Theron as he had and would so many other men, with all their might ranged round
them. And Theron knew the truth of it-he’d known Tempus since both were
seemingly of an age, fighting the Defender on Wizardwall’s skirts when the
Rankan Empire was just a babe. The two were honest with one another when it was
possible; they were careful when it was not.
“Got a god to anger? We’ve got something mad enough to spit, I’ll own,” Tempus
replied. Now, Tempus knew, was not the time to raise false hopes of Vashanka the
Missing God’s return in a warrior who’d willingly and knowingly come to a throne
whose weight would kill him. It was the dirtiest of jobs, was kingship, and
Theron had become the man to do it by default. “If it’s Vashanka, then it’s a
matter between Him and Enlil. Theomachy tends to kill more men than gods. Don’t
be too anxious to get the armies’ hopes up-the war with Myg-donia won’t end by
gods’ wills, any more than it will by Nisi-bisi magic.”
“That’s what you think this infernal darkness is, then- magic? Your nemesis,
perhaps … the Nisibisi witch?”
“Or yours, the Nisibisi warlocks. What matter, gods or magic? If I thought he
had the power, I’d pick Brachis as the culprit. He’d do without both of us well
enough.”
“We’d do without all of his well enough. But we’re stuck with one another, for
the nonce. Unless, of course, you’ve a suggestion… some way to rid me, as the
saying has gone from time immemorial, of all meddlesome priests?”
The two were fencing with words, neither addressing the real problem: the storm