The Path Travelled - Part 12 (Patreon)

12 – the Siege of Zaffre  

Part 11 

The sound of distant thunder echoed across the city. It had been like that for the past week, only Chronicler knew it wasn’t thunder. The ground rumbled beneath his feet and the sounds of distant shouting and screams reached his room upon a dread breeze. 

He rubbed his face in his hands. 

It was late, or early, he couldn’t tell. But it was still night.

The siege had begun less than an hour after the meeting with the Emperor-interim and the enemy leaders, and had continued since then every night and every day.

The enemy did not have many cannons, and what they did have were antiquated and light, intended for use in quick encounters or skirmishes. Though incessant, the bombardment had done more damage to the morale of the defence than it had to the fortifications. 

People were evacuated from districts receiving the most attention and taken to old catacombs far from the bombardments. Most had refused to move beneath the earth, their cultural mores taking precedence over the need for safety. To share quarters with the dead, even though the catacombs had been empty for centuries, was unthinkable. The first people to move to the catacombs had been the young, then the wounded and old, but slowly, as the bombardments wore on, more and more people begun to fill the old hewn tombs. The parts of the city where the bombardments had been heaviest had become deserted, with only militia patrols, craftsmen, and work gangs frequenting the streets. 

People wandered the city in a daze. Many industries had ground to a halt and those who had become jobless had been press-ganged into helping with the defences, strengthening walls and repairing damage to buildings within the city. 

Elsewhere priests and theosophers continued sermonising, spreading the streets with words of hope that often conflicted with those of different faiths. It was not uncommon for gangs loyal to different gods to clash in the streets over clashes of ideology. Many were injured and many more were imprisoned. A few died, though the government done what it could to stop the spread of such news, though it was futile.

In places men and women had begun to speak about the otherworlder, how what they were doing was wrong and they should allow it entry into the city. These demagogues became more vocal the more news of deaths spread, and more than once they clashed with the militia and levy.

In political circles there were mutterings of discontent towards the newly-elected Emperor-interim. Many thought he had brokered votes, and many were worried he would not relinquish the title once this would come to pass. 

The city was tearing itself up from the inside and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Even spreading rumours of the relief force were doing little to alleviate the mood, though many held on to hope that they would be rescued. So many of the Consuls’ meetings had ended in shouting and name-calling.

Chronicler had sat in many meetings between the different Consuls-primary and secondary as they discussed and shouted the city’s defence. 

The Emperor-interim had been absent from many of the meetings, no doubt busy elsewhere and the city’s leadership was handed over to the Consul-primary of defence and his adjutants and lieutenants, who were quick to action though seemed to lack empathy with the populace that Chronicler felt was important in such a time. The city was being broken into factions and there was little being done about it. 

There was a problem and most of the Consuls were blind to it. 

He waited until the days’ meetings had ended and the various Consuls and their advisors were leaving for their respective quarters to bring it up. He’d been reticent of speaking during the meetings – his role there was merely that of chronicler, which though fitting in an odd way felt too neutral for his tastes.  

“Consul-secondary,” he said as they made their way to the annex. Many of the Consuls had their own residences in the Consul’s ward, though most had moved permanently into the Council Hall where they were far from bombardment and close to the decision-making process, “would you mind if I spoke my mind on matters?”

Nimah gave him a sidelong glance, but did not break her step. “It is not a mushir’s place to speak his mind, it is his role to record the words of others.”

“All due respect, but you took me on because of my experience with different cultures. Sometimes I wonder why my knowledge has not yet been called upon. Anyone can be used to write and I think someone who thinks less than I do would be better at the job.”

“You’ve been wanting to say that for a while, haven’t you?”

Chronicler suppressed a smile, but nodded. “For a few days now.”

They carried on to Nimah’s quarters and she invited him in. 

It was a nice apartment and used furniture and paintings to hide the otherwise bare walls. There was a single servant waiting, face hidden behind a veil, who bowed as Nimah entered and immediately went to fetch… something, though Nimah stopped her, gestured to Chronicler and asked for some lime-water for the both of them. The woman bowed wordlessly and rushed off.

Nimah led Chronicler to a small dining room and sat down at a round table with a soapstone statue on it. Chronicler sat down and waited for her sign to begin.

He spoke his mind, telling her how as an outsider he maybe saw things differently than the others. He voiced his concerns over the fracturing classes, and how people were joining gangs and other groups, many of which were in direct opposition of others.

Nimah nodded, “We know all this.”

“Then why not do anything about it? Your people’s own dissent is as likely to defeat the city as the Followers at this point. We need to use what hope we have to strengthen the morale.”

“You are at the meetings. You know how our resources are stretched. Trade without our walls has all but stopped. We will soon be facing disease if the death toll continues to rise. Building materials are running low. Most resources are going into food production. The caravan that bore you here was the largest to arrive in months. Barely anything has found its way here since. Still, we have no word from Daktra, though they promise their mercenaries are on the march.”

“I just… somehow I feel as though this is all part of their plan,” said Chronicler. “These gangs, the butting of ideologies. The whispers of dissent.”

“We are doing what we can.”

Chronicler nodded. They had captured dozens of men and women from the various conflicts that had erupted around the city. Troublemakers, would-be dissidents, sympathisers of the Followers. “And what are you doing to the men and woman you are rounding up?”

“You will need to speak to the Consul-secondary in charge of prisons.” 

“You need to unite your people. Other places, people are united by religion or race. Here, people come here from all around, from north and south and east. People do not share the same faith. There is nothing uniting the people against this common threat. You need to find something.”

Nimah was sitting back, eyes closed, arms hanging limply from her side. “What is there?”

“Give them their new Emperor. The city celebrated minutes after his appointment, yet he has not even presented himself officially to them.”

“That is not the way things are conducted here. He is not truly an Emperor. He is just an official elected in times of war. Once this is all over he will give up the mantle, and things will resume as they were. If anything, it is a good sign he has not done what you suggest. That might indicate he has no intention of giving up the title after the war.”

Chronicler could not help but smile at her last words. There was a measure of confidence in what the future held that gave him hope.

“And that,” continued Nimah, “Would be another disaster entirely. We simply do not have the time for such things.”

“You need to make time, otherwise it’ll be too late.”

Nimah shifted, sat up, opened her eyes. She was looking away from Chronicler, staring at the wall. She shook her head when she spoke, “He’s not that type of leader. Give him a goal and he’ll do anything to reach it, but he’s not good with people. It’s a waste of time to him.”

“I haven’t seen much of him since the siege started,” said Chronicler, remembering his meeting with the Follower’s envoys and his almost-encounter with the otherworlder. He wondered what would have come to pass had the two figures met. Would they have reached some form of agreement?

“There is much to occupy him now,” said Nimah. She was rubbing her eyes now.

Chronicler nodded, still thinking about the otherworlder. “What do you think about this Principal?”

“I think he is dangerous, whoever or whatever he is. One does not need to be a god to cause unrest,” she said. Her eyes were still closed. “One does not even need to be real to cause unrest.”

Chronicler mulled over the words for a while. What if they sent out assassins to kill the otherworlder? Would that change anything? What if the people found out? Would they let it go ahead? Somehow he doubted it.

He stood, bid Nimah a good night he knew she hadn’t heard, and left. He was tired as well

The siege dragged on with no sign of a relief force, though at least it gave the defence something to fight for. Bombardments continued from both sides, but there was little impetus behind the exchange. Cannons shot, reloaded and waited before shooting again. Chronicler had sat in on a few of the engineer’s meetings and he’d learnt how old Zaffre’s walls really were, just how dire their state of disrepair had been, even before the attacks. Most were overgrown with vines and weeds and in some portions had crumbled away altogether, into small hillocks with only the memory of their past purpose jutting from the compact earth.

Chronicler had found it strange that the Followers were ignoring those parts, further reinforcing his thoughts that they had no desire to actually enter the city, at least not immediately. Given that most of the bombardments came at night or were timed with daily mass, he suspected their intent was more of an annoyance than anything else. Some of the Consuls had touched upon the subject though little ever came of it.

The Followers had dug in around the city, pillaging the surrounding area’s fields, granaries and stores for food and the buildings themselves for stones and bricks that were used for making more permanent dwellings and fortifications closer to the city. Every so often they would come back with a caravan – whether captured or donated, Chronicler could not tell – but clearly they were not enough to keep their forces well-fed.

The Followers’ troops did try to attack the city directly once. They came from the west, just before dawn, aimed at one of the weaker parts of the wall. A volley of cannon fire preceded them, destroying the abandoned shanty outside the city, and they assaulted the walls, using ladders made from the remains of windmills and caravans they’d captured. Most died on their way to the walls, cut down by return cannon and jezzail fire, but the fight was brought to the walls and the last of the attackers died within the city. The attack itself had caused little panic, though some militiamen and members of the citizen levy lost their lives in the attack. It was a warning more than anything that a serious attack would surely test their defences.

The catacombs had been filled to bursting point following the attack and the dead could no longer be buried. Instead they had to be burnt, despite the protests of a half-dozen religious groups who insisted that the dead needed to funerary arrangements appropriate to their faith. The religious leaders and protestors were overruled, the needs of the living seen as more important than those of the dead. The faithful responded by rioting. The district that had borne the brunt of the attack, close to the Camel Gate, was engulfed by unrest. A temple to Rahana was broken into, looted, its chapels defaced. No-one took responsibility. 

The Zaffresi anticipated more attacks, now that the Followers had tested their defences, and heightened the grip of Martial law as a result, though no other attacks came. Still, harsher curfews were enforced. People close to the city’s borders were moved away, either to relatives in the heart of the city or forced into the catacombs or great halls and squares in the middle of the city. Food was being rationed. Few liked the measures that were being enforced. 

The mood only worsened from there. 

Another envoy was sent to the walls three weeks after the emperor-interim uttered his presaging words of war. By that point the outer layer of the slanted walls had been reduced to little more than rubble and the tightly packed scree that composed their innards were exposed to the elements. The gates, depressed and hidden beneath redoubts, had been spared the worst of the bombardments though had still been damaged.

It had been the man in black who had spoken with the Emperor-interim before and beside him was the woman in white, this time her face obscured beneath a veil of light chains and brass disks.

The Consul-secondary was sent to meet with them, and as before she rode out with Shadonn and Chronicler beside her. There had been none of the preamble of previous meetings, just a curt nod from haggard-faced emissaries and a request from the Visyon Orkon for them to give in before the people of Zaffre died of starvation. 

It was late in the evening by the time they’d returned to the city and gone to the Council Hall to meet the Emperor-interim. On their way to his offices they crossed paths with three robed godsmen, returning from the offices. When they were a safe distance from them, Nimah whispered, “Those were advisors to the theosopher Saam Kavah.”

Chronicler wondered what they were doing there at that time of the day.

They waited the Emperor-interim’s summons and entered his room. 

He was not alone.

On one side of the room stood three figures: a bearded man in embroidered cowl, face furrowed and eyes watery. Next to him was a thin man of gaunt features and pale face. Spidery hands, heavy with rings, entwined around a featureless slender staff of gleaming white metal. Milky white eyes stared out into nothingness. The third wore a silk embroidered qaftan with padded armour beneath. A wide leather belt covered his stomach, from which hung a sword, gunblade and various pouches. Chronicler recognised the third man as the Consul-primary of defence – the leader of Zaffre’s armies.

The Emperor-interim was seated behind his desk, and behind him were his mushir and guards.

He showed no reaction as they walked towards him. There was a strange silence in the room and Chronicler could not help but look back at the pair who loomed over them.

“What is the outcome?”

“We gave him your terms. He did not agree to them.”

The Emperor-interim nodded slowly, face unwavering. He was silent for a great while.

“Emperor-interim?” asked Nimah.

He raised a dismissive hand. “We will not relent. We cannot. This city has stood here for six hundred years. She has been attacked many times, by Derreni, men of the Utar, and others besides. Not once has she been taken. I will not let Zaffre fall while she is under my aegis. I cannot.”

The armoured man shifted slightly. “Emperor-interim, the enemy’s armies are near eleven thousand strong. Our militia and levy, even if assembled en masse, cannot hope to approach those numbers. What advantage our walls once offered has crumbled away. Within a week they will be able to simply walk into the city. We will stand no chance.”

The Emperor-interim’s eyes had glazed over and he was staring above Nimah’s head. “What choice do we have, Sammar?”

“We could accept their terms,” said the theosopher. “They offered amicable conditions. Surely, we can save lives that way?”

“That was weeks ago,” said Nimah. “Before the fighting. We must have killed close to a thousand men since this began. I doubt they will be as lenient with their handling of our people if they take us now.”

“Besides, we cannot give up this far along. What of the Daktran relief force? Will its arrival not tip the scales in our favour?”

“The question is: will we survive that long?”

The Emperor-interim looked up at Saam Kavah. “You would hand the city over to them? What of our religions, then? Do you think these fanatics would allow our people to practice their faiths? All I hear at night, aside from those godsdamned cannons, are their harbingers, chanting and praying. They will topple our temples and replace our customs. Is that the Zaffre you would live in?”

“At least I would be alive,” said the shaper.

Nimah was shaking her head. Her hands were gripping the arms of her chair. Any tighter and Chronicler thought she might splinter the wood.

“Ever the patriot, Lhaohon,” said Nimah. “The Emperor-interim is right. If we let them win we risk not only our lives, but our way of life as well, and that is something that cannot be lost.”

“You speak as though we have a choice,” said Saam Kavah. “The Consul-primary has spoken. The numbers do not lie. What can we do?”

Chronicler was staring at the shaper as they spoke, his gaze drawn back to the stark lines of his face, the sunken eyes, the bruise-like colour that framed them. He wondered what the man was capable of. The legends only needed a single hero shaper to defend a city, why was the man not out there, fighting?

Lhaohon blinked and the gleam of light on the eyes had shifted. He was looking at something else. And then Chronicler swore he saw his thin lips curve into a smile. Or was it a sneer.?

He looked away quickly, attentions returning to the conversation. Only there was not much to listen to.

“I will not abandon the city to the enemy,” said the Emperor-interim, before dismissing them. “Not when relief is so close.”

All bit the Emperor-interim left the room. 

The theosopher left without word, taking a different route. Soon after the general left, leaving the shaper with Nimah and Chronicler. They carried on together. The silence was palpable. 

It was the shaper, Lhaohon, who broke the silence. “There are some in the council who regret Ieddonon’s appointment.”

Nimah remained silent, though Chronicler could help but not agree with his words. 

“And the rest are the ones who arranged the whole thing,” continued the shaper.

“What of it? We do not have the time or resources for an inquest right now,” said Nimah.

“You could do it.”

“To agree would be treason. Why would I do that?” She had stopped walking. The shaper stopped, was looking at her, his featureless eyes either staring into space or regarding Nimah.

“You think he had some ulterior motive in being elected,” said Chronicler. 

“Much as I dislike the man… no. He is just a nostalgic idiot who craved power at the wrong moment. He is a strong man, of that there is no doubt, but strength alone is not what we need here. We need wisdom.”

“And you would be the one to offer that wisdom?”

Chronicler felt a flicker in those eyes, as though the man might have changed the object of his attentions. “Hardly. I am just a man looking to make my way in this wretched plane. I do not like being caught between the power-struggles of others. This isn’t my home. I just happened to be here at the wrong time, like others.” His eyes flickered again.

Chronicler was convinced the man was looking at him. “Like it or not we’re stuck here, at least for now.”

The man made an expression of acknowledgement and nodded.

“But you are not just any man are you?” said Nimah. “We know who you are. The itinerant Firmamentist. The Mendicant of Surrach. I’ve heard songs about you, about how you got those ‘eyes that do not see, yet can see’, as the rhymes go.”

The man laughed. “Nothing but stories, I’m afraid. I’m blind, simple as.”

“Then how do you…” begun Chronicler, thinking of the answer before he finished. 

“What the Firmament takes with one hand, she returns with the other.”

Nimah shook her head. “What you are suggesting is treason,” she said, returning to his earlier implications.

“I am not suggesting anything. It is merely an observation.”

“One that is punishable by death.”

“Good thing I am not from here,” he smiled. The rictus looked forced. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “That man will be our death. If you have any means of leaving the city, I suggest you do your best to do so, before it is too late.”

“And go where? The city is surrounded.”

The man shrugged. “There are the catacombs. I hear some of the older ones, from the Shiddonite days, were quite expansive, spreading beyond the span of the modern city limits.”

“They are centuries collapsed. You think we haven’t checked?”

“Just a suggestion. My point remains. As long as that man remains in charge, this city will fall.”

“You don’t know that.”

Chronicler looked at the man and for a moment thought that he did know that. He was a shaper after all. What sphere was his speciality, he thought, remembering the term Hadia had taught him? Could he leech off of the otherworld and see some of what it had to offer, in the form of visions and glimpses of the future?

“Those people do not want war,”

“No-one ever does. You cannot speak for them.”

Lhaohon laughed “And you think he can? The man is obsessed with the city’s past, putting its future at risk. Tell me, Consul-secondary, what would you do if it were up to you?”

She hesitated. “I would wait. I would burn the dead, despite what the priests might tell us. I would kill any animals for food. If that is not enough…”

“That’s what’s already happening. And what if the enemy do get in? Having refused their terms, do you think they will treat your people with respect? Their otherworlder will eventually push any other religions out of Zaffre and if their hopes of uniting the region come to pass, then we can expect the same to happen in other cities.”

“That is assuming the otherworlder is real.”

“Oh there is no question, he is real. Iedonnon knows of it.”

“What?” said Nimah.

“We can see him. He made us look, after he spoke with the envoys outside the east gate. He did not believe that tent was hiding an otherworlder. And he was right. 

“The otherworlder is real, was born months ago. He wandered the plains for a while until he was found by the Followers. They brought him here a few days ago. After their armies arrived.”

“You knew he wasn’t here and you never told the people?”

Lhaohon shook his head. “We only found out when he arrived here. It is a difficult thing to explain. Otherworlders are not like the mortal races. We – shapers – do not see them as we see you. They are from another plane of reality, what you in your wisdom call the otherworld. If our mundane eyes cannot see him, he is very difficult to spot, almost invisible. But once we locate him we can see his trail, so to speak. The ripples in the material plane left in the wake of his travels, if that makes any sense.” 

“So he’s real?”

“Extremely. And powerful, but like all otherworlders, he is still adapting to this world and its disharmonious stimuli. His head is filled with gods-know what secrets all mixed up together, with no way of interpreting them. In the otherworld, all those secrets are in their natural habitat. But down here… it’s chaos. Something we can only pretend to imagine. 

“Takes some otherworlders centuries to sort out all the shit clogging up their heads, and here are these cultists turning him into an idol before he is even fully reborn. I pity the thing to be honest.”

“Pity?”

“Yes, pity. Objectively speaking, of course.” 

“So he’s just a pawn?” said Chronicler.

“It’s just speculation on my part, but, yes, that’s a way of putting it,” the shaper nodded, “if I had to bet on it, I’d say yes. He probably doesn’t even know what’s happening, even though he knew the outcome of this siege before the city of Zaffre was even founded. Could make you crazy, thinking about this stuff. Best not to dwell on it for too long.” The shaper tapped his staff on the ground. It made a hollow noise that rang for moments later. “I must leave. I fear I may have said too much already.”

Nimah stepped forward. The two were almost touching, her head shaking. “No, no, no. You do not give us such secrets and then just leave. Why did Iedonnon not tell us about any of this?”

“He’s probably just scared, like the rest of us,” said Chronicler.

“Listen to this man. He’s wiser than any of us,” Lhaohon nodded. “Think about it Consul. Iedonnon finds out about this two days ago. Already he probably believes in the otherworlder, to some extent. This confirms it. The otherworlder is here. But they are holding him back. Why?”

“They have more to gain by not revealing him?”

The shaper urged her on. “Why?”

“The unease?” said Chronicler, “People are worried, scared. It’s an unknown variable. People exaggerate things in their minds. Are we making him out to be worse than he actually is? Once they know it’s real, half the threat is gone.”

“I like this man,” said the shaper. “At least, that’s what I think. I have no way of knowing what goes on in these people’s minds. Mayhap they have some gambit that changes everything.” 

“It makes no sense.”

“Maybe what you said about the otherworlder, about him not being ready, is true. Maybe they are stalling? If they show him to us now they lose any fear or respect for him that they’ve wrestled from us.”

“Then you have the upper hand. Do something with this,” said Lhaohon.

Already it seemed she saw, for she was striding up the corridor, back to the Emperor-interim’s offices.

“Wasn’t expecting something this quick,” said the shaper, following her. 

She burst into the Emperor-interim’s offices, shouting. “You knew he was there and you didn’t say anything? Why?”

The Emperor-interim looked up at her. He nodded slowly, replied in a flat voice. “My mystics have seen him, yes. They see in him comfort and fear, and memories that no other man – shaper or otherwise – could ever hope to fully unravel. In those secrets are things about me even I do not know. In its thoughts are the fates of Saviud, Sammaea, and Elyden herself. What awaites in years, decades, centuries to come.”

He stopped, mouth trembling at whatever images his words had conjured.

“So your talk about fighting, was what? A lie?”

“Oh no. We must fight, even if every single one of us dies. We must defend the city. If he gets in… the dome. No, we must fight.”

“This is news to me,” said the shaper. 

Nimah’s face had curled into a sneer and she looked undecided between walking out and punching the man. 

Chronicler was just looking at him, trying to extract something from the words. The way he’d been speaking hadn’t seemed right.

“We must fight,” he repeated. “We must fight for the dome.” 

“Iedonnon?” said Nimah. He was looking at her. No, not at her, but through her, at something else entirely conjured by what fears had possessed him.

“Shadonn, get the court physicians. And Saam Kavah, if he is still up. This man is not fit to rule.”

The guard rushed off without word.

Nimah moved closer to the man and leaned into him, staring him in the eyes. “What did they do?”

Lhaohon was beside her. “His shapers, they must have pinpointed the otherworlder’s position and… I don’t know, shared its memories with him?”

“Can such a thing be done?”

“The Materia Omna is not a measurable thing, despite what many may claim. Every shaper manipulates his world in a unique way. Who knows how powerful the court shapers are?”

“I thought you were one of the court shapers?”

“He asked for my opinion. I helped with finding the otherworlder, but I am not a member of the court.”

“You are now,” said Nimah.

“I’m honoured,” said Lhaohon, his face bland. 

“What if it’s true, what you said, now?”

The shaper shrugged. “Stranger things have and will happen. So what, he saw its memories?”

“So what? Would it explain his recent attitude?”

“It would explain his recent attitude. Like I said, the otherworlder’s thoughts are likely a roil of chaos. Past present and future inseparable from one another, fighting for supremacy in his head. One moment he might be seeing the creation of Elyden at the hands of the Demiurges. Another his own death. Then a child somewhere, playing, a hundred years ago. All in the space of a second. Imagine that for… however long he’s been subjected to it. It would make the sanest mind collapse.”

Ieddonon sat down again, was holding his brow in his hand. His chin was sunken into his chest and he was slumped low in his chair. His lips were moving, though they made no sound.

Nimah leaned in to try and hear him, but it was for nothing. Beside her, she could see the Consul-primary’s own mushir, a young girl, stand from the shadows and approach the table. She placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, but he did not react.

“What happened?” asked Nimah.

“He spent a long time with Ith Sithiron and Ith Mansur. I was not there. Last night he was missing from his chambers, his guards weren’t with him. One of the servants said she saw him go to the Shrine of Elements. He was there all night.” The poor girl was close to tears.

Nimah nodded, didn’t ask anything else. She summoned a servant, asked him to send guards to fetch the two court shapers.

Sometime later an old man entered the room. It was the court physician and head of the School of Mediciners and Surgeons. Immediately he went to the Emperor-interim and examined him. The man was still mumbling, the inaudible words rising to babbling at times, before dying down again. “What happened to this man?” he asked, looking up at the others.

Lhaohon explained what had happened with the otherworlder, what Ieddonon and his mushir had claimed, and the physician returned to his examinations. He was shaking his head. “What he did was very dangerous. This is beyond my skill to remedy. This is a sickness of the otherworld, of the mind.” 

By that time Saam Kavah had joined them. He was standing back, his face a furrowed in concern. “What possessed him to do such a thing?”

“I think that is not the question you need to be asking yourselves at the moment,” said the court physician.

“The man is right,” said Nimah. “This man is no-longer fit to rule.”

“So what happens now?” said the theosopher. “Do we revert to the old council? Godsknow, we need decisions tempered by the opinions of others.”

“No,” said Chronicler. “In times of war the role of Emperor-interim shall fall upon one designated by the Emperor-himself and if such a replacement was not appointed, there shall be held another vote,” he quoted, a grin slowly appearing on his face.

“And was someone appointed?”

The young mushir looked up, stared at Nimah. For a moment there was silence, and then she nodded, pointing towards the Consul-secondary. “It is she,” she spoke in trembling voice.

Chronicler was nodding.

Everyone was looking at Nimah.

“Bring out the records,” said Saam Kavah. “We need to confirm this.”

They brought out both sets of records and corroborated the words. There was no denying it. With the physician’s verdict on Ieddonon’s incapacity to rule, Nimah would assume his duties.

Throughout the discussion, Ieddonon made no sign of understanding or even having heard anything of the talk, and seemed lost in his thoughts, or more likely, the thoughts and false-memories of the otherworlder, thought Chronicler, as he observed him. Nimah ordered the physician move Ieddonon to his chambers and sent for the Consuls-primary to assemble for an emergency meeting in the Council Hall.

They gathered and after the shock and denial of the revelation subsided, Nimah proceeded to discuss what had taken place that night, with the shaper Lhaohon and Saam Kavah corroborating her words. There were those who opposed the shaper, claiming that he was not a resident, that his interests were likely vested elsewhere, but Nimah ignored them. 

“Too many have died for us to give up now. Though our walls are ready to crumble and the enemy is more numerous troops than us, we know he has been lying. He has been pretending to be the servant of a greater power, when in fact that greater power is likely no more than a pawn. Though we are close to starvation, we hope to be relieved in the coming days or weeks.

“If we fight we will die, that much is sure. We have more to gain by making our own demands,” said one of the Consuls, to a chorus of approvals.

“It is too late to demand new terms,” said someone else. Nimah was nodding.

“Tell me, Ith Lhaohon, can we find out more about the Daktran relief force? How far is it?”

“We can but we will need Ith Mansur.”

“We have been searching for them continuously, Empress-interim,” said the Consul-primary of defence. “We have no word of them. If they left Daktra upon our reply, we will not expect them for a further week at most.”

A week, thought Chronicler. It didn’t seem too bad. For a while, Nimah discussed resources with the Consuls, asking if they could hope to hold out for another week, if they could pinpoint their relief forces before then. It seemed as though they could weather the storm until then.

“Keep on looking, Ith Lhaohon,” said Nimah eventually. She looked around and saw haggard faces and dark-rimmed eyes staring back at her. The Consuls were weary, and she could tell it was not just the late hour. It had been close to a month of meetings and bombardments and diminishing food. They just wanted it to end, as much as she did.

“I will speak with the otherworlder or to his priestess, and tell them that we have no intention of backing down. I will tell them that we know their secret.”

Of Ith Sithiron there was no trace and many of his belongings were gone from his residences. But they found Ith Mansur the next morning. He was deep in meditation in his personal chapel in his chambers. He was brought before Nimah and Lhaohon and was questioned at length about his involvement in whatever ritual had broken Ieddonon.

Mostly it was Lhaohon and Mansur talking between themselves, and they were using terms Chronicler could barely understand, let alone write down. But he got the gist of it. Their assumptions from the previous night had not been that far off. At the Emperor-interim’s behest, the two court shapers had accompanied Ieddonon to the Shrine of Elements beneath the grounds of the Council Halls two nights before where they’d located the otherworlder in the enemy camp and weaved a link between him and the otherworld. Then, through another link, they’d been able to weave a connexion between mortal and otherworlder. To their knowledge the otherworlder was unaware of the connexion, something that Lhaohon had asked about more than once. 

When asked why Ieddonon had wanted that, Ith Sithiron could not answer. The man had grown obsessed with the otherworlder over the past days and wanted to learn more about it. It was his only that fascination that had led to them pinpointing his location, largely through Mansur’s skills. Or his sphere, Chronicler had thought.

But more worrying than Ieddonon’s obsession was the absence of Ith Sithiron. His residences were searched thoroughly, though noting incriminating or useful was found. He’d simply disappeared. Nimah had issued a warrant for his capture and redirected a not inconsiderable part of the militia to finding him, though she doubted there would be any success.

Lhaohon and Mansur spent the rest of the day and much of the next night looking for traces of the approaching army as The Consuls-primary and secondary of defence redoubled the defence efforts against enemy bombardments, which had increased over the past few days. Some wondered if they knew something was up, but at that point, who could know? Much of what was happening was guesswork.

Close to dawn Lhaohon burst into Nimah’s chambers. She was busy with a handful of the Consuls, discussing the damages in the eastern districts and the catacombs, which were beyond bursting point. 

“Empress-interim,” said Lhaohon, “We have the relief force. It’s a day away.

Nimah stood, her attentions wavering from the discussion at hand. The consuls seated around her shared her expression, and turned to the shaper, eyes eager.

“How many are there?

“A thousand, at least. Half are mounted.”

The Empress-interim was nodding, hand rubbing her face.

It didn’t seem like a large number to Chronicler. Perhaps he was missing something?

“Can we pinpoint the time?”

“We can do better than that. Ith Mansur is in contact with one of their own.”

Nimah cut the meeting short, apologising to the Consuls and followed Lhaohon to the Shrine of Elements. 

It was an old place, built around the same time as the Shiddonite catacombs. A stone structure, not unlike a mausoleum, was built above the hewn stone stairs that led to a natural cavern beneath the Council Hall. The walls were damp, carved into small niches in which frescos had once been painted and later destroyed by dripping water, leaving them bare. The stairs levelled out and led to a wide circular room with similar niches along the sides and a slight concave ceiling on which could be seen the remnants of colours and forms, their details long-since forgotten.

It reminded Chronicler of the Hall above, with its round steps leading down to a depressed circular stage, all of which was hewn in great precision. The similarities could not have been coincidental, he knew.

Ith Mansur was in the middle of the room, head titled back, black qaftan hanging loosely behind him. Beneath he wore a heavy sash of what looked like metal thread, from which hung a multitude of linked chains, forming a skirt of sorts, almost like chainmail. His arms were straight, rigid, facing the floor, and his fingers were contorted into painful angles that switched suddenly without rhythm, as far as Chronicler could tell. 

Around him were five figures, on their knees, arms in front of them, held rigidly towards the master shaper and like the master shaper their fingers were held out at odd angles, though it was clear that he was the focus of whatever it was they were doing.

Chronicler and Nimah remained in the doorway with Shadonn, but even from there Chronicler could feel a tingle in the air, like the static that filled the air before a lightning storm. There was a strange smell that he couldn’t quite place, though it was faint, disappearing for long spells before returning and abating again. 

Nimah asked Lhaohon something and he stepped within the human circle and stood beside Ith Mansur. He closed his eyes and spoke his question.  What is your approach? 

A silence filled the room, broken only the heavy breathing of the master shaper and the faint jingling of the chains beneath his dress as he swayed gently. 

It was a lengthy process, Chronicler learnt. What felt like an age passed between Lhaohon asking the question and Mansur providing some form of response. He swayed there, just the twitching of eyes beneath closed lids and the spasms of fingers, giving any indication that he was doing anything, and even those motions could have been automatic, part of the ritual.

After a while Chronicler noticed it. The room had been dark, lit only by what light penetrated the stairway from above, which was not much. But now, Chronicler was seeing the room grow brighter. He could not pinpoint the source at first but after a while realised it must have been coming from the master shaper himself. His eyes too appeared to be glowing beneath closed lids, the skin growing pale and veins glowing red.

Finally, his head jerked forward and his eyes opened, flooding the room in a stark white light that blinded Chronicler. He shielded his eyes against the glow and squinted at the unfolding ritual.

And then he spoke in a voice that was not his own, or belonging to any entity of the material realm. It was hollow, uttered in a grotesque chorus that echoed throughout the room. “We come from the Camel’s road, that links to your market gate along the western wall of Zaffre. Horses ride from the north. We approach the Zafir rise and will reach it by dusk.”

The Zafir rise was just two miles away from the city, to the north west of the Camel gate. They were that close! Chronicler was elated. The doubt and fear of weeks of bombardments and pessimistic Consul’s discussing matters were washed away, replaced with something he had not felt for a long time.

He turned to Nimah, but was confused when he saw her face was grave as it had been when they had entered the Shrine.

“Do you have any more questions?” said Lhaohon from the middle of the room.

“Many,” she replied. 

They were in there for a long time and when Chronicler emerged for air the sky was dark, the stars bright above. The ritual was still going on below, but he could not stomach it any more. The air had grown particularly close and he was feeling faint. He breathed deep and sat down near the house that guarded the stairs. In the distance he could hear the enemy bombardments, the shouts of the militia and levy. He closed his eyes and tried to remember a time before the attacks.

A time when there was food. He tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach, but it was becoming too much. He’d last eaten that morning – dry biscuits and warm water. Hardly enough for breakfast, let alone what he needed to keep him going throughout all this. He lay on his back and looked up at the stars.

“Wake up.”

He woke to a rocking motion. When he opened his eyes he saw Shadonn leaning over him, shaking his shoulders. The sky was grey, growing paler behind him. Above the Ivory Moon was a day away from full.

“They are ready.”

Chronicler stirred, “and?”

“Nimah will speak with the Follower’s leaders later today. We will attack them after that, hoping to distract their forces from the relief force, which will attack from the North West.”

Chronicler’s expression wavered “Will she be fighting?”

Shadonn laughed. “No.”

Chronicler nodded. Good. 

Chronicler had never seen her dressed like that before. She wore the same chained earrings she had worn as an envoy before, though her head was now crowned with a large silver disk headdress and her body was fitted into a severe dress that left her shoulders exposed, though her arms were covered in lames of leather and chain that looked like armour. Her shoulders were covered in intricate tattoos that Chronicler had never seen before. She looked altogether the Empress-interim she had ascended to, no, more than that, he thought. She looked like a leader, of men and warriors. Chronicler couldn't help but grin when he saw her. 

They were standing behind the first gate, awaiting the approach of the enemy’s enovys. Chronicler was not looking forward to seeing Ohrima again. So much had changed in his life, he wondered if she’d even remember him. It hadn't been that long ago, really, just a month.

Shadonn shifted next to him transferring the weight of his banner form one hand to another. He was otherwise standing still as an ebony statue.

Joining their ranks was the shaper Lhaohon, towering above all of them yet still so slender, even in his brocaded clothes and their stiff high collar that emerged from his neck like a crest or peacocks tail. His staff was resting on a wall as he stood eating seeds from a leather pouch. He seemed unperturbed by the unfolding events, despite the sounds of distant bombardments and men shouting closer by. He was really shoving them into his mouth.

“How can you eat,” said Chronicler, looking away in disgust.

“Let me know when you learn more of my kind,” said the shaper, gaze not for a moment lifting form the gate and the guards stood behind it.

An alarm sounded and the call was made: the enemies were approaching. Light flooded the gatehouse as the outer gates were slowly lifted.

Gods, she really was beautiful, thought Chronicler as he looked at her once more. In the light the contrast between her skin and the dress was stark. 

The enemies approached. Ohrima, Orkon, a handful of others and the tent borne by four men beneath which hid the otherworlder, supposedly. 

Lhaohon stood upright when he saw the tent. Though Chronicler could not see his eyes, he was sure, perhaps for the first time so far, that the man was looking at it, searching for what walked slowly beneath.

Nimah stepped in front of the Visyon, though he deferred and allowed the priestess to stand in his stead. The two women faced each other, one dark, the other pale. There was a moment of silence as they sized each other up.

“You are now the crown that sits atop this city.” No more than a statement.

“I am the Empress-interim,” Nimah nodded.

“Whoever you are, I can see you have come to admit defeat. The loss of so many lives is to be commiserated, but sometimes expenses must be made. Rest assured in the fact that they will be remembered in Zaffre’s new annals, if we can find someone to write them,” she said with a painted smile. For a moment her purple eyes flitted to Chronicler. He fancied her lips curve upwards into a smile.

“We are here to put an end to the bloodshed. You speak of sacrifice. Yes, but your side has lost far more men and women. Does your principal condone such needless death?”

“Theirs were lives spent willingly, in exchange for something far greater. Their lives will also be greatly remembered as the sacrifice required for the real Zaffre to be born”

“The lives of Zaffre’s men and women were spent willingly, also.”

Ohrima nodded, was silent for a moment. “You have come to offer terms of your defeat?”

Nimah held the staff of governance before her and spoke. “We would speak with the Principal before returning to our city, where we expect the bombardment to continue, which we will weather. We would speak with him alone.”

Ohrima’s face twisted, its smile disappearing, melding into a grimace that betrayed her thoughts. “You are in no position to barter.”

“Yet barter we shall. We know of your leader’s pitiful form. The Principal is in no fit state to rule, yet you would cart him around – if that is even him,” she added, gesturing to the tent, “as though he were some reliquary. We know of your tireless search for him and that until a few days ago his presence was but a dream.”

“Glammers and wards against prying eyes,” smiled Ohrima. It was weak next to her earlier smiles.

“Then the Principal can speak with us.”

The priestesses lips pursed tightly, her head twitched behind her, towards the tent, though she made no other effort to speak or gesture. A moment passed before she replied, the muscles in her jaws tight, “For this we will break your walls and topple your dwellings. We will kill your people’s leaders, one by one and mix in their blood with the mortar that will strengthen the new walls. The people, innocent or not, will follow them, and they will know that it was the stubbornness of their leaders that sealed their fates. 

“I hope you know what you are doing here, stalling the progress of our mission. But there are always obstacles, some more difficult than others. We will overcome you as we have overcome others,” said the priestess, then taking a step back she lifted her arms and looked up to the battlements, where she could see concerned faces looking down at her, and shouted, “Sleep well tonight pawns. It is the last time you will sleep in peace, for tomorrow the death of your city begins.”

She rushed back to her own lines, her adjutants behind her.

Lhaohon leant close to the Empress-interim and whispered, “If you want me to kill her, I can do it. I can kill her. Easy.”

Chronicler was tempted to agree, but he knew that Saviudi etiquette did not allow for such attacks. Envoys must be granted the safety to convey their messages, as she clearly had. 

Nimah shook her head and placed a hand on the shaper’s shoulder as she turned round to leave, “Her time will come.”

Ith Mansur maintained contact with the allied forces and told them the attack after the enemy’s bombardment was to begin the next morning. Consul-primary Sammar, Nimah, and a handful of others high-ranking individuals held a council that went on throughout the night. Final preparations were made – the west gate was strengthened with layers of thick wood and iron bracers and the walls were patched up in whatever manner they could be. Cisterns were filled with sand and heated along the walls, ready to be thrown down onto the attackers whenever they came.

By then the old catacombs had been cleared of debris and long tunnels had been strengthened and revealed, leading to an ancient necropolis that had extended well beyond the old city limits, and probably still ended outside of the walls above. Its chambers were strengthened and filled with what meagre supplies were left and guarded against looting.

The militia was assembled, armed and armoured to the best of their capabilities. Over the past weeks armourers, ‘gunsmiths and quartermasters had been hard at work making weapons ammunition and other equipment for the forces and finally the time had come to put them to use. The levy had not been so lucky and was reduced to using what old weapons had previously been available in storage: antiquated wheel locks that belonged in museums, simple mass-produced weapons of low-quality, and in some cases personal heirlooms were even brought out.

It was a long night and for the first time in weeks there was no bombardment and were it not for the dread that had descended over the city and her people, Zaffre might have slept easily that night. Many still did, though, and Chronicler was not alone amongst them. 

Chronicler was awakened early the next day by the bombardments, and for the first time since the siege had begun, he knew what it was like to be under attack. He was summoned across the city and made the trip hurriedly, running in half-crouch, his arms lifting to his head every time he heard an explosion or impact.

Where before the volleys had been intermittent, now they were incessant, the sounds of one merging with the next without beginning or end.

The attack had come on three fronts, around the three gateways – the Camel Gate in the west, the High Gate in the south-east, and the Crown Gate to the north. Westerly winds, bringing with them cool air from the north-west, blew acrid smoke from the cannons onto the city. Though most fire was directed towards the walls and gates, some were arced high and flew into the city, causing chaos and damage. In some places the shallow catacombs were pierced, killing dozens of men, women and children below as they collapsed. Fires broke out throughout the city, spreading to the east by the winds. The militia and levy busied themselves putting out the fires, helping the wounded and doing what they could to reinforce the walls. 

The terrain around the city, sloping upwards and rocky where not turned into terraced fields by industrious farmers, did not conduce itself well to the use of classical siege apparatus such as galleries or towers. The fortifications were of a more modern school, with crowns and ravelins providing more-than adequate defences, and until the walls were destroyed, any group rushing towards the walls would be caught in a deadly crossfire. They had to wait.

Chronicler could see the Fortress of Fathers well-before he arrived there. It rose from the bedrock beneath the city, its foundations a full storey below the street-level, hewn from the rock itself. Leaning inwards, with only thin slits for windows, it was a sombre structure with little decoration save for a carved lintel above its bronze doors. Lichen spread across its walls like a yellow and black rash and weeds grew from between blocks of limestone. 

The building had lied disused for years before being granted a new life years earlier as government archives and stores. He passed up the ravelling stairs, walked across the wooden bridge and was inside, looking for his mistress.

He found her with a small group of officials: the guildmaster of bakeries; the Consul-secondary of rations; and a handful of others Chronicler could not identify at first. They were standing along a stone bridge that spanned a great pit that was the city’s largest granary. Chronicler could see its bell-shaped walls, and markers etched into the bedrock, counting down from seven-hundred in increments of a hundred. The meniscus of grain against the wall measured along the fifty-mark. A multitude of chain pulleys hung down from beams far above, swaying gently in the gloom. There were no torches, the only light coming from a skylight above.

The others were talking about the food. The guildmaster, in particular, seemed agitated, and was gesturing more than the others, especially towards the empty pit. 

Nimah made a sign to Chronicler to note down what they were saying. Lots of word about grain weight and dwindling rations and suggestions for further increasing the output from the little grain that remained. As things were, the city would be out of food completely in a few days.

Nimah left, drawing Chronicler with her. He was huffing as she walked and didn’t seem to care much for his presence. 

“What news from the Shrine of Elements?”

Chronicler winced. “Nothing.”

Nimah stopped mid-stride, “What do you mean, nothing? They aren’t even an hour away on food and were ready to attack the Followers from the north, how can there be nothing?” It was the first time she had shouted at Chronicler. She noticed, though made no effort to apologise for the outburst.

“That is all I know. Ith Mansur has been trying to reach them all night. He hasn’t slept properly in two days Empress-interim. He is growing tired.”

“He is the only person in the city for whom rations have been deferred. Not even I and my staff have been eating as much as he has, yet he has the nerve to say he is tired?”

“It’s the shaping, it takes a lot of – ”

“I know what it is, Niyush. I wasn’t asking,” said Nimah. She carried on moving. 

Soon they were out of the fortress and were marching through empty streets towards the Camel Gate and another fortress close behind it. They entered the gate, and began passing small groups of soldiers, some sitting on broken masonry that had been hauled in small circles. Other sat bored in doorways and windows. Still others Chronicler could see praying with priests walking amongst them.

When they arrived in the courtyard Chronicler stopped. He was looking at hundreds of soldiers, possibly thousands. Half their faces turned round and were looking at him and Nimah and the rest of their party. 

Nimah ignored them and was walking towards Consul-primary Sammar and his staff.

“The relief force was meant to have attacked this morning, after their artillery began firing. We have two battalions here, scared and bored in equal measures, ready for the attack. They are growing impatient. Where the hell are they?”

Nimah explained the situation and they started moving again whilst talking. They headed inside the fort where Chronicler could feel the vibrations of the enemy bombardment. They walked up narrow spiral stairs set deep in the wall itself and emerged beneath a smoke-filled sky. From there they could see the west for miles around. 

The market and shanty outside the walls had been reduced to little more than rubble. Closer, the walls themselves had been pulverised into a slope of debris. In the distance Chronicler could see the flashes of cannon fire, one after the other, each accompanied with a burst of smoke that began drifting instantly towards them. The entire fort was shaking from the bombardment. Closer-by Chronicler could feel the retaliatory cannon fire of the fort, and every-so-often would see the fields erupt into explosions of soil and stone shrapnel close to the enemy fortifications. The stench of earth and gunpowder was rife.

Behind the enemy cannons were rank upon rank of dishevelled soldiers. Some were taking pot shots against the walls and shouting and messing around amongst themselves.

He felt sick.

“Are you writing this down,” said Nimah, suddenly.

“Sorry, Empress-interim,” said Chronicler. He sat down, turning away from the bombardment, and began taking notes.

They were talking about the possibility of a sally, but the distance from the enemy forces and the weight of firepower hey would face made all but the most vengeful of the Consuls there chose against it. If a thousand were sent out half would die before even reaching the enemy ranks. The rest would be cut down trying to get into the enemy fortifications. To send those men out would have been an act of desperation and they had not reached that yet.

They decided to wait until the end of the day against the desires of the Consul-primary Sammar who promised that the entire western walls would collapse fully, at most, within a few days – about the same time it would take them for food to run out.

Nimah and the others remained there, moving deeper within the safety of the fortress. 

Chronicler could not stay still and found himself wandering around, the fear of what was slowly approaching never far from his thoughts. He came across a chapel to Rahana, one of the better-established religions in the city, and one that dominated much western Saviud.

It was a small room, nestled safely within the thick walls of the fort. Just a few rows of benches facing a stone altar set within a niche that barely would have given any room for a priest to conduct mass. One man sat, head bowed, alone.

Along the walls were thin plinths with around two-dozen small statues of the patron demigods that formed the Rahanan pantheon. He walked along the walls, looking at the names etched beneath the statues. Tan. Yah. Chth. He did not recognise any of them. The statues were identical, as far as he could tell, and were pale marble, humanoid in form, their features worn smooth from decades of contact with beseeching hands. 

Mal. Tah. Aah. Mas. Each was in a different pose, and held different items in its hands, perhaps indicating the role or characteristics of that particular demigod, but he couldn’t make anything out. He wasn’t thinking. 

Even in that chapel, Chronicler felt scared. The vibrations from the bombardments were never far away. He sat down finally after seeing all the statues – twenty-two in all – and placed his fingers together in prayer. Seems like as good a time as any to show my respects, he thought. He was unfamiliar with the rituals and prayers of Rahana and struggled to think of anything, but it came out.

I don’t want to be here. Not just here, now, but in general. I did not want to remain here this long. I wanted to work on my book, see the city, and carry on to Daktra. But I got stuck. I don’t know what power I had to stop it. Maybe I could have, but I don’t think so. I worry for Hadia, for Mahr, for every soul in this city and the Surrach. 

But this is not my home and I do not want to stay here.

He stopped, flinched under the rumble of cannon fire. It felt close.

I’m scared, he thought, so scared. There’s no shame in that, I know. I don’t want to die. Not here. I will not be some nameless corpse buried under the rubble of a lost siege, thrown into a pit with the rest of the dead. I want to live a long and prosperous life. I want a wife and children who will carry my name. I want my name to be remembered in the annals I write. I want to live old and enjoy life. I want to taste the foods and drinks of a thousand cities and write about them. I will see the libraries of Almagest, the painted halls of Teira. The verdant vaults of Malan. The glass plains of Athorna. Damn, if I survive this I will be happy to wander into the depths of Carceri. Just save me. 

Keep me alive. 

Please.

He opened his eyes and felt the warm trickle of tears running down his face. On the pew next to him was a string necklace with a silver disk and – he counted them – twenty-two entwined circles etched into it. He picked it up and wiped the tears away clumsily before looking around. 

The man was gone. 

Keep me alive. Please. Those words followed him around for the rest of the day, haunting his thoughts. He just could not push them away.

With evening came word of the Daktran forces betrayal. 

It was strange. The words were so simple, clear, yet he just listened, trying to understand them and unable – or unwilling – to. He could tell that there were others who shared the same difficulty. They looked to each other, confused expressions on their faces, eyes beseeching, asking for an explanation.

Ith Mansur had lost all contact with the army, and snipers on the roof of the fortress had spotted a great deal more campfires than had been there previously, along the ridge that was the Zafir rise. Cementing the betrayal were the banners of Daktra fluttering in the wind right next to those of the Principal and his Followers. 

Betrayed, their walls crumbling, their food almost gone, there was nothing more they could do. They would surrender, hand the city over to the enemy, and pray for the best.

Chronicler had never been so scared in all his life.