Col Buchanan - Stands a Shadow

Let us go and find out then.

Ash singled out the closest sentry to him, a form standing alone taking the odd drink from a flask. He judged the size of the Acolyte and thought that he would do.

For another half-hour, Ash crawled towards the figure through the blackness of the night. It was hard work, moving each limb a tiny fraction at a time without sound. It required his utmost concentration. All the while, his troubled chest burned with the pain of breathing so shallowly.

Six feet from the sentry, he froze as a cough nearby broke the stillness. It made Ash want to cough too. His chest convulsed, and he clamped a hand over his mouth and fought the urge until it had passed. He saw the Acolyte turn his head in his direction.

Ash lay pressed against the grass, barely breathing, his eyes closed.

Long moments passed, enough for a passing mosquito to settle on his sooty cheek. He felt the itch of it, but remained so perfectly still that after a moment the insect took off again, without biting him.

He peered through his eyelashes and saw that the Acolyte was looking elsewhere. Ash began to move again. Like a cat on the hunt, he lifted and settled his limbs with a deliberate slowness, closing the distance an inch at a time. Sweat beaded his skin by the time that he was within range.

He lay right at the man’s boots.

The white-robe sniffed the air, looking about him. He could scent Ash’s sweat.

Ash lunged up and stabbed his thumbs into the man’s throat. The Acolyte choked, trying to release a sound; a hand clawed at Ash’s face. Ash pressed his thumbs even harder, seeing the white flash of his victim’s eyes through the mask.

He helped him to the ground as the man went slack in his grip. Maintained the pressure of his thumbs until he was certain he was dead.

‘Cuno?’ came a voice from the darkness to his left.

Ash froze with his hands still around the Acolyte’s neck. He caught a scent of the alcohol that had spilled from the man’s dropped flask.

He swallowed air and forced a belch from his gullet.

‘Aye,’ he said in Trade, and waited for a cry of alarm.

‘Nothing,’ came the voice again. ‘Thought I heard something.’

Ash hurried. His victim was larger than he’d first appeared, and as Ash donned the Acolyte’s armour and robe they felt much too big on him.

No, he realized. It was Ash who was smaller now. He’d lost weight during the long voyage.

He pulled the cloak over the oversized armour, hoping that would be enough to the hide the ill fit and the curve of his sword. Then he fixed the mask about his face, which covered his scalp too, like a helm. Only once did he glance at the contorted face that had been revealed beneath it; a middle-aged man with a shaven head, his jowls pronounced beneath a hard face. Ash bent and closed the Acolyte’s bulging eyes.

The camp was quiet at this hour, with most of the Acolytes asleep, though laughter and music played from the largest, brightest tent within the Matriarch’s enclosure. The camp was arranged in orderly squares, and Ash strode along the lanes between the pup tents and dying campfires as though he rightly belonged there, ignoring the occasional Acolyte that walked past him, or hunkered down over some flames.

As he neared the mound of the enclosure the sounds grew louder in his ears. He heard a sharp cry of pleasure, and a bell ringing.

Ahead, an Acolyte was approaching the palisade with a camouflaged scout limping by his side. They stopped at the screen of wood and wire drawn across the entrance. Ash increased his pace a little, rehearsing a few words in his head as he strode towards the entrance himself.

And then his heart skipped a beat, for he saw the Acolyte stop and display the stubbed little finger of his hand to the guards behind the screen.

Ash cursed and faltered in his stride. He watched as the screen was dragged to one side to allow them through.

If he sprinted now, he might just make it through before it was closed again.

And then what? Fight his way through a hundred men?

He felt his chest convulse, and then he erupted into a fit of coughing from behind his mask. He stopped and doubled over, saw the guards at the entrance turn to regard him through the closing screen.

Ash straightened and walked away from the entrance, knowing how suspicious he must look to them. He wanted to hurry. Instead he walked calmly, his pace steady, waiting to be challenged at any second.

‘You there!’ came a man’s voice through the night.

Che looked up as he heard someone call out his name.

It was Sasheen who had called to him, from where she lounged on a couch in total nakedness, save for the grey plaster wrapped around her broken arm. Already, though, her attention had returned to the young woman who kneeled before her on one of the fur rugs, lapping at Sasheen’s heavy breast. Sasheen stroked the shaven head of the young aide, and whispered something down to her while she held a small pinchbowl of narcotics near the girl’s nostrils.

Klint the physician was walking around the edges of the tent with a joybell in his hand, a bottle of wine in the other. He was ringing the bell loudly each time he heard a cry of pleasure from one of the writhing forms he carefully trod around, all the while chanting wordbindings of devotion. He stopped before one of the alcoves in the tent wall, where the head of Lucian sat on a pedestal. The head blinked dully back at him as Klint shook the joybell in his face, and shouted, grinning, ‘ Free yourself, and all you desire you shall have !’ Sasheen laughed, egging him on. She was in high spirits tonight. They all were. The First Expeditionary Force had made landfall at long last, and they were alive, and having their fill of it.

A shriek cut through the smoky air of the great tent. Some priests in a far corner were having their way with one of the freshly caught slaves – their first taste of Khos, one of them shouted, as he threw a rag of clothing over his shoulder and fell upon the woman.

Che rubbed his eyes where he sat on a chair in one of the alcoves, and wondered when the Matriarch would relieve him for the night. He had never been one for these passionestas of the order. They exposed him in ways more than merely physical, requiring that he drop his guard while in the presence of his fellow priests. Even so, his was becoming aroused despite himself.

The floor around him was like a pool of merging flesh now, the air so heady with narcotics he was finding it hard to focus. He listened to the rasp of breaths and voices, observed the sheen of oil on interlocked limbs, the flash of eyes, pink tongues, teeth, smiles and scowls, whispers, genitalia.

All hail the divine flesh, he reflected sourly.

Everyone was there of Sasheen’s inner circle and entourage. The two generals, eyeing one another like fighting dogs as they each caressed a slave girl and partook of dried fruits and wine. Sashseen’s caretaker, Heelas, going down on one of his young studs. Alarum the spymaster, holding court to a ring of apt listeners, including Sool.

The priests around these figures formed the outer circles of Sasheen’s court, those of lesser status who vied always to climb higher. At their very edges were the Matriarch’s aides and hangers-on. The twins were there, Guan and Swan, the brother and sister frolicking with a woman between them.

Around them all, Sasheen’s honour guard watched with their scratch-gloves sheathed and resting lightly on folded arms, their stares hidden by smoky goggles.

And who is watching the watchers, he wondered absently, and scanned the priests who also sat around the edges of the tent in the little alcoves, talking quietly or looking on with steady eyes, some too old for this sport, or too weary, or too bored. Three priests of the Monbarri, the fanatics of Mann, sat within an alcove across from him. The largest, seated in the middle of them, wore a lipless scar-mask for a face, his skin etched by acids in a statement of intent that was extreme even for a Monbarri inquisitor.