‘And one day your picture will hang above the fireplace and mine will be consigned to the corner by the old broken window over there.’
‘I think not,’ said Denser. ‘I have told the committee that deals with such things, whatever it’s called—’
‘Heritage and History.’
‘Yep, them. That the most relaxed painting of me they’ll get is when I’m dead.’
Dystran laughed hard. ‘Very good, Denser. Very good indeed. I’m glad your sense of humour remains intact.’
‘It has been some time since I made that remark,’ said Denser. ‘Now tell me what you want. I have much to do.’
‘Indeed. One of the few survivors, I understand. Even King Sol is missing and, we presume, lost.’ Dystran’s attempt at a sympathetic expression was poor, more resembling a smirk. ‘No doubt the last few days have been . . . difficult for you.’
Denser gaped.
‘Difficult? I have witnessed a massacre. I have seen my best field mage teams obliterated. I have seen my guards dismembered, literally, right before my eyes. I have seen The Raven dead torn to pieces . . . and I have seen my wife, my wonderful wife, burn. Gone in moments. And I was helpless and so I ran. I ran, Dystran. Like a scared child behind the legs of its mother, hoping the monster wasn’t real. But it is real. And it is coming this way. So yes, you could say things have been just a little tricky.’
He grabbed Dystran’s plate from him and shoved over to him the thin remains on the serving dish instead.
‘And I come back here to find my city in chaos. The dead are bunching together towards the east gates because too many of my people think they are a curse on the living or whatever. Refugees are sleeping on every street corner and in every doorway and I have no way to feed or house them all. And profiteering appears rife. Such are the mercies of our wonderful city folk, eh?’
‘The problems within the city can wait a while. There is more to your massacre than you think,’ said Dystran.
Denser spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘Meaning.’
‘Meaning you need to ask more questions of those here to help you and lean less upon the dead you choose to trust. The solution is plain to see but you have allowed old loves and loyalties to obscure it. You have witnessed a massacre, yes. But you have also witnessed the path to defeating this enemy.’
Denser scratched at his head under his skullcap. A pain was growing behind his eyes.
‘It’s an interesting version of events, I’ll grant you that. My own battlefield mathematics reckons we lost about two hundred, maybe more, once the wounded are brought back or not. Whereas the enemy lost one machine, a couple of animals and, what, twenty men? All of whom were replaced by ten times that number as quickly as you can snap your fingers. If this is the path to victory, then damn right it is obscured from me.
‘You know, I’ve had a really trying day on top of about ten really trying days. I don’t think I want to hear your befuddled reasoning if it’s all the same to you.’ Denser stood. ‘And if the words “you can’t trust the dead” are in anyway allied to your theory, I suggest you go and speak it to the deepest stone in the catacombs because I already don’t believe it. They warned me this enemy was too powerful. I should have listened.’
Dystran remained in his chair and eyed Denser coolly. His hands were trembling but not with the effects of his nightmares. Not this time.
‘Then you are more stupid and obstinate than even I had imagined. And you will consign us all to death. I should warn you that Lords of the Mount holding the reins of inevitable disaster are often thrown from their runaway wagons.’
Denser felt a cold breeze across his entire body. A smile played on his mouth and he pointed a finger at Dystran.
‘You’re threatening me,’ he said. ‘I really don’t believe it.’
‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘I really am your friend and ally. One of the few that remains, I suspect, within or without the Circle Seven. I will take my leave now; my appetite has diminished considerably since you came in. But I will say this. Ask yourself why it is that the enemy is not currently heading directly for Xetesk. There is a man here who knows why. I believe him at any rate. A most trustworthy man. And you might want to speak to your Communion Globe master too. He has a name for this enemy. Amongst other things.’
Dystran stood and walked to the door. He paused there for dramatic effect.
‘Your dead want you to run. They spread dissension among those who will listen in Xetesk, and some have taken heed and departed. The dead do not wish for you to see. The enemy creates a barren wilderness where nought but a floating soul could possibly find joy with its fellows. I see glory for Xetesk and I want to be standing before the man who will finally deliver it to us.’
‘Get out,’ said Denser, ringing the communication bell.
‘I am yours to call.’ Dystran smiled. ‘When you need me.’
Brynar entered before the door was fully closed.
‘You summoned me, Lord Denser.’
‘Bring me Sharyr. And Barons Blackthorne and Gresse. And someone who can tell me how far the surviving Raven dead are from the gates.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘And, Brynar?’
‘Yes, my Lord?’
‘Dystran is not to leave the catacomb chambers he scurries about in with Vuldaroq. Neither is anyone to have access to him without my express permission. His cook, his bed-maker and his arse-wiper can live with him until I say otherwise. Am I clear?’
Brynar nodded. He was chewing his bottom lip.
‘It is time, young apprentice, that people understood who is really in charge on the Mount of Xetesk.’
‘That’s you, isn’t it?’
Denser gave a wry smile in defiance of his heavy heart.
‘Go to the top of the class.’
Chapter 15
Sol was seated. Not uncomfortably though he could not move his arms or legs to any great degree. Looking down he could see no ties or chains binding him yet the chair sucked his body into place, it seemed. He could recall little from the moment the Garonin had spoken to him and Balaia had vanished. A vague sensation of movement was all. And now he was here, wherever ‘here’ was. Sol looked about him.
His first thought was that he recognised this place, yet that was plainly ridiculous. It had no memorable features whatever bar the fact, he supposed, that it was completely featureless. The ground, if such it was, ran away endlessly. He could see no walls. Everything about him was the same pale ivory in colour. Even the chair on which he sat, though that at least had solidity. He’d have clung to it had he not been secured to it.
Dark motes wandered across Sol’s vision. He blinked but they remained. It was a while before he realised that they were not dust in the air close to his eyes but figures moving in front of him. Distance was impossible to gauge and the figures were all faint, shimmering as if only partially there. Some were tiny and he assumed them far from him but it could be a trick of the even, gentle light.
Sol felt no fear. He was beyond that particular emotion. The enemy had not killed him and so they wanted him alive, temporarily at least. Curiosity, then, that was what drove him. And frustration. He wondered how long he would be made to wait.
Not long.
Figures resolved from the emptiness. Three of them, walking slowly towards him. They wore no armour and appeared the epitome of three friends out for a stroll. Long robes covered their huge, powerful bodies. Hands the size of Sol’s head hung from thick wrists. Their heads were large and covered in bone ridges. Their eyes were bulging and black. They had no noses, but slits in the centre of their faces opened and closed in what he assumed to be a breathing action. And when they opened their mouths, he could see no teeth. They reminded Sol of a lesser strain of demon but it was plain enough that they had infinitely more power than those dangerous creatures.