15 A Mystery Paladin

NEWS OF MARKUS Cipius’ takeover of the city spread along with rumours of a looming war between the conclavist and the remaining primes. For the first time in months, the taproom of Scurvy’s was empty.

The first explanation was the fact Markus Cipius had darkened its doorway. The second was that he’d reformed the Byrsan Bluecloak legions recruiting all of fighting age. Nine days had passed since the meeting and Pint Little sat by a table in the corner, hugging a copper tankard. They’d broached the final cask. The former bluecloak was miserable with a dark set to his jaw.

Tame Vara was her usual self, heels up on a battered table. She twirled one of her daggers, her crossbow also on the table, unloaded, the hemp string freshly waxed with tallow. ‘We could leave,’ she suggested, ‘try to head east. Move at night.’

The eastern section of the city walls was in worse condition than when the Nephilim had stormed the city. The primes had stolen stones to construct their own fortresses in various sections. With Cipius’ takeover that had all ended, but now there were sections of wall no higher than seven feet remaining.

The former imperial marshal paced the taproom, slugging from a pewter cup before tossing it. She wiped her mouth with a dirty hand wishing it had been ale not water. She needed a clear head and could no longer afford to indulge. Besides, with these latest events in motion she’d begun to feel alive again. Too many months spent wallowing in despair and boredom. It was time to return to the world and all the misery of life.

‘We’re close to the river here,’ said Sarscha, ‘which makes it about a third of a mile to the walls. There are possibly two remaining primes and their followers between here and there. They’re like cornered rats and as vicious. We can’t fight a running battle with the few we’ve got. They’ll assume we’re with Cipius and kill us.

‘Too many narrow streets and alleys,’ she continued, ‘and too many vacant buildings to ambush us from. Maybe one person could make it but not all of us. I’m not leaving anyone behind.’

‘So,’ mumbled Pint into his drink, ‘we’re stuck then. Either we go east and fight or we stay and fight. A last stand, marshal, either way.’

‘Don’t call me that, Pittle. I’ve told you before. I no longer hold any rank.’

‘Well then,’ he snapped, ‘I can call you what I like can’t I? Since you don’t hold a rank and all you can’t order me about.’

Tame moved like a cat and Pint was on the floor, holding his head. ‘Enough of this,’ Vara growled. ‘Cipius commanded bloody legions, you dolt. He was a fierce soldier and a terrifying commander. He roughed you up a bit and your ego got bruised. Fine, but if you don’t get over it fast, I’ll finish the job for him.’ She turned to Sarscha, as Pint was getting to his knees, and grinned. ‘This idiot is right though. We don’t have many options.’

‘We could go west.’

Tame Vara’s smile evaporated.

Sarscha raised a hand to forestall the building protest. ‘I’ve no intention of joining his rebellion, Tame. I can’t let it happen either. We’re in for some fighting no matter what. Might as well fight for something we believe in.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Pint, with a glare for Tame. ‘Knew you’d find us a good scrap sooner or later.’

Tame blew him a kiss and his scowl deepened, but Sarscha could tell he’d gotten the message.

‘And what do we believe in?’ asked Krasta Remus as he entered the taproom with three others. He looked drunk. The last cask was empty and Sarscha knew soldiers. With nothing to do, surrounded by enemies and no ale, well, time wasn’t on her side. It wasn’t about loyalty but human nature. After all, she wasn’t officially their commander. She might lose them to Cipius soon if she didn’t act, loyalty or no.

‘I believe in what’s right,’ Sarscha answered. ‘How about you?’

Krasta didn’t answer, just grinned at her.

‘Well,’ muttered Pint with a sour look, ‘that’s a little open to interpretation, isn’t it? Who decides what’s right or wrong?’

‘The angels do, dumbass,’ said Tame.

‘And how’d they know?’ he demanded, becoming his usual belligerent self.

‘We will infiltrate the new Byrsan legion,’ announced Sarscha. ‘Destroy the rebellion from the inside out.’

‘Won’t he be expecting something like that?’ asked Krasta. ‘After all, he knows you.’

‘I’m certain he will. However, Byrsa is a large city with a lot of people and lots of holes to hide in. So are the legions he’s rebuilding.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Pint, resuming his seat. Tame beside him, looked pale.

‘We’re going to sign up,’ said Sarscha. ‘Enlist as recruits all over again. New names, backgrounds, the works. For this I need volunteers, though. None of you have to do this. I can’t order you.’

Pint’s jaw dropped open while Tame swore. Krasta laughed, with some of the others muttering. Roughly what she’d expected.

‘I’m cutting the rest loose,’ she went on, ‘to do as they wish. Us few here as fresh recruits all over again. You remember what it was like?’ Sarscha couldn’t help grinning. She’d known they’d hate her plan.

‘It’ll never work,’ said Pint. ‘Krasta’s right; he’ll spot you a mile off. You’re the most recognisable woman in the imperium. Even if you could avoid him, too many people know you.’

‘Well now,’ said Sarscha, unsheathing a knife,’ I think I have a solution.’ She handed the blade to the other woman, hilt first. She gave her long silver-blue hair a flick. ‘Try not to cut too close, eh? Afterwards, let’s see what we can do about the colour. I think black would be best.’

Tame took the knife and grimaced. ‘I don’t have no fermented leeches. I’ll think of something. Maybe some lead and lime might work. I can get those maybe.’

‘Then we just need to add a huge scar,’ said Sarscha. ‘Never liked my left side. Pittle, you’ve got that little bronze knife of yours sharp? Good. Oh, don’t look so ill. We’re doing this. One way or another, we’re going to bring this rebellion to its knees and if I’ve got to look ugly doing it, so be it.’

‡

SARSCHA HOBBLED THROUGH the reinforced tunnel bent double. Her leather boots sloshed through muddy water as she fought the urge not to rub her scalp. The feel of the bumps in her skull, the bristly hair now black, made her shiver. It was like prodding something rotten and dead with a stick. She couldn’t stop.

I’d better, she thought, or someone might notice. She’d never given much thought to her hair before. It was long and natural in its colour despite long-standing rumours. She shouldn’t care and cursed herself for acting like a foolish girl.

Ironically, the scar on her face didn’t bother her at all. It felt right, the pain a reminder of why she was doing this. A pity she hadn’t earned it like her other ones. Time enough yet.

Wooden beams stood at regular intervals to reinforce the ancient disused sewer. Water dripped from cracks in the ceiling. Inexplicably, Pint had known of its existence, suggesting he had a dark history in smuggling. The scoundrel was leading them through it.

‘Not far now,’ he hissed five feet in front of her. The torch in his hands was exceedingly bright in the close confines, with a strong stench of roasted rat, garlic and onions owing to Pint’s lunch, pervaded by stale piss. The air was smoky and hot. Sweat trickled down her face and between her breasts and she began to feel nauseous.

‘Are you certain you know where you’re going?’ she snapped, unwilling to believe he knew what he was doing. He’d never shown much in the way of brains. No longer a commander of the legions, her authority over these people was debatable, but so far, they seemed eager to be doing something.

‘Rest of ’em have secured the area ahead,’ said Pint over his shoulder. It turned out cutting the others loose hadn’t been possible. If she wasn’t an imperial marshal and just another grunt, they didn’t have to take her orders. Sounded too much like Pittle’s prattle, but she’d found herself without an answer.

Tame, Lope, Krasta, and half a dozen others were strung out behind her. Just when she felt like she couldn’t go on, her breath coming in short gasps, a word from Pint announced their arrival. There was a set of stone steps at the end of the tunnel. Beyond those to the left was a system of toothed gears. Clambering up, she found herself entering an old imperial church with its stone altar out of position. Once they were all up Pint pulled on a bronze lever, which was out of sight behind the altar. The square cut stone ground its way back into position over the tunnel. There was a muffled clanking sound.

Pint shrugged. ‘Needs a little oil.’

Sarscha gave him a questioning look.

‘Several churches around the imperium got these,’ he said. ‘I was a church boy once. Served a paytor here in this very building, I did. Old bastard had his appetites though. Gutted him one day and ran off to join the legion.’ He offered her a vicious grin.

A total of twenty-six soldiers remained to her and they were all present. The building hadn’t seen use in decades with the barrel-vaulted ceiling in disrepair. Bits of masonry littered the mosaic tiled floor and shattered wooden pews. Cracked marble columns marched into darkness left and right towards the antechamber. Wooden galleries loomed from the darkness above.

‘Well,’ asked Sarscha, ‘where’s this contact of yours?’

‘Patience,’ said Pint, ‘he’ll be here.’

Tame held her loaded crossbow staring into the gloom. ‘Something smells off.’

‘Your nose twitchin’ again, Vara?’ laughed Pint. ‘We have the perimeter covered. Nothin’ to worry about.’

‘Really?’ asked Tame.

Sarscha moved to her side and saw what her friend had. Several soldiers were guarding the perimeter inside and out, but all were as statues. ‘Wynt,’ called Tame to a sentry who stood on the gallery overhead. He was barely visible, his crossbow ready. The man did not reply. Didn’t move either.

Narlin, Pint and Krasta joined them along with six more. ‘Hey, Bole,’ shouted Krasta at another guard. ‘Mint?’

Nothing.

‘They dead?’ asked Krasta, drawing his sword.

‘If they are,’ Tame answered, ‘they all died standing up. Never heard of such a thing.’

‘Vara,’ said Pint, ‘keep your bow handy. Marshal, I think it best you stay here. Let me check this out first.’ He stalked towards the nearest of the guards.

‘Knew I shouldn’t have let Pittle organise this,’ muttered Tame.

‘It was his contact,’ said Sarscha. ‘We need a way to get recruited without raising suspicion. We can hardly walk up and introduce ourselves.’

‘Fool lost most of his brains a long time ago,’ said Tame, ‘but it’s what’s left and what it’s thinkin’ what keeps me awake most nights.’

‘Keep your mind in it,’ muttered Sarscha her gaze trying to pierce the gloom. ‘This has the look of magic.’

‘Only magic I’ve known,’ muttered Narlin behind her, ‘was the undead kind.’

‘Exactly,’ said Sarscha.

Pint was halfway through the church when he paused. He glanced back; fear was visible in his face beneath the flickering torch in his hand. When he turned to resume walking, he froze. At first, the marshal thought he’d become a statue too, but then he laid the torch on the floor and drew a knife from a scabbard. Armed with both sword and knife he took several slow steps backwards.

‘Oh, shit!’ Tame rushed to position herself by a wooden bench, taking aim. The others took positions around Sarscha.

A faint sound came from the darkness ahead. It was difficult for her to hear it over her breathing. It grew into the sound of footsteps; a single set, solid and certain, which never slowed or speeded up. Just a constant rapping of boots that resounded through the building. A minute passed and they kept coming. Two minutes. Impossible, the church wasn’t big enough.

Tame risked a glance at the former marshal.

‘Like I said, magic,’ Sarscha muttered in answer to her friend. There was nothing they could do but wait. By now, Pint was ten feet away. He had halted in his retreat.

Then it appeared. A shadow preceded it across the floor in the shape of a man. It grew larger though its owner remained hidden. It reached Pint, who squeaked as it passed under him.

Sarscha called out, ‘Enough of the theatrics. I know magic when I see it. Reveal yourself or get gone.’

The shadow reached her before a figure emerged from the darkness. It stepped past the motionless guards and too late, Sarscha realised Pint and Tame had become like the others.

The man was larger than average, at seven foot in height, with huge dark wings sprouting from his shoulders. He wore no clothing, his skin white and translucent. His gaze bored into her and she felt lost staring into those orbs of azure blue. She had never seen eyes so, inhuman.

It took her a moment to notice the pain in that gaze, an agony deep and pure.

‘I am named, Raziel,’ the man-creature said with a short bow. The name, angel, popped into her mind, but she refused to accept it. She had never believed in the angels despite her sister’s assertion that Cathya Shivar had been one.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, trying to recover. Pint had set up a meeting with a Paladin Raziel. An ordinary man or so she’d thought. Pint had claimed to have some connection with him. She’d thought it odd, but since he’d been a church boy, she guessed they must have met.

Raziel smiled at her. ‘Many of my kind have posed as humans among you. The time for such is almost over. However, if I make you uncomfortable...’ Light torn from the darkness coalesced around the creature until an ordinary looking man in a black cloak stood before her. The gloom around them deepened. Of normal height, he was far less intimidating, even warm. His blue eyes twinkled. ‘Was this what you were expecting?’

‘Why not just arrive as this? Why the dramatics?’

He cocked his head. ‘You do not fear me, I see. Good. I came as who I am not who I pretend to be. What you call dramatics is simply from your perspective. I wanted you to know whom you are speaking with.’ He shrugged. ‘But if this makes you happier, I will oblige.’

‘And who am I speaking with exactly? You are no paladin.’

‘Oh, but I am. However, I also command the Dominions, a legion of angels dedicated to fighting Tartaros. I am here to help you.’

Sarscha felt her disbelief rising hard and certain. It wasn’t possible. He was lying. She gestured at the others, looking for a way to avoid thinking. ‘Are they dead?’

‘No, but they cannot see or hear us. I thought it best that you and I speak in private and it also limits risk of rash action. Humans are unpredictable.’

Sarscha folded her arms, uncertain what to make of this so-called angel. ‘I think this could’ve been arranged another way. I am familiar with discretion.’

Raziel smiled and shrugged. ‘It was Pint Little who came to me, although he had no idea as to my identity. Let us just say I am your friend in this war, or ally if you prefer.’

‘I’m not at war. I’m not a soldier these days.’

‘Oh, but you are,’ he said, and she realised it was in answer to both statements. ‘You will play an important role in what is to come,’ he continued. ‘I am here to help you succeed. Our war against the Darkness is fought on many fronts.’

‘I haven’t agreed to anything, Paladin Raziel. Since we’re such good friends now, what is it I get in return?’

‘You wish to stop the rebellion against your sister, do you not? Within that rebellion lies a nasty trap, not just for your sister, but for your entire world. I need you to spring it. As to what you get out of it? I suppose, it depends on what it is you seek? A safe world, those you care about alive and well?’

Sarscha blinked uncertainly. ‘Well,’ she said in a stern voice, hiding her confusion, ‘why should I believe you? Do you expect me to just accept your words on what, faith?’

Raziel’s smile was sad as he spread his arms wide. ‘Faith is a concept you humans devised to deceive and manipulate one another. You will go through with your plan whether you trust me or not, but you will see I’m telling the truth. When you do, I hope you will remember this meeting. Your role in all of this will be greater than you imagine, and for the people of this world it will prove a vital one. I can help you if you’ll allow me.’

‘You’ve told me nothing. I’m still not certain what it is I’m agreeing to. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be a pact with the Grim.’

‘Oh,’ said Raziel, with a sour grimace, ‘you have no idea.’ Before she could react to that comment, he reached out and touched her face. At first, she flinched, her hand reaching for her sword and he paused. The colour of eyes leapt from summer sky to storm-swept ocean. They engendered trust and though a part of her mind, whispered, ‘magic,’ she allowed his touch.

‘Your disguise is passable,’ he said, as heat flooded through her face, ‘but not ... good enough. They would discover you. It needs a little something extra.’ He stepped back with a smile. ‘There now. No one, not your brother or sister, would recognise you. Your face will change from time to time, until I remove the effect. Every two weeks or so, I’d imagine. You will need to revise your identity each time. Once your friends adjust, they will not recognise you after the next change. An extra precaution, for there are threats you are unaware of.’

Unsheathing a knife, Sarscha angled it in the torchlight. The reflection staring back was of a woman she didn’t know.

When she looked up, Raziel was gone.

Tame Vara and the others turned to stare at the stranger in their midst, and slowly raised their weapons.

‘Where is Sarscha,’ demanded Tame. ‘Where is our imperial marshal, and who in the name of Grim’s own arsehole are you?’

For the second time in three days, Sarscha Todralan burst out laughing.