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Chapter Nineteen
The man was crying openly well before the Revered Sons were done with him-great, hitching sobs racking up his raw throat. Still they kept at it, three hard-eyed men in the red-fringed robes of inquisitors, taking turns asking questions while the bound villager-a man of perhaps fifty summers, bald and brawny, stripped to the waist and bleeding from a cut across his cheek-strained against the bowstrings that bound his hands and feet.
“Again,” said the lead inquisitor, in a voice that matched the frigid highland wind. “Where are the other bandits? How many are they?”
“What of your lord?” demanded the cleric to his left. “Is he here or in Govi
“Tell us about the one they call Lightbringer,” growled the third priest. “Have you seen him?”
The man didn’t answer; he simply kept weeping, broken, past the point of endurance. Tears ran down his face, mixing with his blood to drip on the stony ground. “I don’t-I can’t-please… mercy…”
Standing nearby, Lord Holger Windsound turned away, his Up curling in distaste. He looked back across the valley, where the ruins of the village of Espadica still smoldered, capped by a pall of smoke. A few fires still burned here and there, but the worst was done. Scatas moved through the ashes, rounding up the last of the borderfolk and marching them away into the hills. A few bodies lay sprawled here and there. Not everyone let the army burn their homes without putting up a fight. It was a dreadful thing, razing a town, and one Lord Holger found distasteful but necessary. They had found bandits near Espadica, and the Kingpriest’s orders were clear: all such towns were to be put to torch, the survivors moved to other towns-after thorough questioning, of course.
The man the clerics were working on had been an iron miner-most of Espadica’s men dug ore-but he was also one of a gang of bandits the Scatas had caught in the hills near town. Of that gang, he was the only one they’d taken alive, and the priests had been at him for more than two hours now. He wasn’t giving them any answers, though, and Holger suspected it was because he didn’t know any. That didn’t stop the inquisitors. Holger had seen them do this again and again in towns all over the south. Espadica was hardly the first village the Scatas had burned since they arrived in Taol.
They had been combing the southern fiefs for a month now, scouring the hills to little avail. Again and again, it was the same story: no brigands, only a scattering of common folk and graveyards filled with plague-dead. The few men they caught knew nothing of import. Indeed, Lord Holger might have thought Kurnos’s fears about the bandits were unfounded, except for two things. The first was the many hidden camps his men had uncovered among the hills. Long abandoned, those camps told the tale belter than any prisoner might. There were many more bandits out there, but they had all streamed north to Govi
The second thing was Luciel.
The stories the riders he’d sent after the fleeing villagers told were wild ones, to be sure, and he’d decided they must be exaggerations. His Scatas claimed half a hundred Solamnics had fought them at the Edessa bridge, holding them off to make good the villagers’ escape, but they had only brought back the bodies of six Knights. One of those had been Sir Gareth Paliost. Holger had burned the men with a heavy heart, building stone cairns to mark their graves. He had known Gareth and was sure the Knight had died valiantly, fulfilling his oath-no matter what-to protect the First Daughter.
No, Holger reminded himself. Balthera was First Daughter now, and Ilista was disgraced, Foripon. That made her a traitor, as much as the men who had taken up arms and captured the Little Emperor. Part of him still couldn’t believe she had turned against the Kingpriest-she had always seemed devout, in the time they’d attended the imperial court together-but there it was. She and this young monk of hers, this Lightbringer, were beyond the god’s sight now. That they cast their lot with the rebellious Taoli only proved it.
The wind blew a rope of smoke in his face, and he coughed, turning away from Espadica’s remnants. The inquisitors were still working, pounding the borderman with questions. They were asking him about the Bridge of Myrmidons now, where Dista and Beldyn had escaped the Scatas with the folk of Luciel. The man shook his head, denying any knowledge of what had happened, as Holger knew he would. The only men this side of the Edessa who knew what had happened were his own riders, and he didn’t give their tales much credence. A sorcerer might be able to destroy a stone bridge with a word, but a monk barely old enough to shave?
Preposterous.
Finally, Holger lost his patience. The inquisitors might have kept going all night, given rein, but he didn’t let them. “Enough,” he declared. His snowy moustache drooped above a deep scowl. “You won’t get anything out of that one.”
The lead inquisitor, a gray-maned Revered Son named Rabos, glowered for a moment, as if he might challenge Holger’s orders and carry on anyway. Instead, though, he exchanged looks with his fellows, then rose, nodding. The three priests stepped back, heads bowed, and signed the triangle. Holger walked forward, drawing his sword.
For all the weeping he’d done, the bandit met his death bravely, bowing his head and whispering a prayer to Paladine before the blade descended. Holger made sure it was quick, a single stroke lopping the man’s head from his shoulders. It was a grim duty and one he chose not to shirk by ordering another man to do it. More than a dozen men had died by his sword over the past month. Now, as the blood poured from the brigand’s body-it was always surprising, how much spilled forth-Holger wiped his blade clean with a handful of dry grass and decided this man was the last. He had spent enough time in the south. The land was secure, or near enough as made no difference. The time had come.
Half an hour later, he was back at camp, summoning his officers to him. An hour after that, riders galloped forth, bearing messages for the squads he had dispatched throughout the southern fiefs. It was time to gather again and march. Govi
Lord Ossirian leaned against the railing atop the Pantheon’s highest tower. Beneath him Govi
It was out there, though. He could sense it, like a spoor on the wind. War was coming, and he was going to lose.
He’d first realized things had gone wrong when he learned of Kingpriest Symeon’s death. Ossirian had been to the Lordcity many times, as recently as a year ago, and he knew enough of the imperial court to understand what the power shift meant. Symeon, he’d been certain, would negotiate, but Kurnos was a different matter. With the former First Son on the throne, Ossirian had the sickening suspicion that everything, all he had done, would come to nothing.
Then the soldiers came, and suspicion turned to certainty.
Riders had been arriving from the south for a week now, more every day. The tidings they brought were always the same. The Scatas had arrived in a town-one day Oveth, the next Espadica, even his home fief of Abreri-looking for signs of bandits. Sometimes they found none and quit the town in a rage. Other times they did, and people died.