Sinner

by Sara Douglass

  The Acharites met the Norsmen in a mangle of spear, sword and pike in the very centre of the Norsmen arc. It shattered, being only five riders deep, but it shattered at a dreadful cost to the Acharites. Swords and spears were no match for a well-held lance that was three times as long as the height of a man. Once those lances were past, the Acharites could turn and fight faster than the Norsmen – but again, the Norsmen were better plated and armoured, and even as the fray got down to the meat and blood of sword to sword and mace to mace, the Norsmen more than held their own, even improved upon it.

  And Zared’s force was tired, very tired. He’d pushed hard to get this far this fast, and his men had ridden into battle without sufficient rest or preparation.

  But they were determined, and they had a leader they believed in, which was perhaps a little more than the Norsmen had.

  They battled until the evening darkened into night. Zared, exhausted, swung about on his horse, trying to see through the gloom what the state of battle was.

  There were shouts and cries, the thud and screech of weaponry, but it was too damned dark to see what he should do –

  Something landed on the back of his horse. A strong arm slid about his throat, another pricked a dagger through the joints of his breast-plate.

  “Call your men off,” a voice hissed, and Zared heard the inflections of Icarii arrogance.

  “Call your men off, Prince of Treachery, for you have lost. Even now the Strike Force wheels down. Hear the wind of their descent? Feel the prick of their vengeance?” And the dagger slid in deeper, tearing into flesh, and Zared groaned.

  The Icarii clinging to his back laughed, low and harsh. “Your wife told us of your arrival, Zared. Even now she sits waiting with her brother and StarSon. Sipping wine, no doubt, and laughing at your fate.”

  Now the dagger slid to critical depth and Zared gagged.

  “Call your men back!”

  And he did, although his every thought was with Leagh’s treachery, not the battle grinding to a halt about him, nor the dagger wedged to its hilt in his side.

  65

  A Brother to Die For

  They stood there in their confident semi-circle, the five Questors and the Queen of Heaven, cuddling her life-lacking son in her arms.

  Their eyes were directed to a spot far above them, shimmering in the violet night-sky.

  Star Gate.

  It glowed with the strength of the enchantments warding it, lightning streaked jade and silver, a bulge in the stars.

  A doorway.

  “How nice of them to so brighten it for us,” Sheol murmured, and she laughed with Barzula, and slipped her arm through his.

  “One more leap and we reach its rim,” Mot said. His arms were stringy in their thinness, and he kept them wrapped about his skeletal form, but his face was well-fed and satisfied, and his eyes glowed with victory.

  “And then one more push through!” cried StarLaughter, and she bounced the undead child in her arms. “Through!”

  Raspu leaned over and took the baby from her. He crooned and hummed to him, and stroked his clammy cool brow. “Soon,” he said, and squeezed the child in his enthusiasm.

  “What first?” asked Rox, leaning over to stroke the child’s cheek. “Breath or warmth?”

  “Warmth,” said Sheol. “For it is a precondition of all the others.”

  “And warmth is…?” StarLaughter said, watching over Raspu’s enthusiasm lest he damage her beloved son.

  “Cauldron Lake, my Queen of Heaven,” Rox answered. “Warmth is buried in its depths.”

  “Can you conquer it?” StarLaughter raised her eyes first to Rox’s face, then to Raspu’s.

  They grinned, feral, confident. “Assuredly, sweet mother,” Rox said. “We have been waiting a long time, after all, and we know enough of the Enemy to be certain of their tricks. We think we can be sure of their wards and embellishments.”

  “And the Star Gate?” Drago had hitherto been sitting cramped in a shadowy corner. Now he rose and took a hesitant step forward. “Can you negotiate the wards about the Star Gate?”

  As one the Questors turned to stare at him. Then, in tune, they smiled.

  “We will shatter them,” Sheol said, and suddenly hissed, her eyes bright and fierce.

  Drago took a frightened step backwards. “But –”

  “Think you that these pitiful wards can counter us?” Mot roared, the sound stunning coming from his bony frame. “We will quest through the wards!”

  “Poor boy,” StarLaughter said softly. “Look how frightened he is. Go away, frightened boy. We have no need of you yet.”

  Drago sank down on the floor as the Questors turned back to contemplation of the Star Gate. His hands gripped the sack.

  He was going to die, he knew it.

  Stupid, stupid fool for thinking these creatures would be his friends.

  He should have stayed home.

  He started. Home. Tencendor? Yes, he supposed it was home. He wanted to go home.

  They will kill you. You know that.

  I know that, Drago answered in his mind.

  We can help.

  Drago felt the bitterness of life-long rejection well within him. No-one helps me.

  Zenith did.

  Zenith. He wondered if she was well, or if Niah had overcome her. I wish I could have helped her, he thought.

  We know. There was deep sadness in their voices. Now it is your turn to help. Are you prepared to help Tencendor?

  Drago’s thoughts drifted. He remembered the Tencendor of his youth. Sigholt, keeper of bad memories and resentments. Carlon, all silver and gold, but petty in its preoccupation with pleasure. But then he remembered the forests. He thought he’d always hated the forests, but they had never hated him. Surprisingly. He remembered a stream he had crossed when he was about nine or ten. It had been an insignificant stream, but it had flashed agreeably, and the sound of its waters had been beautiful. He remembered the loveliness of smooth flowing plains and the peace of a herd of cream-coloured cattle grazing in the sun. He remembered his grandfather, StarDrifter, sitting on the edge of the cliffs of Temple Mount, explaining some mystery of the breeze as he ignored his grandson’s surliness. He remembered the laughter of someone – himself? – watching the antics of a courtyard litter of kittens.

  Let us show you something, said Veremund, and a vision filled Drago’s mind.

  He saw a landscape which had been brutalised by a cruel wind – and something else.

  He saw crazed cattle, hunting in feral packs, craving the taste of blood in their mouths.

  He saw people wandering disconsolate through this barren landscape. They were thin, and scabbed, and they tore listlessly at their rags and moaned as they wandered.

  They were despairing.

  He saw Icarii, huddled about scathed rocks of the Icescarp Alps. They shivered in a bitter wind, their eyes sunken, haunted, even the memory of beauty lost to them.

  Their wings lay in tatters along their backs, and they no longer knew the meaning of the word “music”.

  He saw the Avar, sitting lump-like under a relentless sun. No shade. No trees. And yet somehow forced to live nevertheless.

  Beside them rotted the carcass of a stag, white hairs blowing across the land.

  The Questors can do all of this? he wondered. How?

  The Demons’ greatest ally is that which already exists in people’s souls. Terror. Despair. Tempest. Anger. Greed. Lust.

  Gods! thought Drago. And resentment and bitterness. They have used what was in me to further their own cause.

  Yes. They let him think a moment. Will you aid Caelum, Drago?

  Caelum? He thought of his brother as a child, screaming in despair at his brother’s treachery, knowing he was to be the sacrifice for his brother’s ambition. If a brother could betray him this cruelly, then what could he ever trust again?

  In Caelum, Drago thought, I seeded uncertainty. If I hadn’t destroyed Caelum’s security on the rooftop of Sigholt,
then Caelum would doubtless meet the Questors with the golden confidence that should have been his inheritance. I shattered Caelum’s future and I stole his heritage, Drago realised, as much as I believed others stole mine.

  Yes. See the devastation across Tencendor. See the lives, the hopes, the enchantments lost. See Caelum waver helpless in the winds of indecision. It will happen. Nothing you can do can save it. Unless…

  Drago knew what they meant.

  Unless…

  He thought of that stream, of the peaceful cattle, of StarDrifter’s patience, of Zenith’s courage, of Caelum’s terrified scream that day long past.

  Will you offer your life to aid Caelum and Tencendor, Drago?

  Yes, he thought. Yes, if I can save my home. He sat there for long moments, watching the Questors murmur and laugh among themselves, passing the undead child back and forth, back and forth.

  Oh gods, what was he loosing on Tencendor?

  Yes. Yes, I am prepared to die to save Tencendor.

  For the first time in his life Drago smiled unaffectedly. It lightened his face, softened his eyes. Kill me then, he thought, before the Questors have a chance to use me again.

  The Sentinels’ laughter rang in his ears. No! Too easy! Your life is now vowed to Tencendor and to your brother, vowed to the fight against the Demons. You will live past the Star Gate. Believe us.

  “And you? Will you come back with me? I know Faraday would like to see you again.”

  And it would be good to see her again, too. But, no, we will not come back. We will see you through, then we will stay this side to drift forever more among the stars. Now, tell us, do you know this pretty lullaby?

  A sweet tune slipped through Drago’s mind, and there was something so soothing about it that he relaxed completely against the pillar he leaned on. No, he thought, I do not know this tune.

  Then learn it, Drago, for it will keep you well.

  Drago, running the melody through his mind, had no idea that this was the lullaby that Goodwife Renkin had sung to the seedlings to make them spring into life as the trees of Minstrelsea. All he thought, as he let the melody sweep through him, was that it was something he wished his mother could have sung to him had she ever rocked him to sleep at night.

  StarLaughter glanced at Drago, and frowned. He looked unexpectedly at peace with himself, his eyes half closed, his body relaxed. Then she shrugged and turned away. No matter if he went to his death with a smile on his lips rather than a scream. Just so long as he proved useful to the end.

  “But what time of day would be best?” Sheol said at her side, and StarLaughter turned her thoughts to the Questors’ conversation.

  “Afternoon?” Sheol continued. “An afternoon filled with despair?”

  “Dawn?” suggested Mot, hungrily. “They will be fogged by sleep. Easy eating.”

  “Night!” cried Rox. “When nocturnal terrors strike easily!”

  “Let me quench them with tempest,” said Barzula. “Let me tear their limbs from them and tumble them over the plains like a scattering of dust. Morning.”

  StarLaughter smiled, and cuddled her child close. This was the music she craved, not the Star Dance.

  “Nay,” Raspu said. “Let it be dusk. I shall cover their bodies with boils. They shall be too busy scratching at the scabs to halt us.”

  Sheol looked at StarLaughter. “Your choice, Queen of Heaven,” she said softly, reverently. “When?”

  “Mid-afternoon,” StarLaughter whispered, staring into Sheol’s sapphire eyes. “Despair will destroy them more than anything else I know. Strike during mid-afternoon.”

  Again, as one, they turned their eyes heavenward.

  The nearest Enchanters to the Star Gate gazed into its depths and shuddered. WolfStar stood at the rim, as did Flulia and Pors. Azhure stayed under the shadow of one of the arches, not wanting to look, but drawn by the dreadfulness emanating from the Gate. Axis stood atop the very wall surrounding the Gate itself, staring down.

  There was no lure now, only horror.

  Darkness swirled beyond the Star Gate, almost obliterating the Star Dance entirely. Even the Dance of Death was fatally reduced. Azhure and WolfStar, the only beings alive who could make use of the Dark Music, could barely hear it.

  Every creature within that chamber, Enchanter or God, could feel their powers ebbing.

  “Look how they swarm,” Axis said quietly to no-one in particular. “What can we do?”

  He looked up, and those within the chamber saw that his eyes reflected the darkness swirling at his feet.

  Despair beckoned and tugged at their souls.

  No hope.

  66

  In Caelum’s Camp

  The birdman wrenched out the dagger, and Zared collapsed back against him, almost fainting with the agony of it.

  Leagh!

  The Icarii slid back over the horse’s rump, catching Zared as he half fell, half slid after him. He lowered the man none too gently to the ground.

  The birdman, Strike Leader DareWing FullHeart, looked about. All around, men were laying down weapons as members of the Strike Force spiralled down from the darkened sky.

  All the Strike Force were dressed in black. None save Enchanters could have known they were there.

  DareWing looked down. Zared had half raised himself, a hand to the wound in his side, black blood seeping through his fingers.

  “Leagh?” he asked.

  “She told Caelum you were coming,” DareWing said. “She must have ridden out within hours of your own departure. Almost killed herself and her mount in her effort to warn StarSon.”

  Zared slipped back to the ground, his vision momentarily swimming. He had trusted her. But she had betrayed him.

  “Ah,” DareWing said above him. “Here are the first of the wagons now. Here, you! Take this man to StarSon’s camp. Caelum himself will want to question him.”

  Rough hands reached down, and Zared almost screamed with agony as they threw him into the back of a dusty wagon.

  Water sloshed in his face, and Zared jerked into wakefulness. Where was he? There were sounds about of horses, and feet, and the clink of metal.

  A camp.

  “Get up.”

  Zared slowly raised himself on one hand, wincing as the pain stabbed through his side again. He blinked, clearing his vision. A camp, night, men moving purposefully about.

  Another standing in front him, beside the open-trayed wagon.

  Askam.

  A guard stepped forward from behind Askam and hauled Zared roughly off the tray and onto his feet. He stumbled, catching at the rim of the wagon wheel to steady himself; loss of blood had made him dizzy. The other hand he kept clutched to his side.

  Askam reached out with his remaining hand and struck Zared a heavy blow to his head.

  It was enough to topple Zared to the ground, and Askam buried a steel-tipped boot in his injured side as he curled up.

  This time Zared could not prevent the cry, and Askam grinned. “That was for my arm, traitor,” he said, and swung his leg for another blow. “And this is for the four thousand who died at Kastaleon!”

  Zared screamed, unable to believe he was still alive. He dimly saw Askam prepare for another blow – surely the one which would kill him – when another man stepped up behind Askam and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Have him carried inside my tent,” the man’s voice said.

  Caelum.

  Zared fainted.

  When he came to again he was inside a warmly lit tent. A command tent, for it had desks and chairs and scattered maps about its interior. Of everything in the tent, Zared had the most opportunity to study its rich blue and cream carpet, for his face was almost buried in it.

  He wondered if his blood had stained it beyond repair.

  A hand, rough but not unkind, rolled him over. “He’s awake.”

  Zared blinked, trying to focus his vision, trying to remember the voice. Marrat. Baron Marrat. He must have finally managed to
join Caelum after all. Zared vaguely found himself wondering about the logistics of that. Marrat would have had a long journey from Romsdale.

  “Well, King of Achar,” a quiet voice said. “Look to what kingdom you have come.”

  Zared managed to pull himself into a sitting position, leaning back against a wooden chair. Caelum stood about a third of the way across the tent, dressed all in black, arms folded, his hair neatly combed back, staring at him with an undeniably hostile face.

  Slightly behind and to one side of him stood Askam, the sleeve of his jacket trembling slightly in the air.

  Behind Askam were several guards and one or two commanders, DareWing FullHeart (come to peruse his handiwork, Zared thought numbly), and behind this group, sitting wan and shocked on a chair, her hand to her mouth, eyes round and horrified, was his wife. Leagh.

  He held her eyes for a moment, and wondered that she was not smirking. Surely this was the fate she had worked to bring him to?

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Eight hundred and seventy-nine of yours,” replied DareWing. “Dead. Another thousand injured. Of the Norsmen, about the same.”

  “Eight hundred and seventy-nine,” Zared repeated softly, and looked Leagh direct in the eye. “Dead.”

  She blanched, but said nothing.

  “And more would have died,” Caelum said, moving across to a chair and sitting down, “had your wife not moved to warn us of your arrival.”

  Zared did not shift his stare from Leagh’s. “I was moving to protect my people,” he said, and finally looked at Caelum, “from your invasion.”

  “They are not your people!” Caelum said. “They are Tencendorians all!”

  “They are Acharites first and foremost,” Zared retorted. “I was protecting their hopes and wishes.”

  “You simply sought to mask your own ambitions in the colour of peasant dreams,” Caelum said more moderately. “Well, now both your ambitions and simple peasant dreams lie buried in the dust of western Arcness. Your ‘army’ awaits my command, the traitors Herme and Theod, as the other commanders in your force, await my judgment, as do you. I will decide your fate in the morning.”