‘Work it out in whatever way you think appropriate,’ Karr told him.
‘What about you, Serrah? Are you in for this one?’
‘I’m in.’
Caldason sighed. ‘Assuming the rest of the band volunteer too, which I’m sure they will, that seems to settle it.’
‘Excellent, Reeth.’ Karr beamed benevolently.
Kutch wore an expression of cheerful self-importance. Caldason seemed less happy.
‘So, what’s the plan once we’re inside?’ Serrah said.
‘Arson,’ Karr replied. ‘Phoenix’s people have developed some concentrated flammables. Light enough to carry but strong enough to do the job.’
‘I bet it’d be interesting to see what those files say,’ Kutch speculated.
‘We’d all be intrigued to find out, I’m sure,’ Karr smiled. ‘But that’s a pleasure we’ll have to forgo, I’m afraid; removing even a percentage of them would be impossible. No, we have to destroy them, and get our satisfaction from knowing we’ve struck a heavy blow against the oppressors.’
‘Does this mission get me any nearer to my goal?’ Caldason wanted to know.
‘It does. Trust me.’
‘Then we’d better start preparing ourselves, hadn’t we?’
24
There were fires all over the plains, reddening the night sky.
A township was burning. Buildings collapsed, cattle stampeded. The crops in surrounding fields were ablaze, trees converted into huge flaming torches, smoke driven by chill northern winds. Choking, tear-stained, the vanquished streamed from the settlement, herded by their conquerors.
The town’s last enclave had fallen. It was adjacent to the final battlefield, which was littered with defending and invading dead. The first far outnumbered the second, as was to be expected given the winners’ advantage. Already, scavengers were moving through the carnage, gathering loot and ending misery with sharp blades.
The new master watched it all from a commanding cliff-top.
He was The Awakened. Emperor of the Barbarians. Shadow of the Gods. The Man who Fell from the Sun.
He was Zerreiss.
Nothing he wore distinguished him from the lowliest of his soldiers; no finery, no golden armour. If anything, he was less well built than was the norm for his race, and no taller. He had still to reach his middle years, and retained a measure of youthful looks, which his rugged complexion and beard failed to conceal. His features were even, average, ordinary.
Yet he was phenomenal.
He had a quality some called presence. Others said authority, charm, allure, seductiveness, charisma, strength. But, in truth, words were too feeble to describe his singularity. For he had all these traits and something more. Something indefinable. It was as though he embodied a nameless force of nature. A power that left an indelible brand on all who came within its range. It beguiled, inspired, and never failed to excite awe. Fanatical devotion or dread were kindled by it.
This day, the warlord had come with the gift of darkness.
Only true fire ravaged the mesa; there was no longer any synthetic illumination. The lights of his invasion fleet, anchored in the shallow bay, were fuelled by oil and tallow. His horde, their numbers blackening the plain, held aloft genuine brands.
They gloried in his latest victory, chanting his name as though it were an incantation. It sounded like a great sea swell crashing against rocks. The rhythmic pulse of a hundred thousand hearts and voices, laced with pounding drums.
His guards brought him the chieftain of the defeated. The man dropped to his knees, in supplication and terror.
‘Get up,’ the warlord said, speaking softly, ‘I have no need of idolatry.’
The captive met a gaze that seemed all-knowing. ‘You’ve brought us to waste. Where else should I be but on my knees?’
‘Your people fought well. Do not abase yourself.’
The chieftain slowly rose. ‘We posed no threat to you. Why make war on us?’
‘What other option did you leave? Had you united with me this could have been averted.’
‘My people want no truck with devilry.’
The warlord laughed, not unkindly. ‘You think me evil?’
‘Look about you.’ The chieftain swept an arm to take in the violated landscape, his ruined fiefdom. ‘Isn’t this bad enough to count?’
‘No. This is restraint.’
‘You consider yourself a
benign
conqueror?’
‘I don’t consider myself a conqueror at all. I’ve come to set you free.’
It was the chieftain’s turn to laugh, cynically, and notwithstanding his plight.
Zerreiss smiled, easily and in good nature. ‘So, how are we to proceed?’
‘With my death,’ the chieftain replied, his chest swelling.
‘You can join me yet. Many have.’
‘I expect no mercy.’
‘Your bravery does you credit. But why throw away your life? I offer pardon for you, your family and kinsmen. For your people. You have only to swear fealty to me.’
‘And live in shame?’
‘You would be part of a great enterprise. What shame is there in that?’
‘A great madness, more like.’
For an instant, the warlord’s eyes were stone. ‘Look at my army. See how many different bloods it holds. They do not think of themselves as subject.’
‘But why are you building this massive force? What goal do you have beyond subjugating your neighbours?’
‘I told you. Liberation.’
If the chieftain hoped for clarity he was disappointed. The warlord’s expression was enigmatic. ‘They say you’re wise beyond your years,’ the chieftain said, ‘and your skills as a general can’t be doubted. Yet you pursue some grand scheme whose aim you do not state.’
‘You need only know that what I bring cannot be resisted.’
‘I must be more simple-minded than I thought. All you say is a riddle to me.’
‘Rally to my banner and everything will fall into place.’
‘I can see one thing already; that you push ever south. Soon you’ll be in the domain of others not so easily overcome. Then you’ll meet powers greater than your own, Zerreiss.’
‘We’ll see.’ The warlord was unperturbed. ‘But you still have to decide. Should my army be fire-raisers or firefighters? Are you with me or -?
Wait.
’ He closed his eyes and tilted his head, as though interrupted by a sound only he could hear. ‘It comes,’ he mouthed.
‘What?’ The prisoner looked around at the warlord’s retinue. They resembled a carved tableau, frozen mid-task. Listening. The army below had also fallen still, and silent. Although well accustomed to the northern climate, the chieftain shivered.
‘Let your decision rest on this,’ Zerreiss told him.
The chieftain could feel it now. A bass sensation in his bones; a sound too low to be audible. The distinct impression of events about to collide. He gazed stupefied at the warlord. ‘Who…
what
are you?’
‘I am Doubt, made flesh,’ Zerreiss proclaimed.
And the Earth began to shake.
The royal palace in Merakasa was a vast bubble of tranquillity in an ocean of foaming disorder.
Away from the city’s glamoured chaos, inside the palace’s innermost walls, another world turned. Paths wound gently through sumptuous grounds which were thick with trees. The colour of every bloom delighted the eye. But no birds ever sang there.
Nearer the palace itself, the pastoral met acres of white marbled courtyard. Here there were arbours, arches, and benches no one ever sat on. Where grass ended and flagstones began the tradition of marking subterranean power channels was respected. Coloured lines, unerringly straight, homed in from all compass points. A spider’s web of red, black, peach, blue and a dozen other shades, all kept freshly tinted.
The vivid stripes continued inside the palace itself, running the length of corridors and under walls, cutting across the floors of rooms. They intersected deep in the palace’s heart, in the