The Hidden City

the ill-defined trail. Then he bent, took Faran’s left foreleg in both hands, and carefully inspected the hoof. Faran gave him an unfriendly stare.
    ‘Sorry,’ Khalad apologized to the bad-tempered brute, ‘It’s nothing important.’ He lowered the hoof to the gravel again.
    ‘All right, Berit,’ he said then, ‘say “Amen”, and we’ll get going again.’
    ‘What was that all about?’ Berit’s tone was surly as he remounted.
    ‘Sparhawk left a message for us,’ Khalad replied, swinging up into his saddle. ‘The arrangement of the yellow rocks told me where to find it.’
    ‘Where is it?’ Berit asked eagerly.
    ‘Right now? It’s in my left boot. I picked it up when I was checking Faran’s hoof.’
    ‘I didn’t see you pick up a thing.’
    ‘You weren’t supposed to, my Lord.’
    Krager awoke with the horrors to the sound of distant screaming.
    Days and nights had long since blurred in Krager’s awareness, but the sun shattering against his eyes told him that it was a full and awful morning. He had certainly not intended to drink so much the previous night, but the knowledge that he was reaching the bottom of his last cask of Arcian red had worried at him as he had grown progressively drunker, and the knowledge that it would soon be all gone had somehow translated itself in his fuddled mind into a compulsion to drink it all before it got away from him.
    Now he was paying for that foolishness. His head was throbbing, his stomach was on fire, and his mouth tasted as if something had crawled in there and died. He was shaking violently, and there were sharp stabbing pains in his liver. He sat on the edge of his tangled bed with his head in his hands. There was a sense of dread hanging over him, a shadowy feeling of horror.
    He kept his burning eyes closed and groped under the bed with one shaking hand for the emergency bottle he always kept there. The liquid it contained was neither wine nor beer but a dreadful concoction of Lamork origin that was obtained by setting certain inferior wines out in the winter and allowing them to freeze. The liquid that rose to the top and remained unfrozen was almost pure spirits. It tasted foul, and it burned like fire going down, but it put the horrors to sleep. Shuddering, Krager drank off about a pint of the awful stuff and lurched to his feet.
    The sun was painfully bright when he stumbled out into the streets of Natayos and went looking for the source of the screams that had awakened him. He reached a central square and recoiled in horror. Several men were being systematically tortured to death while Scarpa, dressed in his shabby imitation royal robe and his makeshift crown, sat in an ornate chair watching with approval.
    ‘What’s going on?’ Krager asked CabaL, a shabby Dacite brigand of his acquaintance with whom he had frequently gotten drunk. CabaL turned quickly. ‘Oh, it’s you, Krager,’ he said. ‘As closely as I can gather, the Shining Ones descended on Panem-Doa.’
    ‘That’s impossible,’ Krager said shortly. ‘Ptaga’s dead. There aren’t any more of those illusions to keep the Tamuls running around in circles.’
    ‘If we can believe what some of those dying fellows said, the ones who went into Panem-Doa weren’t illusions,’ CabaL replied. ‘A fair number of the officers there got themselves disolved when they tried to stand and fight.’
    ‘What’s happening here?’ Krager asked, pointing at the screaming men bound to poles set up in the middle of the square.
    ‘Scarpa’s making examples of the ones who ran away. He’s having them cut to pieces. Here comes Cyzada.’ CabaL pointed at the Styric hurrying out of Scarpa’s headquarters.
    ‘What are you doing?’ the hollow-eyed Cyzada bellowed at the madman sitting on his cheap throne.
    ‘They deserted their posts,’ Scarpa replied. ‘They’re being punished.’
    ‘You need every man, you idiot!’
    ‘I ordered them to march to the north to join my loyal armies,’ Scarpa shrugged. ‘They concocted lies to excuse their failure to obey. They must be punished. I will have obedience!’
    ‘You will not kill your own soldiers. Order your butchers to stop!’
    ‘That’s quite impossible, Cyzada. An imperial order, once given, cannot be rescinded. I have commanded that every deserter from Panem-Doa be tortured to death. It’s out of my hands now.’
    ‘You maniac. you won’t have a soldier left by tomorrow morning. They’ll all desert!’
    ‘Then I will