The Prelude to Darkness

by Brenden Christopher Gardner

  “We shall not wait,” she said to Amerie, who had her sword in hand. “Open the gates.”

  Amerie issued the command and a great war horn sounded. The city erupted, steel scraping against leather, all converging on the gate.

  “And us?” Mach asked, his own claymore in both his hands.

  “My own guard,” Justine replied, waving him to silence whilst she watched her own host marshalled.

  Knights and warrior priests wielding pikes and shields, bastard swords, halberds, two-handed axes and bows moved towards the gates. Justine spied common men and women, some trembling, others sure of heart, all wielding weapons fitting to their strength.

  No horse, no mounted strength, she thought interminably. Sword and spear may be less than I would like, but there are so many pike with tower shields. We can wall them out, stand long if need be. Fortune must hold.

  Men and women in plate ascended the steps, long swords sheathed at their waists; their gauntleted fingers twitching and their eyes intent and severe. Lady Tricia, Ser Demetri, and Ser Marcus stood before Justine, whilst Lady Amerie and Ser Brennon flanked them. Every knight that trusted Justine so long ago, who gave up all they strove towards, who believed in her.

  “We have come a long way since that run-down tavern in the slums,” she said.

  None of the knights said aught, but she espied the brief, flittering smiles.

  “I did not know what awaited us,” she continued, “or what I would do. I was too consumed with the injustice, the senseless slaughter that would unfold if I did naught. Not a one of you failed to follow me, and for that I am grateful.

  “So much has changed.” The Light-forged bastard sword shone and shimmered, reflecting in the eyes of her knights. “Lord Theodore has come seeking this. My father was executed for his attempts to keep it away from the king. We must cut down those who would steal it away in slaughter’s name, then bury it.

  “I only ask…” she let the words trail off, and cast her eyes downwards, “that you trust in mine judgment one more time.”

  “Justine.”

  She turned to face Amerie. The knight questioned, doubted, but never faltered; the knight served so faithfully, even when she clearly did not want to. Whatever words Amerie offered, Justine could not rightly deny them.

  “We have all trusted in your judgment,” Amerie said. Gauntleted fists echoed off plate in confirmation. “You are our captain, even if you spurned that title. Where you lead, we will follow.”

  “Hear, hear!” the other knights shouted out.

  Justine beamed at her knights. She had thought them lost, and learning that they still breathed, she did not know what they would say to her after so long. But they were still hers.

  She would need their strength.

  “You lot are not so bad!”

  She turned her head to Mach, who had his arms crossed, leaning against the battlements. He must have been listening the whole time. “You have aught to add?” she asked, but not too sharply.

  “Draw your fucking steel!”

  Steel scraped against leather. Justine lead her knights and the reavers down to the gate. She stood at the head of her host, holding her Light-forged sword high, attracting the eye of every man and woman.

  “We all fled the tyranny of an unjust king,” she began. “We all had thought that our lords would lead us away from such cruelty, not open themselves to it. Lord Theodore awaits us upon the field. Should you fall, the men and women who survive will be subjected to his dominion. I would rather greet death.

  “So it is that I shall, but not without Mother’s Light, as you see with your own eyes. She is your sword, your shield, and I am your voice.”

  Steel banged against wood, and the commoners thumped their feet against the ground.

  “Let us cleanse our lands of their filth.”

  The gate opened, and Justine strode forth.

  The green grasses sprawled towards the imperium’s lines, stretching across the horizon, the fires of their fury burning hotly behind them.

  And they drew ever nearer.

  Justine thought of her father, his cryptic warnings, and his head sliding off the executioner’s block. King Adrian stood upon the stage, ordered the axe to fall, but he was not to blame. Lord Theodore betrayed her father, watched as rivers of blood flowed through the streets of Trank, biding his time until he could seize the God Stone.

  And they drew ever nearer.

  Justine could not understand Gabriel, Amos, or Jophiel. They knew much and more. She could not prove that they pulled strings, but they had to. I am not their puppet, not any more.

  And they drew ever nearer.

  Taunts and jeers echoed in the air; not from her host, but Lord Theodore’s. She knew the lord had mustered mercenaries, sellswords, and nobles from lower houses looking for an opportunity to arise in a new land.

  And they drew ever nearer.

  Lord Arthur sprung into her mind. He was not what he seemed, she knew that now. He had promised peace for the head of Lord Theodore, though that was shallow and empty. I will deliver that head to the king, not out of payment, but a warning: there is strength in these lands, a strength that he should fear.

  The legions drew to a halt. Justine beckoned the same of her host.

  Her knights and Mach and his reavers spread about beside her. The legions could not have been more than a hundred yards away, and a horseman broke through the ranks. Justine did not think him older than thirty seasons: he wore plate armour, but his crested helm rested on the pommel of the saddle.

  Unflinching, Justine said, “Amerie.”

  Arrows soared, piercing the skull of the rider. He slumped over, and the horse ran away.

  Then the imperium’s cavalry charged.

  “Spears up!” Marcus shouted, and the pike stepped forward, their tower shields like pillars and spears extended.

  Justine tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, knuckles whitening. The thunder of the hooves filled her ears. This is it. They all must fall. The green must become crimson. It is what I must do. They drew nearer; she could see the whites of their eyes.

  They broke against the pike, and she raised the Light-forged bastard sword, pushing them on.

  Arrows whizzed past her ears and the Light threaded through her, and she did not fear the volley. Arcing the bastard sword, she cut down a barded horse near her. The rider fell to the ground, the haft of his spear snapping in two; she impaled him, burning away chain and flesh.

  A foe bull rushed her. She turned as the swarthy man raised a war hammer high above his head; she held the Light-forged sword aloft and smiled as the metal split in half. The man trembled as she stood, slowly backing away. She arced the Light through his thick neck.

  Turning about, she saw Mach, his claymore in hand, cutting down smaller men, their bodies split open. Demetri and Tricia fought back-to-back, meeting steel with mercenaries in chain and boiled leather. Justine looked towards the imperium’s line: more and more charged forth; Amerie called for another volley; more foes fell on the plain, but others leapt over the corpses.

  “To me!” she called, and some warriors priests turned, crashing into the wooden shields of the oncoming wave.

  Justine cut through wood, iron, steel, and flesh. Though as she arced her sword, cries echoed through the air: a barrage of arrows followed the charge, and more of her own fell than did the imperium’s.

  A war horn suddenly cut through the air. She looked to her left and men on horse tipped their lances down, crashing over friend and foe. Head on a swivel, she saw another come from the right. Ahead, more rushed towards her.

  “To me!” Justine called out.

  Holding up the Light-forged sword, the pike rallied around her, tower shields firmly in the ground. More and more volleys came from Amerie, but Justine saw that it did little and less.

  Then the spears and swords cracked against the shields.

  Her own swords and spears pierced through the shield wall, but only the sound of stee
l against wood filled her ears.

  Then another war horn sounded, and the plains thundered.

  Amerie, if you know any tricks …

  Within the enclosed circle, she espied Marcus, Demetri, Brennon, and Tricia; they shouted out orders, but they lunged with desperation, as if they did not believe it. Mach shouted out curses, a desperation in his voice that she heard not heard before.

  And the plain thundered.

  “It will … not … end like this!” she shouted, but only Marcus turned, terror creasing his brow.

  “Justine! Justine!”

  His voice faded. The Light-forged sword no longer seemed like a weapon, but a part of her. The chain seemed to be taken by a brightness that Justine could not see, but feel, and it shot out, past the shield wall.

  And the plain no longer thundered.

  It had been so long since she felt such quiet, such stillness, as if all the realm was empty. No, not empty it is … judgment.

  Pain, unspeakable, unbearable pain shot through her, and the very air seemed afire. She could not think straight. Wails, one after the other, powerful and reverberating, echoed in her mind endlessly. All that was, or ever would be, was a cacophony of torment.

  A mask of discord broke through the brightened realm, scarred and slashed, eyes bloodshot, laughing and reveling in the chaos. Justine tried to push it away, to cast the shadows back, to master the fires of torment.

  But the mask laughed and laughed.

  “No, no, no!” she shouted over the pain. “I must …”

  She hit the ground hard and opened her eyes. Mach stood above her, shaking his right hand. “Enough, or you will fucking bury us all!”

  Stumbling to her feet, the eyes of every pike, knight, warrior priest and reaver were upon her: terrified and shaking. Justine wanted to ask Mach, Brennon, Marcus, anyone, what had passed, but as she stepped forward, the line of pike stumbled aside, and she saw it. All of it.

  The plain was littered with the dead, their bodies twisted, contorted, burnt like char. Just like … she thought tremulously, not wanting to give thought to it … just like …

  Whence the imperium was dead, but for that one man.

  A war horn once more broke the air, though none charged towards her, but away.

  “We pursue!”

  “Pursue, Justine?” Marcus said, standing beside her, quaking. “Surely this is—”

  “His head. We do not sheath our steel ‘til we have his head. Send word to Amerie. To Kallen!”

  “Justine, wait—”

  She ran off to the east, not wanting to wait for a reply. It took a moment, but the pounding of feet joined her. They followed. They were still hers.

  The imperium’s line were distant specks dotted along the rim of trees, the remnants of what the imperium did not burn. Justine never loosed her eyes from them, pushing, the Light pulsating through her.

  She would have Lord Theodore’s head.

  The green behind, smoke filled her sight like a great fog, and the forest stretching from Kallen to the hills of Dale was no more than splintered trunks and crackling tinder. She muttered under her breath, cursing Lord Theodore, pressing on.

  Justine pulled away from the smoke, and saw the catapults lined the road, abandoned. She weaved between them, eyes eastward to the distant shores, the remnants of the legions shrinking against the horizon.

  An hour passed, but she did not relent. She could not. Lord Theodore had to pay for what he did.

  The dead stillness shattered, and in the distance the imperium’s legions broke apart. Justine froze, dumbstruck.

  “The bloody bastard,” Mach said, bent over, exhaling hard. “Overplayed his hand.”

  Justine did not understand. “What could have—”

  “Does it matter, Justine?” Marcus asked impetuously, standing beside all her other knights, save for Amerie. Most of the host joined behind. “Friends unseen?”

  We have none, Justine thought to herself, but dared not give voice to it. Marcus, Demetri, Tricia, and Brennon looked so battle worn, but it was not over yet. “To the shore.”

  As Justine crept closer, a fleet stretched across the shores of Kallen, fires before and behind. It was too far to see the design upon the white sails. Mach had yet to say more, and when she glanced at his face, there was no mirth or anger. He does not think it his own, or Irwin Kole.

  Screams blistered the air. The legions were still darkened shapes, divided and scattered, but none made it south or towards the sea.

  Justine called a halt and Marcus issued orders, her host stretching across in a wide line. Then she advanced.

  The legions seemed to take note: some captains charged at her line, but they fell to bow and spear. Most had moved southwards, torn apart by cannon fire, but some persisted.

  The salty air filled her nostrils, and she wrenched her eyes from the fleeing legions, gazing northward at big men in gilded plate, blood soaking the tips of their swords. They seemed more interested in holding their northern line than aught she would do. Then, solemnly, she stared at an immense dromond at the back of the fleet, its cannons unloading relentlessly. It was the largest ship she had ever seen and etched onto the foremost sail was the golden lion of Trecht.

  That will wait. It must wait.

  The cannons from the fleet ceased; archers from Justine’s host launched volleys and men and women dropped with cries, the rest retreating towards the edge of the cliff.

  As she drew nearer, there was but one man mounted on an enormous black stallion, his fine, draping garments buoying over chain, but no weapon rested at his side. His retainers, mercenaries, and sellswords had weapons drawn, encircling him.

  “Justine!” Lord Theodore called out atop his horse. “I—”

  An arrow plunged into the stallion’s eye; it reared its head, throwing the lord off, before falling down the cliff. Amerie stood beside Justine, smiling and nocking another.

  Lord Theodore crawled forth, hands in the air.

  “Drop your steel, all of you,” Justine shouted, ignoring the wriggling lord. The few remnants of the legions obeyed, dropping to their knees. Terror flittered across every brow: not of death, she thought, but the Light. No, I cannot do that again. I will not.

  Amerie shouted out orders. Archers with arrows drawn to their ears stared down every survivor. Marcus and Brennon dragged the lord towards Justine. She looked into eyes flecked with arrogance and fear, the Light from her sword glimmering in his pupils.

  “So that is the strength of—”

  Justine back-handed the lord, blood dripping over his exquisite robes. “What you have done is unforgiveable.”

  “And you, Justine,” Lord Theodore began weakly, “are your hands clean?”

  Justine had made so many missteps—not just eviscerating flesh and bone with the Light, but giving credence to Gabriel, chasing Amos across land, sea, and desert, whilst those who trusted her struggled and lay crippled under despair. She knew it, but would not admit it, not to this creature. “You abandoned my father, only to wait for your opportunity to steal the God Stone, raising the king’s ire. Rivers of blood flowed from that deed alone. Then, when we came eastward, you enslaved and discarded so many, pushing them to desperation. All for power, all for your vain pride!” She crouched, the Light-forged sword near his neck. “And for this, I know. You rallied so many from our birthland, only to see them die upon these shores. Now you shall meet my justice: death long deserved. Worse, perhaps: the knowledge that the God Stone will be buried so fast, so deep, that none shall e’er find it. This shall not come again.”

  A smile slithered across Lord Theodore’s lips and he began to laugh. Justine wanted to strike him; she balled her fist, but then he said, “You think I am blind or stupid, my dear? I saw the thread etched upon the sails as surely as you did. There are far more than you can think. Heh, you will not use your father’s burden against them, lest you truly are a monster. Oh, my dear, they know my strength is sapped, the bloody trader is weakened and downtrod
den, and you are spent. They will have it.”

  “No.”

  “No?” The lord laughed again. “Silly, foolish naive girl. The king has outwitted us all. Near half his kingdom gone, but the other half will see the blood price. He reigns over us all.”

  Justine did not want to admit it, but the truth was undeniable. Unless, unless Lord Arthur kept to his word, and … she rose to her feet and held the Light-forged sword above Lord Theodore’s neck.

  “Do it, then,” the lord croaked. “I suppose I should thank you: you did not burn the life from me, as you did the others. Noble privilege, I suppose.” He cackled. “Do it, deliver my head. Mayhap they will spare you. Whore yourself out for your salvation, just like your father.”

  Justine held back tears and tightened her grip on the hilt. Whatever awaited would come, but justice, justice of the Voice, of the Indomitable, would come before that.

  The end of the journey was nigh; the salvation of those who suffered so long. She willed herself to swing the Light-forged sword—

  But then pain threaded through her. She felt her flesh pierced over and over, and she lost all feeling in her hand: the Light-forged sword fell to the ground, the sword dissipating, and the crystalline rock dulling. Collapsing to the ground, she tried to reach for the God Stone, but it was so far, the voices silent.

  What … what is …

  Blood soaked the ground; she felt it washing over her.

  “You will regret that!”

  Justine knew that was Mach, but screams followed it and steel tearing flesh, crushing bone. The realm seemed to darken, though she could still see Marcus and Brennon, stone-faced, utterly unlike themselves; and Lord Theodore’s eyes seemed to grow.

  “You do surprise me, Amerie Akellin,” the lord said. “I never thought fate to turn like this.”

  Amerie knelt on one knee in front of the lord, brandishing a bloodied dagger. “I do not take well to treachery,” she said, glancing fitfully at Justine. “And your transgressions are beyond forgiveness.”

  “Amerie,” Lord Theodore plead. “Amerie—”