The Knights of the Temples had taken the New Barbican with a minimum of fuss, and since then they had seen none of the mobs the New Barbican's defenders had spoken of with such terror – in fact, they hadn't seen anyone at all. They marched through abandoned streets, watching the shadows nervously and feeling increasingly dis¬concerted.
General Gort felt horribly alone, the only man on horseback at the head of the column and a prime target for even a mediocre archer. Behind him rumbled a dozen carts, guarded by sappers, then General Chotech, his long, curved axe resting on his shoulder, led his ranks of heavy infantry. His men were armed with heavy shields and thrusting spears: at the first sign of the mobs roving the city, they would lock shields and present a spiked wall that even disciplined troops found hard to break through.
The general turned and inspected the troops with him. A legion ol infantry and two hundred lancers stretched out along the Bearwalk. The major of the lancers saw him and gave a theatrical salute, prompt ing a smile. Major Derl was an excellent officer, from Canar Thrit, a city well known for producing line soldiers. He was experienced enough to know any idle gesture would be noticed by the nervous troops, so Gort suppressed his own fears and gave a cheery wave in return, noting a few smiles before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.
'What have I got us into?' he muttered to himself. 'Will a legion be enough?'
His horse twitched its ears at the sound of his voice and he tight ened his grip on the reins. The horses were as skittish as the men. Perhaps they too sensed that this was not a place for the living. It was obvious, and not just in the smashed windows of abandoned buildings, or the shadows lurking at the base of every shattered wall, or even the brutalised corpses strewn across the city. He couldn't decide which was worse, the hellish sight of fire raging unchecked through entire streets and consuming everything in its path, or the broken ruins wrapped in unnatural dark. He felt the sweat trickle freely down his spine. The heat was still a palpable weight on his shoulders, despite the stiff wind that had recently picked up.
General Gort caught Lieutenant Mehar's eye and the aide obedi-ently stepped closer.
'What do you make of this place, Mehar?' he asked. 'It's so hot at night you can hardly bear to wear a shirt, let alone armour. You're a scholar, what are your thoughts?'
Relief flushed Mehar's face for a moment. Gort suppressed a smile, the young man had been worrying that he was being punished for some failure; unusually, he'd been excluded from most of the general's meetings over the last few weeks. Mehar was a good aide, and he had a fine intellect, but his devotion to the order made it hard to tell what he would make of discussions about a deal with the Farlan, or the developing quarrel with the Knight-Cardinal. Right now they couldn't risk finding out.
'It feels like the Land has been turned on its head,' Mehar said hesitantly. He was a shy young man of twenty-five winters whose tem-perament didn't fit with his large, athletic frame. His father had been barely bright enough to swing an axe, but he had been keen to eii.iin his eldest son spent as much time studying as trying to fill his latinVi over-sized shoes. It had paid off: Mehar loved his books.
'A natural order has been upset here, sir. I think that's why the horses were reluctant to pass through the New Barbican gales. What we need to know is whether this discord is the result, or the pur-pose.'
'And we'd need a mage to work that one out?'
Mehar nodded unhappily. Their order vehemently disapproved of magic, of any description. It was their greatest weakness in battle, but it was a belief they all held to: magic was an unnatural art, and the province of Gods, not men. Individuals who had the talent were not blamed for it, but they were encouraged to forsake the magic inside t hem. The order considered magic to be an addiction, one that could be controlled through faith.
'I just hope we don't find it out the hard way, sir.' He took a breath and looked around at the gutted shells of building that lined the avenue. 'The natural order of things is that of the Gods on high and mankind, their servants. If that has been reversed, what are we going to find at Six Temples?'
Gort paused. 'Not a comforting thought, Mehar. Not comforting HI all.'
Neither man spoke again until they reached the far end of the Bearwalk.
Parties of light infantrymen flanked the main column, half carrying torches, the other half with weapons at the ready. The wavering light illuminated the rubble of an old marketplace, the remnants of broken stalls and shattered awnings.
Gort started at a dark shape that flitted behind the furthest stalls, tall and flowing, with a bone-white face – but in a blink it was gone, and the soldiers marched on unhindered. The light from the torches, the general assured himself, the moon catching a pane of glass. To the flicker of doubt in his heart he said nothing.
At the end of the Bearwalk stood a large, ornate fountain, and beyond that six smaller streets fanned out, leading to different parts of the city. The fountain itself was old, though its stone looked scrubbed clean; those statues that remained whole – a scattering of cherubic bodies reaching up from the lower bowl, three pike rising out from corners of a central plinth, and a pair of legs that were all that re¬mained of whatever Aspect had fed the fountain – had been scoured by centuries of wind and rain. The broken fragments in the now-dry bottom of the lower bowl made it clear that someone had vented their rage upon the fountain, stopping when the Aspect's statue had been destroyed.
Gort rode closer to the fountain as his troops spread around it and locked shields, waiting lor the light infantry to regroup. His height afforded him a good view: I heir were not only smashed limbs of stone, but human remains too. The people of this thirsty city had refused whatever succour this Aspect of Vasle might have offered, fouling both fountain and water so no one could drink from it.
Gort lowered his eyes and whispered a short prayer, a lament for the passing. Aspects might be nothing more than local spirits subsumed by a God of the Pantheon, but they remained part of the divine. The waters no longer ran here, so this part of the divine had died.
Mehar appeared at his side, looked inside the fountain then care¬fully stepped away. He swallowed, and said, 'Your fears were justified then, sir.'
'Thank you for your approval,' Gort snapped, irritated by the young man's tone. 'I will be sure to check every other decision I make with you.'
Mehar's mouth dropped open. For a moment Gort thought he was going to retort, then he shut it again with a snap of teeth.
The general looked away; he didn't have to explain himself to his aide, and certainly not when they were in the field, surrounded by enlisted men. He waited in brooding silence for the ranks to form up into companies, tight blocks of fifty soldiers ringed by smaller knots of flickering torches held high in the gloom. He shifted in his saddle. The hot night air was responsible for an infuriating itch that had worked its way under his skin, even to the back of his throat, while the stink of rot from the fountain grew heavier.
The clatter of hooves preceded Major Deri as he led his lancers into the plaza and joined General Gort at the fountain.
'Blood and piss,' the major growled as he looked over the lip, 'let's hope they've treated the temples with more reverence.'
'There's no reason to suppose they have,' Gort said. He gestured at the roads leading off the plaza, all dark bar one, where a burning building had collapsed halfway down the street. 'Which of these takes us to Six Temples?'