'I call her Horsemistress Kirl,' Amber growled, 'and I suggest you do too, or you might find yourself walking to the Circle City.'
The man took a step towards Amber, close enough for his expression to darken the soldier's mood further. He was dressed in functional travelling robes of poorly cut hessian. 'Just make sure she knows her place,' he said, peering forward with unconcealed distaste at Kirl. His face was thin and pale, and there appeared to be no spare flesh on his body at all. As ordered, his hair and eyebrows had been shaved. The lack of hair made them look less Menin; it was as good as a disguise because they barely looked human without it. The man was probably younger than Amber, but there was an unnatural sense of age surrounding him that added to his otherworldly appearance.
'My place,' Kirl replied in a level voice, 'is giving you orders when and as I feel like it.' There was no hostility in her tone; the veteran horsemistress had had a lifetime of dealing with soldiers and knew not to let the man rile her.
Amber bit back the words on his lips; Kirl was perfectly capable of handling this herself.
'You will find it different soon enough.'
'No I won't,' she said, bored now. 'You hold no military rank and this is a military exercise. My job is to escort you to the border, then return. If I return early because you've decided to play your games on the way, you'll be jeopardising the operation.'
'And then you'll find out that your master's position means nothing when it comes to punishing you,' Amber added, turning to face the man head-on. He was big even for a Menin soldier, and powerfully built. Amber didn't want to try his luck in a fight – even though the man looked like a wimp, he and his colleagues were adepts of Larat, mages one and all. He would be quick enough to take their leader down, but the rest would surely kill him for it.
'Threatening a man of the cloth?' the adept said with a cruel smile. 'That is as foolish as trying to deny my master.' To emphasise the point he raised one hand, showing the black sleeve and silver ring on his middle finger that indicated he was a priest of Death.
'I know exactly what you are, and that you're in costume doesn't make any difference, mage.' Amber leaned closer, using his bulk to force the man back. Adepts of Larat, the God of Magic, were not priests but mages, acolytes of the Chosen of Larat. Since Lord Larim had slaughtered his predecessor's closest followers, he had wasted no time in building a coterie of his own mages to extend his power base, each one young and ambitious, and as keen as Larim for power. However, it looked like they lacked the white-eye's sense of where to stop. They weren't unusual in disapproving of a woman holding military rank, but it surprised Amber since magery had always been open to both sexes.
' Keep your mouth shut and do what you're told,' Amber warned the adept, looking past him to take in the other four as well. If anything, the female of the group was giving Kirl a more poisonous look than her colleagues. 'You've got ten days' head start on vis; once Horsemistress Kirl drops you off you're on foot so I suggest you enjoy the use of her horses while you can. Whether you're alone or have witnesses, make sure you act like the priests of Death you're supposed to be – and that includes whatever drugs you might be carrying. Take only those necessary for the mission, understand me?'
The adept looked sullen, but he didn't argue.
'Good, now go and get mounted up,' he snapped.
The five adepts went without a further word, though they all glared at Amber, but he was already beckoning forward the first group, who'd been watching the proceedings in silence.
'Same goes for you lot,' Amber started, 'but you're soldiers and I don't expect you need telling.'
The men all nodded. They were dressed as novices of Death, and each was to act as servant to one of the adepts, or so they had been told. He didn't know which legion they were from, just that they were loyal, and they had not been given the full details of their mission. Loyalty would go only so far, even in the Menin Army.
The five men saluted and followed the adepts, leaving Amber and Kirl alone in the street.
'Poor bastards,' he commented quietly as he watched them go.
'I don't want to know,' Kirl said.
'True,' Amber agreed, 'you really don't. It's for the best though; it will save lives in the end. We've just got to stomach it.'
She smiled that lovely lopsided smile again and saluted, already turning away from him. 'See you at the border, my friend.'
They sat on horseback, no one speaking. The silence was unnerving. Somewhere in the distance behind them came the mournful call of a lone kestrel, but from the ruin ahead there was nothing. Stones blackened by flame littered the ground, and dark grass grew over their edges, as though the Land was attempting to conceal this terrible folly.
'Not one building stands,' Count Vesna breathed from Isak's side. 'It was still burning when we left; the walls remained at least.'
They were not far from what had once been the Autumn's Arch gate of Scree, the very place where the Farlan had entered the stricken city only a few months before. Now… Now it was only the road that told Isak where the gate had been. The only other traces of human endeavour were shattered beyond recognition.
'They kept the heat fierce,' Isak said dully, as though repeating something learned long ago. 'The walls stood until the fires went out, but as they cooled, so they weakened.' He felt a stirring all around him, a rustle in the shadow of his cloak that had no natural origin. They were still with him, four of the Aspects he had somehow torn from their God's grasp in the shadow of His temple. The Reapers recognised this place – they remembered the slaughter done not so long ago on those very streets.
Up above, the sky was dark and threatening. The morning had started brightly, but before long thick banks of cloud had rolled across the sky from the north and now the air was cold, promising imminent rain.
'Now there is nothing,' croaked High Cardinal Certinse. He was shocked by the sight of something that could never have been adequately described to him. He might be cold and calculating, but Certinse's reaction showed he was no monster. His link to Nartis had been severed years ago, so Certinse had not felt the Gods' savage backlash as they raged at having been rejected by the people of Scree. While the cadre of mage-priests included in his bodyguard still felt the echo of that fury in their bones, he felt only terror.
Certinse had stared at the devastation for almost an hour before he ordered a cairn be built in memory of the dead, ignoring the objections. Whatever their crimes, he knew the people of Scree had not been remarkable in their impiety. They had not deserved this. No one deserved this.
A city had been obliterated, and what few survivors there were had been slaughtered by the blood-crazed faithful. With the walls (alien, they could see into the ruined city itself: the piles of rubble devoid of life stretching into the distance. Not even Chief Steward Lesarl had anything more than a rough idea of how many had died there. Few cared to contemplate the toll.
'Has anyone gone inside?' Commander Jachen asked. He was lost in his own memories of that last night of fighting. Since that day he had withdrawn from Isak's inner circle. He still commanded the Lord of the Farlan's personal guard, but he had no interest in doing anything more than following orders. Isak didn't much blame the man; his shadow was a crowded place and since that last night in Scree the company there was increasingly unsavoury. The memory of their last stand at the Temple of Death, when the Reapers slaughtered their attackers, was far from glorious.
'Who would want to?' Certinse said, and no one could manage a response. There was a murmur from the assorted clerics in Certinse's retinue, none of whom Isak recognised. No one said anything loudly enough for Isak to catch, but he knew they were afraid of the ruined city. He guessed they did not feel the horror inflicted upon it had cleansed the heresy from its streets.