by A. J. Smith
‘When the Shadow Flame can no longer be coaxed to life, our race will truly be godless,’ said Joror, sensing the melancholy that had enveloped his friend. ‘But we still live. We have lived without a god for millennia. You would be the first to tell me this, Nanon.’
‘And I’d be right, but it’s still a depressing idea,’ replied the Tyr.
‘Depression is a human trait, one of many you are exhibiting these days. Is that a longsword I see at your side?’
‘I prefer the weight,’ he replied. ‘So, thirty days, yes?’
‘Indeed. I assume you have a counter-strategy,’ prompted Joror.
‘I do. I’m going to help the Dark Blood kill the enchantress... then see what the Ro can do about a host of Karesian Hounds.’
‘I’d say good luck, but it would be rather human to do so,’ said the Vithar, showing more humour that most Dokkalfar were capable of.
‘We’ll talk soon.’
Nanon closed his eyes and felt grass beneath his feet. When he opened them, he was alone in the Fell with only a slight smell of jasmine to remind him of where he had been. Any sense of relaxation or calm that he may have felt was gone now. In the near distance he could hear troubling noises: the sound of bowstrings and metal armour. The Hounds were once again pushing the line. He broke into a run and within a few minutes he could see the dead Dark Young marking the boundary.
A cacophony of grunts and moans arose from the massed ranks of Hounds as arrow after arrow smashed into the Karesian column. They had been advancing for a few minutes. The Dokkalfar war-bows had, once again, stopped them cold.
Above him was Tyr Dyus the Daylight Sky, his hands blurring with motion, firing arrows into the enemy. Either side, forest-dwellers sat in the branches of trees or behind dense brush, hurling leaf-blades with deadly accuracy. Each Tyr was the worth of a dozen Hounds. At least, that was the case so long as they remained in the Fell.
‘Tyr Nanon,’ greeted Dyus, ‘Your bow is most welcome.’
The Shape Taker smiled up at his friend and drew his bow. With a few long strides he bounded over fallen logs and stood, bathed in lancing shards of sunlight, in full view of the Hounds. There were more than before, as if the Karesians were making an effort to overwhelm the defenders, but their dead were quickly mounting up from the relentless barrage of arrows and blades. Commands were being shouted and the whip-masters were trying to stop their troops from breaking. Nanon suspected that retreating from the Fell would mean execution and he felt slightly sorry for them. The feeling lasted barely an instant as the Hounds formed up for a concentrated assault.
‘Here they come. The faceless masses know not when they are beaten,’ announced Dyus.
‘Prepare for the melee,’ added Nanon, expecting that a few Hounds would get past the sheet of arrows.
Over a hundred Karesians plunged through the trees, pushed forward by callous commanders all too willing to throw away troops in order to secure the line. Nanon set an arrow to his bowstring and loosed it in one motion, hitting a charging man in the forehead. Another fell, then another, then more as the Dokkalfar rose from their places of concealment and blunted the Karesian advance.
The whip-masters funnelled them into a narrow column. A few dozen would make it to the defensive line.
‘Blades!’ shouted Nanon, dropping his bow and drawing his Ro longsword.
Dyus kept firing, as did a handful of defenders, while the majority drew leaf-blades and moved to flank the Shape Taker. All that remained between the armies now was the dead tree, standing in a bizarre contortion amidst dead Hounds and broken arrows.
‘Let none pass the line,’ said Nanon, crouching to meet the attackers.
The Hounds that reached them were sweating and terrified, their scimitars held in shaking hands and their advance more of a chaotic rabble than a charge.
‘Strike,’ commanded Nanon, causing the Dokkalfar to whirl into motion and cut at the Karesians. With a line of graceful movement, two dozen Hounds were maimed or decapitated.
Beyond them, a small force was holding its position past the line. Nanon suspected that they were a group of better-trained warriors, perhaps waiting for the expendable front rank to fall. A moment later, as the forest-dwellers pulled back behind the old Tyr, a cry sounded from above.
‘Dark Young,’ roared Dyus. ‘Two of them.’
Nanon puffed out his cheeks and glanced either side of him. ‘If I hear one of you so much as mutter the priest and the altar, I’ll kill you myself.’
‘We are not afraid.’ The words came from Dyus and were spoken in a rumble of conviction.
‘Black wart,’ commanded Nanon, as two undulating shapes appeared between distant tree trunks.
The Dokkalfar steeled themselves and retreated to their cover, crouching behind fallen logs and drawing black wart arrows from hidden caches. A few were quivering, their eyes fixed in fear. Nanon could not hear any muttering and hoped his strength would transfer to them.
Without moving from his position on a tree trunk, in plain view of the enemy, Nanon slowly sheathed his longsword and picked up his short bow. He peered into the darkness and identified the two creatures advancing towards them. The Hounds had moved out of the way and were every bit as disquieted by the Young as the forest-dwellers. There was now a mound of dead Karesians forming a clearing, and the surviving men were flanking the open ground, giving the beasts space to advance. Their bodies rippled forward, tentacles grasping at trees and earth as they pulled their blackened shapes towards the line. Two maws, each wide and pulsating with sickly venom and bile, reached forward and emitted shrill, repeating cries.
Nanon didn’t move, though several of his force tilted their heads at him, indicating he should take cover. He remained still and allowed the other Tyr to see him, standing unafraid in front of the Dark Young. His confidence began to flow into them. Even as grotesque sounds echoed around the forests, the assembled warriors were not afraid.
He placed a black wart arrow to his bowstring and smiled at the other defenders of the Fell.
‘We kill them. They send more and we kill them, too. We kill every beast they send against us. We are Tyr and we will fight.’
The words travelled in a low echo through the trees. Each Tyr rose, abandoning cover and forming a line of archers, each with a flaming black wart arrow nocked and ready. Faces of anger and courage appeared either side of the Shape Taker. For perhaps the first time, there was no fear,. He knew it wouldn’t last, but for now his strength was enough.
The two Dark Young moved over the dead Karesians and towards the line. The torpid remnants of their fellow blocked the way, but they twisted and contorted their bodies past the obstacle, reaching towards the forest-dwellers.
‘Bring them down!’ Nanon shouted.
A synchronized sound of bowstrings flexing drowned out the beasts’ guttural cries, before fire engulfed the Dark Young. Each arrow struck and exploded, causing globes of sudden flame to ignite and pulsate against the writhing black creatures. Both rose to their full height, their maddening cries flowing into shrill howls of pain.
‘Again,’ shouted Dyus, already nocking another black wart arrow.
The second barrage dropped the huge beasts to the ground as fire quickly spread across their cracked flesh. They kept moving, but slowly became little more than smouldering, blackened parts, twitching on the grass. He wouldn’t call it a vulnerability, but Jaa had made sure that fire was more dangerous to the Dark Young than any blade.
‘Let your mistress send more,’ muttered Nanon. ‘She won’t be breathing much longer.’
He gritted his teeth and began to calm his mind. Explaining to Dyus that he’d have to leave would be difficult, but meeting Dalian and Rham Jas in Ro Weir and killing the enchantress was as important as defending the Fell, though he feared that his strength would be missed on the line.
* * *
Saara the Mistress of Pain was tired. She had not slept properly in a month, since Lillian had died in Ro Arnon. She
might have recovered, but then Shilpa had died in Ro Haran and sleep left her entirely. Her head was a whirlwind of names and faces, many she didn’t recognize. Her phantom thralls, as she’d begun to see them, occupied most of her attention. Four of her sisters were dead and those they had enchanted were now a constant burden to her.
She knew Rham Jas Rami was in Haran, but was powerless to act against him. She believed everything that she could do to protect herself was being done, but still she was on edge. Elihas of Du Ban was acting as her personal bodyguard, her flock grew stronger each day, her Hounds were everywhere, and her sister, Sasha the Illusionist, had managed to buy the Kirin’s daughter. Was it enough? Had she thought of every eventuality? Saara hated the fact that she couldn’t be sure.
She was sitting in Duke Lyam’s office, attempting to distract herself from her phantom thralls. She’d seen an endless line of wind claws and Ro officials, testing her patience by asking petty questions about the security of Weir and delivering reports from other cities. Elihas had dealt with the men of Ro, but the Karesians didn’t respond well to the Black cleric and required Saara’s attention.
Her next appointment was with Sir Hallam Pevain. The mercenary knight had recently risen from his sickbed after having had his throat opened by Utha the Ghost. By all accounts, the wound had soured his disposition even more, making a vile man even viler. He remained rather useful, however.
The door opened and three men entered. The wind claws flanking the door recognized Pevain and allowed them entrance. One of the others was Parag, an unpleasant mercenary and Pevain’s second. Saara did not know the third. He was a thin man of Ro in tarnished steel armour and with an ugly red brand on his cheek. Elihas of Du Ban, who stood over Saara’s shoulder, was impassively scanning the newcomer but remained still.
‘My lady,’ said Pevain, the smooth scar across his neck making him rasp as he spoke. ‘This is Yacob Black Guard of Weir.’
The thin man nodded with only the barest hint of deference.
Saara moved round the table and smiled at Yacob. She was wearing a white dress, less revealing than those she customarily wore, but more appropriate for Tor Funweir and the stiff-necked Ro. She lowered her eyes and seductively touched the man’s chest.
‘Good day,’ purred Saara. ‘I apologize, but I need to speak to Sir Pevain alone.’ She smiled girlishly. ‘And if you enter my chamber unannounced again, I will have you skinned and salted.’
Yacob blinked several times and turned to Pevain. ‘I... was told that you’d welcome my assistance.’
‘He does not make my decisions,’ replied Saara.
Pevain laughed, his face splitting into a grotesque mask. ‘He has some knowledge you might find useful, and a few skills, too. Maybe talk to him before you skin him.’
She backed away demurely and perched on the edge of the table. She thought the Black Guard had probably been scared sufficiently by her initial threat and could be allowed to stay. She gave him an open smile of apology. ‘What knowledge do you possess?’ she asked gently.
Yacob was hesitant now, but the smiling mercenary beside him nodded and showed little fear of the enchantress. Parag directed his slack-jawed gaze at Saara’s breasts. She inferred he was not overly encumbered with brains.
‘I think we should discuss payment first.’ The Black Guard did not speak with any confidence.
Elihas walked round the table. With a dutiful look at Saara, he punched Yacob squarely on the nose. The blow was delivered with minimal strength but had the desired result, mangling the man’s nose and dropping him to the floor.
‘I warned you,’ joked Pevain.
‘Keep your mouth shut.’ Elihas turned to the mercenary knight. ‘When I hit you, it’s with a blade, not a fist.’
‘So draw your steel,’ challenged Pevain, looking down at the broad-shouldered Black cleric.
Saara clapped her hands excitedly. ‘As intoxicating as this display of aggression is, I have little time and I need both of you.’
She allowed Pevain to relax, but made no effort to sway the cleric, knowing that he would follow her commands without argument.
‘And as for you, my dear Black Guard.’
She placed a finger under Yacob’s chin and raised his bloodied face. He had a hand clamped to his nose and blood was seeping out from between his fingers.
‘I will not pay you, but I will give you a great gift.’
She looked deep into his eyes and penetrated his mind. Yacob’s eyes widened, his hand falling from his broken nose to hang limply at his side. His body shook as extreme pain flooded his senses, but he was helpless to react or speak. Saara began to feel intoxicating pleasure as his pain flowed into her. His mind became malleable and open. His thoughts and memories were hers to enjoy.
She saw his upbringing in the city of Ro Weir. He was the son of the previous duke, an infamous nobleman called Rafe. Yacob had been an arrogant child. A bully and a sadist, he had followed in Rafe’s footsteps, taught by an abusive father to view the peasants as if they were insignificant cattle. By the time Yacob was eighteen he was his father’s finest assassin and would kill on command. Noblemen, businessmen and clerics, all died at his hand. Saara felt his lack of empathy and his need to prove that his own life had worth by taking the lives of others. When Rafe was executed for his numerous crimes, the boy had been spared and branded as a Black Guard. Duke Lyam had wanted him killed, but the Purple clerics insisted that his father was to blame and had merely exiled Yacob.
‘You have suffered much, sweet Yacob,’ said Saara, feeling the man’s depthless self-loathing and anger. ‘But I can help.’
She softened her grip on his mind and allowed him to sense euphoria. After a moment, his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth contorted into a vacant smile.
Pressing into his memory, Saara identified the knowledge he wished to share. Somewhere to the east, in the town of Kabrin, Yacob had seen an albino man of Ro boarding a Karesian ship. The captain was a smuggler called Makad and he was bound for Kessia.
Saara gasped with pleasure and saw the pale face of Utha the Ghost. He was accompanied by his squire and a dark woman who was not as she appeared. Yacob had recognized him, and the last old-blood was certainly heading towards the capital city of Karesia.
Saara released his mind and fell back against the table. Neither Elihas nor Pevain moved to help her and the Mistress of Pain breathed heavily with a contented smile on her face.
‘Thank you, Yacob,’ she said between panted breaths.
The Black Guard was unconscious now, slumped in a heap on the floor, but completely under the sway of the enchantress. He was a skilled assassin and could prove useful beyond the information he had just supplied.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Pevain.
She laughed. ‘He will recover, my dear Hallam.’ She pointed to one of her guards. ‘You, take him to a bedchamber.’
The wind claw opened the wooden door and dragged out the torpid Black Guard. It was not unusual for men to be carried out of her office – though, for a change, the man was still alive.
‘He has interesting news,’ said Saara, licking her lips.
‘He told me,’ replied Pevain.
The mercenary growled. Utha had evaded him before and this would wrangle badly. Pevain saw himself as an unbeatable fighter who had been defeated and left for dead by the albino. He would relish the opportunity to resume his pursuit. Parag nodded excitedly and emitted a throaty chuckle. Neither of them cared about Yacob, and Saara figured they’d already been paid for introducing him to her.
‘My sister will meet you in Kessia,’ she said. ‘Sasha will make sure you do not fail again.’ Her smile was disarming enough for Pevain not to recognize straightaway the threat implicit in her words.
‘I’ll find him,’ snarled the mercenary, rubbing his scar. ‘And I don’t need your sister looking over my shoulder.’
‘I don’t need you to find him. Sasha can find him. I need you to kill him. Kill him, kill his squire, c
ut out his eyes, cut off his cock... just kill him! Do you understand?’ The venom flooded out in her words, and immediately she pulled herself back.
Pevain scowled, fighting his involuntary fear. ‘I understand.’
Elihas stepped in front of the knight. ‘Shall I remove something from him to ensure loyalty? Perhaps a hand?’
Pevain was scared enough of Saara not to react to the cleric’s threat, though his eyes narrowed. For an instant, she saw a man who regretted his life. He had served her for money, power and influence, but occasionally he saw the dark heart behind her honeyed words. He would always fear her.
‘I don’t think so,’ whispered Saara, licking her lips at Pevain.
The two men were now nose to nose.
‘Do as you’re told. And have the sense to know how small you are,’ growled Elihas, making Saara’s chest heave with desire. The man of Ro was not attractive but his stern manner and upright posture made him desirable in that moment.
Pevain did not turn back to meet the cleric’s gaze. He patted Parag on the shoulder and pointed to the door. ‘Let’s go, there’s a ghost that needs killing.’
As the mercenaries left, Saara panted and bit her lower lip, looking hungrily at Elihas. For a moment she considered grabbing the cleric and making him satisfy her, but she didn’t want to hurt him. The last few men she’d taken to bed had died in extreme pain. She needed to consume the energy of others in order to maintain control over her phantom thralls, but Elihas was too valuable to waste in such a way.
‘It’s a pity you’re not a man.’ She was breathing heavily.
He looked impassively at her. ‘You could not possibly begin to understand what I am,’ he replied. ‘But what I am not is interested in your cunt.’
Saara threw her head back and laughed. It was blunt, but coarse humour did amuse the enchantress and few people would have dared say such a thing to her.
‘You’re very droll, my dear Elihas.’
‘I wasn’t trying to be.’ The cleric walked round the table to stand by the window, looking out over the harbour of Ro Weir.