by Matthew Ward
He shook his head. “I’d say rather that he’s found purpose.”
Viktor laid out all that had occurred, sparing only his personal dealings with Apara and his late father. “I told you much had changed. And it began here, with you and I.”
She leaned forward, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Have you nothing more to say to me?”
“I don’t follow.”
“You’ve spoken of the city, the Council, my brother. Your eyes have shone with the joy of it. So I ask again, have you nothing more to say to me, the woman who is to be your wife?”
Fragile defiance came into her eyes, a need to hear words expressed, but too proud to speak plainly. Viktor rose. Skirting the flames, he held out a hand. After a heartbeat, she took it and stood before him. He faltered, apprehensive of a woman half his size. But his earlier determination to speak only truth carried him through.
“Only that you have been my anchor through strife and torment. That there has not been one moment where I did not yearn to see you, to know that you’d come safely through the madness.” He faltered, unused to speaking at such length, and entirely unaccustomed to speaking from the heart. “That’s how I know Malatriant can be beaten, because I have more to fight for than ever.”
“We both do.”
She took his head in her hands and drew him down into a kiss. Looping his hands about her waist, Viktor lost himself in their closeness, in the taste and scent of her. For a long, glorious moment, the world beyond no longer existed. Not the Southshires, nor the Republic as a whole, nor even the Tyrant Queen he’d roused to ruin. There was only Calenne, and a joy he’d never known.
Then he felt it. A seed of darkness buried in Calenne’s soul. Bleak. Hungry. Like to that he’d sensed in Josiri after the Battle of Davenwood, in the manner that a raindrop was like to the storm. The same, yet vast in scale. He’d missed the connection before, even with Kurkas’ letter before him. To think, he’d believed it a Hadari curse. Now there could be no doubt. His shadow, quiescent since before he’d come to the barn, growled its curiosity.
He broke contact and pulled away.
“Viktor?” Calenne kept pace. “Viktor, what is it?”
Truth, he reminded himself. Only truth. “There’s something . . . inside you. Something dark. A piece of Malatriant.”
He’d expected horror, revulsion. He saw only sadness. “I know. I think it’s always been there, waiting, goading . . . whispering through my dreams. I hear her sometimes, calling me as she did back in her crypt. A voice so honeyed and welcoming that it’s all I can do not to listen. But it doesn’t matter. We are all one in the Dark.”
“How do you keep her at bay? How do you stay free?”
A wan smile. “I’m a Trelan. I’m stubborn.”
He nodded, struggling to hold horror at bay while he digested the new information. The shadow on Calenne’s soul dwarfed the one he’d found in her brother’s. If it had grown so vast in a week, it would soon overtake her.
“Let me help.”
“How?”
“I drew the Dark from your brother. I can do the same for you.”
She shook her head. “No. I can’t let you take that risk.”
Calenne made to turn away. He gathered her into an embrace, their faces so close as to be almost touching, his eyes fixed on hers. “I have borne a shadow all my life. I will gladly bear yours.”
She gave the smallest of nods. “Thank you.”
As his shadow made contact with the dark seed in Calenne’s soul, Viktor briefly worried at the scale of the task – that some piece of Malatriant’s will might yet hold sway. The fear that he’d again rushed into the matter conjured further doubt, but he could no more leave Calenne beset in this manner than any other. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Viktor enfolded the seed and made it his own.
Blackness washed over him. With it came sights and sounds of a world he’d never seen, a world with a sunless sky and a broken, grinning moon. Lupine howls echoed beneath twisted, skeletal trees, while men and women cowered beneath the stones of hollowed-out, crumbling halls. And everywhere that sinking, gnawing instinct. That his skin was not his own, but a mask to slough away and run free wherever the light was not.
Viktor’s vision cleared into flame. He trembled on hands and knees, a brackish taste in his throat and umbral flecks dancing before his eyes. And his shadow? His shadow exulted. Viktor knew that he could never again do what he had done for her, not without losing himself.
“Viktor?” Calenne shook his shoulders. “Viktor! Thank Lumestra. You went so still, I thought . . .”
Viktor took her hand and set his shadow prowling once more. The seed was . . . gone. Instead of Malatriant’s darkness, he saw only an echo of his own, like gazing at a reflection in the rushing waters at Coventaj.
He squeezed her hand tight and cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”
A tremulous, uncertain smile parted her lips. “Like I can breathe for the first time in my life.”
It had worked. It had pushed him to the brink, but it had worked. With that realisation came purpose. Malatriant could be diminished – maybe even slain, if the blow were levelled at the right point. Of the thralls who’d sought to cage him, only Elda had spoken.
“You say Elda never leaves Eskavord?”
“I said I’ve not seen her leave Eskavord.”
She was feeling better to quibble so. Viktor clambered upright. “And you know a way inside?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Calenne . . .”
She rolled her eyes. “One of the exits from Skazit Maze comes up in the churchyard. It’s where I finally clambered out. It’s that or swim the Grelyt. What’s on your mind, Viktor?”
“There may be a way to end this without anyone else getting killed. If Malatriant has taken root in Elda . . .”
She shot him a look as old as the hills. “You said Josiri was bringing an army. Wait for it.”
“This started with my mistake. I have to try.”
“And if you’re killed?” She scowled. “You haven’t seen Eskavord. There are bodies in the streets. She’s made a throne of corpses in the marketplace! You’d already be dead if I hadn’t found you. And now you’d give her a second chance?”
“One life wagered to save hundreds, maybe thousands. I count for little set against that.”
She folded her arms. “Not to me.”
Viktor finally understood some of Malachi’s spousal frustrations. It was no easy thing to argue with someone who sought only to save you from yourself.
“Please don’t make this difficult.”
“On one condition only.”
“And that is?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Calenne . . .”
She jabbed a finger into his ribs. “Maybe this is your fault and not mine, but this is still my home. And you need a guide.”
That much made sense. “Very well. But only as far as Eskavord.”
“Hah! As if I’d agree to that.” She grinned and kissed him again, this time holding him so tight that Viktor feared there’d be no way to free himself without breaking her arms. “Where you go, I go.”
With no other option to hand, Viktor accepted defeat and gave himself to her embrace.
The rustle of ivy sent Melanna scurrying for cover behind what had once been a stone archway. She set a hand around the arrowhead, muting its glow to a pale white sheen.
Someone was there. Away past the crude altar and its smattering of peasant offerings. Out past the ring of young trees that nestled between the tumbled walls. A towering shape, identifiable as such only when motion split it from impenetrable gloom. The first such shape Melanna had encountered since entering the unnatural dark. She’d seen nothing larger than a fox since leaving the charnel of Cragwatch, and that beast had possessed the good sense to scurry away as soon as noticed. The woods had otherwise been silent, as if birds and beasts held their breath.
The rustle came aga
in. Dark moved against dark. Melanna sank back behind stone.
A lantern’s warm glow spilled across the overgrown temple, the sight of it so sudden, so welcome, that Melanna almost laughed to see it. But only almost. There were plenty of reasons for a Hadari to be afraid with Eskavord’s walls so close.
A grunt. A grinding, jarring rumble of stone moving on stone.
A hushed, basso whisper, couched in dry humour. “Ladies first.”
Melanna knew that voice. The man-of-shadow.
She craned back about the arch. It was Lord Akadra, if a goodly bit more bruised than when she’d last seen him. But there was no mistaking the coils of dancing shadow. Of his companion, she saw nothing. The empty void beneath the altar, now revealed in the lantern-light, explained why. Another wolf’s-head tunnel. She’d used many herself.
Akadra stood with his back towards her, hands still tight about the slab he’d dragged clear. Melanna eased her arrow onto the bow-string. The man who’d crushed her father’s dreams. Here. At her mercy. She could put a shot in his throat, and he’d never see it coming. Never know who’d sent him to the mists. Debts owed to Josiri did not apply to the man-of-shadow.
Melanna shook her head, disgusted. Perhaps they didn’t, but an assassin’s arrow was unworthy of her. Glory in victory, fortitude in defeat, and honour always.
She sank back again as Akadra turned, her breath staling in her throat. A dozen frantic beats she held that breath. Then the vines rustled again, and the lantern-light faded.
A glance confirmed he’d gone. But gone where? Into the tunnels, certainly, but with what destination? For that matter, why was he here at all?
The sharp snap of a broken twig halted that line of thought. Footfalls followed. Three pairs. Maybe four. All closing at a pace neither swift enough for immediate concern, nor slow enough for comfort.
Melanna risked a little light. The silver glow gave shape to four Tressians, advancing from the direction of Eskavord. Melanna hastily covered the arrowhead, but not before black eyes glittered. Just like the dead citizenry at Cragwatch.
Their approach made Melanna’s decision for her. Heart in her mouth, she slunk away.
“What do you think?” asked Kurkas.
Brask peered out over Branghall’s gatehouse. “I don’t know. I can’t see anything.”
“Fat lot of good you are.”
He gave the gate approach the full benefit of his one-eyed stare. It was no good. Within the wall, the evening sky had darkened to starlit night, but everything beyond the gatehouse lanterns remained black as pitch.
“Could be they’re hiding,” said Brask. “Maybe the light hurts them.”
“I don’t think we’re that lucky,” said Kurkas gloomily. “That were the case, we’d polish them up with a handful of firestone lanterns and a bit of cold steel.”
[[They’re gone,]] said Anastacia. [[At least, I can’t see any between us and the town.]]
“Guess she’s got more in mind than seizing a serathi after all . . .” Kurkas frowned. “Wait. You can see through that muck?”
[[Of course.]]
“You might have said something,” said Brask. “We could have used you on watch.”
[[I’m not a scarecrow, however much I’m dressed the part.]]
Sensing another argument, Kurkas stepped between them. “Right then. We’re leaving.”
Brask blinked. “You’re sure that’s a good idea?”
“Don’t know about you, but starvation rations of wine and horseflesh are only half appealing.” Kurkas nodded, warming to his theme. “And I don’t fancy marching down into the town, so we’ll use the hallowgate and head north. We get lucky, we’ll run right into whatever help Lord Akadra’s sending.”
“Assuming Dastarov got through,” said Brask.
Kurkas slapped her on the back. “Cheer up, lieutenant. It’s only the end of the world.”
“Fine.” Brask jerked a thumb at Anastacia. “But she stays here, otherwise come sun-up those thralls’ll know exactly where to look for us.”
Kurkas rubbed a bristly chin. Raven’s Eyes, but he looked more a vagabond with every passing day. “She’s got a point. Have you tried not being a little ray of sunshine?”
[[Have you tried not being a fool?]]
“I thought I had,” he said mildly. “The quest continues. Changes nothing. We all go, or we all stay.”
“This is a mistake,” said Brask.
Kurkas sighed. “What this is, lieutenant, is an order.”
Brask opened her mouth, thought better of it, and stalked towards the stairs.
[[She might be right,]] Anastacia said. [[Perhaps I should stay.]]
Kurkas propped his back against the outer rampart and stared down onto Branghall’s terrace. The pyre was long gone and Halvor’s blackened remains buried, but the starburst of ash remained.
“I’m already leaving too many behind. It’s all of us, or none.”
Viktor pressed his shoulder to the trapdoor’s sagging, rotten timbers. It bucked, giving him space to slide one hand off the rusting ladder and onto the cold stone beyond. Another heave, and he climbed out into the sepulchre. A crack of light from Calenne’s hooded lantern gave shape to a choir of weeping serathi, their marble features silted from a leak in the ancient roof.
“Come on,” he breathed.
Calenne ghosted up the final span of rungs. Viktor drew his sword as she set the trapdoor in position. A farmer’s blade, half-gone to rust, but it would serve. It would have to. Experience warned it was foolish to rely on his shadow.
“I wish you’d go back,” he whispered.
“Only if you come with me.”
It was, Viktor allowed, the opposite problem as with Apara. The kernclaw couldn’t be trusted near him; Calenne, he feared, couldn’t be trusted out of his sight.
“If I ask you to go, you must promise to do so.”
“Viktor . . .”
“Please, Calenne. I swear I’ll demand nothing more of you as long as we live, but I must have your promise.” He breathed deep, exhausted once again from speaking from the heart. “I nearly lost you once. I can’t bear to do so again.”
“All right.” The gloom shifted, and he had the impression of her looking down at her feet. “You won’t lose me, but all right. But afterwards, no more demands.”
“Thank you. Douse the lantern.”
The sepulchre door opened with a screech of tortured metal, but there was no sudden commotion in the churchyard, no hollow voice raised in greeting. That only left the problem of how to navigate.
“Give me the lantern,” he hissed.
“Don’t be a fool,” she replied. “I used to play hide-and-seek around these tombs. I can get us to the road.”
Viktor slipped his hand in hers. “Lead on.”
To his relief and surprise, Calenne struck a faultless path through the shrouded graveyard, guiding him by gentle – and increasingly not-so-gentle – tugs on his hand, and hissed warnings. Hazy grey murk spilled across the cobbles beyond the lychgate. Somewhere in Eskavord, there was light.
Calenne at his side, they headed west, crossing the bridge where he’d fought Katya Trelan so many years ago. With every step, the Dark receded. He almost wished it hadn’t. What before had been indistinct masses at the roadside were revealed as huddled bodies. Some had the black vein-work and glittering eyes of thralls. Most did not. The stench of death hung heavy on the still air.
Viktor gritted his teeth and pressed on. He’d heard so many stories of Malatriant, both as a child and in the years since. Some fanciful, others starkly real. The Abdon Temples, where ritual coaxed forth demons with the scent of innocent souls. Children stolen and raised to be their parents’ executioners. The blood tithes levied against every family, some taken as conscripts, others in service of the darkest gluttonies. How she’d poisoned her husband, but dragged his bodiless spirit back from the mists to console an irredeemable conscience. By the time they reached the marketplace, he believed them all.
Calenne had warned him Malatriant had made herself a throne of the dead. Reality transcended bleak imagining. The mass of corpses rose out of what had once been the fountain, a hummock of souring flesh and broken bone pinned in place by timber spars. So twisted and jumbled was the mound that Viktor could seldom tell where one victim ended, and the next began. The rich scarlet of an archimandrite’s robes brought no satisfaction. Some fates, not even Makrov deserved.
That Viktor made the detail out at all was possible only because of the single firestone lantern set at the summit, resting beside a wooden chair anchored among the dead. Viktor couldn’t see the occupant, for the chair faced west towards Branghall. But he’d no doubt of her identity. Elda Savka, or at least the old woman’s puppeteered body.
“I knew you’d come.” The hollow words echoed about the marketplace. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”
The gloom of alleyways parted. Thralls flooded into the marketplace. Scores. Hundreds. Only the road to the church remained open.
“I thought you said they were all at Branghall?” said Viktor.
“They were!” Calenne hissed.
Irrelevance. The gamble had failed. Only one last throw of the dice remained. He stared at the implacable tide. Too many to fight. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.
“Go! Find your brother! Tell him everything!”
“I won’t leave you!”
“Keep your promise!”
She glared at him – glared at him with a hatred he’d never seen in her face before. Then, tears streaming down her cheeks, she fled.
Viktor hefted his sword and ran headlong for the throne.
A thrall veered into his path. Viktor sprang aside. Two more bore down, others rushing close behind. Viktor angled towards the leftmost. The first cut knocked the man’s sword aside. The second opened his arm to the bone.
The crowd convulsed. A babble of pained voices split the cold air. Just as they had earlier that day. What one felt, all felt – if all were not already one.
Good. He could use that.
Viktor forged on through the crowd, sword lashing out not to kill, but to grant pain. A slice at a farmer’s belly setting the mass of thralls shuddering. A lunge at a proctor’s leg loosed a ripple of movement as others stumbled in unwilling sympathy.