The pale woman nodded. ‘I understand duty.’ She raised the silver dagger she held in her sallow hand. ‘Let us both do our duty, then.’ She plunged forwards, the dagger slashing down towards his neck. She was incredibly fast, faster than any man Barandas had ever faced, almost inhumanly fast.
But he was the Supreme Augmentor, and he was faster still.
His longsword burst through the woman’s chest, lifting her off the floor. She gasped, dribbling dark blood all over her chin. The blood smelled rotten, as if it had putrefied inside her. He almost gagged as he tugged the sword free. The lifeless corpse of the strange woman slid to the ground.
He immediately turned his attention to Salazar. The Magelord’s breaths came in tortured gasps, as if he were sucking in air through a reed. The Supreme Augmentor cast his gaze across the chamber, desperately seeking help.
Most of the magistrates were dead. The body of Lord Justice Tolvarus flopped on his chair, a trail of drool running from his mouth to drip onto the terrified lap of Marshal Halendorf, who sat staring at the scene in horror.
Chancellor Ardling had gone a lighter shade of grey but was otherwise breathing normally. Grand Magistrate Timerus was also alive, though he was shivering uncontrollably and appeared to have vomited most of his wine back over his robes.
Barandas stared down at the Tyrant of Dorminia. A lump welled in his throat. He held the Magelord close, tears threatening to fall from his eyes.
With great effort, Salazar looked up at him and tried to speak. Barandas leaned in close to hear his words. They came out as a faint whisper, but he nevertheless caught their meaning.
‘Fetch… the Halfmage…’
No Easy Choices
The Halfmage stared down at the book he was reading. The Last of the Crusades was a controversial work dealing with the conflict that came to define the Age of Strife, an extremely bloody period culminating in the cataclysmic Godswar. Armies had stormed across the northern continent. Kings and queens had fallen.
Eremul felt his lips twist into a wry smile. The followers of the disparate faiths of the north had spent millennia at each other’s throats, yet somehow those ancient rivalries and vastly contrasting dogmas were thrust aside when the crusade against magic itself was declared.
Hatred. Hatred and fear. The twin mortars that bind the bitterest of enemies more closely than shared notions of virtue or tradition unite the best of friends.
The Congregation had been formed: a council of the ruling high priests and priestesses of the thirteen Prime divines. Their combined political and military strength had been immense and they had almost succeeded in cleansing magic from the land entirely. Of those who possessed the gift, none were spared. Parents had smothered their own children rather than see them burned alive on the Congregation’s fires. For all that he hated the Magelord, Eremul acknowledged that Salazar — together with Marius, a mage named Mithradates, and several other leading wizards of the age — had proved instrumental in organizing a resistance. They had saved many of those blessed with the gift of magic from the flames.
He turned over the page. There, in all her ethereal glory, was an illustration of the White Lady. The high priestess of the Mother, the most widespread faith in the land, had also been a powerful wizard.
Eremul snorted in amusement. What had the Congregation done? Why, they had embraced her. Principles were all well and good, unless holding to them ran counter to self-interest.
Quite why the White Lady eventually underwent such a rapid change of heart was a mystery, but her betrayal of the Congregation gave the alliance of wizards the respite they needed to plot their assault on the heavens. The resulting Godswar had lasted an entire year. Only a handful of mages survived their odyssey to the celestial plane. Those that returned were no longer truly human. They had absorbed some of the essence of the gods and achieved immortality.
The tyranny of the old, replaced by the tyranny of the new. Such is the way of the world. He was about to close the book when he saw the place in the middle where several pages had been torn out. A few specks of dried blood marked the ancient parchment.
The author’s chronicle of certain details of Salazar’s role in the Godswar had displeased the Magelord. The Tyrant of Dorminia had ordered the unfortunate scribe put to death and the offending chapter removed. Even before the unpleasant events surrounding the Culling years passed, and the subsequent crackdown on freedom of expression that had seen the introduction of mindhawks into the skies, there were certain topics those in the Grey City did not talk about. Not if they valued their lives.
There was a sudden knocking at his door. Eremul sighed. It seemed half of Dorminia was intent on paying him a visit these days.
He wheeled his chair over, pulled the latch, and pushed open the door.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he muttered, as he stared into the hard eyes of four of the Watch’s finest.
‘Eremul Kaldrian?’ asked the officer in charge. The Halfmage’s heart hammered in his chest and a hundred thoughts whirled inside his head. They know. Shit, they know. I’m a dead man. I’m dead-
‘You’re coming with us.’ The Watchman’s eyes bore into his own. ‘There’s been an incident at the Obelisk.’
Dorminia was in a state of chaos.
Eremul gazed out at the commotion on the streets far below. The crowd was too far away for him to be able to make out individual faces, but he imagined the multifarious horde wore looks of fear, hope, and — in some cases — quiet satisfaction. By now most in the city were aware that the Tyrant of Dorminia had been the victim of an assassination attempt and that his very life hung in the balance.
He enjoyed a fleeting moment of satisfaction himself. The magistrates who had survived the murder plot were no doubt wondering how news of the incident had slipped beyond the Obelisk’s walls. The truth was that the Halfmage had sent word to certain of his contacts as soon as he was able. If tidings of the Magelord’s perilous condition inspired the braver of Dorminia’s dissidents to push ahead with an insurrection, it would be yet another nail in Salazar’s metaphorical coffin.
The more perceptive of the Magelord’s lackeys had their suspicions about the source of the leak, he knew. The Supreme Augmentor, the blond-haired warrior with the golden armour who looked like some prince from a children’s tale, he was a sharp one. The man’s blue eyes had cut into him like the edge of a steel blade.
Which is exactly what will happen if Salazar dies.
Eremul’s good humour suddenly evaporated. He was under no illusions about his fate if he failed to save the Tyrant of Dorminia from whatever unnatural poison coursed through his veins. There would be no consolatory pat on the back. No oh well, you did your best and never mind, it was a valiant effort. The Supreme Augmentor had been rather insistent on that point. If he failed, he would share the Magelord’s fate.
And wouldn’t that be a tragedy.
He remembered the sudden dread he had felt upon seeing the soldiers. He was certain they had learned of his meeting with the White Lady’s agents at the abandoned lighthouse. Such a perfidious act could not be explained away as the scheming of an informant. Anyone truly loyal to Salazar’s regime would have reported their presence to the Watch, not wheeled themselves back to the book depository for a good long piss followed by a lie-down.
He could barely disguise his relief when the Watch had revealed the truth — but his hidden delight at Salazar’s condition was immediately tempered upon learning he was to be entrusted with the Magelord’s life.
He glanced once more at his surroundings. He was inside a small guest room on the seventh and highest level of the Obelisk. The room was luxuriously adorned, with a four-poster bed covered in silk sheets and carved darkwood armoires that were worth more than most in the city earned in a year. And yet for all the luxury on display, the room was just as much a prison as the dungeons beneath the tower.