itself had been set awry. So
God cursed the black armour of Antimone, and stirred up the hearts of all the
other races of Kuf against Ask and his people. The Macht would be warriors
without compare, He decreed, but they would never know peace, and they would
have need of their black armour over the course of the world’s turning, for
they would pay in blood for their desire to master the earth.
Antimone was punished
also. She had erred in pity, in softness of heart, and so God set her down on
Kuf itself to watch over the Macht in all their travails down the millennia.
She would foresee the fate of those she loved, but would not be able to change
it, and so would weep bitter tears, for she would be witness to every crime
that man would commit in his tenure of the earth.
Her sons, Phobos
the elder and Haukos the younger, wished to follow their mother to Kuf, but God
forbade it as part of Antimone’s punishment. So they drew as near as they
dared, riding their great black horses in shadow across the night sky, when
Araian the sun was not there to tell God of their doings. Phobos hated the
Macht for causing his mother’s exile from heaven, and his white face leered down
upon men from the depths of the night sky. But Haukos had inherited his mother’s
soft heart. To his pink countenance men prayed for intercession with Antimone,
and hence, with God Himself.
Such was the
legend.
Whatever their
origin, there were some five thousand sets of Antimone’s black armour abroad in
the world, and those who bore them were known as cursebearers. The armour was
passed down through families for centuries, though many had changed hands in
battle. None were ever given up willingly, and a city might go to war for
possession of a single black cuirass. Ageless and indestructible, some said
that in them resided the very essence of the Macht as a people, and were they
to disappear, then so would mankind.
“We saw your
scarlet cloak, and the harness you bear, and wondered if you might be hiring,”
Rictus said to the man who stood before them now with one of these ancient
artefacts on his back.
The man cocked his
head to one side. “If I am, I do not hire in the middle of the street. Nor do I
like to be shouted at there by boys who still have their mother’s milk about
their gums.” One eyebrow rose at this, a mockery, though the rest of his face
remained grave.
Gasca took a step
forward, but Rictus tilted out his spear to bar his way.
“You’re right, of
course,” he said to the cursebearer. “You have our apologies. Would it be
acceptable for us to ask you—to ask you where it would be appropriate to look
for employment?”
The man smiled at
this. “You’ve not done much apologising in your time, boy. But you want
employment you say. As mercenaries?
“Yes, sir.”
“And is this all
the panoply you possess?”
“What you see is
all we have,” Gasca said. “But it has done good service before now.”
“No doubt. But it’s
not enough to get you both in the phalanx. One of you, perhaps, but the other
will have to apply to the light arm, or else be a camp servant. Go to the
northern gate, the Mithannon they call it. Outside the walls there’s a
marshalling square surrounded by tents and shacks. That’s where they hire
spears in this town.”
“Thank you,” both
Rictus and Gasca said at once, eyes bright as those of children promised some
treat.
The man chuckled. “You
came to the head of the snake. I am Pasion of Decanth. Drop my name there and
you may not get as hard a time. It’s late in the day to be touting your wares.
Leave it till the morning, and you’re less likely to be manhandled.”
“Thank you,”
Rictus said again.
“You’re from Isca,
boy, aren’t you?”
“I… How do you
know?”
“The way you met
my eyes. Most men outside the scarlet drop their gaze for a second on meeting a
cursebearer. You’ve had Iscan arrogance bred into you. Let slip that at the
hiring—it will do no harm. Now I
God cursed the black armour of Antimone, and stirred up the hearts of all the
other races of Kuf against Ask and his people. The Macht would be warriors
without compare, He decreed, but they would never know peace, and they would
have need of their black armour over the course of the world’s turning, for
they would pay in blood for their desire to master the earth.
Antimone was punished
also. She had erred in pity, in softness of heart, and so God set her down on
Kuf itself to watch over the Macht in all their travails down the millennia.
She would foresee the fate of those she loved, but would not be able to change
it, and so would weep bitter tears, for she would be witness to every crime
that man would commit in his tenure of the earth.
Her sons, Phobos
the elder and Haukos the younger, wished to follow their mother to Kuf, but God
forbade it as part of Antimone’s punishment. So they drew as near as they
dared, riding their great black horses in shadow across the night sky, when
Araian the sun was not there to tell God of their doings. Phobos hated the
Macht for causing his mother’s exile from heaven, and his white face leered down
upon men from the depths of the night sky. But Haukos had inherited his mother’s
soft heart. To his pink countenance men prayed for intercession with Antimone,
and hence, with God Himself.
Such was the
legend.
Whatever their
origin, there were some five thousand sets of Antimone’s black armour abroad in
the world, and those who bore them were known as cursebearers. The armour was
passed down through families for centuries, though many had changed hands in
battle. None were ever given up willingly, and a city might go to war for
possession of a single black cuirass. Ageless and indestructible, some said
that in them resided the very essence of the Macht as a people, and were they
to disappear, then so would mankind.
“We saw your
scarlet cloak, and the harness you bear, and wondered if you might be hiring,”
Rictus said to the man who stood before them now with one of these ancient
artefacts on his back.
The man cocked his
head to one side. “If I am, I do not hire in the middle of the street. Nor do I
like to be shouted at there by boys who still have their mother’s milk about
their gums.” One eyebrow rose at this, a mockery, though the rest of his face
remained grave.
Gasca took a step
forward, but Rictus tilted out his spear to bar his way.
“You’re right, of
course,” he said to the cursebearer. “You have our apologies. Would it be
acceptable for us to ask you—to ask you where it would be appropriate to look
for employment?”
The man smiled at
this. “You’ve not done much apologising in your time, boy. But you want
employment you say. As mercenaries?
“Yes, sir.”
“And is this all
the panoply you possess?”
“What you see is
all we have,” Gasca said. “But it has done good service before now.”
“No doubt. But it’s
not enough to get you both in the phalanx. One of you, perhaps, but the other
will have to apply to the light arm, or else be a camp servant. Go to the
northern gate, the Mithannon they call it. Outside the walls there’s a
marshalling square surrounded by tents and shacks. That’s where they hire
spears in this town.”
“Thank you,” both
Rictus and Gasca said at once, eyes bright as those of children promised some
treat.
The man chuckled. “You
came to the head of the snake. I am Pasion of Decanth. Drop my name there and
you may not get as hard a time. It’s late in the day to be touting your wares.
Leave it till the morning, and you’re less likely to be manhandled.”
“Thank you,”
Rictus said again.
“You’re from Isca,
boy, aren’t you?”
“I… How do you
know?”
“The way you met
my eyes. Most men outside the scarlet drop their gaze for a second on meeting a
cursebearer. You’ve had Iscan arrogance bred into you. Let slip that at the
hiring—it will do no harm. Now I
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