Angus Wells - Lords of the Sky

He waited until that task was done, then faced the horde again and said, “There was magic employed here, that these folk escaped us. But there exists no magic greater than mine. Nor any Power greater than that we serve.”

He danced his weird horse around, and from the horde came a great shout of agreement. He let it ring awhile, then raised a gauntlet, motioning his followers silent.

“These folk have escaped us-for now! But amongst them are some I’ve spoken with in dreams, some who take our way. Some, I know, have chosen our path. They’re mine: I’ve their scent in my nostrils, and I can find them. I can find them in the night, when they sleep; and when they dream of conquest and vengeance, they leave their spoor on the shadow trails, along all the roads of blood and darkness. They shall show us where they are, and bring us to them.”

He smiled a horrid smile, his face still handsome but also torn and burning, as if the malign purpose that made him what he was shone through, the skull beneath the skin exposing its deformity.

Bemnida stared at him, adoringly.

“We shall leave this world, to find the other where our prey had gone. They shall not escape us! Set up the pavilions here, and feed the beasts on the fallen. We wait here until I find the way. But know this-I shall find it! It matters not where they are, or when. We shall find them and destroy them. We shall reive them and their new world; we shall give it all to death, that they know the price of betrayal and dishonor.”

Tomas Var had not thought to see Salvation again.

On his return to Evander he had delivered Andru Wyme’s messages to his commanding officer and given his own report, then gone about his duties thinking he had seen the last of the New World. Grostheim and its occupants held no great attraction for him, and did he occasionally wonder what fate befell Arcole Blayke, he surely felt no desire to again cross the Sea of Sorrows. He had found himself posted to garrison duty in the Levan and assumed, with the countries conquered in the War of Restitution now pacific, that he might look forward to a slow rise through the ranks. He found himself thinking, for the first time in his life, of settling into some permanent posting. He had met a woman, Krystine d’Lavall, and contemplated engagement. Consequently, he had been surprised to find himself recalled to Bantar, where he must reiterate all he had observed in Grostheim to a committee of senior officers, Inquisitors, and officials of the Autarchy. They plied him with questions and then-to his far greater surprise-announced his immediate promotion to the rank of major. And his new commission.

An expeditionary force of two hundred and fifty marines accompanied by infantry, artillerymen, and engineers was to set sail for Salvation under the command of the Inquisitor Jared Talle. The newly appointed major was to be Talk’s second-in-command. Their immediate task was to secure the city of Grostheim, after which they would exterminate all hostiles and see a chain of forts established along the perimeter of the explored territory. Salvation then pacified, the full force would scour the wilderness and, should Inquisitor Talle deem it beneficial, extend by main force the boundaries of the known country.

It was elevation undreamed of for Var, but for all he was delighted with his promotion, still he could not deny he felt some reservations. For one thing, he doubted Krystine d’Lavall would wait for him-after all, he had no idea when he might return. But he was an officer in the God’s Militia and did not question the orders of the Autarchy, so he penned a swift letter to Krystine and prepared to leave. It occurred to him as he wrote that he might never return, and thought abruptly of Arcole-perhaps now they shared the bond of exile. For another, he realized that he was second in a line of command that effectively replaced both Governor Wyme and Major Alyx Spelt, thereby rendering him one of the most powerful men in all the New World. He felt somewhat uncomfortable with such abrupt elevation over older men: he wondered how Spelt and Wyme should take it. That they would accept, he did not doubt-neither provincial governors or military officers argued with Inquisitors-but he anticipated resentment, such as might well brook problems affecting his designated tasks.

He had said as much-cautiously-to Talle as the Wrath of God sailed westward. And Talle had coughed out his whispery laugh and dismissed Var’s reservations. Was the major not his second-in-command, he asked, and was he not an Inquisitor? Therefore who would dare argue? And did any colonials resent this imposition of Evander’s authority, then they would answer to him; so Var need not worry-only obey his orders.

So far as Talle was concerned that resolved and ended the problem; Var was less sure. There would not be open disagreement, but it should be mightily difficult to execute his orders without the full cooperation of Wyme and Spelt, or the wholehearted support of Grostheim’s garrison. And he was loath to impose his authority by recourse to the Inquisitor. Were Governor Wyme’s worst fears realized, he must fight a campaign in unfamiliar territory and knew that victory would depend on concerted effort, shared purpose rather than enforced obedience.

Worse, he could not like Jared Talle, nor respect the man. The Inquisitor enjoyed the exercise of his power too much, relished his position too much. He seemed to gloat on the prospect of usurping Andru Wyme, and seemed to expect Var to enjoy the same pleasure at thought of Spelt’s demotion; nor less at thought of exterminating whatever hostile forces existed in Salvation. Var wondered-traitorous thought-if power corrupted Talle. Also, he smelled. Which was a small thing-God knew, Var himself had often enough gone stinking into battle-but still there hung about him a sour odor of musth and sweat, as if he lived in a state of perpetual excitement, galvanized by that talent that made him an Inquisitor. He bathed seldom, and for all the long crossing had not, as best Var could tell, changed his clothes. It was not easy to sit with him in the small cabin, the air heated fetid, the windows never opened, as if Talle enjoyed the inhalation of his own body odors. Var preferred to spend his time on deck, or on the other ships, which bore the infantry and the light cannon of the artillerymen, or even with the engineers. That was to him an escape-from Talle’s acrid excretions and the Inquisitor’s oppressive presence, both.

Sometimes, as the Flotilla proceeded westward, Var wondered if he was a fit officer for such an enterprise.

But still it was advancement beyond his dreams, and he was ordered to the conquest of a world by an authority he had never doubted. Were they successful, he and Talle, then he knew he might well find himself promoted colonel, or even marshal-military commander of all the New World. So he hid his dubiety and played the diplomat as he smiled at Talle and endeavored not to choke on the man’s sourness, which seemed as much spiritual as physical.

He smelled it now, as squadrons of gulls mewed raucous welcome and he leaned against the forrard rail, staring into the hazy blending of summer sky and lapping sea that rendered Salvation’s coast a misty line across the horizon.

He turned as Talle approached, thankful for the breeze that did a little to subdue the man’s foetor.

“Ere noon, eh?”

Talle took station at the rail alongside Var. His long black hair seemed too weighted by oil for the breeze to shift from his sallow face, and Var could not help the impression of a carrion crow dressed in frock coat and breeches that sprang to mind. He nodded and said, “Soon after noon, I think. We’ve Deliverance Bay to cross yet.”

The Inquisitor grunted and fixed bright black eyes on Var. “You seem none too happy at the prospect, Major.”