Orb Sceptre Throne

‘And the place ransacked,’ Rallick muttered, more to himself.

‘Not all,’ and the demon’s clawed hand flew to cover its mouth.

With a jerk of the crossbow, Rallick motioned the creature from the chest.

The demon led him down the narrow circular staircase, which continued on past ground level, passing floor after floor of quarters, storerooms, and workrooms. Rallick had had no idea the place was so extensive. It seemed so small from the outside. The creature stopped at what appeared to be the lowest floor. Rallick lit a wall-mounted lantern and raised it to peer around. The room was bare, almost completely empty. Nothing to vandalize here. Old inscriptions covered the floor in ever-narrowing circles. Old metal-working tools lined the walls: tongs, hammers, a small portable forge, twinned anvils. The demon waddled to a heavy metal chest against one wall, only to recoil as if struck.

‘Oh no!’ it gibbered. ‘Out! Out!’ It slapped its bald head with its tiny undersized clawed hands and hopped from foot to foot.

‘What’s out?’

‘Scary big man squash us with hammer for this! Oh no!’

Hammer?

Rallick crossed to the chest. It was constructed of thick metal plates. A lock at its front hung open. He pulled on the lid, failed to budge it. He set down the crossbow, clasped a hand at either side of the lid and lifted. It grated, edging upwards. He strained, gasping, managed to lever it up to clang back against the stone wall. It was a full hand’s thickness of dull metal.

‘A lot of lead,’ he muttered.

‘Not lead!’ the creature answered. ‘Magic-killing metal!’

Rallick flinched from the chest. Otataral! An entire box of the metal? Beru fend! Why, an ounce of this would bring a man a fortune!

Within, a length of white silk lined the bottom, empty.

The demon was blubbering, hands at its head. ‘Scary big man mustn’t know! He will flatten us all!’

Something lay scattered on the dusty stones of the floor next to the chest. Rallick bent to study the mess. Crumbs? And next to that, a ring-stain — as of a wine glass? He pressed a finger to the crumbs, touched it to his tongue. Pastry crumbs?

He straightened, asked almost absently, ‘What was in the chest?’

The demon’s hands were now squeezing its own neck. ‘The master’s most awful terrible possessions of all!’ it choked, throttling itself. ‘Flakes. Slivers. Little scary slivers.’

‘Slivers of what?’

The creature’s already red face now glowed bright carmine. Its amber eyes bulged. ‘Slivers of death!’ it gurgled in a seeming last gasp, and fell, fat stomach heaving.

Rallick regarded the empty otataral chest. Slivers of death?

Went, Filless and Scarlon, the three cadre mages assigned to Ambassador Aragan’s contingent of the Fifth, were busy in the embassy cellar sorting through files for destruction. None noticed the presence of the slim young girl until she cleared her throat. Then all three looked up from the folders and string-bound sheaves of orders and logistical summaries to stare, dumbfounded, at what appeared to be a dancing girl in loose white robes with silver bracelets rattling on her wrists.

‘Are you lost, child?’ Filless demanded, first to recover her wits.

‘You three do constitute the last full Imperial mage cadre in this theatre, do you not?’ the girl enquired, and she smiled, demurely.

The three exchanged wondering glances. ‘You are a guest of the ambassador …?’ Scarlon offered, tentatively.

The pale girl drew up her long mane of black hair, knotted it through itself. ‘No. I am the last thing you will ever see.’

All three dived for cover, summoning their Warrens; none lived long enough to channel them. Filless died last, and hardest, as she was not only a mage of Denul but the last Claw of the contingent as well.

It was half a day before the mess was discovered.

Ambassador Aragan kicked through the wreckage of singed papers, destroyed tables, blood and gore- smeared folders cluttering the cellar. His aide, Dreshen, stood at a distance, as did the hastily assembled bodyguard of marines.

The ambassador was in a filthy mood.

‘No one heard a thing? Not a damned thing?’ he demanded, turning on them.

‘No, sir,’ Dreshen answered, wincing.

‘Someone enters the estate, happens to find all three of our cadre mages together in the same room, and kills them all without so much as a peep?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And of course the only ones who could be counted on to sense anything happen to be the very three lying here!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dreshen swallowed to settle his stomach as the ambassador squatted on his haunches next to the ravaged body of Filless: the woman’s face had been torn as if by jagged blades and her midriff had been slashed open, her looped entrails spilt out over her lap. Aragan stared down moodily at the corpse, drew a hand across the woman’s staring eyes to shut them. Dreshen felt his knees going weak at the sight of all the ropy blue and pink viscera.

Aragan used some of the scattered papers to wipe the blood from his hands. He stood, and started to pace again. ‘An act of war, Captain. An Osserc-damned act of war.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In the Academy this is what you’d call a “pre-emptive strike”.’

‘Sir?’

‘We’re effectively cut off now, aren’t we, Captain?’

‘Ah. Yes, sir.’

‘Communications neatly severed. No cadre mages to contact Unta. No access to the Imperial Warren.’ Aragan turned. ‘There must be some talents among the rankers, surely?’

‘Minor only, sir. None trained in cadre protocols.’

The ambassador stood still, apparently thinking. He had that wide-legged stance of big men, when in fact most of his size was a broad circle around his middle. He pulled on his lower lip, his mouth drawn down in a moue of angry disgust. ‘An act of war …’ he mused. ‘Someone’s made their opening moves against us and we don’t even know who we’re facing yet! We are too far behind.’ He pointed to Dreshen. ‘What about Fist K’ess? He must have cadre.’

Dreshen nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes … but none to spare, I’m sure. There’s still fighting in the north.’

Aragan grunted, accepting this. ‘And Fist Steppen?’

His aide cocked his head. ‘I don’t believe there are any active cadre in the south.’

Aragan looked to the low ceiling. Ye gods! That the Empire of Nightchill, Tattersail and Tayschrenn should be reduced to this! It would be laughable if it weren’t so damned tragic! Very well. If it’s to be war … then war it shall be.

He crossed to the stairs. His bodyguard parted to make way for him. He stopped before his aide. ‘Get the box, Captain.’

Dreshen frowned, uncertain. ‘The box, sir?’

‘Yes. The box.’

Dreshen’s pale thin brows rose. ‘Ah! The box. Yes, sir. Here?’

The ambassador peered about the cellar, shook his head. ‘No. Upstairs.’

Aragan waited in his office, hands clasped behind his back. Eventually Captain Dreshen entered, followed by two marines carrying a small battered travel trunk which they thumped down heavily on a table. Aragan motioned the marines out. He reached for the buckles securing the leather straps around the iron box but hesitated at the last moment and looked to Dreshen. ‘Well, let’s just hope I’m allowed to open this.’

The captain offered a strained smile. ‘Of course, sir.’