Free Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken by Mazarkis Williams Page B

without a reason either, and the constant needling was meant to shake him, to intimidate him and make him doubt – for if all went as planned, negotiations would soon be upon them and Arigu would do what he could to improve Cerana’s position.
    But events gave Didryk the advantage: Mogyrk’s Scar in the eastern desert was growing. He stood closer now to the source of His power than ever before. He could feel His vitality in the sand and sky and in the very air that he breathed – but it was a temporary gift. The Scar consumed all it found, just like His wounds, and Yrkmir was coming to meet it.
    Didryk had passed one of Mogyrk’s wounds in the desert, an area where dunes large as cities had been swallowed whole, leaving neither sound nor colour, and all was covered with a blankness that nevertheless felt
hungry
– a place from which he had instinctively looked away, and ordered his men to do the same. This was the coming of Mogyrk foretold, the Great Storm, when His wounds, laid in the earth itself, spread and rotted all they touched until every man joined Him in death.
    It filled Didryk with a blank horror. Patterns fed the Storm.Yrkmir wielded patterns as other men wielded swords, and Yrkmir was coming.
    But caught between Mogyrk and His followers, Cerana would look for an ally who could counter their magic. The emperor would never trust an austere like Adam; it was to Didryk he would turn – to Didryk he
must
turn.
    He had been intended for the church, and raised among the novices. He had learned with them, eaten with them, drawn his first patterns with them, under Adam’s less than tender care. Those dozen boys who slept in the cloister attic had been like brothers, but only Didryk remained. Arigu had tortured and burned the rest. When he closed his eyes Didryk still saw their charred corpses hanging from the city wall; he still choked on the stench of burning flesh.
    Didryk set the pitcher and cup within the general’s reach. ‘Drink.’ With that he pushed open the flap and stepped out into the desert, into the sun that fell so gracelessly upon every inch of sand, and the biting heat that came with it. It was no wonder the desert empire was known as unforgiving and ruthless, for its sky held no kindness. He gestured to his men who were gathered under tarps and drinking from waterskins, and began to climb the nearest dune. It was harder than he had expected, and the breath came harsh in his throat. Halfway up his calves and thighs began to strain, and the sun burnt the back of his neck as he zigzagged to the top. At last he looked out towards Cerana. Banreh was not yet returning – he would have sensed that – but soldiers could be seeking them instead. Didryk was prepared to die. One did not enter into such a plan as his without being so, but he would like to see it coming.
    He looked east over the sands until a bright pain pierced his eyes, but saw no colours cut out from the unending brown, noplume of dust that would indicate movement from Nooria. A reluctant glance towards the north showed no sign of Yrkmir either. Would Yrkmir pass by the same wound, or would they be caught by it and torn apart, unravelled?
    He looked down at his camp, blinking away the dark spots in his vision; it was surprisingly far below. Coming from the mountains as he did, he should be used to gauging heights, but these dunes tricked the eye.
    ‘Didryk.’ A crimson-robed figure made the crest and ambled towards him as if this were a calm summer day in the courtyard at Mondrath. Didryk knew him for Adam even before the pointed hood fell back, revealing white-gold hair, and he backed away before thinking better of it.
    ‘Adam.’ Didryk’s instinct was to protect himself, but their talk would not go well with weapons in hand. ‘How did you find me?’
    ‘You are my student,’ Adam said with a smile. ‘I will always be able to find you.’
    ‘I
was
your student,’ Didryk corrected, his mind racing. Adam must have marked and