by Ben Galley
It was then that the first flakes of ash began to fall under a cold northern wind.
For all their gilded achievements, their towers of marble, their silken finery, humans had never strayed far from their animal natures. The gods had given them two thousand years, and they were no closer to true improvement. It was like dressing up a hound and sitting it at a banquet table. All it would take was a whistle or a grab of its scruff, and all too quickly the dog would show its fangs.
Loki raised his pale hand to a sky of umber torchlight, and let a fat wafer of ash land on his knuckles. All it had taken Krauslung to show its fangs was fear. The shocking realisation that Malvus’ Arka might not be invincible after all, and that the price for such knowledge was the people’s to pay. Like animals indeed, they had scented defeat in the air like approaching rain.
Loki drew a dark line across his skin with Irminsul’s ash and smirked. To know Farden was behind it all was simply delicious. Surprised as Loki had been by Irminsul, he was more shocked at how easy the mage had made this for him.
The god continued his journey. Loki was feeling brazen. He wore no other face besides his own. His trademark coat, streaked by the ash, curled around his legs in breezes pinched by the narrow streets. Boots scuffing through the patina of ash that had gathered, he kept his gaze wandering.
Along an adjoining street, a portly man was being dragged from his stately home. He was not alone. Plenty of the merchants and magistrates had paid Malvus to keep their sons and daughters from the war. This didn’t sit well with those of lower status and lighter pockets. Loki saw the fists and staves descend upon the man while his crying children shivered in the ash nearby. The smart ones had either joined the mobs in their protests or sealed themselves in the Arkathedral.
Loki watched a band of Street Legion guards deflecting rocks from their shields, stubbornly and stupidly upholding Malvus’ orders. The gutters beneath their feet were already stained red from a fallen guard, curled around a spear.
Some animals are smarter than others, of course. The clever ones were calling for calm and strong leadership. Not for any reason as preposterous as altruism; that belonged to the idiots. Loki knew, just as they did, that if the rumours of utter defeat were true, Krauslung was now a treasure trove to be claimed. Not merely of wealth, but of power.
A fine example was the cults of various gods. Long oppressed by Malvus’ opposition to worship of anything beyond him, they now gathered in their throngs. The bright colours of their varying robes and cloaks had washed monochrome. Each of their preachers blamed the other for not praying in the right way or to the right god. In the Arkathedral, it was no different. Loki had wandered many places that night, and had seen plenty of ex-councillors, guard captains, and even a foreign duke arguing for even the most temporary grasps at control of the headless empire. Loyalty was always self-serving.
Loki’s boots scuffed against a broken lantern, already smeared in grey ash. He paused at a junction where a familiar face was emblazoned on the wall of a bakery. In the flickering light, Loki stared at the narrow eyes enshrouded by a hood, fist raised in defiance. Farden’s face, now smeared in cow shit, by the reek of it. The word “believe” had been defaced. “Traitor” replaced it, written in something that look remarkably similar to blood. Loki had to smile.
As he climbed the incline to the walls, he noticed the growing crowds, afire with discussion and theories over the Arka’s apparent massacre. Chants for answers and explanations assailed the gatehouse, where figures of rank had likely holed up. There again, he saw ash-covered speakers upon carts and boxes, proclaiming this and that as a guise for leadership. If Emperor Malvus’ reign had proved one truth and one truth alone, it was that Krauslung’s – and Emaneska’s – power was anybody’s to seize. Loki was planning on it.
Chatter ran through the people, fed by a woman of considerable years and a crown of rags about her head. ‘Enough!’ she was shouting. ‘Enough, I say! This is our land. Our city, built by our hands. Why should we bleed for those who won’t bleed for us!’
It was a fine sentiment, irkingly similar to Loki’s ideas but a satisfactory sign that the people of Krauslung yearned for change. Loki slipped through another crowd enraptured by a man denying the rumours as a hoax, and weaved a path to the top of the walls.
Loki had barely put a foot to the mighty stone when a shout froze the crowds.
Daemons.
Even in the steel blizzard of ash, they shone like beacons. Several ignited upon the slopes of Hardja and Ursufel, the shoulders of Krauslung’s valley. Others upon the rooftops of Manesmark’s towers. They perched and waited as crows would.
Washed onwards by the gawkers, Loki found himself at the parapet, eyebrow raised. Even the daemons had come to stake their claim on the Arka.
‘Right on time,’ Loki whispered.
A clap of thunder punched a momentary bubble in the haze of ash. In full view of Krauslung’s walls, Gremorin appeared in a blaze of fire. He stood with his black sword outstretched and a flaming crown rotating over his horns. He surveyed his onlookers with four eyes of brimstone.
There came a crash of armour as the Imperial Guard emptied from the gatehouse and formed shaky ranks along the battlements. Loki was curious whether it was mere habit, resilient obedience to the absent emperor, or the fact that every mortal in Emaneska shat themselves before a daemon that brought them to action.
‘What now?’ somebody along the wall wailed. ‘What new Hel must we face now?’
The cry stirred equal parts resentment and fear in the crowds. The impromptu leaders like the rag-woman charged up the stairs, leading cries of, ‘Nevermore!’
Those who had any sense were already backing away from the walls. Loki saw one man fleeing at a speed that only a brick wall or the sea would stop.
The daemon prince snarled at his reception. ‘Hear me, mortals! Your emperor lies dead alongside his murderer, the one they called Forever King. Both armies have been laid to waste by a mountain’s fire. They are no more. It is likely their very remains fall upon us now.’ Gremorin raised dark claws to pinch at the ash. He flashed a smile of far too many fangs while a collective moan filled the air. ‘I am Prince Gremorin, Orion’s Shadow, ruler among daemons, and you will all bow to me. Surrender, or we will take this city by our own means.’
A mass exodus had begun behind the walls as the crowds fought to return to the city. Frustrated yells broke out over the clamour.
‘What can we do?’
‘Face them!’ yelled the old woman.
‘Face them… are you mad or plain stupid? We have no mages! No soldiers!’
‘Barely a thousand Imperial Guard protect the city.’
‘You mean the ones your cult are currently fighting?’
Loki had to drive a nail into his palm to keep himself from pouncing too early. He manoeuvred into position while the tension rose to breaking.
‘We should surrender! What else is left to us?’
‘We should run! Get to the ships!’
‘This is our home, Evernia curse it!’
Loki forced the grin from his face. ‘Evernia?’ he cried out, his magick carrying his voice far and wide. ‘The gods have abandoned you, friends, if this is to be your fate. Slaves to daemons. Prisoners in your own city. Fodder. No better than beasts.’
The wall around him had hushed momentarily. Loki stood upon a crate. ‘Isn’t it time the power of this empire resided with the people that make the empire?’
‘What empire?’ a man yelled. ‘Malvus is dead.’
‘The emperor lives!’ Loki shouted. He was in danger of enjoying himself too much. He had crafted these words as a carpenter works upon pine. ‘He lives in each and every one of you. In the pride of the Arka! In the stubbornness that founded this city a thousand years ago and has kept it standing, even now, when all seems lost. The time for fighting is over. It is time for discussion and calm.’ Loki turned to look down upon Gremorin. ‘I will talk to the daemons.’
; It took a moment for his words to make sense to the crowd. Gasps came.
‘You’ll… what? Talk to them? About what?’ demanded the rag-woman, glaring at him for stealing her light.
‘I will get them to leave this city alone.’
‘You’re a madman!’
‘A fucking fool!’
‘Why should we listen to you? Who are you?’
Loki approached the gatehouse and guards, nonetheless, demanding they let him through.
‘If you long to be the first to die on that daemon’s blade, then be my guest, young man,’ said a grizzled guard with one eye.
Loki kept his head high as he was given passage through the crowd. Too shocked, too morbidly fascinated, hopeful, or just plain vacant, they all stared at him as he approached the humongous wall of black steel and granite. He was shown to the stout wicket gate embedded in one half. To say he was shoved would have been alarmist, but the gate slammed shut all too quickly.
Loki walked confidently across the dirt and ash. He left nothing but footprints. No glances back, just a head held high enough to cause whispers along the wall. When Gremorin recognised him, his shoulders flushed with fire.
‘I thought you dead, little god,’ the daemon rumbled.
‘Not so lucky, Prince Gremorin.’
‘Have you come to face me? To fight for this city?’
‘Please,’ Loki laughed. ‘I am no fool.’
A curious smile spread across the daemon’s charred lips. ‘You wish to treat with me, then. Another bargain.’
‘I delivered on our last bargain, didn’t I? I gave you war.’
‘Not enough. The glory was stolen from us by the mage. This city and its people will do as a fine replacement.’ Saliva dripped from the daemon’s fangs and sizzled in the ash.
Loki tutted. ‘I imagined you had bigger dreams than that, or are you truly Orion’s mere shadow?’
The black blade of charred steel rested a foot from Loki’s throat. He could feel the heat of it on his skin.
‘Speak carefully, god,’ Gremorin warned.
Loki stepped closer to the blade. ‘The emperor takes breath. And not only will he deliver us Farden if the bastard still lives, but much, much more. The very sky itself.’
Gremorin’s four eyes blinked independently.
‘Are you sure the mage survived?’
Loki stared to the dark smear across the sky. ‘I know the girl lives, but that is all. I have come to doubt the mage can be killed, but we will test that notion, Prince. You can trust me on that. Give me the city and enough time, I will give you the rest. Emaneska. Hel. Haven. Everything Orion ever wanted will be yours.’
Gremorin blew flame. ‘Why? Why would a god stand by while we burn this world back to ash and fire?
Loki already knew the deal was done. He turned and sauntered back to the walls, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘what better a light to show the look on Farden’s face when he finally fails.’
It took three steps before the air battered him from behind in the concussion of Gremorin’s departure. Echoes of his kin following suit echoed through Krauslung’s valley. Ash billowed around Loki, and it was to silent whispering that he stood before the gates. He stopped in their golden sea of torchlight, hands wide. His gaze scanned the mosaic of confused, shocked, and grateful faces that spanned the mighty walls.
‘All it takes is talking,’ he called to them, speaking honestly. ‘No more fighting is necessary. You will finally know peace with me at your helm.’
The rag-woman screeched. ‘And what is your name? Who are you?’
‘Me?’ The god smiled broadly. ‘They call me Loki.’
Malvus dropped his beaker of bark and twine with shock. Dust and cobwebs swirled around the black silhouette of Loki, standing against the farmhouse’s filthy boarded windows.
‘Fuck it all!’ Malvus snapped, agitatedly wiping at the full measure of cold wine now sitting in his lap. ‘How many times have I asked you to refrain from doing that? Look at the mess you’ve made of me, you bastard! And that was the last of the wine!’
Loki was hiding a smirk. ‘Expediency is key in such times, my dear Malvus.’
Malvus put his unsteady feet to the floor. A vexing shake had taken up residency in his thighs and hands since Farden had scorched the Arka from the north. It was easier to blame the mage than the thirst for daemonblood that plagued him constantly. Malvus raised a finger, found it quaked too much, and threatened the god with a fist instead.
‘Expediency, you tell me? Then why have I languished in this abandoned shack for almost a week, feeble as a foal while you gallivant who knows where? You have left me in silence, forgotten! Forced to shit in a corner, no less. It has been days since you left for Krauslung, curse it, and now I have run out of bloody wine!’
Loki was too busy brushing ash from his coat to meet his gaze. ‘I’ve been busy working on your best interests, Emperor,’ he assured him.
‘Look at me!’ Malvus shrieked.
Loki regarded him with those damned golden eyes, bewilderingly deep, yet giving away nothing of what hid behind them.
‘I am still the emperor of this land! You will speak when I tell you to.’
Loki bowed, slow yet shallow. ‘As you request.’
‘What of my horde, god? My army. How many have survived?’
‘All gone, as I feared, Malvus. Obliterated to be more accurate. The ruins of Scalussen still burn with the volcano’s fire. The north is black with ash and floodwaters from melted ice. The few that survived are hundreds at most, scattered across the north and Össfen mountains. Toskig betrayed you, of course. Saker is either dead or gone. The dukes of Albion squabble over Wodehallow’s throne. Gremorin has disappeared with the wind.’
‘Does he live?’ growled Malvus.
‘You mean Farden?’
‘Who else?’ Malvus snapped. He could not rid the sight of the mage from the dark behind his eyelids. Farden, burning black against the endless wall of fire. Farden, laying waste to everything Malvus had built. Toskig had been wrong. It had been the mage that ruined them. Not the emperor.
‘I haven’t seen any trace of him, living or dead. The remainder of Scalussen sails south in their grand bookships.’
Malvus pushed himself from the stinking bed of hay and blankets. He had no choice but to seize the god’s arm for balance. ‘Then I must return to my city soon, before Farden’s forces put their detestable fingers on it and steal it from me.’
Loki’s gaze turned beyond a crack in the window boards. There was a grimace on his face.
‘What is it, damn you? What of Krauslung?’
‘Its people have rejected you, Emperor. The survivors might not have returned bloody and burned yet, but news of your defeat has. They revolt in the streets. The Arkathedral plays host to every magistrate and dignitary. Cults preach a dozen sermons on street corners. Even the daemons came to lay claim. The crowds speak of ruling themselves once and for all.’
Malvus fell back to the bed, head spinning. The dampness across his lap was beginning to seep down his legs. He clutched at the ragged blankets and threw them at the god. ‘I said I have run out of wine!’
Finally, Loki fished within his seemingly endless coat and brought out a slim bottle. Malvus snatched it, smashed its waxed neck against the wood, and poured it liberally down his gullet. He didn’t care for the way the glass cut his lips, or how it scraped against his teeth. He forced the fire of the alcohol down into his souring belly, shards and all.
‘Farden has not just burned me from the north, but from my home,’ he hissed, dribbling wine. ‘Stolen everything I have ever worked for.’
‘You might be pleased to hear that Krauslung curses his name, too. His glory has turned to ash. They will turn the Scalussen ships away, just as they turned away the daemons.’
The words stung Malvus’ ears. ‘With what force?’
Loki shook his head. ‘No force, but with words.’
The emperor sco
ffed.
‘A man of the people has already stood before the gates and treated with Gremorin. A bargain was apparently struck. The daemons departed without incident.’
‘Lies! How can that be?’ Malvus protested with thin hope. Despite the sour taste in his mouth, he already believed the god. How else had he risen through the Arka echelons but via a golden tongue? He knew the power of well-timed words, and here he was, being outmanoeuvred by some unknown peasant or cultist.
‘Though I am known for my lies, I speak the truth,’ Loki told him. He moved to the window and drew a pattern in the filth. ‘I could hardly trust my eyes, but Krauslung chant for him even now.’
‘Tell me his name.’
Loki paused halfway through drawing a noose and its wretched victim. ‘I didn’t catch it.’
The emperor pushed himself up once more, almost falling. The absence of the daemonblood had wasted his muscles, and brought his sickness rushing back to him. ‘All the more reason to return. And swiftly!’ he rasped.
‘You are in no state, Malvus.’
‘You doubt me, god? Dare to defy me?’ The emperor babbled as he searched for fresher clothes. There were none. All were soiled with sweat or blood or wine. ‘My remaining officers will still be loyal to me. Watch Captain Foarl of the Street Legion would die at my feet if I commanded him to do so. I will show myself atop the Arkathedral. Yes, once they see me alive, this upstart will be forgotten. Then hanged…’ He pointed to the window.
Loki sucked his teeth.
‘Instead of standing in my way, perhaps you should be helping me as you vowed to. Gah!’ Malvus snarled as a trembling leg crumpled beneath him. His muscles had withered. In the absence of his fine surroundings, with the daemonblood lacking in his veins, his sickness had returned to ravage him.
‘I told you, Malvus you’re too we—’
‘You promised me daemonblood. Give it to me!’
‘And not several days ago you cursed it for clouding your mind in the north.’
Malvus had cursed half the world and more during the first days he’d languished and rotted in the farmhouse. Anything but his own rash decisions of war, of course. The emperor bared his teeth, but a cough took him before he could speak. Swallowing the bitter taste of blood and phlegm, Malvus extended a palm. ‘I feel hooks in my skin. Barbs in my eyes. Every day I am without that blood, the weaker my body becomes. You poisoned me, god—’