‘And when the Gurkish follow, where will you pull back to?’
Vissbruck swallowed, the sharp knobble bobbing in his throat, and spoke on as if Kahdia had said nothing. Something the people of the Union had proved themselves expert at ever since they came to Dagoska. ‘You have been a courageous leader and a true friend to the Union. You have earned a place in the Citadel.’
Kahdia gave a weary smile. ‘If I have earned any place it is here, in my temple, among my people. I am proud to take it.’
‘I knew you would say so. But I had to ask.’
Kahdia held out his hand. ‘It has been an honour.’
‘The honour is mine.’ The general started forward and embraced the priest. The Union man and the Dagoskan. The white-skinned and the dark. A strange sight. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, eyes shining with tears, ‘that I did not understand you until it was too late.’
‘It is never too late,’ said Kahdia. ‘I believe we may meet in heaven.’
‘Then I hope once again that your beliefs are true, and not mine.’ Vissbruck let Kahdia go, turned on his heel, and stopped. He looked back.
‘Superior Glokta warned me that a man might be better off killing himself than becoming a prisoner of the Gurkish,’ said Vissbruck. Kahdia blinked, and said nothing. ‘Whatever one thinks of our erstwhile leader, when it comes to being a prisoner of the Gurkish he must be considered an unchallengeable expert.’ Again, the Haddish did not speak. ‘Do you have any opinion on that matter?’
‘To kill oneself is reckoned an offence against God.’ Kahdia shrugged. ‘But at times like these, who can say what is right?’
Vissbruck slowly nodded. ‘We are cut loose. From the Union. From our families. From God. We all must find our own way now.’ And he marched swiftly towards the temple’s back entrance, his boot heels clicking against the marble as the press parted to let him and his soldiers through.
Temple started forward, grabbing Kahdia by the arm. ‘Haddish, you must go with them!’
Kahdia gently peeled Temple’s fingers from his wrist. Just as Temple had peeled away the fingers of the dying woman. ‘I am glad you are still alive, Temple. I was worried about you. But you are bleeding-’
‘It’s nothing! You must go to the Citadel.’
‘Must? We always have a choice, Temple.’
‘They are coming. The Gurkish are coming.’ He swallowed. Even now, he could not bring himself to raise his voice when he spoke the words. ‘The Eaters are coming.’
‘I know. That is why I must stay.’
Temple gritted his teeth. The old man’s calm was making him furious, and he knew why. Not for Kahdia’s sake, but for his own. He wanted the priest to run so that he could run with him. Even though there was no place safe from the Eaters. Nowhere in all the world, and certainly not in Dagoska. Even though taking refuge in the Citadel could only buy him days, and probably not that many.
The Haddish smiled. As though he saw it all. Saw it all, and forgave him even so.
‘I must stay,’ he said. ‘But you should go, Temple. If you feel you need my permission, I give it gladly.’
Temple cursed. He had been forgiven too often. He wanted to be raged at, to be blamed, to be beaten. He wanted a reason to take the easy way and run, but Kahdia would not let him take the easy way. It was why Temple had always loved him. There were tears in his eyes. He cursed. But he stayed.
‘What do we do?’ croaked Temple.
‘We care for the wounded. We give comfort to the weak. We bury the dead. We pray.’
He did not say fight, but that was clearly on some minds. Five acolytes had gathered uncertainly beside one wall, shifty as children about some secret game. Temple saw the glint of a blade. An axe hanging in the fold of a robe.
‘Set down those weapons!’ called Kahdia, striding over to them. ‘This is a temple!’
‘Do you think the Gurkish will respect our holy ground?’ one of them screeched, a madness of fear in his eyes. ‘Do you think they’ll put aside their weapons?’
Kahdia was calm as still water. ‘God will judge them for their crimes. He will judge us for ours. Set down your weapons.’
The men glanced at each other, shifted their weight uncertainly, but armed though they were, none of them had the courage to meet Kahdia’s unwavering eye. One by one they set their weapons down.
The Haddish put his hand on the shoulder of the man who had challenged him. ‘You are on the wrong side as soon as you pick one, my son. We must act as we would want to act. We must act as we would want others to act. Now more than ever.’
‘How will that help us?’ Temple found he had muttered.
‘In the end, what else is there?’ And Kahdia looked towards the great doors, and drew himself up, and set his shoulders.
Temple realised that a silence had fallen outside. In the square that had once echoed with the priests’ calls to prayer. Then with the merchants’ calls to buy. Then with the cries of the wounded, and the orphaned, and the helpless. Silence could only mean one thing.
They were here.
‘Do you remember what you were when we first met?’ asked Kahdia.
‘A thief.’ Temple swallowed. ‘A fool. A boy with no code and no purpose.’
‘And see what you have become!’
He hardly felt any different than he had. ‘What will I become now, without you?’
Kahdia smiled and set his hand on Temple’s shoulder. ‘That is in your hands. And in the hands of God.’ He came a little closer, to whisper. ‘Do nothing foolish, do you understand? You must live.’
‘Why?’
‘Like a storm, like a plague, like a swarm of locusts, the Gurkish will pass. When they do, Dagoska will have need of good men.’
Temple was about to point out that he was no better than the next thief when there was a booming blow on the gates. The great doors shook, dust filtering down as the lamps wildly flickered. A gasp went through the people and they shrank back, back into the shadows at the far end of the temple.
Another blow, and the doors, and the crowd, and Temple all shuddered at it.
Then a word was spoken. Spoken in a voice of thunder, impossibly, deafeningly loud, mighty as the tolling of a great bell. Temple did not know the tongue and yet he saw the letters of it burned into the door in blinding light. The heavy gate burst apart in a cloud of splinters, chunks of wood tumbling across the marble floor and scattering wide.
A figure stepped between the twisted hinges. A figure in white armour, marked with letters of gold, a smile upon his face, a face as perfect as if it was cast from dark glass.
‘Greetings from the Prophet Khalul!’ he called out, warm and friendly, and the people whimpered and crowded back further.
The letters of fire were still written across Temple’s swimming sight in the darkness, holy letters, unholy letters, his ears still humming with their echoes. A girl whimpered beside him, hands over her face. And Temple put his on her shoulder, clutched at it, trying to calm her, trying to calm himself. More figures sauntered into the temple. Figures in white armour.
They were only five but the crowd shrank back as though they were sheep and these were wolves, crushing each other in their fear. Close to Temple came a woman, beautiful, awful, tall and thin as a spear, a light to her pale face like the glistening of a pearl, golden hair floating as if she carried her own breeze with her.
‘Hello, my pretties.’ She smiled wide at Temple and ran the tip of a long, pointed tongue down one long, pointed tooth, then shut her mouth with a snap and winked at him. His guts were water.
There was a cry. Someone jumped from the crowd. One of the acolytes. Temple saw a flash of metal in the darkness, was jerked sideways by another sudden ripple of fear through the crowd.
‘No!’ shouted Kahdia.
Too late. One of the Eaters moved. As fast as lightning and just as deadly. She caught the man’s wrist, snatched him from his feet, whirled him around with impossible strength and flung him flailing through the air across the full width of the temple, as a sulking child might fling away a broken doll, his fallen dagger skittering across the tiles.