Stands a Shadow

Chapter FORTY-ONE

Lines in the Dirt



The bronze bells of the temples were marking the turning of the hour as Creed splashed a handful of the Chilos over his aching frame. He listened to the droplets falling back into the sluggish flow, then pinched his nose and dunked beneath the surface, out of sight.

Dong . . . Dong . . . Dong he heard as he came up again with a gasp.

The general stood in one of the stone bathing areas built along the western bank of the river, where the temples rose above the water-line. Downstream were the fort and permanent camp of the Hoo, several times larger now that the army had returned from Tume, along with the many refugees who had fled here. People were washing themselves all along the twin banks of the river, though Creed was alone here, at his own request. He needed some time to himself today.

He felt better than he had during the night, when he’d found it hard to breathe for a while, and had become light-headed and nauseous. It had been bad enough that those around him had noticed the discomfort he was in. The medicos had been called for, and they had listened to his heart and taken his pulse, concerned at what they heard and felt.

Rest, they had told him as sternly as they dared. You must rest and regain your strength. You have pushed yourself too hard.

If only he had could afford the time for some rest, Creed thought. He had a defence to organize before the Mannians began to move again. Too late to save Tume, the reserves from Al-Khos had dug in to the north of Simmer Lake at the head of the Suck, hoping to hold off any raids beyond their lines. The main imperial force, though, would be heading south towards Bar-Khos. They would wish to avoid the physical barrier of the Windrush, which meant they would be coming here, to Juno’s Ferry. And it would be soon.

Meanwhile, the defences of the Shield would have to be reinforced with what men he could spare.

And then, there was still the matter of the Michinè to deal with.

Creed felt his hackles rise at the mere thought of the painted noblemen. They had caused him the loss of Tume in their quibbling, the loss of men. At least, the Principari of Al-Khos had, and no doubt his brother too, Sinese, the Minister of Defence, so recently enraged at the powers that martial law gave to Creed.

He would start with them first, he thought. He had the power now to arrest anyone in Khos on matters of treason. He could march a squad of guards into the Defence Minister’s chambers and have him taken away by force if needs be. The rest of them could throw their tantrums while their vaulted peer rotted in a cell and a case was made against him and his brother, and anyone else implicated in delaying the arrival of the Al-Khos reserves.

It was time, he knew. Time for a reckoning.

His heart was thumping fast; a tightness creeping across his body like the night before.

Let it go, he told himself, breathing it all out of him. Make the most of this peace while you still can. They’re right and you know it. You’re pushing yourself too hard.

It was a truth that he needed to remind himself at times. That he was still only human.

Such a strange thing to have to remind oneself of, he would have thought once upon a time. Not now, though. Creed was the famous Lord Protector of Khos, after all, the man as strong as a bear, the general who had stood for nearly a decade with his feet astride the Lansway, fighting the Mannians for every inch of ground. How could he not fall for his own growing reputation, when everyone he met in the streets treated him with a kind of awe, and when they needed him to stand tall so that their own fears could be diminished. Creed carried himself like a warrior king of old because that was what he felt himself to be.

Yet in the end, behind all the bluff and bluster, he was still Marsalas Creed from the High Tell, and all else was merely glitter. He was an ageing man who dyed his hair to maintain its black lustre; who seldom doubted himself only because the alternative was to unravel at the seams; who ground his teeth so badly when he slept that he was forced to wear a tiq gum shield to preserve them.

If he was their saviour, then it was only because he was good at what he did.

For a moment, he sensed the presence of old Forias’s ghost looking down on him from above; the previous Lord Protector of Khos, that ancient Michinè who had blathered and delayed while the Man-nians gradually overwhelmed the Shield. Forias had died in his sleep with a slow poison coursing through his bloodways, killed by an agent of the Few.

It was for your own good, he told the man now. How else were we to save the city?

He sensed the silent accusation cast back at him. Creed shrugged it off like an argument that could never be settled.

He sluiced another handful of the river over his broad chest, washing his skin in the mystical waters of the Chilos. This morning was simply for living, for enjoying the moments of the day. Creed lay back in the river and swam like that for a while, looking up at the clouds and the sky, the sounds of distant laughter in his ears.

A scrape of a boot against stone caused him to turn around, his head just above the surface. Halahan stood there with his expression sombre.

‘What is it?’ sighed Creed.

‘Urgent dispatch from Bar-Khos. From General Tanserine. I thought you’d want to know right away.’

Creed felt a tingle in his arm. A premonition of bad news.

He struggled to his feet, feeling the mud squeeze between his toes.

‘Kharnost’s Wall is close to falling. Tanserine requests that we send him what reinforcements we can.’

It was hard to breathe all of a sudden. Creed raised a hand to his chest, where a great weight seemed to be settling.

He tried to speak, had to pause and try again.

‘Any word – of League reinforcements?’

‘Still inbound. Marsalas, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, and he waved Halahan away, for the man was unbuckling his swordbelt as though he meant to come in after him.

Pain like needles shot through his veins and he knew that he was anything but fine. His legs gave out from under him.

Creed dropped beneath the surface, barely aware of the hands that reached out to grab him, or the shouts of concern muted through the womblike embrace of the water. He felt bubbles rushing past his face while all of life collapsed down into a single moment of intense pain, and then he knew no more.

They agreed to a parley on neutral ground the morning after Sasheen’s death, in a tent hastily erected not far from the bridge that led into Tume. Alone and unarmed, Sparus and Romano came face to face in the cold light of day.

Romano was exultant this morning. Sparus could see it in his eyes.

The Archgeneral himself felt only lingering sadness.

‘What will you do with her?’ Romano asked with a smirk.

Sparus refused to allow the anger to show on his face. There was too much at stake to make this a personal matter.

He took a deliberate breath before he answered. ‘The mortarus will preserve her body, then we’ll have it flown back to Q’os.’

‘Perhaps you should be on that ship also.’

Archgeneral Sparus removed his helm and held it at his waist. ‘You are not having this army, Romano.’

A look of genuine puzzlement came over the young man’s eager features. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Because it was the Matriarch’s final command to me.’

‘Ah,’ he replied, and began to pace in front of him. ‘I knew she would try to wreck my chances. Yet I wasn’t certain that you would follow her command, once she was gone and it no longer mattered.’ And he looked to Sparus, a question left open for him. ‘It will be civil war otherwise.’

‘Romano, if you wish to declare yourself Patriarch then do so. I won’t stand in the way of that. Return to Q’os with your men and seize the capital if you can. And while you do that, I will carry on to Bar-Khos and take it for us all.’

It seemed Romano had already thought of that. ‘My claim will be a stronger one if it comes from the ruins of Bar-Khos. I need the Expeditionary Force, Sparus. I need it for myself.’

‘Then it is war,’ Sparus told him plainly. ‘Unless we can think of some other way out of this.’

Romano gave a flick of his eyebrow, and stopped his pacing a few feet before him.

Sparus tensed, sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere.

He looked into the man’s eyes and saw it in an instant – Romano intended to kill him, here and now.

It was a soldier’s reflexes that brought his helm up to strike at Romano even as the young man was lashing out with his hand. Sparus jerked back, his helm crashing across Romano’s head as the young general’s fingertips brushed past his face.

Poison! he thought, as he jumped back another step and brought a hand to his cheek. Lucky. The man’s nails hadn’t broken his skin.

‘Guards!’ Sparus hollered as he backed out of the tent, glaring at the young man across the empty space. ‘You will die for this,’ he promised him.

‘We will see,’ replied Romano, then turned and fled.