Gort broke off suddenly as a dull clang rang out. The three men looked up as a second sonorous peal echoed through the camp.
'Call to stations?' he wondered aloud as nearby groups of soldiers split up and marched off to their assembly grounds. From either side of his tent, half a dozen soldiers dressed in white-lacquered heavy armour rushed up with their swords drawn and fanned out around the general. They were his bodyguards, and they were reacting to the ponderous ringing of call to stations exactly as specified in the Codex of Ordinance. If it had been the furious clatter of the attack alarm, everyone in the camp would be reaching for their weapons.
'Lieutenant, find out what's going on,' Gort called.
The lieutenant bobbed his head in acknowledgement and marched away, but before he could reach the line of tents ringing the command tent, a young soldier – scarcely more than a boy, swamped in his stud¬ded jerkin – burst through.
'General Gort, message from the advance scouts!' the soldier yelled at the top of his voice. 'The Farlan are advancing!'
Gort instinctively turned towards where the Farlan had been camped, but the fall of night concealed any dust trail or movement he might be able to see. He motioned for his bodyguards to let the boy through and forced himself to stand straight and calm while the youth fought to regain his breath.
'Sir, the Farlan are moving towards the city in advance formation.'
'Not towards us?' Chotech blurted in surprise.
'No, sir, towards the Autumn's Arch gate.' Once the young soldier had regained his composure he seemed to remember who he was now talking to. 'The foot legion of the Ghosts are in front, ready to assault the gate, but the remainder are lined up in columns.'
'Columns? They're not expecting serious resistance then,' Gort said. 'But why are they attacking at all?' He paused, then suddenly slammed his fist down onto the map-table. 'Damn it, of course! Ortof-Greyl, you were absolutely right; Lord Isak isn't with his troops, he's already in the city. That's why they're not worried about assaulting the city, Lord Isak is waiting inside with a few elite squads to take them by surprise; it's the only explanation.'
'Your orders, sir?' Chotech asked.
Gort was silent for a while, his face twisted into a scowl. 'It makes no difference. We have no choice; we must march on the New Barbican and try once again to make it clear we are not Lord Isak's enemies. General Chotech, take a party – and the major, if you're up to riding, young man – and approach the Farlan. They won't dare beat up a general. If they won't take you to their commander, send them back with a message and return.'
'And the message?'
'That we are Knights of the Temples, sworn to protect holy ground from desecration. That we intend to march on the city and protect the temples. Our men will have orders to consider the Farlan allies against the common foe unless attacked and I ask that they send a deputation to us at their convenience.'
'Yes sir.' Chotech strode off towards his own tent where his horse was waiting, already saddled. Major Ortof-Greyl struggled along behind.
'Lieutenant Mehar,' General Gort snapped. The lieutenant jumped, wary of further rebuke, but the general was looking out over the heads of his army, towards the walls of Scree. 'Get the men ready to attack.'
Set apart from the clank of steel and the urgent calling of men, he sat in the dark peace of an empty room, alone with thoughts that echoed the chaos outside. His head throbbed with the surging energies in the air: magic and the voices of the dying, the shrieks of the mad and their brutal desire to kill. He could smell it all; that desire he knew as well as the rage coursing through his body that left his hands quivering. He'd sought this place out in desperation, fleeing from the animal stirring inside as the badgering questions broke in a tidal wave over him. As the army had marched in through the gate, the nobles and officers had all crowded around him as soon as they could with a thousand questions and requests, all completely unaware of the effect Scree had had on him, or the news he'd just received.
I lore there were only bare floorboards, split and warped with age. A shutter clung grimly to the window frame by one last rusty hinge. A curtain hanging over the doorway was the same grey as the walls in the weak light. There was nothing to disturb or distract as he sat on the floor with his silver blade across his lap, listening to the ragged movement of breath through his tight throat. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heart beating, counting out the pauses between inhaling and exhaling, bringing the wild gasping once more under control, just as Carel had taught him all those years ago.
Slowly his hand began to uncurl from a fist and the great hammer¬ing of his heart calmed to a steady thump. The pressure behind his eyes subsided a little and he felt a flush of relief. For all the monstrous side of his soul raged and blustered, it could still be reigned in by the human side. The comfort was meagre, but in darkness, any tiny thread of light was to be embraced.
Isak opened his eyes and ran a finger down the smooth blade of the sword in his lap. The whispery echo of magic tingled on his fingertips as he brushed the invisible runes that had been beaten into the silver, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were fixed on the events of the last half-hour.
Grave news, my Lord. The voice echoed through his head like an accusation. Had he known that it would come one day? Had he been wilfully negligent?
It had been a simple enough thing to cow the defenders of the Autumn's Arch gate into surrendering; half were nothing more than frightened city guard, suddenly facing a straight assault from the Ghosts of Tirah. The poorly trained men from Scree had grown up with the threat of the Farlan on their border, and they'd all heard stories of the prowess of the Ghosts, a professional legion the city could not hope to match. When Isak had appeared in the street behind them with a spitting corona of raw magic blazing about him, Mariq adding to the display before being joined by King Emin's pair of mages, most had simply broken and run. Those who surrendered he'd sent south to the Greengate to join Zhia Vukotic's motley army – by the time General Lahk had ridden up to the gate, it had been clear of defenders and unbarred.
Isak gritted his teeth and took another moment to will his hand to unclench from around Eolis' hilt. It had been a strange meeting, that one: General Lahk at the head of a column of soldiers who roared a greeting to their lord, while a small party of liveried suzerains followed on the general's heels, all looking buoyed and elated at the taste of battle in the air. By contrast, the witch's companion, Fernal, had been disturbingly silent. Fernal's monstrous bulk made the mounted men beside him look small, fragile, even, and even the Ghosts greeting their comrades in Isak's guard had fallen silent when Isak and Fernal stood face to face. The contrasts and parallels made every man present catch his breath and wonder what would happen.
Fernal was of a size with Isak but, unlike Isak, he looked far from human – it wasn't just the deep blue of his skin, which faded into the evening gloom; the thick mane of hair that fell from his head and neck, framed a fierce lupine face with blackness and highlighted the white gleam of his eyes and curved fangs. Where Isak was clad in his armour and long white cape, Fernal wore no clothes, save for the tat¬tered cloak that hung loose on his shoulders and served as a reminder to anyone watching – or perhaps to himself – that he was not some mindless creature from the Waste. He carried no weapons, and kept his taloned fingers turned inward, away from Isak.
For a few precious moments the two had regarded each other as proud equals, then they had exchanged a respectful nod. Fernal had bowed low and introduced himself in a smooth, deep voice that had sent a wave of relief rippling out through the watching rank and file. The sound had clearly unnerved Fernal; he straightened quickly with a hunted look in his eye that made the nearest soldiers freeze, as though they had heard the hiss of an ice cobra.