The House of Sacrifice. Anna Smith Spark

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СКАЧАТЬ down him, flaking off him, whole bits of what had once been people, congealing in lumps, running off his skin.

      ‘Gods, this stinks,’ said Osen. He was as filthy as Marith was. Marith reached down and fumbled with the straps of Osen’s armour in turn.

      ‘Leave it. I’ll do it later. The important thing is you.’ Osen took his hand. ‘You’re shaking.’

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘This carpet is bloody ruined,’ said Osen. Still struggling with Marith’s armour that was stuck to him with blood. ‘It’ll have to be burned.’

      The last time he’d been here, at Sun’s Height. Kneeling on the carpet at Thalia’s feet, Thalia’s face shining bronze like candles, looking down at him. Love and joy and peace.

      Osen said, ‘There! Gods, wretched thing.’ Clatter of metal. The armour lying in blood and spilled wine. ‘Let’s get you next door to the bath, then. I’ll get you a drink for when you’re in there.’

      Blink of hope. ‘Hatha?’

      ‘A bit early in the day, don’t you think?’

      Marith blinked. ‘Please?’

      ‘You’re the king. I do as you say. But, look, maybe try to go a bit easy. Maybe?’

      Marith rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘You said. But, look: go easy. Alleen’s choosing the drinks tonight. We tossed for it, who got to storm the Salen Gateway, who wussed out with the Sea Gate but got to choose the victory drinks. And you do look … tired. So go easy beforehand, maybe? Yes? No?’

      Marith rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

      His legs were shaking. Osen had to help him into the bath. Voices of the servants fussing cleaning up his bedchamber. His head was aching. His whole body was aching. The bath chamber had windows of blue glass. Made his skin look blue and dead. Could hear screams. Smell of smoke, sound of fire. The girl sobbing, where she was being whipped.

       Chapter Three

      Four years, since Marith Altrersyr destroyed the palace of the Asekemlene Emperor of the Sekemleth Empire of the Eternal Golden City of Sorlost, carried off the High Priestess Thalia the Chosen of the Great God Tanis to be his bride, bested first his father and then his uncle in battle to claim both their kingdoms, avenged the betrayal of his ancestor Amrath in the ruins of Ethalden to be crowned King of Illyr, Amrath Returned, called all the fighting men of Irlast to his banner, set out to conquer the world.

      Four years.

      And most of Irlast was indeed now conquered. Cities razed. Armies broken. Kings and princes and magelords grovelling in the dust. Immier, Cen Andae, Cen Elora, Chathe with its rose trees all uprooted, the Nairn Forest a thousand miles of grey ash. The sky had been red from sunrise to sunset to sunrise, when he burned the Nairn Forest. The smoke had blocked out the sun. From the Bitter Sea to the Sea of Tears, he was king and master. Always, his power was growing. His shadow lengthening. His fortress of Ethalden was built of gold and gems and human flesh. He held court crowned in mage light and emissaries came to praise him from every corner of the world. His armies were uncountable like the grains of sand in the desert. Undefeated like the sea rising in winter. Feared like a famine when the rains fail. Over the face of the world they ran like water and the world was drowning. Over the face of the world they ran and their coming was like night.

      Marith the World Conqueror. God of war and ruin and grief and hate and vengeance. Dragonlord. Dragon kin. Demon born. Lord of Shadows. Death made manifest. Great king.

      Four glorious, wonderful, perfect, joy-filled years.

       Chapter Four

      He was slumped in bed the next day when Osen came to tell him that the Arunmenese rebel leader had been captured.

      ‘Oh. Wonderful.’ Sat up. Lay down again. Oh gods. ‘He couldn’t have stayed uncaptured for another few hours? Just until my hangover went away?’

      ‘What did I tell you?’

      ‘What did you tell me?’

      ‘I—’ Osen shook his head. ‘Never mind. I can deal with it, if you want.’

      ‘No, no. I should. I want to see him.’ Bastard. Ungrateful stupid bastard. Marith thought: I left Arunmen untouched. I. Left. Arunmen. Un. Touched. And this ungrateful idiot decided to rebel against me. Which part of ‘untouched’ was so difficult for people to understand?

      Managed to get up and dressed, just about. With Osen’s help. But, look, three assaults in four days. Tiring. And it was all Alleen Durith’s fault really, he had chosen last night’s drinks. Marith gulped watered wine, his hands shaking, fighting down nausea. The girl holding his cup stared at him trying not to look at him, like she was watching a man’s death. The palace staff kept sending servant girls to attend him, thin tight dresses and big whispering eyes. Send them away. One of them had almost touched his hand, carrying in his clothes. His hand tingled, like he’d touched something dirty, couldn’t wash it off. Sweat, running inside her thin silk dress.

      He came back into the throne room. They’d spent all day scrubbing it clean. Sat here last night and the bodies had still been piled here, he’d seen them, his soldiers and the enemy soldiers, piled up in mounds at his feet while he feasted, he thought again: why? It’s a stupid tasteless wooden chair. Mounted the steps of the dais, sat down, his legs were shaking. Curse Alleen Durith. He’d put on his red cloak, all bloody, it stank like his head hurt, it left trails of slime like slug trails on the chair. The crown of Arunmen on his head, and it was irritatingly heavy, and the previous King of Arunmen must have had a really weirdly shaped head.

      All very formal. The High Lords of his empire knelt in fealty before him, kissed his hands, offered him praise and gratitude as their king and as their god. Osen Fiolt. Alleen Durith. Lord Erith. Lord Nymen. Lord Meerak of Raen. Lady Dansa Arual of Balkash. Lord Cimer the Magelord. Lord Ranene the weather hand. Lord Ryn Mathen the King of Chathe’s cousin who led the allied Chathean troops. All his great High Lords, his captains, his friends, his trusted companions, the men and women upon whom he had bestowed the glory of his reign.

      All nine of them.

      No. That wasn’t exactly fair on himself. Yanis Stansel was back in Illyr acting as regent, raising fresh troops and overseeing the final construction of Amrath’s tomb. Kiana Sabryya was on her way to join them, escorting Thalia from Tereen.

      Ten. Eleven. And perhaps once he’d have been astonished to think he might count his companions as high as that. More even than the fingers of both hands! Look, look, father, look, Ti, look at me! Eleven friends!

      Valim Erith said, ‘Bring him in.’

      Stirring, voices calling outside the doorway. ‘Bring him!’ A troop of guardsmen entered. A tall man chained and bound in their midst. He was naked. Dripping blood. Stinking of excrement. Hate and rage and terror on the man’s face.

      ‘My Lord King,’ Valim said. ‘The prisoner.’

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