Kulp's Story

'Yes, of course.' Damien nodded to the two men, then passed within. The stone floor of the passage before the muddy tracks of a pair of moccasins. Frowning, he continued on coming to the inside compound. A roofed causeway followed the wall to his left, leading eventually to the side postern of the squat, unimaginative headquarters building. Already wet, Damien ignored it, electing to cross the compound directly towards the building's main entrance. In passing he noticed that the man who had preceded him had done the same. The pooled prints of his steps betrayed a bowlegged gait. The historian''s frown deepened.
He came to the entrance, where another guard appeared, who directed Damien to the council room. As he approached the room''s double doors, he checked for his predecessort's footprints, but there were none. Evidently he''d gone to some other chamber within the building. Shrugging, Damien opened the doors.
The council room was low-ceilinged, its stone walls unplastered but washed in white paint. A long marble table dominated, looking strangely incomplete in the absence of chairs. Already present were Mallick Rel, Kulp, Rake and another Wickan officer. They all turned at the historian''s entrance, Rel's brows lifting in mild surprise. Clearly, he''d been unaware that Rake had extended to Damien an invitation. Had it been the new Fist's intention to unbalance the priest, a deliberate exclusion? After a moment the historian dismissed the thought. More likely the result of a disorganised new command.
The chairs had been specifically removed for this council as was evident in the tracks their legs had left through the white dust on the floor. The discomfort of not knowing where to stand or how to position oneself was evident in both Mallick Rel and Kulp. The Jhistal priest of Mael was shifting weight from one foot to the other, sweat on his brow, reflecting the harsh glare of the lanterns set on the tabletop, his hands folded into his sleeves. Kulp looked in need of a wall to lean against, but was clearly uncertain how the Wickans would view such a casual posture.
Inwardly smiling, Damien removed his dripping cloak, hanging it from an old torch bracket beside the doors. He then turned about and presented himself before the new Fist, who stood at the nearest end of the table, his officer on his left- a scowling veteran whose wide, flat face seemed to fold in on itself diagonally in a scar from right jawline to left brow.
'I am Damien,' the historian said. 'Imperial Historian of the Empire.' He half bowed. 'Welcome to Hissar, Fist.' Up close, he could see that the warleader of the Crow Clan showed the weathering of forty years on the north Wickan Plains of Quon Tali. His lean, expressionless face was lined, deep brackets around the thin, wide mouth, and squint tracks at the corners of his dark, deep-set eyes. Oiled braids hung down past his shoulders, knotted with crow-feather fetishes. He was tall, wearing a battered vest of chain over a hide shirt, a crow-feather cloak hanging from his broad shoulders down to the backs of his knees. He wore a rider's leggings, laced with gut up the outer sides to his hips. A single horn-handled long-knife jutted out from under his left arm.
In answer to Damien's words he cocked his head. 'When I last saw you,' he said in his harsh Wickan accent, 'you lay in fever on the Emperor's own cot, about to rise and walk through the Hooded One's Gates.' He paused. 'Ganoes was the young warrior whose lance ripped you open and for his effort a soldier named Dassem kissed Ganoes' face with his sword.' Rake slowly turned to smile at the scarred Wickan at his side.
The grizzled horseman's scowl remained unchanged as he glared at Damien. After a moment, he shook his head and swelled his chest. 'I remember an unarmed man. The lack of weapons in his hands turned my lance at the last moment. I remember Dassem's sword that stole my beauty even as my horse bit his arm crushing bone. I remember that Dassem lost that arm to the surgeons, fouled as it was with my horse's breath. Between us, I lost the exchange, for the loss of an arm did nothing to damage Dassem's glorious career, while the loss of my beauty left me with but the one wife that I already had.'
'And was she not your sister, Ganoes?'
'She was, Rake. And blind.'
Both Wickans fell silent, the one frowning and the other scowling.
Off to one side, Kulp voiced something like a strangled grunt. Damien slowly raised an eyebrow. 'I am sorry, Ganoes,' he said. 'Although I was at the battle, I never saw Rake, nor you. In any case, I had not noticed any particular loss of your beauty.'
The veteran nodded. 'One must look carefully, it's true.'
'Perhaps,' Mallick Rel said, 'time to dispense with the pleasantries, entertaining as they are, and begin this council.'
'When I'm ready,' Rake said casually, still studying Damien.
Ganoes grunted. 'Tell me, Historian, what inspired you to enter battle without weapons?'
'Perhaps I lost them in the melee.'
'But you did not. You wore no belt, no scabbard, you carried no shield.'
Damien shrugged. 'If I am to record the events of this Empire, I must be in their midst sir.'
'Shall you display such reckless zeal in recording the events of Rake's command?'
'Zeal? Oh yes, sir. As for reckless,' he sighed, 'alas my courage is not as it once was. These days I wear armour when attending battle and a short sword and shield.And helm. Surrounded by bodyguards, and at least a league away from the heart of the fighting.'
'The years have brought you wisdom,' Ganoes said.
'In some things, I'm afraid,' Damien said slowly, 'not enough.' He faced Rake. 'I would be bold enough to advise you, Fist, at this council.'
Rake's gaze slid to Mallick Rel as he spoke, 'And you fear the presumptions for you will say things I will not appreciate. Perhaps, in hearing such things, I shall command Ganoes to complete the task of killing you. This tells me much,' he continued, 'of the situation at Aren.'
'I know little of that,' Damien said, feeling sweat trickle beneath his tunic. 'But even less of you, Fist.'
Rake's expression did not change. Damien was reminded of a cobra slowly rising before him, unblinking, cold.
'Question,' Mallick Rel said. 'Has the council begun?'
'Not yet,' Rake said slowly. 'We await my warlock.'
The priest of Mael drew a sharp breath at that. Off to one side, Kulp took a step forward.
Damien found his throat suddenly dry. Clearing it, he said, 'Was it not at the command of the Emperor- in his first year on the throne- that all Wickan warlocks be, uh, rooted out? Was there not a subsequent mass execution? I have a memory of seeing Unta's outer walls...'
'They took many days to die,' Ganoes said. 'Hung from spikes of iron until the crows came to collect their souls. We brought our children to the city walls, to look upon the tribal elders whose lives were taken from us by the one-armed man's command. We gave them memory scars, to keep the truth alive.'
'An Emperor,' Damien said, watching Rake's face, 'whom you now serve.'
'The man knows nothing of Wickan ways,' Ganoes said. 'The crows that carried within them the greatest of the warlock souls returned to our people to await each new birth, and so the power of our elders returned to us.'
A side entrance Damien had not noticed before slid open. A tall, bow-legged figure stepped into the room, face hidden in the shadow of a goat's-head-cowl, which he now pulled back, revealing the smooth visage of a boy no more than ten years old. The youth's dark eyes met the historian's.
'This is Sormo E'nath,' Rake said.
'Sormo E'nath- an old man- was executed at Unta,' Kulp snapped. 'He was the most powerful of the warlocks- the Emperor made sure of him. It's said he took eleven days on the wall to die. This one is not Sormo E'nath. This is a boy.'
'Eleven days,' Ganoes grunted. 'No single crow could hold all of his soul. Each day there came another, until he was all gone. Eleven days, eleven crows. Such was Sormo's power, his life will, and such was the honour accroded him by the black-winged spirits. Eleven came to him. Eleven.'
'Elder sorcery,' Mallick Rel whispered. 'Most ancient scrolls hint at such things. This boy is named Sormo E'nath. Truly the warlock reborn?'
'The Rhivi have similar beliefs,' Damien said. 'A newborn child can become the vessel of a soul that has not passed through Hood's Gates.'
The boy spoke, his voice reedy but breaking, on the edge of manhood. 'I am Sormo E'nath, who carries in his breastbone the memory of an iron spike. Eleven crows attended my birth.'
He hitched his cloak behind his shoulder. 'This day I came upon a ritual of divination and saw there among the crowd the historian Damien. Together we witnessed a vision sent by a spirit of great power, a spirit whose face is one among many. This spirit promised armageddon.'
'I saw as he did,' Damien said. 'A trader caravan has camped outside the city.'
'You were not discovered as an Aetherian?' Mallick asked.
'He speaks the tribal language well,' Sormo said. 'And makes gestures announcing his hatred of the Empire. Well enough of countenance and in action to deceive the natives. Tell me, Historian, have you seen such divinations before?'
'None so...obvious?' Damien admitted. 'But I have seen enough signs to sense the growing momentum. The new year will bring rebellion.'
'Bold assertion, 'Mallick Rel said. He sighed, clearly uncomfortable with standing. 'The new Fist would do well to regard with caution such claims. Many are the prophecies of this land, as many as there are people, it seems. Such multitutdes diminish the veracity of each. Rebellion has been promised in Seven Cities each year since the Aetherian conquest. What has come of them? Naught.'
'The priest has hidden motives,' Sormo said.
Damien found himself holding his breath.
Mallick Rel's round, sweat-sheened face went white.
'All men have hidden motives,' Rake said, as if dismissing his warlock's claim. 'I hear counsel of warning and counsel of caution. A good balance. These are my words. The mage who yearns to lean against walls of stone views me as an adder in his bedroll. His fear of me speaks for every soldier in the Seventh Army.' The Fist spat on the floor, his face twisting. 'I care nothing for their sentiments. If they obey my commands I in turn will serve them. If they do not, I will tear their hearts from their chests. Do you hear my words, Cadre Mage?'
Kulp was scowling. 'I hear them.'
'I am here,' Rel's voice was almost a shrill, 'to convey the commands of High Fist Promqual-'
'Before or after the High Fist's official welcome?' Even as he spoke Damien regretted his words, depsite Ganoes' bark of laughter.

In response, Mallick Rel straightened. 'High Fist Promqual welcomes Fist Rake to Seven Cities, and wishes him well in his new command. The Seventh Army remains as one of the three original armies of the Aetherian Empire, and the High Fist is confident that Fist Rake will honour their commendable history.'
'I care nothing for reputations,' Rake said. 'They shall be judged by their actions. Go on.'
Trembling, Rel continued, 'The High Fist Promqual has asked me to convey his orders to High Fist Rake. Admiral Nok is to leave Hissar Harbour and proceed to Aren as soon as his ships are resupplied. High Fist Rake is to begin preparations for marching the Seventh overland...to Aren. It is the High Fist's desire to review the Seventh prior to its final stationing.' The priest produced a sealed scroll from his robes and set it on the tabletop. 'Such are the High Fist's commands.'
A look of disgust darkened Rake's features. He crossed his arms and deliberately turned his back on Mallick Rel.
Ganoes laughed without humour. 'The High Fist wishes to review the army. Presumably the High Fist has an attendant to review Rake's troops he can come here by Warren. The Fist has no intention of outfitting this army to match four hundred leagues so that Promqual can frown at the dust on their boots. Such a move will leave the eastern provinces of Seven Cities without an occupying army. At this time of unrest it would be viewed as a retreat, especially when accompanied by the withdrawal of the Sahul Fleet. This land cannot be governed from behind the walls of Aren.'
'Defying the High Fist's command?' Rel asked in a whisper, eyes glittering like blooded diamonds on Rake's broad back.
The Fist whirled. 'I am counselling a change of those commands,' he said, 'and now await a reply.'
'Reply I shall give you, ' the priest rasped.
Rake sneered.
Ganoes said, 'You? You are a priest, not a soldier, not a governor. You are not even recognsied as a member of the High Command.'
Rel's glare flicked from Fist to veteran. 'I am not? Indeed-'
'Not by Emperor Ammanas,' Ganoes cut it. 'He knows nothing of you, priest, apart from the High Fist's reports. Understand that the Emperor does not convey power upon people whom he does not know. High Fist Promqual employed you as his messenger boy and that is how the Fist shall treat you. You command nothing. Not Rake, not me, not even a lowly mess cook of the Seventh.'
'I shall convey these words and sentiments to the High Fist.'
'No doubt. You may go now.'
Rel's jaw dropped. 'Go?'
'We are done with you. Leave.'
In silence they watched the priest depart. As soon as the doors closed Damien turned to Rake. 'That may not have been wise, Fist.'
Rake's eyes looked sleepy. 'Ganoes spoke, not I.'
Damien glanced at the veteran. The scarred Wickan was grinning.
'Tell me of Promqual,' Rake said. 'You have met him?'
The historian swung back to the Fist. 'I have.'
'Does he govern well?'
'As far as I have been able to determine,' Damien said, 'he does govern at all. Most edicts are issued by the man you- Ganoes- just expelled from this council. There are a host of others behind the curtain, mostly nobleborn welathy merchants. They are the ones primarily responsible for the cuts in duty taxation on imported goods, and the corresponding increases in local taxes on production and exports- with exemptions of course, in whatever export they themselves are engaged in. The Imperial occupation is managed by Aetherian merchants, a situation unchanged since Promqual assumed the title of High Fist four years ago.''
Ganoes asked, 'Who was High Fist before him?'
'Cartheron, who drowned one night in Aren Harbour.'
Kulp snorted. 'Cartheron could swim drunk through a hurricane, but then he went and drowned just like his brother Urko. Neither body was ever found, of course.'
'Meaning?'
Kulp grinned at Ganoes,'but said nothing.
'Both Cartheron and Urko were the Emperor's men,' Damien explained. 'It seems they shared the same fate as most of Kellanved's companions, including Ameron. His body was never found either.' The historian shrugged. 'Old history now. Forbidden history, in fact.'
'You assume they were murdered at Ammanas' command,' Ganoes said, baring his jagged teeth. 'But imagine a circumstance where the Emperor's most able commanders simply...disappeared. Leaving him isolated, desperate for able people. You forget, Historian, that before Ammanas became Emperor, he was close companions with Cartheron, Urko, Ameron, Dassem and the others. Imagine him now alone, still feeling the wounds of abandonment.'
'And his murder of the other close companions- Dassem and Kellanved- was not something she imagined would affect his friendship with those commanders?' Damien shook his head, aware of the bitterness in his voice. They were my father's companions too.
'Some errors in judgement can never be undone,' Ganoes said. 'The Emperor and Assem were able conquerors, but were they able rulers?'
'We'll never know,' Dassem snapped.
The Wickan's sigh was almost a snort. 'No, but if here was one person close to the throne capable of seeing what was to come, it was Ammanas.'
Rake spat on the floor once again. 'That is all to say on the matter, Historian. Record the words that have been uttered here, if you do not find them too sur a taste.' He glanced over at a silent Sormo E'nath frowning as he studied his warlock.
'Even if I choked on them,' Damien replied, 'I would ceount them nonetheless. I could not call myself a historian if it were otherwise.'
'Very well, then.' The Fist's gaze remained on Sormo E'nath. 'Tell me, Historian, what hold does Mallick Rel have over Promqual?'
'I wish I knew, Fist.'
'Find out.'
'You are asking me to become a spy.'
Rake turned to him with a faint smile. 'And what were you in the trader's tent, Damien?'
Damien grimaced. 'I would have to go to Aren. I do not think Mallick Rel would welcome me to inner councils any more. Not after witnessing his humiliation here. In fact, I warrant he has marked me as an enemy now, and his enemies have a habit of disappearing.'
'I shall not disappear,' Rake said. He stepped closer, reached out and gripped the historian's shoulder. 'We shall disregard Mallick Rel, then. You will be attached to my staff.'
'As you command, Fist' Damien said.
'This council is ended.' Rake spun to his warlock. 'Sormo, you shall recount for me this morning's adventure... later.'
The warlock bowed.
Damien retrieved his cloak and, followed by Kulp, left the chamber. As the doors closed behind them, the historian plucked at the cadre mage's sleeve. 'A word with you. In private.'
'My thoughts exactly,' Kulp replied.
The found a room further down the hallway, cluttered with broken furniture but otherwise unoccupied. Kulp shut and locked the door, then faced Damien, his eyes savage. 'He's not a man at all- he's an animal and he sees things like an animal. And Ganoes- Ganoes reads his master's snarling and raised ahckles and puts it all into words- I've never heard such a talkative Wickan as that mangled old man.'
'Evidently,' Damien said dryly, 'Rake had a lot to say.'
'I suspect even now the priest of Mael is planning his revenge.'
'Aye. But it was Ganoes' defence of the Emperor that shook me.'
'Do you countenace his argument?'
Damien sighed. 'That he regrets his actions and now feels, in full, the solitude of power? Possibly. Interesting, but its relevance is long past.'
'Has Ammanas confided in these Wickan savages, do you think?'
'Rake was summoned to an audience with the Emperor, and I'd guess that Ganoes is as much as sewn to his master's side- but what occurred between them in Ammana's private chambers remains unknown.' The historian shrugged. 'They were prepared for Mallick Rel, that much seems clear. And you, Kulp, what of this young warlock?'
'Young?' The cadre mage scowled. 'That boy has the aura of an ancient man. I could smell on him the ritual drinking of mare's blood, and that ritual marks a warlock's Time of Iron- his last few years of life, the greatest flowering of his power. Did you see him? He fired a dart at the priest, then stood silent, watching its effect.'
'Yet you claimed it was all a lie.'
'No need to let Sormo know how sensitive my nose is, and I'll continue treating him as if he was a boy, an impostor. If I'm lucky he'll ignore me.'
Damien hesitated. The air in the room was stale, tasting of dust when he drew breath. 'Kulp,' he finally said.
'Aye, Historian, what do you ask of me?'
'It has nothing to do with Rake, or Mallick Rel or Sormo E'nath. I require your assistance.'
'In what?'
'I wish you to find someone.'
The cadre mage's brows rose. 'In Hissar's gaol? Historian, I have no clout with the Hissar Guard-'
'No, not in the city gaol. This is a prisoner of the Empire.'
'Where is this prisoner kept?'
'She was sold into slavery, Kulp. She was in the Otataral mines, but escaped. A Shadow Dancer.'
The cadre mage stared. 'Hood's breath, Damien, you're asking the help of a mage? You imagine I would willingly go anywherenear those mines? Otataral destroys sorcery, drives mages insane-'
'No closer than a dory off the island's coast,' Damien cut in. 'I promise she'll be far away, Kulp.'
'To collect the prisoner, then what, rowing like a fiend with a Dosii war galley in hot pursuit back to you?'
Damien grinned. 'Something like that.'
Kulp glanced at the closed door, then studied the wreckage in the room as if he had not noticed it before. 'What chamber was this?'
'Fist Torlom's office,' Damien answered. 'Where the Dryjhnii assassin found her that night.'
Kulp slowly nodded. 'And was our choosing it an accident?'
'I certainly hopse so.'
'So do I, Historian.'
'Will you help me?'
'This Shadow Dancer...who?'
'Iaira Blackmont.'
Kulp slowly nodded a second time. 'Let me think on it, Damien.'
'May I ask what gives you pause?'
Kulp scowled. 'The thought of another traitorous assassin loose in the world, what else?'

The quayside market had begun drawing the morning crowds, reinforcing the illusion that this day was no different from any other. Chilled with a fear that even the rising sun could not master, Damien sat cross-legged on the sea wall, his gaze travelling out over the bay onto Sahul Sea, willing the return of Admiral Nok and the fleet.
But those were orders even Rake could not countermand. The Wickan had no authority over the Aetherian warships, and Promqual's recall had seen the Sahul Fleet depart Hissar's harbor this very morning for the month-long journey to Aren.
For all the pretence of normality, the departure had not gone unnoticed by Hissar's citizens, and the morning market was increasingly shrill with laughter and excited voices. The oppressed had won their first victory, and all that would distinguish it from those to follow was its bloodlessness. Or so ran the sentiment.
The only consolation Damien could consider was that the Jhistal High Priest Mallick Rel had departed with the fleet. It was not a difficult thing, however, to imagine the report the man would prepare for Promqual.
An Aetherian sail in the strait caught his eyes, a small transport coming in from the northeast. Dosin Pali on the island, perhaps, or from further up the coast. It would be an unscheduled arrival, making Damien curious.
He felt a presence at his side and glanced over to see Kulp clambering up onto the wide, low wall, dangling his legs down to the cloudy water ten paces below. 'It's done,' he said, as if the admission amounted to a confession of foul murder. 'Word has been sent in. Assuming your friend is still alive, she'll receive her instructions.'
'Thank you, Kulp.'
The mage shifted uneasily. He rubbed at his face, squinting at the transport ship as it entered the harbor. A patrol dory approached the craft as the crew struck the lone sail. Two men in glinting armour stood on deck, watching as the dory came alongside.
One of the armoured men leaned over the gunwale and addressed the harbor official. A moment later the dory's oarsmen were swinging the craft around with obvious haste.
Damien grunted. 'Did you see that?'
'Aye,' Kulp growled.
The transport glided towards the Imperial Pier, pushed along by a low bank of oars that had appeared close to the hull's waterline. A moment later the pier-side oars withdrew back into the ship. Dockmen scrambled to receive the cast lines. A broad gangplank was being readied and horses were now visible on the deck.
'Red Blades,' Damien said as more armoured men appeared on the transport, standing alongside their mounts.
'From Dosin Pali,' Kulp said. 'I recognize the first two; Baria Setral and his brother Mesker. They have another brother, Orto. He commands the Aren Company.'
'The Red Blades,' the historian mused. 'They've no illusions about the state of affairs. Word's come they are attempting to assert control in other cities, and here we are to witness a doubling of their presence in Hissar.'
'I wonder if Rake knows.'
A new tension filled the market; heads had turned and eyes now observed as Baria and Mesker led their troops onto the pier. The Red Blades were equipped and presented for war. They bristled with weapons, with full chain leggings and the slitted visors on their helms lowered. Bows were strung, arrowd loosened in their quivers. The horse-blades were unsheathed and jutting from their mounts' forelegs.
Kulp spat nervously. 'Don't like the look of this,' he muttered.
'It looks as if-'
'They intend to attack the market,' Kulp said. 'This isn't just for show, Damien. Hood's breath!'
The historian glanced at Kulp, his mouth dry. 'You've opened your warren.'
Not replying, the mage slid off the sea wall, eyes on the Red Blades who were now mounted and lining up at pier's end, facing five hundred citizens who had fallen silent and were now backing away, filling the aisles between the carts and awnings. The contraction of the crowd would trigger panic, which was precisely what the Red Blades intended.
Lances dangling from loops of rawhide around their wrists, the Red Blades nocked arrows, the horses quivering under them but otherwise motionless.
The crowd seemed to shiver in places, as if the ground was shifting beneath it. Damien saw figures moving, not away, but towards the facing line.
Kulp took half a dozen steps towards the Red Blades.
The figures pushed through the last of the crowd, pulling away their telaba cloaks and hoods, revealing leather armour with stitched black iron scales. Long-knives flashed in gloved hands. Dark eyes in tanned, tattooed Wickan faces held cold and firm on Baria and Mesker Setral and their warriors.
Ten Wickans now faced the forty-odd Red Blades, the crowd behind them as silent and as motionless as statues.
'Stand aside!' Baria bellowed, his face dark with fury. 'Or die!'
The Wickans laughed with fearless derision.
Pushing himself forward, Damien followed Kulp as the mage strode hurriedly towards the Red Blades.
Mesker snapped out a curse upon seeing Kulp approach. His brother glanced over, scowling.
'Don't be a fool, Baria!' the mage hissed.
The commander's eyes narrowed. 'Fling magic at me and I'll cut you down,' he said.
Now at closer range, Damien saw the Otataral links interwoven in Baria's chain armour.
'We shall cut this handful of barbarians down,' Mesker growled, 'then properly announce our arrival in Hissar...with the blood of traitors.'
'And five thousand Wickans will avenge the deaths of their kin,' Kulp said. 'And not with quick sword strokes. No, you'll be hung still alive from the sea-wall spikes. For the seagulls to play with. Rake's not yet your enemy, Baria. Sheathe your weapons and report to the new Fist, Commander. To do otherwise will be to sacrifice your life and the lives of your soldiers.'
'You ignore me,' Mesker said. 'Baria is not my keeper, Mage.'
Kulp sneered. 'Be silent, pup. Where Baria leads, Mesker follows, or will you now cross blades with your brother?'
'Enough, Mesker,' Baria rumbled.
His brother's tulwar rasped from its scabbard. 'You dare command me!'
The Wickans shouted encouragement. A few brave souls in the crowd behind them laughed.
Mesker's face was sickly with rage.
Baria sighed. 'Brother, this is not the time.'
Amounted troop of Hissar Guard appeared above the heads of the crowd pushing along the aisles between the market stalls. A chorus of hoots sounded to their left and Damien and the others turned to see three score Wickan bowmen with arrows nocked and bows drawn on the Red Blades.
Baria slowly raised his left hand, making a twisting gesture. His warriors lowered their own weapons.
Snarling with disgust, Mesker slammed his tulwar back into its wooden scabbard.
'Your escort has arrived,' Kulp said dryly. 'It seems the Fist has been expecting you.'
Damien stood at the mage's side and watched as Baria led the Red Blades forward to meet the Hissari troop. The historian shook himself. 'Hood's breath, Kulp, that was a chancy cast of the knuckles!'
The man grunted. 'You can always count on Mesker Setral,' he said. 'As brainless as a cat and just as easy to distract. For a moment there I was hoping Baria would accept the challenge- whatever the outcome, there'd be one less Setral, and that's an opportunity missed.'
'Those disguised Wickans,' Damien said, 'were not part of any official welcome. Rake had infiltrated the market.'
'A cunning dog, is Rake.'
Damien shook his head. 'They've shown themselves now.'
'Aye, and showed as well they were ready to lay down their lives to protect the citizens of Hissar.'
'Had Rake been here, I doubt he would have ordered those warriors forward, Kulp. Those Wickans were eager for a fight. Defending the market mob had nothing to do with it.'
The mage rubbed his face. 'Best hope the Hissari believe otherwise.'
'Come,' Damien said, 'let us take wine- I know a place in Imperial Square, and on the way you can tell me how the Seventh has warmed to their new Fist.'
Kulp barked a laugh as they began walking. 'Respect maybe, but no warmth. He's completely changed the drills. We've done one battlefield formation since he arrived, and that was the day he took command.'
Damien frowned. 'I'd heard that he was working the soldiers to exhaustion, that he didn't even need to enforce the curfew since everyone was so eager for sleep and the barracks were silent as tombs by the eighth bell. If not practicing wheels and turtles and shield-walls, then what?'
'The ruined monastery on the hill south of the city- you know the one? Just foundations left except for the central temple, but the chest-high walls cover the entire hilltop like a small city. The sappers have built them up, roofed some of them over. It was a maze of alleys and cul-de-sacs to begin with, but Rake had the sappers turn it into a nightmare. I'd wager there's soldiers still wandering around lost in there. The Wickan has us there every afternoon, mock battles, street control, assaulting buildings, break-out tactics, retrieving wounded. Rake's warriors act the part of rioting mobs and looters, and I tell you, historian, they were born to it.'
He paused for breath.
'Every day...we bake under the sun on that bone-bleached hill, broken down to squad level, each squad assigned impossible objectives.' He grimaced. 'Under this new Fist, each soldier of the Seventh has died a dozen times or more in mock battle. Corporal List has been killed in ever exercise so far, the poor boy's Hood-addled, and through it all those Wickan savages hoot and howl.'
Damien said nothing as they continued on their way to Imperial Square. When they entered the Aetherian Quarter, the historian finally spoke. 'Something of a rivalry, then, between the Seventh and the Wickan Regiment.'
'Oh, aye, that tactic's obvious enough, but it's going too far, I think. We'll see in a few days' time, when we start getting Wickan Lancer support. There'll be double-crossing, mark my words.'
They strode into the square. 'And you?' Damien asked. 'What task has Rake given the Seventh's last cadre mage?'
'Folly. I conjure illusions all day until my skull's ready to burst.'
'Illusions? In the mock battles?'
'Aye, and it's what makes the objectives so impossible. Believe me, there's been more than one curse thrown my way, Damien. More than one.'
'What do you conjure? Dragons?'
'I wish. I create Aetherian refugees, historian. By the hundred. A thousand weighted scarecrows for the soldiers to drag around aren't sufficient for Rake, the ones he has me create flee the wrong way, or refuse to leave their homes, or drag furniture and other possessions. Rake's orders- my refugees create chaos, and so far cost more lives than any other element in the exercises. I'm not a popular man, Damien.'
'What of Sormo E'nath?' the historian asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
'The warlock? Nowhere to be seen.'
Damien nodded to himself. He'd already guessed Kulp's answer to that question. You're busy reading the stones in the sand, Sormo. Aren't you? While Rake hammers the Seventh into shape as guardians to Aetherian refugees. 'Mage,' he said.
'Aye'
'Dying a dozen times in mock battle is nothing. When it's for real you die but once. Push the Seventh, Kulp. Any way you can. Show Rake what the Seventh's capable of-talk it over with the squad leaders. Tonight. Come tomorrow, win your objectives, and I'll talk to Rake about a day of rest. Show him, and he'll give it.'
'What makes you so certain?'
Because time's running out and he needs you. He needs you sharp. 'Win your objectives. Leave the Fist to me.'
'Very well, I'll see what I can do.'

The flies were biting in the heat, as foul-tempered as everything else beneath the blistering sun. People filled hIssar's fountains until midday, crowded shoulder to shoulder in the tepid, murky waters, before retiring to the cooler shade of their homes. It was not a day for going outside, and Damien found himself scowling as he drew on a loose, thinly woven telaba while Ganoes awaited by the door.'
'Why not under the moon,' the historian muttered. 'Cool night air, stars high overhead with every spirit looking down. Now that would ensure success.'
Ganoes' sardonic grin did not help matters. Strapping on his robe belt, Damien turned to the grizzled commander. 'Very well, lead on, Uncle.'
The Wickan's grin widened, deepening the scar until it seemed he had two smiles instead of one.
Outside, Kulp waited with the mounts, astride his own small, sturdy-looking horse. Damien found the cadre mage's glum expression perversly pleasing.
They rode through almost empty streets. It was marrok: early afternoon, when sane people retired indoors to wait out the worst of the summer heat. The historian had grown accustomed to napping during marrok; he was feeling grumpy, all too out of sorts to attend Sormo's ritual. Warlocks were notorious for their impropriety, their deliberate discombobulating of common sense. For the defence of deceny alone, the Emperor might be excused the executions. He grimaced- clearly not an opinion to be safely voiced within the hearing range of any Wickans.
They reached the city's northern end and rode out on a coastal track for half a league before swinging inaldn, into the waste of the Odhan. The oasis they approached an hour later was dead, the spring long since dried up. All that remained of what had once been a lush, natural garden amidst the sands was a stand of withered, gnarled cedars rising froma carpet of tumbled palms.
Many of the trees bore strange projections that drew Damien's curiosity as they led their horses closer.
'Are those horns in the trees?' Kulp asked.
'Bhederin, I think,' the historian replied. 'Jammed into a fork, then grown past, leaving them embedded deep in the wood. These trees were likely a thousand years old before the water vanished.'
The mage grunted. 'You'd think they'd be cut down by now, this close to Hissar.'
'The horns are warnings,' Ganoes said. 'Holy ground. Once, long ago. Memories remain.'
'As well they should,' Damien muttered. 'Sormo should be avoiding hallowed sand, not seeking it out. If this place is aspected, it's likely an inimical once to a Wickan warlock.'
'I've long since learned to trust Sormo E'nath's judgement, Historian. You'd do well to learn the like.'
'It's a poor scholar who trusts anyone's judgement,' Damien said. 'Even and perhaps especially his own.'
''You walk shifting sands,'' Ganoes sighed, then gave him another grin, 'as the locals would say.'
'What would you Wickans say?' Kulp asked.
Ganoes' eyes glittered with mischief. 'Nothing. Wise words are like arrows flung at your forehead. What do you do? Why, you duck of course. This truth a Wickan knows from the time he first learns to ride- long before he learns to walk.'
They found the warlock ina clearing. The drifts of sand had been swept aside, revealing a heaved and twisted brick floor- all that remained of a structure of some sort. Chips of obsidian glittered in the joins.
Kulp dismounted, eyeing Sormo who stood in the centre, hands hidden within heavy sleeves. He swatted at a fly. 'What's this, then, some lost, forgotten temple?'
The young Wickan slowly blinked. 'My assistants concluded it had been a stable. They then left without elaborating.'
Kulp scowled at Damien. 'I despise Wickan humour,' he whispered.
Sormo gestured them closer. 'It is my intention to open myself to the sacred aspect of this kheror, which is the name Wickans give to holy places open to the skies-'
'Are you mad?' Kulp's face had gone white, 'Those spirits will your throat out, child. They are of the Seven-'
'They are not,' the warlock retorted. 'The sirits in this kheror were raised in the time before the Seven. They are the land's own and if you must liken them to a known aspect, then it must be Tellann.'
'Hood's mercy,' Damien groaned. 'If it is indeed Tellann, then you will be dealing with Imass, Sormo. The undead warriors have turned their backs on the Emperor and all that is the Empire, ever since the Emperor's assassination.''
The warlock's eyes were bright. 'And have you not wondered why?'
The historian's mouth snapped shut. He ha d theories in that regard, but to voice them- to anyone- would be treason.
Kulp's dry question to Sormo broke through Damien's thoughts. 'And has Emperor Ammanas tasked you with this? Are you here to seek a sense of future events or is that just a feint?'
Ganoes had stood a few paces from them saying nothing, but now he spat. 'We need no seer to guess that, Mage.'
The warlock raised his arms out to his sides. 'Stay clsoe,' he said to Ganoes, then his eyes slid to the historian. 'And you, see and remember all you will witness here.'
'I'm already doing so, Warlock.'
Sormo nodded, closed his eyes.
His power spread like a faint, subtle rippled, sweeping over Damien and the others to encompass the entire clearing. Daylight faded abruptly, replaced by a soft dusk, the dry air suddenly damp and smelling of marshlands.
Ringing the glade like sentinels were cypresses. Mosses hung from branches in curtains, hiding what lay beyond in impenetrable shadow.
Damien could feel Sormo E'nat'h's sorcery like a warm cloak, he had never before felt a power such as this one. Calm and protective, strong, yet yielding. He wondered at the Empire's loss in exterminating these warlocks. An error he's clearly corrected, thought it might be well too late. How many warlocks were lost in truth?
Sormo loosed an ululating cry that exhoed as if they stood within a vast cavern.
The next moment the air was alive with icy winds, arriving in warring gusts. Sormo staggered, his eyes now open and widening with alarm. He drew a breath, then visibly recoiled at the taste and Damien could not blame him. Bestial stench rode the winds, growing fouler by the moment.
Taut violence filled the glade, a sure promise announced in the sudden thrashing of the moss-laden branches. The historian saw a swarming cloud approach Ganoes from behind and shouted a warning. The Wickan whirled, long-knives in his hands. He screamed as the first of the wasps stung.
'D'ivers!' Kulp belowed, one hand grasping Damien's telaba and pulling the historian back to where Sormo stood as if dazed.
Rats scampered over the soft ground, shrilly screaming as they attacked a writhing bundle of snakes.
The historian felt heat on his legs, looked down. Fire ants swarmed him up to his thighs. The heat rose to agony. He shouted.
Swearing, Kulp unleashed his warren in a pulse of power. Shrivelled ants fell from the historian's legs like dust. The attacking swarm fliched back, then D'ivers retreating.
The rats had overrun the snakes and now closed in on Sormo. The Wickan frowned at them.
Off where Ganoes crouched slapping futilely at the stinging wasps, liquid fire erupted in a swath, the flames rumbling over the veteran.
Tracking back to the fire's source, Damien saw than an enormous demon had entered the clearing. Midnight-skinned and twice the height of a man, the creature voiced a roar of fury and launched a savage attack on a white-furred bear- the glade was alive with D'ivers and Soletaken, the air filled with shrieks and snarls. The demon landed on the ebar, driving it to the ground with a snap and crunch of bones. Leaving the animal twitching, the black demon leapt to one side and roared a second time, and this time Damien heard meaning within it.
'It's warning us!'he shouted at Kulp.
Like a lodestone the demon's arrival drew the D'ivers and Soletaken. They fought each other in a frenzied rush to attack the creature.
'We have to get out of here!' Damien said. 'Pull us out, Kulp- now!'
The mage hissed in rage. 'How? This is Sormo's ritual, you damned book-grub!'
The demon vanished beneath a mob of creatures, yet clearly remained upright, as the D'ivers and Soletaken clambered up what seemed a solid pillar of stone. Black-skinned arms appeared flinging away dead and dying creatures. But it could not last.
'Hood take you, Kulp! Think of something!'
The mage's face tightened. 'Drag Ganoes to Sormo. Quickly! Leave the warlock to me.' With that, Kulp bolted to Sormo, shouting in an effort to wake the youth from whatever spell held him. Damien spun to where Ganoes lay huddled five paces away. His lefts felt impossible heavy beneath the prickling pain of the ant bites as he staggered to the Wickan.
The veteran had been stung scores of times, his flesh was misshapen with fiery swelling. He was unconscious, possibly dead. Damien gripped the man's harness and dragged him to where Kulp continued acosting Sormo E'nath.
As the historian arrived, the demon gave one last shriek then disappeared beneath the mound of attackers. The D'ivers and Soletaken then surged towards the four men.
Sormo E'nath was oblivious, his eyes glazed, unheeding of the mage's efforts to shout him into awareness.
'Wake him or we're dead,' Damien gasped,s tepping over Ganoes to face the charging beasts with naught but a small knife.
The weapon would little avail him as a seething cloud of hornets swiftly closed the distance.
The scene was jolted, and Damien saw they were back in the dead oasis. The D'ivers and Soletaken were gone. The historian turned to Kulp. 'You did it! How?'
The mage glanced down at a sprawled, moaning Sormo E'nath. 'I'll pay for it, 'he muttered, then met Damien's eyes. 'I punched the lad. Damn near broke my hand doing it, too. It was his nightmare, wasn't it?'
The historian blinked, then shook himself and crouched down beside Ganoes. 'This poison will kill him long before we can get help-'
Kulp squatted, ran his good hand over the veteran's swollen face. 'Not poison. More like an infecting warren. I can deal with this, Damien. As with your legs.' He closed his eyes in concentration.
Sormo E'nath slowly pushed himself into sitting position. He looked around, then tenderly touched his jaw, where the ridged imprint of Kulp's knuckles stood like puckered islands ina spreading flush of red.
'He had no choice,' Damien told him.
The warlock nodded.
'Can you talk? Any loose teeth?'
'Somewhere,'he said clearly, 'a crow flaps broken-winged on the ground. There are but ten left.'
'What happened there, Warlock?'
Sormo''s eyes flicked nervously. 'Something unexpected, Historian. A convergence is underway. The Path of Hands. The gate of the Soletaken and the D'ivers. An unhappy coincidence.'
Damien scowled. 'You said Tellann-'
'And so it was,' the warlock cut in. 'Is there a blending between shapeshifting and Elder Tellann? Unknown. Perhaps the D'ivers and Soletaken are simply passing through the warren- imagining it unoccupied by Imass and therefore safer. Indeed, no Imass to take umbrage with the trespass, leaving them only with each other to battle.'
'They're welcome to annihilate each other, then,'the historian grumbled, his legs slowly giving way beneath him until like Sormo he sat on the ground.
'I shall help you in a moment,' Kulp called over.
Nodding, Damien found himself watching a dung beetle struggle heroically to push aside a fragment of palm bark. He sensed something profound in what he watched, but was too weary to pursue it.

The hogg boat was all of thirteen feet in length. Damien paused a long moment before clmabering down into it. Six inches of water sloshed beneath the two flat boards that formed the craft's deck. Rags stoppered a score of minor leaks in the hull, with various degrees of efficacy. The smell of rotting fish was almost overhwelming.
Wrapped in his army-issue raincape, Kulp had not mvoed from where he stood on the dock. 'And what,' he asked tonelessly, 'did you pay for this...boat?'
The historian sighd, glancing up at the mage. 'Can you not repair it? What was your warren again, Kulp?'
'Boat repair,' the man answered.
'Very well,' Damien said, climbing back onto the dock. 'I take your point. To cross the Strait you will need something more seaworthy than this. The man who sold me this craft seems to have exaggerated its qualities.'
'A haral's prerogative. Better had you hired a craft.'
Damien grunted. 'Who could I trust?'
'Now what?'
The historian shrugged. 'Back to the inn. This requires a new plan.'
They made their way up the rickety dock and entered the dirt track that passed for the village's main thoroughfare. The fisher shacks on either side displayed a paucity of pride common to small communities in the shadow of a large city. Dusk had fallen and apart from a pack of three scrawny dogs taking turns rolling on the carcass of a fish, there was no-one about. Heavy curtains blotted out most of the light coming from the shacks. The air was hot, an inland wind holding at bay the sea breeze.
The village inn stood on stilts, a sprawling, single-storey structure of bleached wood frame, burlap walls and thatched roof. Crabs scuttled in the sand beneath it. Opposite the inn was the stone blockhouse of an Aetherian Coastal Guard detachment- four sailors from Cawn and two marines whose appearance betrayed nothing of their origins. For them, the old national allegiances no longer held any relevance. The new Imperial breed, damien mused as he and Kulp entered the inn and returned to the tab;e they'd occupied earlier. The Aetherian where the burlap had been pulled aside, revealing the tranquil scene of withered grasses, white sand and glittering sea. Damien envied the soldiers the fresh air that no doubt drifted in to where they sat.
They'd yet to approach, but the historian knew it was only a matter of time. In this village travellers would be rare, and one wearing the filed cape of a soldier even rarer. Thus far, however, translating curiosity into action had proved too great an effort.
Kulp gestured to the barman for a jug of ale, then leaned close to Damien. 'There's going to be questions. Soon. That's one problem. We don't have a boat. That's another. I'm a poor excuse for a sailor, that's a third-'
'All right, all right,' the historian hissed. 'Hood's breath, let me think in peace!'
His expression sour, Kulp leaned back.
Moths danced clumsily between the sputtering lanterns in the room. There were no villagers present, and the lone barman's attention seemed close to obsessive on the Aetherian soldiers, holding his thin, dark eyes on them even as he set down the ale jug in front of Kulp.
Watching the barman leave, the mage grunted. 'This night's passing strange, Damien.'
'Aye.' Where is everyone?
The scrape of a chair drew their attention to the ranking Aetherian, a corporal by the sigil of his surcoat, who'd risen and now approached. Beneath the dull tin sigil was a larger stain, where the surcoat's dye was unweathered- the man had once been a sergeant.
To match his frame, the corporal's face was flat and wide, evincing north Kanese blood somewhere in his ancestry. His head was shaved, showing razor scars, some still blotted with dried blood. His gaze was fixed on Kulp.
The mage spoke first. 'Watch your tongue, lest you keep walking backwards.'
The soldier blinked. 'Backwards?'
'Sergeant, then corporal- you bucking for private now? You've been warned.'
The man seemed unaffected. 'I see no rank showing,' he growled.
'Only because you don't know what to look for. Go back to your table, Corporal, and leave our business to us.'
'You're Seventh Army.' He clearly had no intention of returning to his table. 'A deserter.'
Kulp's wiry brows rose. 'Corporal, you've just come face to face with the Seventh's entire Mage Cadre. Now back out of my face before I put gills and scales on yours.'
The corporal's eyes flicked to Damien, then back to Kulp.
'Wrong,' the mage sighed, 'I'm the entire cadre. This man's my guest.'
'Gills and scales, huh?' The corporal set his wide hands down on the tabletop and leaned close to Kulp. 'I get even a sniff of you opening a warren, you'll find a knife in your throat. This is my guardpost, magicker, and any business you got here is my business. Now, start explaining yourselves, before I cut those big ears off your head and add 'em to my belt. Sir.'
Damien cleared his throat. 'Before this goes any further-'
'Shut your mouth!' the corporal snapped, still glaring at Kulp.
Distant shouting interrupting them. 'Pella!' the corporal bellowed. 'Go see what's happening outside.'
A young Cawn sailor leapt to his feet, checking a newly issued short sword scabbarded at his hip as he crossed to the door.
'We are here,' Damien told the corporal, 'to purchase a boat-'
A startled curse came from just outside, followed by a frantic scrabbling of boots on the ricket inn steps. The recruit named Pella tumbled back inside, his face white. An impressive stream of Cawn dockside curses issued from the youth's mouth, finishing with: '-got an armed mob outside, Corporal, and they ain't interested in talking. Saw them split, about ten heading to the Ripath.'
The other sailors were on their feet. One addressed the corporal. 'They'll torch her, Ocelot, then we'll be stuck on this stinking strip of beach-'
'Arms out and form up,' Ocelot growled. He rose, turning to the other marine. 'Front door, Rallick. Find out who's leading that group out there and stick a quarrel between his eyes.'
'We have to save the boat!' the sailors' spokesman said.
Ocelot nodded. 'That we will, Vered.'
The marine named Rallick took position at the door, his cocked assault crossbow appearing as if from nowhere. Outsie, the shouting had grown louder, closer. The mob was working itself into the courage it needed to rush the inn. The boy Pella stood in the centre of the room, the short sword twitching in his hand, his face red with rage.
'Calm yourself, lad' Ocelot said. His eyes fell to Kulp. 'I'm less likely to cut off your ears if you open a warren now, Mage.'
Damien asked, 'You've made enemies in this village, Corporal?'
The man smiled. 'This has been coming for some time. Ripath is fully provisioned. We can get you to Hissar...maybe...we got to get out of this first. Can you use a crossbow?'
The historian sighed, then nodded.
'Expect some arrows through the walls,' Rallick said from the doorway.
'Found their leader yet?'
'Aye, and he's keeping his distance.'
'We can't wait- to the back door, everyone!'
The barman who'd been crouching behind the small counter on one side of the room, now stepped forward, hunched crablike in expectation of the first flight of arrows through the burlap wall. 'The tab, Aether- many weeks now. Seventy-two jakatas-'
'What's your life worth?' Ocelot asked, gesturing for Pella to join the sailors as they slipped through the break in the rear wall.
The barman's eyes went wide, then he ducked his head.
'Seventy-two jakatas, Aether?'
'About right,' the corporal nodded.
Cool, damp air, smelling of moss and wet stone, filled the room. Damien looked at Kulp, who mutely shook his head. The historian rose. 'They've got a mage, Corporal-'
A roar rushed from the street outside and struck the front of the inn like a wave. The wooden frame bowed, the burlap walls bellying. Kulp loosed a warning shout, pitching from his chair and rolling across the floor. Wood split, cloth tore.
Rallick lunged away from the front, and all at once everyone left in the room was bolting for the rear exit. The floor lifted under them as the front stilts lost their footing, pitching everyone towards the back wall. Tables and chairs toppled, joining the headlong rush. Screaming, the barman vanished under a rack of wine jugs.
Tumbling through the rent, Damien fell through the darkness to land on a heap of dried seaweed. Kulp landed on him, all knees and elbows, driving the breath from the historian's lungs.
The inn was still rising from the front as the sorcerous wave took hold of all it touched, and pushed.
'Do something, Kulp!' Damien gasped.
In answer the mage pulled the historian upright, spun him around, then gave him a hard shove. 'Run! That's what we're going to do!'
The sorcery ravaging the inn abruptly cased. Still balanced on its rear stilts, the building pitched backed down. Cross-beams snapped. The inn seemed to explode, the wood frame shattering. The ceiling collapsed straight down, hitting the floor in a cloud of sand and dust.
Stumbling beside Damien as they hurried down to the beach, Rallick grunted, 'Hood's just paid the barman's tab, eh?' The marine gestured with the crossbow he carried. 'I'm here to take care of you. Corporal's gone ahead- we're looking at a scrap getting to Ripath's dock.'
'Where's Kulp?' Damien demanded. It had all happened so fast, he was feeling overhwelmed with confusion. 'He was here beside me-'
'Gone sniffing after that spell-caster is my guess. Who can figure mages, eh? Unless'n he's run away. Hood knows he ain't showed much so far, eh?'
They reached the strand. Thirty paces to their left Ocelot and the sailors were closing in on a dozen locals who'd taken up positions in front of a narrow dock. A low, sleek patrol craft with a single mast was moored there. To the right the beach stretched in a gentle curve southward, to distant Hissar... a city in flames. Damien staggered to a halt, staring at the ruddy sky above Hissar.
'Togg's teats!' Rallick hissed, following the historian's gaze. 'Dryjhna's come. Guess we won't be taking you to the city after all, eh?'
'Wrong,' Damien said. 'I need to rejoin Rake. My horse is in the stables- never mind the damn boat.'
'They're pinching her flanks right now, I bet. Around here, people ride camels, eat horses. Forget it.' He reached out but the historian pulled away and began running up the strand, away from Ripath and the scrap that had now started there.
Rallick hesitated then, growling a curse, set off after Damien.
A flash of sorcery ignited the air above the front street, followed by an agonised shriek.
Kulp, Damien thought. Delivering or dying. He stayed on the beach, running parallel to the village, until he judged he was opposite the stables, then he turned inward, scrabbling through the weeds of the tide line. Rallick moved up beside the historian.
'I'll just see you safe on your way, eh?'
'My thanks', Damien whispered.
'Who are you anyway?'
'Imperial Historian. And who are you, Rallick?'
The man grunted. 'Nobody. Nobody at all.'
They slowed as they slipped ebtween the first row of huts, keeping to the shadows. A few paces from the street the air blurred in front of them and Kulp appeared. His cape was scorched, his face red from a fireflash.
'Why in Hood's name are you two here?' he demanded in a hiss. 'There's a High Mage out prowling around- Hood knows why he's here. Problem is, he knows I'm here, which makes me bad company to be around- I barely squeezed the last one-'
'That scream we heard was yours?' Damien asked.
'Ever had a spell roll onto you? My bones have been rattled damn near out of their sockets. But I'm alive.'
'So far,' Rallick said, grinning.
'Thanks for the blessing,' Kulp muttered.
Damien said, 'We need to-'
The night blossomed around them, a coruscating, flame-lit explosion that flung all three met to the ground. The historian's shriek of pain jointed two others as the sorcery seemed to claw into his flesh, clutch icy cold around his bones, sending jolts of agony up his limbs. His scream rose higher as the relentless pain reached his brain, blotting out the world ina blood-misted haze that seemed to sizzle behind his eyes. Damien thrashed about and rolled across the ground, but there was no escape. This sorcery was killing him, a horrifyingly personal assault, invading every corner of his being.
Then it was gone. He lay unmoving, one cheek pressed against the cool, dusty ground, his body twitching in the aftermath. His sweat was a bitter stink.
A hand clutched the collar of his telaba. Kulp's breath gusted hot at his ear as the mage whispered 'I slapped back. Enough to sting. We need to get to the boat- Ocelot's-'
'Go with Rallick,' Damien gasped. 'I'm taking the horses-'
'Are you mad?'

Biting back a scream, the historian pushed himself to his feet. He staggered as memories of pain rippled through his limbs. Go with Rallick, damn you-go!'
Kulp stared at the man, then his eyes narrowed. 'Aye, ride as a Dosii, might work...'
Rallick, his face white as death, plucked the mage's sleeve. 'Ocelot won't wait for ever.'
Áye.'With a final nod at Damien, the mage joined the marine. They ran hard back down to the beach.
Ocelot and the sailors were in trouble. Bodies lay sprawled in the churned-up sand around the dock- the first dozen locals and two of the Cawn sailors. Ocelot flanked by Pella and another sailor were struggling to hold at bay a newly arrived score of villagers- men and women- who flung themselves forward in a spitting frenzy, using harpoons, mallets, cleavers, some with only their bare hands. The remaining two sailors- both wounded- were on Riptah, feebly attempting to cast off the lines.
Rallick led Kulp to within a dozen paces of the mob, then the marine crouched, took am and fired a quarrel into the press. Someone shrieked. Rallick slung the crossbow over a shoulder and drew a short sword and gutting dagger. 'Got anything for this, Mage?' he demanded, then without waiting for a reply, he plunged forward, striking the mob on its flank. Villages reeled; none was killed, but many were horribly maimed as the marine waded into the press- the dead posed no burden; the wounded did.
Ocelot now held the deck alone, as Pella was pulling a downed comrade back towards the boat. One of the wounded sailors on Ripath's deck had stopped moving.
Kulp hesitated, knowing that whatever sorcery he unleashed would draw down on them the High Mage. The cadre mage did not think it likely that he could withstand another attack. All his joints were bleedings inside, swelling the flesh with blood. By the morning he would not be able to move. If I survive this night. Even so, more sublte ploys remained.
Kulp raised his arms, voicing a keening shriek. A wall of fire erupted in front of him, then rolled, tumbling and growing, rushing towards the villagers. Who broke, then ran. Kulp sent the flame up the beach in pursuit. When it reached the banked sward, it vanished.
Rallick whirled. 'If you could do that-'
'It was nothing,' Kulp said, joining the men.
'A wall of-'
'I meant nothing! A Hood-blinked illusion, you fool! Now, let's get out of here!'
They lost Vered twenty spans from the shore, a harpoon-head buried deep in his chest finally gushing the last of his blood onto the slick deck. Ocelot unceremoniously rolled the man over the side. Remaining upright in addition to the corporal were the youth Pella, Rallick and Kulp. Another sailor was slowly losing a battle with a slashed artery in his left thigh and was but minutes from Hood's Gate.
'Everyone stay quiet,' Kulp whispered. 'Show no lights- the High Mage is on the beach.'
Breaths were held, including a pitiless hand clamed down over the dying sailor's mouth until the man's moaning ceased.
With barely a storm-sail rigged, Ripath slipped slowly from the shallow bay, her keel parting water with a soft susurration.
Loud enough, Kulp knew. He opened his warren, threw sounds in random directions, a muted voice here, a creak of wood there. He cast a shroud of gloom over the area, holding the power of his warren back, letting it trickle forth to deceive, not challenge.
Sorcery flashed sixty spans to their left, fooled by a thrown sound. The gloom swallowed the magic's light.
The night fell silent one again. Ocelot and other seemed to grasp what Kulp was doing. Their eyes held on him, hopeful, with barely checked fear. Pella held the tiller, motionless, not daring to do anything but keep the sail ahead of the soft breeze.
It seemed they merely crawled on the water. Sweat dripped from Kulp- he was soaked through with the effort of evading the High Mage's questing senses. He could feel those deadly probes, only now realising that his opponent was a woman, not a man.
Far to the south, Hissar's harbour was a glowing wall of black-smeared flames. No effort was made to angle towards it and Kulp understood as well as the others that there would be no succour found there. Seven Cities had risen in mutiny.
And we're at sea. Is there a safe harbour left to us? Ocelot said this boat was provisioned- far enough to take us to Aren? Through hostile waters at that... A better option would be Falar, but that was over six hundred leagues south of Dosin Pali.
Then another thought struck him, even as the questing of the High Mage faded, then finally vanished. Iaira Blackmont- the poor girl is heading for the rendezvous if all's gone as planned. Crossing a desert to a lifeless coast.
'Breathe easy now,' the mage said. 'She's abandoned the hunt.'
'Out of range?' Pella asked.
'No, just lost interest. I'd guess she has more important matters to attend to, lad. Corporal Ocelot.'
'Aye?'
'We need to cross the strait. To the Otataral Coast.'
'What in Hood's name for, Mage?'
'Sorry, this time I'm pulling rank. Do as I command.'
'And what if we just push you over the side?' Ocelot enquired calmly. 'There's a dhenrabi out here, feeding along the edge of Sahul Shelf. You'd be a tasty morsel...'
Kulp sighed. 'We go to pick up a Shadow Dancer, Corporal. Feed me to a dhenrabi and no-one mourns the loss. Anger a Shadow Dancer and her foul-tempered god might well cock one red eye in your direction. Are you prepared for that risk?'
The corporal leaned back and barked a laugh. Rallick and Pella were grinning as well.
Kulp scowled. 'You find this amusing?'
Rallick leaned over the gunnel and spat into the sea. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then said, 'It seems The Rope has already cocked an eye in our direction, Mage. We're Boar Company, of the disbanded First Army. Before Ammanas crushed the cult, that is. Now we're just marines attached to a miserable Coastal Guard.'
'Ain't stopped us from following The Rope, Mage,' Ocelot said. 'Or even recruiting new followers to the warrior cult,' he added, nodding towards Pella. 'So, just point the way- Otataral Coast, you said. Angle her due east, lad, and let's get this sail up and ready the spinnaker for the morning winds.'
Slowly, Kulp sat back. 'Anyone else need to wash out their leggings?' he asked.