‘He is at the feast now?’ the guardsman asked.
‘We have just served the main course.’
‘How many swords at his side?’
‘Only his bodyguard’s. No one else may carry a sword in his presence.’
‘Thank the Primus for that. Entrances and exits?’
‘Two. The main door, and a side entrance for servants.’
‘Are they stout?’
‘Very.’
The guardsman scanned the kitchen restlessly as he considered that information. ‘And who holds keys to these doors?’
‘I do. And the Master of Keys, of course.’
The guardsman held out his hand. ‘Give them to me.’
The butler hesitated, but only for a moment. He picked two keys off his ring and handed them over.
‘Delay the next course until I return,’ he said, and then saluted briskly. ‘Hail to the Emperor.’
‘Hail to the Emperor!’ the butler replied, making a salute of his own; but the guardsman was already on his way.
Krodans! Garric thought scornfully as he strode through the clattering, steaming kitchen. His untidy appearance, his inauthentic accent, his unusual request, all these should have raised suspicion. But they were conditioned to obey authority without question, and so long as he was dressed as an Iron Guardsman they’d do as he said. Whatever failings the Ossians had, they didn’t share that one.
When nobody was looking, he snatched up a knife and slipped it beneath his steel arm-guard. When it came to murder, the fast blade trumped the sword.
He made his way upstairs quickly. Time was against him, and when his escape was discovered, Klyssen really would send reinforcements. Perhaps he already had, since he’d been suspicious enough to send Captain Dressle to the dungeons. But Hammerholt was vast, and orders took time to travel, and the butler had only mentioned the bodyguard. If reinforcements were coming at all, Garric had to hope he’d get to the hall before they did.
Ifs and buts and maybes. It didn’t matter. A hundred swords or one, his course was set. He’d die today. The only question was how many he could take with him.
Following the map in his mind, he found the main door to the feast hall. The sounds of conversation and clinking glasses came from within, the restrained, formal revels of Krodan high society. Garric locked the door from outside, then went up a side passage to the servants’ entrance. He grasped the handle, closed his eyes and took a breath.
Now to death, and darkness, and glory.
He opened the door and stepped through.
The feast hall was long and high-ceilinged, with lamps burning on the walls and glowing wrought-iron braziers standing in the corners, radiating heat and light. The walls were draped with thick tapestries depicting hunting scenes. At one end stood the main doors, while at the other, a few steps led up to a raised dais separated off from the festivities with green velvet curtains.
Garric, unnoticed at the edge of the feast, closed the door behind him and surreptitiously locked it.
Tables ran the length of the hall, arranged in a hollow rectangle. Diners laughed and gossiped, drank from glittering crystal glasses, cut meat with shiny silver knives. The light of a candelabrum reflected in a lady’s eyes as she gazed with veiled lust upon her neighbour; a red-faced Krodan guffawed, drunk on wine and company; a nervous young man pulled at his food, waiting for an opportunity to join the conversation surrounding him. The air smelled of roast venison, buttered leeks, hot coals and perfume.
All this Garric noticed, and more besides. He wasn’t observant by nature, but he drank in every detail now. His senses had opened up, absorbing as much of the world as they could before the end. This was the last room he’d ever see, these the last faces. He was alive now as he’d never been before.
The servants’ door was near the head of the room, where Prince Ottico sat with his back to the curtains. Garric briefly wondered what was behind them – spare chairs, rolled-up tapestries, a grand dessert ready to be unveiled with a flourish? – but once he found his target, the thought went out of his head.
Prince Ottico was disappointingly mundane in the flesh. For all his power, for all that he represented to the people of Kroda, he was just a man, and an unimpressive one at that. He was pale and soft, barely able to grow a moustache despite being in his thirties. The bodyguard was the threat here: tall, shovel-nosed and keen of eye. He stood a short distance behind the prince, his hand resting on his sword. He was the one Garric would have to reckon with first. Further along the table he saw the hated General Dakken, his white hair cut short, looking robust and vigorous despite his three-score years. Dakken would be third to die; he owed his fellow Dawnwardens that. But it was all for nothing if Prince Ottico lived. The prince was the priority.
Garric strode around the edge of the room with the purposeful air of a man who was meant to be there. A few diners spotted him, but they thought him a messenger and saw no threat. Dakken was one of the few who would recognise him, armour or no, but he was deep in conversation. The bodyguard was more alert and he moved to meet Garric, positioning himself in front of the prince. Garric saw the flicker in his eyes as he noted the sword at Garric’s hip and the dishevelled look of him. This wasn’t a man to be cowed by a uniform.
Garric stopped before him and saluted smartly, fist clenched, arm across his chest. ‘Hail to the Emperor!’ he said in greeting.
‘Hail to the Emperor,’ said the bodyguard, and saluted automatically. The instant his sword-hand moved away from the hilt, Garric pulled his knife from inside his arm guard and buried it in the bodyguard’s throat.
The bodyguard gargled, clawing at his neck, eyes turned up to the ceiling. Blood fountained from the wound, spattering the food and faces of the prince and his neighbours. Garric pushed him aside, toppling him to the floor in a clatter of armour, and drew his sword.
Now he was surrounded by screams as people scrambled to flee. Hot blood pulsed at his temples as he bore down on his target. Prince Ottico had the terrified glaze of a child seeing a bogeyman in the flesh.
I am the Hollow Man, and I’ve come for you.
Garric reached for the prince, but Ottico went boneless and slid off his chair and under the table like an eel. It was such an unmanly act of cowardice that it took Garric completely by surprise. Garric lunged for him but the prince was already crawling away, scrambling between the feet of the panicked diners. Garric tried to grab him but guests and fallen chairs got in his way. Finally he shoved a shrieking lady aside and vaulted over the table, scattering plates and candelabra. There were no chairs on the other side to hinder him, and he caught the wriggling prince by the boot and pulled him out from beneath the table. Some of the guests were pounding on the doors or screaming, while others watched in horror as Garric raised his sword to kill the prince.
A battle-cry sounded to his left and he heard running feet. The blade that was meant for the prince’s skull turned to meet the attack instead, clanging against the sword that swung down towards him.
It was General Dakken, wielding the bodyguard’s weapon which Garric had failed to take. He cursed himself for the oversight.
‘Dog! You will not murder an unarmed man!’ Dakken spat.
Seeing his chance, the prince kicked wildly, catching Garric in the thigh. In the same moment, Dakken attacked and Garric lost his grip on the prince as he was forced to defend himself. Ottico scrabbled under the table again and was hauled out on the other side by a few guests who hadn’t tried to flee.
Garric turned a dark gaze on to Dakken. He’d been a heartbeat from killing Ottico and the prince had escaped. But it would only be a temporary stay of execution.
‘You were next anyway,’ he snarled.
‘I think not,’ said the general, circling around, poised in the stance of a trained fighter. ‘Thirty years I’ve been waiting to finish the job I started.’
His blade flicked out. Garric knocked it away and retaliated, testing his enemy’s guard, finding it solid. Bad t
o worse. He didn’t have time for a drawn-out fight. Already the doors were being battered from the other side as servants and guards tried to get in. They’d break in the end, or a key would be found. He glanced at the prince, but he was hiding behind his nobles; Garric would never reach him before Dakken cut him down.
Let’s make this quick, then.
They prowled around each other, searching for an opening. The tables had become the limits of their private arena. Age hadn’t slowed the general, but Garric – who wasn’t much younger – twinged with pain from a dozen injuries sustained on the torture table. His skin pulled over new scars, his bruises hampered him and his ruined gums had begun to bleed again. The unfamiliar weight of the armour was sapping his strength, and he’d already been weakened by the Iron Hand’s ministrations.
He blocked out the pain as best he could, and remembered that night when his best friend had slit his throat and he’d crawled into the forest to die with the sound of slaughter in his ears.
‘You didn’t destroy the Dawnwardens, Dakken,’ he growled. ‘Eckard the Quick did that. You were just a lowly captain in the right place at the right time, who forged his career from that happy chance. Must have pained your betters to see you climb so high without merit.’
He moved fast, bringing a flurry of blows down on his opponent. Dakken, wearing no armour, was faster still. He knocked them away one by one and made no attempt to return them, keeping his distance instead.
He’s playing for time, Garric thought in frustration. Waiting for reinforcements. Wearing me down.
‘Some might say that being in the right place at the right time is the very essence of war,’ Dakken said. ‘And here I am again.’
A lunge, a parry. The doors thundered under renewed assault from the other side. Garric caught another glimpse of the prince, shielded by his barons and dukes. So close, and yet Garric couldn’t get to him. It made him want to howl with fury.
‘Nothing to say?’ Dakken taunted. ‘Then let me tell you how my career will end, which you think so free of merit. After I have killed you, I will retire in glory to the motherland and be remembered for ever as a hero of the Empire. You, on the other hand, will not even have the honour of an Ossian burial. We will burn you on a pyre, the Krodan way, and you will be cleansed with the light of the Primus.’
Garric gave him a bloody grin. ‘See, there’s the difference between us, Dakken,’ he said. ‘You’re planning to have a long and happy life. But I came here to die.’
He threw himself forward, swinging wildly with no thought for defence. Dakken was taken off-guard by the suicidal force of it. He barely parried the first blow and only just managed to turn the second aside. As Garric brought his blade around again, Dakken swung frantically into the gap. Garric threw up his left arm and cried out as the blade smashed into his armour with enough force to break the bone beneath. His own blade took Dakken horizontally in the side of the head, smashing through cheek and teeth and skull before coming to a jarring halt in the centre of his face.
Horrified screams filled the room. With an animal bellow of rage, Garric tore his sword free from the mangled ruin of the general’s head. His body spun away and crashed to the floor, oozing brain and blood onto the flagstones.
Garric turned, panting, his face spattered red and one arm hanging limp. There was a mad hatred in his gaze, the savage anger of a dying animal. He pointed his sword at Prince Ottico.
‘Now you,’ he said.
The door to the hall exploded inwards in a shower of splinters and spinning wood. Garric staggered away, his sword-arm up before his face. When he lowered it again, he felt the cold touch of despair on his heart.
Stooping through the doorway was a mountain of a man clad in tarnished black armour, an enormous warhammer held in both hands.
Ruin had come.
101
Vika clawed at the stone floor of the vault, crawling horrors on her tongue, skin itching with burrowing worms. Around her, the others retched and pawed at themselves, helpless before Plague.
He stepped into the room, making a soft, wet clicking sound like bones rattling in his throat. Klyssen followed with his troops, but they were insignificant ghosts to Vika’s eyes. She didn’t see them as the others did. The foul shock of the dreadknight’s power had triggered a reaction in her mind. Beneath the skin of reality, something swarmed, and chaos bled through the weave of the world as the Shadowlands pressed close.
Her battle with the beast of Skavengard and the days she spent fighting off Plague’s corrupting poison had taught her things that Agalie never could. She’d been changed by the touch of the Abyss and hadn’t known it till now. For the first time, Vika touched the Shadowlands without need of a potion to help her. Her senses teetered, and madness loomed.
She had to fight the demon. He was a blasphemy to the Aspects and she was compelled to destroy him. But though her instincts demanded it, her body refused to comply. Her skin split and festered, and her mind was a wild whirl of panic.
‘You should have run, and kept running.’ Klyssen was talking to Aren, who was writhing at his feet. ‘You might even have got away. But to come back? What were you thinking?’
The light! Where was the sacred light that shone from her at the gates of Skavengard, which had driven the dreadknights back? How had she done that? She fought to remember, but her fingernails were splitting and flaking away, and she was choking on a throat filled with maggots.
‘I will torture Cade to death,’ Klyssen said, ‘and you will watch. It will bring me no pleasure, but I must keep my word. The Iron Hand are the conscience of the Empire. And, you must admit, you were warned.’
Aspects, save us! Vika begged, but the Aspects were silent. She moaned in desperate frustration. Why set her on this path if they refused to help in her time of direst need? Why show her the end of the world if they wouldn’t help her avert it?
Doubt swarmed in. Agalie always said she doubted too readily. But the Aspects had shown her a champion wielding a blade that shone like the sun, and he’d abandoned them! What was she to think, then? She’d let herself be guided by visions, but the mad saw visions as clear as the holy.
Visions. The thought gave her an instant of clarity through the fog of nightmare. Her companions were wracked with pain as she was, but she saw no sign of affliction upon them. The worms and boils and blackening flesh were visions, put in their minds by Plague’s dark power. They were only as real as she believed them to be.
Then I don’t believe!
She knew this demon. She’d cured herself of his poison, and she’d learned him. He’d tried to kill her once and failed, and she was stronger for it.
This isn’t real.
The pain began to draw back. Only a little, for she couldn’t entirely quiet the shrieking in her mind; but she doubted these terrors now, and her doubt weakened them.
‘Shackle the prisoners,’ Klyssen was saying, dimly heard at the edge of her consciousness. ‘We’ll take them for questioning. Between them they will give us the rest of the rebels in Morgenholme.’
‘What about the dog?’ one of the Guardsmen said.
Klyssen sniffed. ‘Kill it.’
No! Panic shot through her like a bolt. She raised her head, fighting to clear her mind. The others thrashed on the floor of the vault, backs arching and eyes rolling, howling at their private torture as the guards began to spread out between them. One was making his way towards Ruck, sword drawn. Plague stood at the edge of the room, his dead-skin mask impassive.
Get up! Fight him! she told herself, but it was beyond her. She wasn’t strong enough to face down that thing alone. She needed the Aspects with her, and the Aspects wouldn’t come.
Why aren’t you here with me now? Why?
A memory came to her then, clear and vivid, a pool of calm in the chaos. She stood in the light of a fire, staring into a stream that ran through a forest clearing and past her feet. Agalie-Sings-The-Dark was standing behind her.
‘Five times I was
visited by the gods,’ Vika had said. ‘Five times, and then no more. Can you imagine that? To be so blessed and then … not to be?’
‘I have never seen them,’ said Agalie. ‘Only their signs and agents. Be grateful for what grace was given you. We are each tested in our own way.’
She heard the rank ingratitude in her words, to complain that she’d only been visited five times by the Aspects, when Agalie kept iron faith on much slimmer evidence. We are each tested in our own way.
‘If the Aspects are silent,’ Agalie had said, ‘it is because we have forgotten how to listen.’
The soldier walked closer to Ruck, his step heavy with doom, blade ready in his hand. Ruck gnawed her own foreleg and whined, oblivious to her impending death.
Vika’s staff lay next to her. She reached for it, but was hit by a fresh spasm which collapsed her again. Tears sprang to her eyes as she lay, cheek to the ground, looking at her beloved hound. So close, and yet she couldn’t save her. She couldn’t rise up and fight.
Not real. It’s. Not. Real.
But if she felt it so keenly, did it even matter whether it was real or not?
A glint of red caught her eye, like the bloody light of a new dawn. The Ember Blade, which had fallen from Aren’s hand. The standard of their nation.
Another memory hit her, from moments before. Aren lifting the Ember Blade, holding it aloft. The triumph and joy on his face.
Her eyes widened. The champion with the bright blade.
Her vision had been clear all along, it was just that she failed to understand it. She’d been so certain Garric was the champion that she’d forced all the evidence to fit that theory, and then blamed the Aspects when he’d disappointed her. But it was her mistake. They hadn’t shown her Garric.
They’d shown her Aren.
If the Aspects are silent, it is because we have forgotten how to listen.
The revelation tumbled through her like an avalanche. She’d thought she was listening, but she hadn’t been. Instead she’d fashioned herself a champion and appointed herself his protector: Vika, chosen of the gods, tasked with the sacred duty to save the world. She’d made herself special, as she’d been when she was a young girl, as she’d wanted to be ever since the Aspects stopped visiting her. And all along, she’d demanded clearer signs, more help, intervention from the Nine.
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