by Matthew Ward
Apara shook her head. “Not since the wall collapsed.”
“What about Zephan?”
Sevaka shook her head, cast of brow telling the rest of the tale. Rosa gazed across the ashen fields to the shadow-wreathed line at Eskavord’s gate. One shadow darker than any. A murmured, half-remembered prayer spilled unbidden from her lips.
What had Viktor become? Could she have stopped it if she’d spoken out earlier? If she’d warned Josiri instead of running off to play wolf’s-head in the Eastshires?
Sevaka frowned. “I thought the Empress could offer no aid.”
“She could promise no aid,” said Apara. “She hoped, but she didn’t know. Is that her sword?”
Rosa unslung the scabbarded blade from her back. “It is. She wanted it to stand for hope again.”
Apara frowned. “Then it should be drawn.”
“Not by me.” She paused, seeking words to frame unclear sentiment. “If I wield that sword, I’ll never set it down. I haven’t the strength to do so. The Empress gave it to me, but I think she meant it for Josiri. Find him, Apara.”
Apara grimaced, her eyes towards Eskavord and the shadow at its gates. Then she gave a terse nod and fled the ring, scabbard clutched to her chest.
Rosa stared across the battlefield. What had begun as a unified charge had descended into a hundred scattered contests. All save for where the Huntsman’s spear shone through the mists, two score equerries at his back, riding headlong towards Viktor’s line of Ocranza.
“Shouldn’t you be with them?” asked Sevaka.
Rosa glanced mournfully at the dying swirl of leaves that had once been her steed. “Ephemeral or divine, it seems there’s not a steed I can’t fall off. It might be I’m not a very good knight. But if this is where it ends, I’ll face it with you.” Tugging free her helm, she kissed Sevaka. Held her close so that not even the Raven could part them, were that his wish. “No more running away.”
Across the mists, near and far, Ocranza driven back by the Huntsman’s charge gathered anew. And in their path, the weary, the scattered and the dazed. Sword-siblings and shieldbearers of Essamere, without leadership, without hope.
No. Never that. Not while she lived.
She swept her sword high. “Essamere!”
The Drazina folded without a sound, wits struck clean away by Kurkas’ fist. Her companion fared better only in that Altiris caught his falling body, rather than letting it fall. Kurkas, with only a single arm to work with and his back throbbing, had neither the sympathy nor the energy to waste. Resolve softened when the woman rolled onto her back, eyes skyward. Black eyes, with dark spiderweb cracks beneath the brows.
“Mine’s the same,” murmured Altiris. “What is it?”
“He’s in their heads,” Kurkas replied. “All the way in.”
Last time he’d been in Eskavord, the entire population had danced to Malatriant’s tune. What one had felt, they’d all felt. No sign of that with this pair. And the eyes… Hard to be sure with so much time between, but they didn’t look as bad. For whatever that was worth.
“He said he’d taken away their fear,” said Constans, hands still bound and his eyes watchful.
“Yeah, it starts that way,” said Kurkas. “But I’ve seen how it ends.”
He shared a glance with Altiris, marked the lad’s hollow gaze. How far gone was Sidara? Was there anything left to save? If there wasn’t…? Kurkas made a silent promise that it wouldn’t be Altiris’ burden to bear.
By unspoken assent, they crept towards the southwest corner, where blackened and tumbled stone gave way to the lychfield’s forest of ash-swallowed graves. Tzila knelt at the bleak garden’s heart, hands on her knees and head bowed. Sidara stood behind – or at least something that looked mostly like Sidara, for she was as dark-eyed as the unconscious Drazina and deathly pale. Where light so often mantled her shoulders, there was only shadow, writhing, caressing.
Kurkas caught Altiris’ sharp intake of breath and grabbed his shoulder. “Steady, lad. Nothing stupid.”
The shadow pulsed. Clay bodies lain along the lychfield’s western edge twitched to life, darkness oozing beneath the platelets of their skin. Without a word of command from Sidara or Tzila, they formed into a column and marched into the northern streets. A handful of Drazina set about shovelling clay from the back of a wagon.
“It’s not Droshna’s army at all,” murmured Altiris. “It’s Sidara’s.”
He sounded sick. Kurkas couldn’t blame him. “Did you not see the others? Do you not see her eyes? She’s his hands in this. That’s all.”
“And what if there’s nothing of her left?”
The bitter, heartbroken words hung on the air, inviting the answer neither of them wanted to hear.
“She’s still Sidara, at least a little,” said Constans. “I tried talking to her, but she’s never listened to me. She’ll listen to you. Why do you think I came looking for you?”
Kurkas shook his head. “As easy as that, eh?”
“Probably not.” Determination crept into Altiris’ face. “But I have to try.”
Kurkas stared again across the lychfield. Not good odds. Tzila alone could handle them both. And that was before you considered the half a dozen Drazina in ready sight… and Sidara.
He slipped Constans’ dagger from his belt. “Hold out your hands.”
Altiris stepped between Constans and Kurkas. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s that stage of the game,” Kurkas replied. “You walk away from the table, or you give it everything, hope your instincts are true, and pray you’re not playing the high proctor, Lumestra rest his cheating soul.”
“After what he did?” hissed Altiris.
Kurkas tried to ignore the dull, red throb and his clammy shirt. “It’s somewhat present in my mind.”
Altiris scowled, but nodded.
“Hands, boy.” Kurkas jabbed the dagger in the air between them. “You don’t want to know what this second chance’ll cost if you let me down.”
Constans offered a shaky version of his florid bow. Strands of bowstring slithered from his wrists. “A repentant soul, am I.”
Altiris glared. “How…?”
“I undid it ages ago, but I didn’t want you to be nervous.” The arrogance slipped from his voice. “I won’t let you down, Devn.”
“Give him the dagger,” muttered Altiris, “before I throttle him.”
Kurkas hesitated, then slapped the dagger into Constans’ outstretched palm. “Can you handle the Drazina?”
“Pfff.”
Taking the answer as a yes, Kurkas stared back across the lychfield. “Make your girl see sense, lad. Leave the rest to us.”
Altiris threw him a suspicious look. “What about Tzila?”
“We’ve old business to settle.”
Constans cleared his throat. “Altiris…”
“What?”
“Sidara might be a bit surprised to see you. More surprised, I mean.”
“And why’s that?”
Constans winced. “I told her you were dead…” He brightened. “But I said you’d died heroically.”
Altiris scowled.
“Of course you did,” said Kurkas.
He drew his sword and stepped clear of concealment. The throbbing weight in his back grew hotter, heavier, but he somehow kept it from his voice.
“Oi, Halvor! You owe me a rematch!”
Shouts rang out as the Drazina at the wagon scrambled for weapons and came forward. Sidara’s gaze snapped up, shadow swirling about her shoulders. At once, she hunched over, hands at her ears and eyes screwed shut. Tzila reached her feet, the motion graceful as ever.
A whisper of motion at Kurkas’ left and a Drazina fell, Constans’ dagger in his throat. The boy was on him in moments, and then had both a dagger and a sword.
“Sidara!” Altiris went past to Kurkas’ right.
Then Tzila was before him, sabres drawn and approaching with the manner of a spider glad that a fly had
invited itself in for lunch.
“Still time to pick the right side, Halvor,” said Kurkas.
[[I don’t know that name.]]
Her lunge became a feint, became a slash that slit the leather on Kurkas’ thigh and drew blood beneath. He stumbled back, cursing the stiffness of old bones. A scream sounded to his left as Constans claimed another victim.
[[You’re too slow, old man.]]
Rich, coming from her. Halvor had at least a decade over him, and that was before you factored in that she was dead and he wasn’t. Well, not yet. “Who’re you calling old?”
She stalked closer, left-hand sabre whirling and the right at high guard. [[You couldn’t beat me before. You can’t now.]]
The words had an unpleasant ring. Truth always did. Kurkas forced a shrug, and felt something warm ooze along his spine. “Yeah, well. Some things you just gotta do. You used to understand that.”
Gripping his sword tight, he charged.
Sixty-Six
This time, pulling herself back together hurt, a riot of spasm and contortion that left Calenne blind and shuddering, still more mist than form. Lying curled on her side in Otherworld’s mists, arms clutched to her chest and knees practically touching her chin, she couldn’t decide whether the pain made her more real, or less. She knew only that she was furious. At Viktor. At the Raven. At herself for being so useless. Was there anything worse than watching fate unfold, unable to act?
The tremors subsided. Vaporous fingers gained firmity. Sight returned, and with it the horrific image of Revekah’s spirit pyre and the vortex of mist… only now, the tableau was changed.
The garden was gone, replaced by a lychfield, its headstones crooked teeth in an ashen jaw. Through drifting etravia, Calenne glimpsed darker shapes, too real to be part of Otherworld’s shifting realm.
Steel flashed, blood spattering ash. A Drazina collapsed. Constans twisted away into a pall of shadow as another struck out in revenge, the sword striking sparks from a gravestone. His hand dripping blood and his left leg buckling, Kurkas parried one flashing sabre and lurched away from another. Tzila bore down, her steps no longer a dancer’s, but a hunter come to finish her prey.
And in the centre, at the foot of a pyre Calenne knew at once they couldn’t see, stood a young woman with matted, filthy blonde hair, her hands clamped over her ears and her eyes screwed tight. The Raven stood behind her, lips level with her hands, his words lost to distance.
But it was about Tzila that the shadow was darkest, a thousand gossamer tendrils lashing and writhing about her shoulders, a match for the flames consuming Revekah’s soul self. Unless, of course, they weren’t really flames at all. Not any longer.
Calenne frowned, struck by the nagging sense that she’d seen something important, but not understanding what.
Altiris came into sight, sword in his hand, for all that he looked unready to use it. “Sidara!”
“Leave me alone!”
Shadow pulsed at Sidara’s shriek, hurling the Raven back. Hat and cane gone, he landed awkwardly against the pyre’s steps. Mist rolled back in, hiding the lychfield and its inhabitants behind the dying garden.
“What was that?” asked Calenne.
“Back again? Lucky me.” Scowling, the Raven reclaimed his hat and lurched to his feet. “I’m not permitted to act directly, but I thought I might try talking sense into her. You saw how that went.”
She stared into the mists, desperate for a glimpse of the mortal realm. “Try again.”
“I don’t think so.”
The tone struck Calenne more than the words. Weary, affronted… even childish – as if no party in unfolding events were more injured than he. She opened her mouth in retort and closed it again just as quickly. She’d tried arguing with the Raven before, and achieved nothing. Just like the arguments she’d shared with Josiri had never done any good. Pride seldom yielded to passion. Only reason. Even when everything was unreasonable.
Calenne stared again at the bonfire, the dark flames leaping into the vortex above. And just like that, she understood. Perhaps the Raven understood too, but pride wouldn’t allow him to act upon it. Pride, or some peculiar arrangement of worlds – the duties of the Keeper of the Dead. But the Keeper of the Dead was a god before anything else, and where gods were concerned, Calenne knew one truth above all others, hammered home by fairy tale and fable.
She took a deep breath – or whatever passed for breath, in her strange circumstance – and met the Raven’s petulant gaze. “I offer you a bargain.”
He tilted his head, eyes watchful beneath the mask. “Now?”
A tone meant to quell found no purchase on Calenne. Fear belonged to the living, not one who’d died a handful of times over. “Why not?”
He snorted. “Very well. I’m listening. What do you want?”
“Let’s start with what I can give you.”
“Oh, this should be good. A scrap of soul thinks to set the terms of trade? How—”
Calenne cut off his sneer with a wave of her hand – a gesture she’d seen her mother use, long years ago. It felt natural. “I’ll strike the blow you cannot. You’re not free to act. I am. I’ll give you revenge against Viktor. That’s my offer.”
The Raven shook his head in derision. “And how do you propose to make good on your bargain? You’ve some small, irritating resilience here, but out there…?” He turned his back.
“Then let’s talk about what you’re to give me in return,” said Calenne.
With the spectral riders barely thirty yards distant, Viktor loosed his shadow.
It came reluctantly at first, weakened by his generosity of sharing it with Sidara, the Ocranza, the survivors of the 14th, others. But hissing disfavour at the mist’s reflected moonlight, it obeyed, gathering pace as it slithered across the ash. He sent it forth not to blind, as he had in times past, nor to raise the slain as puppets, but to kill.
It overtook the leading equerries, ghostly flesh and armour shattering as its cold burrowed deep. A galloping wedge of spears became a field of glistening chunks and swirling leaves, the riders of Eventide torn from moonlight’s embrace and back into legend. The wedge became a ragged line of emptied saddles and broken spears.
Yet still they came on, the Huntsman at the fore, armour thick with rime, his stag’s antlers lowered. His equerries were ephemeral souls, but he was something older, deeper. Infused with moonlight, and the Dark that was its sire. The demon who’d cast down Ahrad’s walls, and lain waste its armies. He’d been stronger then, vibrant with the full moon’s light and brimming with a goddess’ holy wrath. But even now, with the half-moons of Eventide and Evermoon in balance, no mere shadow could unmake him, not alone. The Dark shied from his starlight spear, its weariness become Viktor’s own.
“Brace!” roared Viktor.
Shields crashed together to his fore, driven by Viktor’s willpower as much as his word. The Huntsman’s horn sounded anew, and the starlight spear lowered to the charge. Viktor dragged his shadow back from the expanse of ash and fading leaves, and bound it about him as armour.
The night sky shuddered as the riders crashed home. Shields split. Bodies sailed through the air. Souls scattered, their clay shells sundered by spear and hoof. The front rank buckled, lost beneath shadow and autumn leaves. Viktor staggered as pieces of the Dark – of him – ripped free of ephemeral mooring, the souls they’d caged lost again to the Raven’s embrace.
The starlight spear blazed bright. Viktor raised his claymore to high guard in challenge, and swung.
At the last moment, the spear twitched, the Huntsman’s reactions swifter than sight. The claymore’s arc, intended to strike the spearhead aside in preparation for a disembowelling thrust, met only empty air. Not so the Huntsman’s spear. Shadow-armour parting before its brilliance, the blazing head punched through plate and hauberk, and deep into flesh.
Viktor’s world turned to fire.
Spear deep in his shoulder, he skidded backwards through the ash, his own bellow
of pain as distant and unfamiliar as the strike of the stag’s hooves. Green eyes blazed. Unremitting. Uncaring.
And then they were gone, lost in a blur of white and captive stars, and Viktor was face down in the ash.
As Altiris drew level with the wagon, Sidara at last faced him. So close, there was no mistaking the Dark’s influence, marked by dark eyes and spreading spiderweb cracks across cheek and brow. But there was something else. An edginess. A distraction. As if she didn’t really see him at all.
“I don’t want to fight you.” Even the idea shivered Altiris to his stomach. Not least because if it came to a fight, he’d no chance of winning. “Can’t you see what Viktor’s done to you?”
She stared at him, hands slipping from her ears.
A Drazina’s scream sounded off to Altiris’ left. He ignored it and edged closer, fighting to meet Sidara’s evasive gaze. “Sidara—”
Her cold, bitter laugh jerked him to a halt. “So it’s apparitions now, is it?”
He edged closer. “It’s me. It’s Altiris.”
“Altiris is dead! They killed him!” Shadow spilled free across her shoulders. Her expression contorted in misery. “Is this the best trick the Raven can manage?”
What did the Raven have to do with anything? He risked another step.
What was there to say? What could he say that madness or imposter would not? He’d never had much of a plan. Only a hope that Sidara’s love for him – and if not love, then at least their friendship, however tested – might snap her out of what Viktor had done. That it might at least give her pause. Denied his very identity by delusion and deceit, even that naive hope sputtered to nothing.
He’d wondered before if he could kill her, if called to. Would it come to that?
Her shadow pulsed to embrace him. Altiris cried out as ice crackled across his limbs, the pain as sharp as it was immediate. He heard his sword drop, but didn’t feel it slip from numbed fingers.
“Altiris is dead.” Sidara stalked closer, her rictus fluctuating between wrath and sorrow. Even her voice was not her own. Something darker lurked beneath. “Whatever you are, you’ll join him.”