
The silence was so sudden, so palpable, it brought people out of their houses. Frowning women wiped their hands on flour-dusted aprons while youngsters clutched at their skirts. Men shaded brows with their palms to scan the landscape. In the fields, workers straightened, sunshine glinting on the cambered blades of their scythes. They all strained to see what might be causing the unnatural hush.
Very faintly, a sound could be heard.
It seemed to come from deep in the forest. Perhaps from beyond it. The farmers and their kin exchanged perplexed, uneasy glances.
As the racket drew closer they realised it consisted of not one sound but a mingling of many. And given the distance it appeared to be travelling, it had to be very loud. Then they were aware of a weak but growing vibration beneath their feet. Clouds of birds rose from the treetops, spooked by whatever was approaching.
In fright, the women gathered their children and pushed them indoors. The men armed themselves with pitchforks and axes. Everyone stared at the forest’s curving rim, for now they were sure that whatever produced the sounds was skirting its border. Movement could be seen through the trees.
Around the lip of the forest came a motley assemblage of mounted men, wagons, carriages and much larger structures of some kind, obscured by clouds of dust.
The more perceptive among the farming folk, the more worldly, guessed what was happening. But it was too late.
A lone rider came ahead of the rest. He slowed his frothing horse to get his bearings. Those looking on were too stunned to call out to him. It would have made no difference if they had; the pathfinder, which is what they realised he must be, didn’t even notice them. After a moment spent reckoning his course he spurred on, straight across their fields, scattering livestock. The onlookers began to shout then, and frantically waved their arms, but their cries were lost in the din.
Several score cavalrymen arrived with shining breastplates, standards aloft. Rare grandeur for this rustic backwater. As they chased the trailblazer, a detail of paladins at least a hundred strong thundered after them, maintaining strict formation.
Then the full torrent of chaos flooded in.
A disorderly mob of riders started to come by, many in diverse uniforms, their numbers impossible to count. Imperial guards mingled with watchmen and militia. Court sentries rode alongside detachments of army regulars. There were traders, peddlers, vagrants and chancers in the multitude; itinerant musicians, guildsmen, riderless horses, coach-loads of jovial harlots. Flags, lances and banners swayed above the throng. Bobbing in the flow were merchants’ carts, buggies, rigs and wizards’ chariots; wheeled cages housing exotic, roaring beasts, pulled by teams of oxen. The noise was indescribable.
The earth shook, and a thousand smells, from roasting meat to dung, permeated the air. Crops were flattened, trampled, churned to mush. Cattle stampeded, fences were levelled. Carried by the tide, haystacks unravelled.
But the farmers’ wrath gave way to awe and alarm when they saw what came into view next.
Dozens of fabulous floating mansions and chateaux, drifting like great ships in the ocean of humanity. Magnificent constructions of marble, granite, wood and stained glass, with lavishly decorated facades and twisting spires.
But for all their huge size and splendour they were dwarfed by the structure they surrounded. Like a bloated slug in a column of ants, it was mountainous by comparison. The gigantic hovering palace, an extravagantly embellished confection in marzipan pink, white, blue and black stone, boasted crenellated ramparts, flying buttresses, keeps and balconies. Its numerous towers, cut with arrow slits, were so tall the farm folk cricked their necks trying to see their tops.
Fantastical glamours flew over and about the tremendous palace. They took the form of winged men and horses, dragons, serpents, ladybirds the size of rams, and schools of giant, vividly coloured fish that swam in circles around the towers. Other glamours displayed the royal coat of arms and regal emblems; images drawn in fire on shimmering backcloths of gold.
The lesser palaces ploughed through lone trees and copses. They crushed hedgerows and demolished barns. Peasants ran for their lives as a floating castle clipped the corner of a farmhouse and brought it crashing down. The castle had an ostentatious watchtower, and its bell clanged at the impact.
Survivors in the farmers’ ranks could only cower and witness their ruination.
The inhabitants of the gliding structures looked down on all this with ill-concealed boredom. As though destroying people’s homes was a common event. Which, of course, it was.
At the window of a chamber high in Melyobar’s travelling palace, one particular observer watched with an expression that was almost vacant.
‘How much longer’s he going to keep us waiting?’ an impatient voice demanded from behind him.
Andar Talgorian, Gath Tampoor’s Imperial Envoy, slammed the shutters and turned to the questioner.
Clan High Chief Ivak Bastorran, hereditary leader of the paladins, was above middle years, and his neatly trimmed hair and beard were touched with silver. But his physique was still impressive, the heritage of a lifetime of soldiering, and his eyes were sharp and artful from nearly as long a career in scheming. He wore the clan uniform – red tunic, black breeches, knee-high leather riding boots – as though it had formed around him. Tight, crisp, no creases. His boots shone almost as brightly as the decorations and braid he wore.
‘It’s getting here at this hour that irks me,’ Talgorian complained.
‘Nothing special for a soldier,’ Bastorran snorted. ‘Pity you never had the discipline of a military background.’ It was intended as a dig. A small barb in the ongoing mutual loathing between men of equivalent power and differing aims who vied for the Prince’s attention.
Talgorian refused to bite and said nothing.
An eavesdropper glamour hung in the air just below the sumptuous anteroom’s ornate ceiling. It took the shape of a large brass ear. There was no pretence as to its function, no subtlety intended. Beneath his shirt Talgorian wore a medallion containing a blocking glamour which overrode the eavesdropper. He was sure Bastorran had something similar. Visitors were forbidden to bring spells of any kind into the palace, but it was unlikely anyone would challenge such men.
‘The waste of time is what I find frustrating,’ Bastorran added. ‘I have more important matters to attend to.’
‘Such as increased Resistance activity?’
That was a hit. The paladin glowered. ‘We try not to call them that. Makes it sound like they have a just grievance. I prefer deviants, hooligans, misfits -’
‘However you name them, they
are
more active. In both empires and in the colonies. Not least here in Bhealfa.’
‘The clans are on top of it. We have informers in the insurgent ranks, and there’s little happening we’re not aware of.’
‘All interested parties have their spies.’
‘Not as highly placed as mine.’
Talgorian regarded that as a bluff, else the paladins would have made better headway with the problem. He tried steering back to the subject. ‘Well,
our
sources indicate the rebels are involved in more attacks and criminality than ever before. That has to be of concern to all of us.’