Verena stopped her pacing. “And yet he would prove useful… so if I must, I will agree to help free him.”
Gormley growled and stepped forward, looming over his queen. “He is a monster, My Crown! You cannot possibly let him loose. I will–”
The pirate queen slapped him, the shock rocking him back on his heels. “You will still your tongue or I will have it removed. I deem this necessary, and I will hear no more about it.”
She sat heavily into a chair, stroking an agitated Irusen. “If the Hivers really knew what they had imprisoned they should have ended his life long ago. That monster cannot be controlled, and any who try to use his alchemical arts for their own benefit are throwing their lives away. As for Hive itself, that alien place in the mountains is dangerous to all humans. Perhaps it is safer to leave him there, locked away from all human contact.”
“No,” Maeven admitted. “You are right that he cannot be controlled, but he is necessary. He can be aimed in the direction of the enemy. As for Hive, I have contacts even there.”
“May the gods of the sea protect us,” Verena said. “Our alliance stands as long as you keep that insane little man on land. What else does Black Herran require of me?”
“Set sail for the Orcish Highlands,” Maeven replied. “I would have words with Amogg Hadakk. Once we have her, we head straight for Hive.”
“Gormley, send your carrier pigeons to notify my captains. We sail to war.” He opened his mouth to object but she stared him down. “Do as I say, man, or I’ll flay the hide from your back.”
Gormley scowled and went to spit on her deck.
Verena’s raptor gaze fastened on him.
He thought better of it and swallowed, wiped a sudden sweat from his brow, and slunk out of the door to send the messages on behalf of his queen.
Unseen by his queen, however, her shaking, sweating first mate shook off his anger and fear and sent one additional pigeon winging its way north, this time on his own behalf. This bird had been reared by others and given to him for just such a special occasion. He chose humans over monsters and magic, and that pigeon flew its way to Brightwater, capital city of the Lucent Empire.
CHAPTER 8
In Tarnbrooke, Dalia washed and dried her newly shortened hair and began to don her old and dreadful life. Her home for forty years seemed small and shabby as she embraced all that power and pride.
Her daughter Heline watched her grimly, arms crossed and lips pursed. “I knew your damned past would come back to haunt us one day, but I refuse to let it hurt Tristan and Edmond.” She peered out of the door to check on her sons, busy squabbling over who first spotted a penny fallen in the street.
“Hoi!” Heline shouted. “Behave, you louts.” They grumbled and shoved each other but quietened and their mother turned back to the conversation. “What do I tell my boys?” she demanded.
Dalia scowled, but Heline wasn’t wrong. Her daughter was hard and ambitious, but she couldn’t fathom why her loving mother had turned to the darkest powers of Hellrath to survive. But then Dalia had always kept the worst from her, and ensured her daughter grew up safe and happy. Even if that had meant feeding a number of undesirable suitors to her demons over the years.
“You tell your boys a mother does all she can to protect her children,” she replied. “Tell them to stay alert and not to wander far. Are you almost ready to depart?”
Heline shook her head. “This is our home. Where are we going that can possibly be any safer? The north is lost to us, the south is lawless and plagued by slavers, and the Awildan Isles are just as bad for outsiders.”
Dalia opened a dusty old velvet-lined box, slipping her rings on one by one: the black onyx ripped from an earth elemental’s eye, the ruby forged from a Duke of Hellrath’s heart-blood, the diamond and dragonbone ring from the hoard of Alt Clua, the iron band forged from the heart of a fallen star. After a moment’s hesitation, she added the simple gold band that Heline’s father had given her so very long ago – that, too, might be a weapon in this coming war. She never had given Amadden an answer…
She reached for a bowl of chicken-blood and dipped her fingers into the congealing liquid. She ran the hand over her head and felt the tingle of small magic spiking her white hair and tipping it with red. It had made her aspect savage and fearsome, and those old habits helped her remember who she used to be. Though now that she was old and leaning on a stick, she wondered how effective it would prove.
Dalia took a deep breath, closed her eyes and unchained the doors inside her heart and mind that had been kept locked for decades. Dark power surged through her: delicious and potent enough to rip holes in the fabric of reality and create a bridge to the burning pits of Hellrath. It felt good to let go. Black Herran oozed out of her pores like a mix of blood and tar, until town elder Dalia of Tarnbrooke was submerged and sleeping. The shadows deepened around her.
Her eyes snapped open and Heline took a step back.
“Mother?”
“I am not your mother now, girl. Not until this is done. I am power and pride. I am Black Herran, and this town will bow to my will. Be quick in gathering what you need – you and the children will be leaving shortly. I have prepared a place of safety.”
Heline studied her mother. “If that is what is best for my boys then so be it. Whatever else happens, it is nice to have somebody competent in charge. Do this right or we will be having words. Had I even a fraction of your power I would be out there knocking some sense into them myself.”
Black Herran’s daughter had inherited her steel, and that was something to be proud of. She nodded to Heline, then marched on the temple, where the other three town elders were gathered in council with notable townsfolk. It would be another evening of pointless discussion about the current crisis, spent arguing among themselves instead of getting work done. She would tolerate no more of their time wasting.
As she passed, the people on the streets of Tarnbrooke shot her confused and fearful looks. Even those that until today had thought they knew her best dared not stop and speak to her. They lowered their eyes, clutched their children tight and crossed the street.
Black Herran scowled on seeing the sunburst symbol of the Bright One, only recently painted onto that braggart Wimarc’s window shutter. Their damned faith was spreading even here. She’d see to that shortly.
Raised voices snarled in fraught argument as she approached the temple door.
“We must flee,” declared a voice from inside.
“Where to, you cretin? Only slavery awaits beggars like us. I refuse to fight in Herlot’s slave armies or live chained to oars aboard a Damanion barge.”
“Fight!”
“Flee!”
It would be a waste of time trying to get them to willingly submit to her rule. She would do what she always had: dominate through might and fear. She looked to the narrow passage between Tarnbrooke’s temple and the storehouse next door, a gloomy place perfect for working her dark arts unseen… Then she decided it was also pointless to try and hide who and what she was. The people of Tarnbrooke would have to fight or all the Southlands would fall to the Lucent Empire. She needed to drown this valley in Lucent blood.
She pricked a finger on a sharp edge of her ruby ring and flicked her hand, scattering droplets of blood across the threshold of the temple. It soaked into thirsty cracks in the earth.
“The way is opened,” she stated. “Come forth, my shadow sisters!” Her call stretched deep into the burning realms of Hellrath, and deeper still into the dark caverns below its Shadowlands.
The gloom deepened and thickened around her, devouring the light until it resembled late evening. Wisps of shadow trailed in her wake. It was perfect for making an effective entrance and for terrifying ignorant townsfolk. Black Herran fixed a glare in place and kicked open the door.
The council crowded the front of a table where the aged town elders were sat. They all turned and gaped at her uncouth entrance.
“You will all shut your mouths
and listen to me,” she said, calm and cold.
Her demons flooded from her shadow into the temple, hanging in corners like bloated black spiders, climbing the walls and ceiling to stare down with hateful hungry eyes. Noble-faced statues of a dozen Elder Gods looked down on her with disapproving expressions, the likes of the Skyfather, Forge Maiden and Lord of the Hunt all judging her for this desecration.
“Dalia?” Elder Cox said from the raised table at the back of the temple, staring at the darkness flooding the room. “What is this? What have you done?”
She struck him with a thought, a shadow demon acting as her fist. He sprawled to the stone floor, lip split and bleeding. The crowd panicked, huddling in a mass at the centre of the chamber as far from her horrors as possible.
“You know me as Dalia, but once I was known by another name, one you will have heard of: Black Herran.”
Disbelief flitted across every face… until their eyes darted back to the demons. Then they began to fear.
“This town is now under my command, and you will all obey me if you want to live out the month. I am your only hope.”
It had not taken much effort to cow the town council and the elders, nor to dissuade any runaways from fleeing south – her demons saw to that, visibly haunting paths and trackways to frighten rather than kill. Not that the townsfolk appreciated her restraint of course – she’d killed only that useless cretin Wimarc and had him eaten by her demons in the market square as a messy and instructive example for all the rest.
Heline and her boys were away and as safe as they could ever be, far from this coming mess and more protected than any other being on this world, perhaps only equalled by Maeven’s sister Grace. If everything went to plan, in a few short months Dalia’s – no, Black Herran’s – family would be safe forevermore and living quiet, happy lives.
While Maeven carried out her orders elsewhere, Black Herran’s days in Tarnbrooke passed in a bustle of industry, instructing the people to gather stone and erect wooden posts. She walked the growing ring of defences around the town, barking orders, and most of the townsfolk cringed and refused to meet her gaze. They would never look at her the same way again, but that was acceptable as long as they did what she ordered. What was necessary should never be regretted.
Behind her, a man cleared his throat. She turned to see an unfamiliar grey-bearded dark face and noted the war spear in his hands and the sword at his hip. A cart drawn by a hardy hill pony waited behind him, its contents covered with canvas. One of her newly formed town militia, a tile maker called Nicholas with a fine waxed moustache and short pointed beard, stood grinning at the stranger’s side. The brainless lout’s own spear was laying abandoned on the ground. He gave a wave. “Hello, Elder Dalia, this fine fellow says he happens to know you.”
“Idiot,” she snarled. “He could be anybody.”
Nicholas cringed and fumbled on the ground for his spear.
“Forget it. It’s too late now. Go keep watch from the wall and don’t let anybody you don’t know into our town. We are at war and you had best remember that or you will find your throat slit by a Lucent spy. Or eaten by my demons.” Her eyes never left the stranger as Nicholas sprinted for his watch post.
The man doffed his hat with its fancy red feather and offered an elegant bow. “Estevan, my lady. I am the Lord Felle’s manservant.”
She blinked. He did look vaguely familiar. “You are fully human?”
“That is so, my lady. As long as my lord’s blood flows in my veins I am perhaps a little stronger and hardier than the average man, and as you can see, I age very well indeed.” He offered a wry smile at that last, entirely true comment.
He pulled back the canvas from the cart to reveal a small pile of spears, swords, daggers, dented but serviceable helms and mail hauberks in need of some repair. “With my Lord Felle’s compliments. Alas, my lord’s resources are not what they once were.”
She noted the scraps of bloodstained white and gold cloth among the pile and offered a thin smile. “You are most welcome, Estevan. What other skills do you offer while we await Lorimer’s return?”
“I am my noble lord’s manservant, my lady. I see to all tasks that are beneath him.” He raised a single eyebrow, which meant he organised most things. He was a household general in his own right, and that was exactly what Black Herran needed.
“Excellent,” she said. “What do you make of our preparations?”
“Your ditches are shallow and your ramparts low and without a palisade. The wall you are constructing across the neck of the valley is little better than a mound of loose stone with no time available for mortar to set. Farmers and townsfolk will not hold the Lucent Empire for even an hour here, but I suspect you know this already. If I begin weapons training immediately then they may be able to hold for a time behind what defences we are able to erect in the weeks available.” He looked over the wall again, over two hundred paces long. “Should the enemy take that then they will use it to fortify a camp – they will use it against you.”
“Oh, I am counting on that,” she replied. “See to the training. They must hold that wall for exactly a day before retreating behind what will become the ramparts of Tarnbrooke itself. Then I will have them exactly where I want them.”
The wall was taking shape, and the ground immediately on either side was cleared of all rock to produce a smooth field perfect for an army to encamp. If they could stop the advance elements of the Lucent army from routing the townsfolk in a single charge then they stood a chance.
With Estevan drilling the townsfolk on bow, spear, axe and sword, it would allow her to devote more time to the careful construction of the drystone wall that throttled access to the valley. She did not want it to be too solid and well-packed, quite the reverse – it had to have certain weaknesses built in. She was beginning to think more like the old Black Herran, cunning and ruthless, and she found it not entirely unwelcome after forty years of learned restraint. Not that she had ever been accused of biting that sharp tongue of hers of course, but at least she hadn’t removed those people who simply disagreed with her.
With Jerak Hyden’s mad genius at her disposal, this defensive structure would be forged into a lethal weapon. Crafting explosive powders and poisonous gas was nothing to him. The only problem would be getting enough rare materials and reining in his more experimental tendencies. She was willing to accept a small number of civilian casualties at his hands if it allowed her to use the mass slaughter of the enemy to raise an abomination from the darkest pits of Hellrath.
Before the Lucent forces died, she would ensure they suffered every torment and terror she could devise. Her demons would feast on that heady mix of human emotion and it would make them strong. It would grant Black Herran as much power as she had ever possessed in her heyday.
CHAPTER 9
Laurant Daryn, the Landgrave of Allstane, heaved himself up onto his warhorse, mildly alarming the placid old beast as he settled his bulk. His lower back gave a twinge and he shifted in the saddle, new leather squeaking. He was not as young as he once was, or as accustomed to spending more than an afternoon hunting on horseback.
It was a fine but chilly day and his escort and servants were in no hurry as they assembled in the castle courtyard. None of them looked happy about it, but a summons from the Falcon Prince to attend him at his palace in Brightwater was not something that could be refused.
Sixteen years ago, Allstane had been a border region of the Lucent Queendom, before the Falcon Prince usurped the old ruler and began expanding the newly formed Lucent Empire’s borders to envelop Fenoch Ford and Vandaura. It ruled most of the north now, but Daryn’s land of Allstane was still an isolated backwater and that was exactly how a tired old general like Daryn preferred it.
He scowled at the Bright One’s flag flapping from his towers but, yet again, bit his tongue. Brightwater was a very different place these days: fanatical and intolerant if reports were to be believed. The nature of the priest they sent to conv
ert his people, and to watch him, had convinced him the rumours were all true. He thanked the Elder Gods that he had chosen not to march against the Falcon Prince beside the rest of the old Lucent Queendom’s indignant nobility. They had been mercilessly crushed, and the retaliatory purges of their lands had been brutal.
He turned in his saddle at a piercing scream from the keep. A few minutes later his cook Molly hurried out, wiping bloody hands on her apron.
“Deepest apologies, My Lord,” she said. “It seems that Brother Orndan has, ahem, slipped and fallen down the stairs. Both legs badly broken I’m afraid. He will not be able to accompany you on your journey.” She winked.
“Such a tragedy,” Daryn replied, stifling a smile. Even here, he could not be sure what eyes were watching, but at least that particular spying priest would not be telling tales to the Empire’s inquisitors anytime soon. It was such a shame that the local messengers were also unreliable when it came to delivering his letters containing details of the locals’ transgressions. Thank you, Molly, and your goose fat, he thought.
“Set off, men,” he shouted. “To Brightwater!”
They departed from the castle and wound down the hill through the main street of Allstane. People came out of their houses and down from their fields to wave them off. His wine merchant tossed him a skin for the road. He nodded in gratitude, put on a fake smile for his people and shouted greetings to them as he passed by. He hoped he would be allowed to return, but in his heart he feared that his old bones would be burning on a pyre before the season was out.
He stopped at the rusty gibbet on the outskirts of the village to look at the corpse swinging in the breeze. Brother Orndan had been busy rooting out heretics.
He turned to a nearby farmer who had ceased work to watch his lord ride out. “Brother Orndan seems to have fallen down the stairs and will be indisposed for quite some time. Cut this thing down and bury him.”
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