Down at bottom of the rusted ladder, unseen by Calard, Grandfather Mortis had a tight hold of
Chlod and was speaking to him in a low, threatening voice. The hunchbacked peasant’s face was pale.
‘Do this one thing and your past crimes will be forgotten,’ hissed Mortis.
Chlod nodded vigorously, and Mortis released him. Straightening, he stepped backwards and was
swallowed by the darkness.
‘Do not fail me,’ came his deep, hollow voice.
Shaking, Chlod climbed up towards street level. Calard grabbed him by the shirt front and lifted him
up the last few feet.
Calard had not wished to take the peasant with him, but Mortis had been insistent.
‘He is no longer yours to command,’ the old man had said. ‘He is mine, and mine alone, but he
accompanies you to the palace.’
The idea of being abandoned beneath the city had not been an appealing one, for he doubted that he
would have ever gotten out, and he had reluctantly agreed.
The sewer grate was dragged back into place, and Calard pulled his hood down low over his face.
‘Let’s end this,’ he said.
NEVER HAD CALARD walked the streets of a city more wretched, threatening or foul.
Every building was dark and oppressive, and so twisted beyond its original construction that it
looked as though it was contorted in silent agony. Timbers were warped and swollen with moisture, and
brickwork was bulging and uneven. The foundations of some had sunk, while others had seemingly given
up completely and collapsed in upon themselves.
The smell of rot was heavy in the air and mould covered every surface. A foetid yellow fog filled the
streets, reducing visibility to little more than a dozen yards, deadening all sound. The ground was rutted
and undulating, and refuse and filth was piled up high against the walls.
They were not alone in this city of the damned.
Everywhere they walked they saw hundreds of downtrodden, desperate people, filthy and dressed in
rags. From shuttered windows and dark alleyways, the inhabitants of Mousillon city watched their
progress through the district of Old City. Lepers and crippled beggars clutched at them, holding out
wooden bowls. Miserable, malformed street-sellers sat alongside carts filled with rotten produce, while
others offered them such tempting treats as twitching toads on sticks and greasy bags of slugs.
Wasted children clutching butcher’s knives ran by them, giggling as they chased a terrified, scabby
dog. Muscled brutes wearing leather masks were throwing fresh corpses onto a wagon piled high with
the dead. Whores with bruises and open sores on their faces called out to them from doorways. Sickly
smoke rose from shadowy dens where a man could lose himself if he had the coin and inclination.
Footpads, pickpockets and bruisers lurked in the shadows, but Calard and his companions were left
well alone. It seemed that Mortis was as good as his word. The cadaverous old bastard had told them
that they would be untouched, claiming that his word was law in the poorer districts of Mousillon. Calard
had thought this boast just to be bluster, but he saw now that he had been mistaken. He had had no
doubt in his mind that their throats would have already been slit and their bodies dumped in a back alley
without Mortis’s patronage.
It took them the better part of an hour to wind their way through the slums. At last they came to a
wide bridge lined with crumbling statues that crossed the River Grismarie. The smell of brine was strong,
for the river opened up to the sea less than five miles to the west.
The river was wide and slow here, and it bisected the city, dividing it into two halves. To the south
were the poorer and more populated districts, along with the sprawling docklands. On the north side was
the old temple district, and beyond that, the ducal palace itself.
IT WAS SAID that Mousillon had once been the pride of Bretonnia, its most bustling, wealthy and
beautiful city. It had been home to Landuin, the finest knight to have ever lived, and was said to have
been a place of beauty, culture and learning. How things changed, thought Calard.
Thousands of downward-pointing spikes protruded from the high walls lining the river, set several
feet above the high-tide mark. Similar spikes adorned the legs of the mile-long bridge itself. Calard
frowned.
‘They stop the city from being overrun,’ said Raben. ‘Look there.’
Following where the outcast pointed, Calard squinted through the gloom. A number of corpses were
impaled on the rusting spikes. With a shudder, he saw that most of them were moving.
‘Come,’ said Raben. ‘This is our gate.’
A fortified gate barred entry to the north side of the city, and as they walked towards it, Calard saw
armoured figures waiting for them. If Raben was going to betray him, this was his moment.
‘Just so we are clear, you’re on your own once we’re inside,’ said Raben under his breath, as if on
cue.
‘Fine,’ said Calard.
‘And if by some miracle you succeed, I want full patronage. A title. And land. A castle by the sea
would be nice.’
‘What?’ said Calard.
‘A little something to ensure that I don’t accidentally let the cat out of the bag,’ said Raben.
‘For a moment, I was starting to think you risked showing something approaching honour,’ Calard
snarled.
‘No fear of that,’ said Raben. Calard began to answer, but Raben interjected. ‘Careful now, they’re
watching,’ he said. ‘You want to get near the duke, don’t you? One word from me, and your quest is
over.’
They drew closer to the checkpoint, and Calard saw that there were more than twenty soldiers
stationed here, armed with crossbows and halberds. The gates were closed and barred.
‘If we get through this, and you somehow prove to me that I would not regret it, I’ll see you are
rewarded,’ said Calard. ‘I will offer you no more than that, but you have my word.’
‘Just keep silent then,’ said Raben as they came to a halt in front of the gate. He flashed a sardonic
smile at Calard. ‘Trust me.’
‘YOU I KNOW, sir, but who are these, then?’ said the captain of the guard, eyeing Calard and Chlod
suspiciously.
‘My second in command,’ said Raben, ‘and my servant. Let us through, captain. I don’t want to be
any later than we already are.’
‘What’s his name?’ said the captain, indicating Calard. ‘I don’t recognise him, and I’ve a gift for
faces.’
Calard opened his mouth to speak, but Raben interceded.
‘Valacar,’ said Raben. ‘His name is Valacar.’
‘Why don’t he speak for himself?’ said the captain.
‘He’s mute,’ said Raben in a deadpan voice, ignoring Calard’s stare.
‘He’s not on my list,’ said the captain. ‘And neither is your servant. My orders are strict. Ain't no one
not on my list getting through this gate.’
‘Let me make this simple,’ Raben said, reaching out to put his arm around the captain’s shoulders. ‘
The Duke Merovech is a close personal friend of mine, and he is expecting us to be there tonight. We are
already late as it is, and if we are any later, I will make certain that I inform the duke personally exactly
who it was that detained us. It is Harol, isn’t it? That is your name, if I am not mistaken?’
‘You are not, sir,’ said the captain, swallowing heavily.
‘Are we done here, captain?’ said Raben, slapping the man hard on the shoulder.
‘We’re done. I’ll have a coach drop you at the palace right away, sir. Open them up!’
Raben released the captain, and gave Calard a wink as the gates yawned open.
‘Oh, and sir?’
‘Yes, captain?’ said Raben.
‘Enjoy the celebration.’
‘Oh, we will,’ said Raben with a smile.
IX
THE COACH ROLLED smoothly to a halt and its black lacquered doors swung open, seemingly of their
own accord. A small set of steps unfolded with a clatter, and Calard and Raben stepped down from the
plush, dark velvet interior.
Other coaches were lined up around the curve of the circular roadway inside the palace gates. Each
was gleaming black, and on every door was emblazoned a black fleur-de-lys upon a white shield.
Hunched coachmen sat up front of each, garbed in flowing black robes, their faces hidden by dark
hoods. Six immense horses were harnessed to each coach, their coats the colour of the midnight sky, and
immaculate feathered plumes the colour of congealed blood bobbed above their heads. Each horse stood
unnaturally still, like statues.
Chlod had ridden up front with the driver, and he stood waiting for them, his face drained of colour
and his eyes wide and unblinking.
Twelve-foot-high fences enclosed the palace, tipped with wickedly sharp silver points, each shaped
as a fleur-de-lys. Calard noted that there was a heavy guard presence. They stood at regular intervals
around the palace exterior, utterly motionless, their features hidden in fully enclosed black plate armour of
ancient design.
Grandiose stairs of red-veined black marble swept up before them, and Calard’s gaze rose towards
the palace itself.
It was breathtaking in its scale and the sheer audacity of its darkly majestic design. It was oppressive
and domineering, yet in places its architecture was as delicate as lace. Dozens of spires rose like needles
above immense lead-plated domes, linked by a web of delicate buttresses. Hanging arches that seemed
to defy all the laws of gravity stretched between knife-edged towers. Slender columns reared up to
support heavy archways that concealed grand stained-glass windows in their shadows, the coloured glass
glinting in the fractured moonlit straining to penetrate the clouds. Rainwater dripped from the gaping
mouths of fanged gargoyles, and winged statues carved of black granite gazed down upon them in mute
disdain.
Other late arrivals were hurrying past them up the steps. Flustered ladies garbed in velvet and
adorned with precious jewels were being hastened towards the palace by knights wearing freshly
laundered tabards over battered suits of armour.
Calard and Raben climbed briskly, their faces grim, while Chlod trotted along behind them in silence.
The entry hall of the palace was cavernous, the arched ceiling a hundred feet high. Statues of past
dukes of Mousillon were arrayed on pedestals, each standing in heroic poses and dressed for war.
Pre-eminent was a dramatic sculpture of Merovech himself, five times life size, carved from a block of
faultless white marble. He stood gazing into the distance, hair flowing in a frozen wind, one foot upon the
chest of a headless enemy. The expression he wore was one of noble arrogance.
Standing as still as any of the statues, dozens of guards stood arrayed around the grand foyer,
blocking access to closed doors and sweeping staircases that rose up to higher levels. The doors to the
west wing had been thrown wide, and it was through here that Calard and Raben marched, following the
other late arrivals.
Oil paintings lined the hallway, some of them almost twenty feet in height. Their frames were opulent
and heavy, though many were fading and crumbling. Gaunt, unfriendly faces stared down at them from
dark and somewhat disturbing portraits. Eyes seemed to follow them as they hurried by.
Turning a corner, Calard instinctively reached for his sword as they were suddenly surrounded by a
swarm of pale, aristocratic courtiers, richly dressed as if for a masquerade ball. The ladies wore
extravagant ball gowns and seemed to barely touch the ground as they glided across the floor upon the
arms of their partners, who were garbed in strange, archaic fashion. All wore bizarre, grotesque masks,
complete with devilish horns, jagged teeth and long, pointed noses. An icy chill seemed to penetrate
Calard’s bones as the courtiers passed them in silence, and he released his grasp on his sword hilt.
They moved deeper into the palace and could soon hear the ring of clashing swords. The harsh
sound echoed through the cold halls, and as it got steadily louder, they could also make out polite
clapping and the dull murmur of conversation.
Rounding a final corner, they approached a large, domed chamber. Hundreds of knights were
gathered within, clustered in small groups and drinking wine.
‘Where is Chlod?’ said Calard suddenly, coming to a halt as they approached the entrance to the
large room. Raben looked behind them. The peasant was nowhere to be seen. The outcast shrugged.
The clash of swords echoed loudly, and there was an enthusiastic cheer.
‘No matter,’ said Calard, and they moved within, slipping effortlessly into the crowd.
The chamber was even larger than it had at first appeared, and Calard guessed that there must have
been in the realms of three hundred nobles gathered within. Massive pillars propped up the exquisitely
painted domed ceiling, and dozens of alcoves and side-chambers were set off the main expanse.
A raised dais was positioned against the western wall, dominating the room. The statues of five
ancient warriors were seated in high-backed thrones there, covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
They sat side by side beneath an immense window of stained glass that depicted them as they had been
in life. The window was backlit with candles, and Calard frowned up at the scenes of depravity and
wanton barbarism depicted there. They showed the warriors slaughtering men, women and children,
cutting their hearts out and drinking their blood.
A covered altar lit with candles was positioned centrally upon the dais in front of the old statues. A
large chalice of silver and ebony was housed within this tabernacle, its shape formed in the likeness of
serpentine wyrms twisting around one another.
Raben took a delicate crystal glass of claret from a tray, smiling and nodding to those he knew.
Calard scanned the room, his gaze darting from face to face.
‘Take a drink,’ said Raben under his breath. ‘And try not to look quite so out of place.’
Calard saw the sense in Raben’s words and made a conscious effort to relax. They slipped through
the crowd, angling towards the raised dais, and he nodded to several knights who turned to coldly regard
him. They nodded in return and turned away in disinterest.
They approached the centre of the room, where the revellers were gathered most tightly. A circle
some thirty feet in diameter was sunk into the centre of the chamber, positioned directly below the
domed ceiling. Three circles of steps descended down to this sunken floor, which was carved with
intricate spiralling designs.
Two knights were duelling in this combat circle, while more gathered knights and their ladies watched
