supporting his head on his empty tankard.
With a sigh, Sebe secured a bottle and three thimble-like cups.
'Ordained,' Doranei repeated in a grim voice, staring over the bar. 'Bugger.'
Beside him the major nodded, looking even paler than he had when he'd first entered the pub. 'Some days it feels like fire in my veins. Not for much longer though,' he added, 'not after what I saw in that refugee camp.' He knocked back his first cup of brandy before Doranei had even found his own.
'Your Order won't like that too much,' Sebe said.
'The Order is fractured and lost,' Ortof-Greyl replied sadly. 'General Gort is dead, General Chotech is dead. I heard a week ago that General Diolis was murdered in Aroth. My group is destroyed.'
'Does the Knight-Cardinal know about your plotting against him? He clearing house?' Sebe asked, leaning forward.
'I believe so; someone must have informed on us. Whatever the truth, we are in no position to deliver an army of the Devoted to Lord Isak. We've failed in our duty.'
'Join the fuckin' club,' Doranei growled. A sudden purpose seemed to take hold of him and he downed two shots of brandy before saying anything further.
A look at Sebe told Ortof-Greyl that he didn't know what Doranei was referring to either.
'Took a li'l trip after Scree,' Doranei said while he waited for Janna to refill his cup. 'Went to a monast'ry and talked to a bunch o' priests.'
Sebe gave a gasp as he realised what Doranei was talking about. 'Major, give us a moment please?' he said urgently.
'Fuck off, or I'll gut you like a fish!' Doranei added with a snarl, swinging wildly around towards the major and ending up just inches from his face.
Ortof-Greyl backed off quickly and retreated across the room. Janna gave Doranei a sharp clip around the head and quickly poured a beer that she took over to Ortof-Greyl, earning a grateful look from Sebe.
'So what're we going to do with him then?'
Doranei shrugged. 'Don't owe 'im nothing. Send 'im home.'
'As a spy? He'll need some reassurance that we're there to back him up – and what about the Knight-Cardinal clearing house?
I don't like it; we're probably sending him straight to his death.'
'Fuck 'im.'
Sebe sighed. 'Gods, boy, what's happened to you?'
'Read their history,' Doranei muttered.
'And?'
'Bastards had too many secrets.'
'Oh Gods.'
The Brotherhood had scattered in all directions after the fall of Scree, some pursuing enemy agents, some going after Azaer's disciples. Doranei had caught up with the main part of the Farlan Army and, whilst securing an escort for his king, met the novice who had guided Abbot Doren to Scree. The young novice, Mayel, had eventually told him all about the island monastery dedicated to Vellern, God of Birds, and Jackdaw, the disciple of Azaer who'd pursued them to Scree.
'The king suspected,' Doranei said, to which Sebe nodded. 'Looked back an' thought we'd got the Skull too easy. Bastard minstrel could've taken it, but didn't even try. Mayel told me the Skull weren't the only magic thing they brought, there was a book too, with initials on the cover – a pair o' Vs. I got the monks to show me their book o' days. They said a Farlan knight brought the Skull, but they already had a guilty secret.'
'A pair of Vs? Could still be coincidence.'
Doranei gave a snort and attacked the brandy again. 'Could be. Bloody ain't, though. Monastery's old, but the monks weren't the first there. They found ruins to Hit, and a book o' days with the journal – practically shat themselves when they translated it: in the middle of the night a man came an' told Hit's monks to hide a book.'
'Let me guess,' Sebe said. 'That'd be a man with eyes like sapphires?' He reached for the brandy and swigged straight from the bottle.
'Bloody sapphires. Damn minstrel gave us the Skull and took a hook belonging to Vorizh Vukotic, that mad blood-sucking bastard hisself. An' guess who's gotta ask 'is sister what's in it?'
'What's in it?' Sebe echoed. 'What's worth giving up the Skull of Ruling for? We ain't going to like the answer to that one, are we? Might piss off Zhia that we're prying into family business too.'
'More brandy, woman!'
CHAPTER 7
Though he was flanked by two squad of personal guard, Isak nevertheless found himself walking towards the massive ornate gates with his shoulders hunched. The Temple of Law was based around an enormous central hallway, almost a rival to the white marble halls of Isak's dreams, only this was teeming with life. Light filled the hall from mullioned glass windows of white and yellow, two full storeys high.
Three massive doors, peaked like the hall's main gates but without the swirling lattice of ironwork, led to courtrooms on the left, while the right wall was studded with small doorways and corridors that stretched out into a rabbit-warren of offices. Cautious faces poked out from those doorways and watched from the main stairway, and the clank of advancing armour was unable to drown out the whisper of voices and the scurry of footsteps on the marble stair.
The largest and grandest courtroom was at the furthest end of the blue-tiled hallway, opposite the main staircase and the entrance to the cells. Isak swept down the corridor like a surging tidal wave while Major Jachen, the commander of his personal guard, led an assorted party without dragon livery in his wake. The soldiers were dressed for battle, save for their helms, as tradition dictated, and each man carried a short-handled glaive, ready to swing into action at the first movement towards them. They looked threatening, and even onlookers standing well clear found themselves trying to shrink further back from them.
Flags lined the hallway: the red fox's head of Alav, Goddess of Justice alternated with the blue snake of Nartis and Isak's own crowned emerald dragon. A crisp breeze rushed in through the open gate to greet them, gathering up the golden-tassel led flags and lifting them high. Isak felt the wind on his face and scowled as it carried the voices of the crowd in Irienn Square to him. The people had been gathering since dawn and the square was already packed when he arrived for the opening formalities of Duke Certinse's trial: the swell of flushed and furious faces had been a stark contrast to the pale young man who'd knelt in the black square at the centre of the courtroom.
Behind a line of black-and-white-liveried Palace Guard raged a mob of clerics of all colours, intermingled with the whole range of Tirah's assorted citizenry. Foremost among them all were the scarlet-edged robes worn by the Cardinal branch of the cult of Nartis, men and women of all ages and ranks. Three full cardinals were in attendance, each accompanied by a squad of liveried soldiers and three times as many novices in blue, all carrying cudgels.
Those of the Temple of Death had gone a step further – alongside the assembled priests was at least a company of grey-robed men, the novices of Death's cult. Few of the novices of Nartis were more than eighteen summers old, however, and this group were considerably older – to Isak's eyes they looked remarkably like foreign mercenaries. He didn't bother to count; there would be exactly fifty-one of them: a company of five squads and one man to lead them.
The threat was unspoken, but clearly understood. The priests were showing their hand: they had their militia already recruited, and they were daring him to become embroiled in a power-struggle at a time when he had so publicly announced the need for unity.
'They underestimate you. The fever they have caught from their Gods makes them foolish.' The voice was scathing.
For once, Isak had to agree with Aryn Bwr. If he had been thinking clearly, not even Cardinal Certinse would
