entrances of Death's temple, the traditional three arches leading into the main temple. When the big sergeant climbed to the top step and bellowed at his men to work harder, Lonei realised the Byoran Guards had been dragging their feet once they'd collected the wood from the carts. Perhaps they'd not properly understood the order correctly.
The sergeant struck someone about the ear and knocked him down: there was no mistake. Tools were produced, wood lifted up and the first of Death's open gates was quickly blocked. Lonei felt his breath catch; he'd never seen or heard of such a thing before. Barring Death's gates? That was such a blasphemy he could not even conceive of it… the priest of Shotir sank to his knees like a puppet with the strings cut. Those around him stared in disbelief and horror, as shocked as Fat Lonei.
'By the order of the duchess,' the sergeant bellowed at the top of his voice, waving a piece of parchment to the crowd assembled just out of reach of his cordon of Ruby Tower Guards, 'the Temple of Death is closed until the traitors within the cults are brought to justice. Any violation of this decree will bring summary punishment.'
It was a ridiculous decree, most likely impossible to enforce without leaving a garrison, yet even Lonei realised its effectiveness as the strength drained from his limbs. The Temple of Death was the heart of Hale, the house of the Chief of the Gods this was a punch to the gut for all of them and it drove the wind from all those witnessing it. An insult and injury: Death's house denied, Death's honour spat upon by a handful of soldiers.
An old woman, a priestess of Death, mounted the steps howling with grief. The sergeant turned at her high shrieks but motioned his troops to stay back. Each step was leaden as the priestess wove a path towards the sergeant, screaming curses at him between her heaving sobs. The sergeant laughed and reached out one hand to hold her off as she tried in vain to claw out his eyes, her fury impotent against his size and strength.
Lonei bowed his head, praying for Death to answer the insult. He didn't see the crossbow bolts flash towards the soldiers, but he looked up when the screams became more urgent and people started to flee in all directions. Through the scattering crowd he could see two of the Byoran Guard on the ground, one lying still, the other writhing and crying out. He looked around and caught sight of a handful of men with crossbows fleeing down the street, the brown robes of Ushull's priests flapping wildly as they ran.
Angry yells came from the ring of soldiers and some men started off down the street before being called back. As they turned Lonei saw a man suddenly burst forward through the cordon, long scimitars in each hand. The man was wearing a bronze-edged robe of bright, bloody red. He was short but extremely wide, and his head was shaved. The angry shouts turned into cries of alarm as he cut across the nearest man's face and spun gracefully away, slashing at the next as he moved in behind the troops.
Lonei gave a gasp: he was watching a Mystic of Karkarn. The God of War had always attracted penitents, and some of those found a deeper truth in the combat skills they had learned, honing their prowess with prayer and fanatical dedication.
The line of soldiers crumpled inward as the mystic's long shining swords, flashing like bolts of lightning, tore through the unprepared men. The big sergeant gave a furious shout, drew his own weapon and jumped down the steps to the street. The mystic turned neatly away from a falling man to meet the new threat with a flurry of blows, but somehow the foreign soldier parried them all and managed to plant a heavy kick in the cleric's side.
The shaven-headed priest reeled, riding a blow that would have knocked a weaker man flying, but he was given no time to recover.
He twisted to deflect an outthrust pike behind him, then raised a leg clear of a blade sweeping towards his shin before driving the point of his curved weapon into his attacker's throat.
The distraction of the troops proved enough for the big sergeant to make up the ground and he chopped through the priest's right hand with one savage blow. Momentum carried him close enough to hammer the pommel of his sword into the mystic's cheek and he was already falling back from the force of the blow as the sergeant rammed his sword deep into the mystic's stomach.
A hush descended. Lonei saw a spasm of agony cross the mystic's face as he fell to his knees, spitted on the long sword. The sergeant lifted the hilt up, forcing the mystic to open his mouth in a silent scream as he yanked the sword out. The mystic fell as the sergeant turned away, leaving the dying man to twitch his last.
He turned his malevolent gaze to those watching. 'Arrest them all, every one you can take,' he roared.
In the torchlight he looked like a raging daemon, a cruel grin on his scarred face. Lonei whimpered as he looked at the prone figure of the old priestess lying on the steps. The soldiers ran to obey their commander, but Lonei was frozen to the spot. He didn't see the troops run past him, nor the gap-toothed man who barely checked his stride to smack his pike handle into Lonei's head. A flash of light, a screech of pain… Lonei felt himself fall into blackness where there was only the face of a daemon in a scarlet uniform.
CHAPTER 21
In the city of Tor Milist, in a grand house redolent of neglect, a woman stood with her hands clasped, staring at her unexpected visitor. Gian Intiss presided over her late husband's household like a duchess, but not even pride and determination were enough to keep everything together. Civil war left its mark on every building, just as it scarred the families within. Everywhere Gian looked she saw reminders of their failing fortunes: the cracked paintwork, the warped boards, the broken trap in the yard. Even when she closed her eyes it was all around her: the distant bang of a shutter in the wind, its latch broken; a gust of wind through the broken window pane…
The day's cost felt like a punch to the gut, but though the ledgers had nothing but bad news, she had had no choice: Harol's birthday marked his entry into adulthood, and as such it required a celebration worthy of a merchant's first-born. Without it, both competitors and creditors would start to ask questions, questions Gian couldn't answer.
She stood at the kitchen door, barely listening to the clatter of preparation going on behind her as she looked down the hall that was the heart of the house. White mourning drapes still hung from the beams and around the other three doorways, and what decorations they had added were barely noticeable in comparison. The hall presently held more than fifty people, adults standing in knots of four or five while children raced around them squealing in delight. A nursemaid squatted on the ground next to the small playpen containing half-a-dozen toddlers who were crashing Harol's old wooden toys against each other and delighting in the noise.
At the other end of the hall a slim figure faced away from her, standing perfectly still and looking at nothing as far as she could tell. The noise from the room washed over it as though it was just a ghost, belonging to another place and time. The Harlequin had removed only its bearskin and pack when it arrived. It was still wearing a long sword on each hip, as it had when it arrived and announced it would entertain her guests. Tunic and breeches were a patchwork of multi-coloured diamond shapes, each one no longer than her middle finger. Brown boots covered its legs, a white porcelain mask its face. The hair visible from behind was so dark it was almost black, and long enough to be tucked inside the Harlequin's collar.
Gian shivered. She knew she should be grateful and give thanks to the Gods for its presence, for it added to the veneer of continued wealth, but there was something about its manner that made her nervous.
'You've got that look on your face again,' said a voice beside her. Harol slipped an arm around her waist and gave his mother a kiss on her cheek. 'You're worrying.'
'It feels like I'm always worrying about something,' she sighed, giving her waiflsh eldest son a tight squeeze. 'But if I don't, who will?'
They had always been close, and Gian had never understood why father and son had found so little common ground between them. She and her bear-like husband had been as close as could be, and she adored her son, but something had always set the pair at odds with each other.
'You should eat something then,' Harol said, gesturing at the platters of food that had been laid out on the long oak table. He was wearing his new velvet tunic, and Gian realised the thick sleeves she'd given it did nothing at all to hide his skinny, boyish arms. 'Try the honeyed pork, it's delicious.'
'You're the one who needs building up,' she replied, giving him a weak smile and patting her stomach. 'The last thing I need to do is eat more. A fatter belly and more worry lines: that's all I'll get from this party!'
'What is there for you to worry about?'
