The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘The Gods are weakened, the cults undermined. We cannot allow it to continue this way or we serve Azaer’s purpose. In Tirah the cults almost sparked civil war. From all directions we hear that priests have been murdered – how many other cities will be like Scree and try to drive out the Gods? Reports from Byora say that is the case there; consider how many prayers the Gods would receive if we let this play out for five years more.’

  ‘But to bring into play the Key of Magic too?’ Vesna protested. ‘The weapon eclipses even a Crystal Skull for power – and it isn’t just Death’s own weapon; it’s a part of the Land’s very fabric.’

  He appealed to Isak directly, knowing the decision was ultimately his. ‘Isak, the part of me that’s a God fears Termin Mystt being used by either side in this war – fears it being merely present. It’s a fundamental piece of the Land, older than mortal life, old when the Age of Myths was still young!’

  Isak shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter now; we’re too far gone down the path. This Land will be remade; it only remains to decide who’ll do so and how.’

  ‘How could we even use it?’ Vesna continued, refusing to give up so easily. ‘Who could wield it, me? You? No mortal can touch it without having their sanity stripped away.’

  ‘No living man,’ Isak corrected with a mad, crooked smile, ‘but what about one who is only half-alive?’

  ‘And only half-sane!’ Vesna snapped.

  His words made Isak smile, and General Daken laughed out loud from the sofa that had been carried out for him. The white-eye’s injuries had opened up again under the strain of the ritual, but he had refused to be left inside when there was drinking to be done.

  ‘Half-sane too,’ Mihn agreed, ‘but most importantly, carrying the Crystal Skull aligned to Death. We know already they act as buffers for the mind, and of all the Skulls, Ruling should be best able to protect Isak.’

  ‘This is all still conjecture surely? Gambles and guesswork with the most powerful object in creation – you’re mad! You have no concept of the power you propose to use as a plaything.’

  ‘It’s educated conjecture,’ King Emin argued, speaking louder than before. ‘Shile Cetarn and Tomal Endine working together had few rivals in the West. Their work has surpassed anything I’ve ever read bar Verliq’s own writings. Couple that with the power of the witch of Llehden, perhaps the greatest of her kind alive today, the insight of a demi-God and Isak – a man who’s passed through death and was born to be the Gods’ own catalyst of change . . .’

  Vesna hesitated and looked round at the faces of those who’d clearly been party to the plan’s formulation. Morghien, the man of many spirits, was swigging brandy from a bottle he was sharing with Doranei; Legana and Ehla were both as impassive as ever, while Endine himself was still unconscious after his efforts during the battle.

  ‘So what’s there to worry about then?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘Catastrophic failure and death,’ the rather-drunk Doranei supplied helpfully, raising his bottle in toast of the notion. ‘And half-vampire children, maybe.’

  Only the men of the Brotherhood and Daken managed to find that funny; to Vesna it was a knife to the gut. He rose to leave, visions of Tila and the life they had planned together filling his mind. Without bothering to bow to the king he headed for the lower gate, suddenly desperate to be outside the confining, crowded walls of Moorview. His chest felt tight and constrained. Just as he passed beyond the lit area of grounds his vision blurred and he stumbled forward on the cut-up ground, barely catching himself in time. When a soldier reached out automatically, the Mortal-Aspect lurched away, unable to bear the touch of another person, even if it meant falling flat on his face.

  He walked on and ducked through the sally-port to the grounds beyond. There were Kingsguard camped all around. As he marched on through them towards the lower meadow, planning to cross the ditch to reach the moor proper, he heard a horn sound from one of the pickets. His divine-touched eyes caught movement in the darkness beyond the ditch: not fighting, but confusion of some sort.

  At the sounding of the horn, half-a-dozen squads converged on the forward picket, weapons at the ready. Vesna tasted the air and knew in his bones there was no army out there, even as he recalled the king’s scryer, Holtai, tell them exactly that earlier. He stopped. No army, but something strange on the wind; something he didn’t recognise and muted by the enduring stink of the battlefield, but even for a man aligned to the God of War it overrode the shed blood and spilled bowels.

  Vesna advanced towards the disruption, barely aware of the complaining voices coming from the Kingsguard’s tents as the horn sounded again. It wasn’t an attack alarm so no one raced from their beds, but it signalled that strangers had been sighted, and it was loud and persistent enough to wake the soldiers who’d turned in at sunset. As he got nearer Vesna saw a party of soldiers was advancing towards him, marching up the path to the castle and escorted by squads of Narkang troops. A larger group corralled by the picket out on the moor itself appeared to be doing nothing but waiting, so Vesna returned his attention to the party in front of him.

  When they were some twenty yards off he realised with a start they were Menin officers, judging by their size and uniforms; what was more, they were led by a dark-furred figure who was surely no human.

  ‘So General Gaur leads his men back,’ Vesna mused. ‘Better than starving on the moor, I suppose.’

  The elusive scent on the wind grew momentarily stronger and Vesna took a startled step back as the smell of hot, bitter ashes filled his nose before the breeze carried it away. Underlying it all was the stink of rot that came swiftly after any battle in the hot sun, but it was the first aroma that set Vesna’s fingers itching for his sword. The divine thread inside him recoiled at it, sensing something evil in the air.

  He looked back at the castle. It was still peaceful and quiet. The sounded horn had attracted a few guards to watch from the battlements, but there was no frantic activity.

  ‘You, soldier,’ Vesna called, pointing at the nearest man to him. ‘Go to the king, tell him I think there’s something strange coming.’

  The soldier turned and Vesna saw sweeping curves of blue on his cheek, marking him as one of General Daken’s troops. Litania the Trickster had marked all the officers of his cavalry strike-force and, according to Daken, the Aspect of Larat would be working her way through the enlisted soon enough. The man was clearly no officer, though he had a fine sword hanging from his belt, a sabre with Menin markings on the scabbard.

  ‘Aye, sir. Strange, sir?’

  ‘Just run, tell them to be on guard.’

  The cavalryman bobbed his head and sprinted off, his plundered sabre flapping at his heels. Vesna returned his attention to the approaching Menin. General Gaur was accompanied by six men, all officers, though their uniforms were torn and filthy and they walked like men beaten – unlike the beastman, who held himself proudly.

  Vesna reminded himself that the heavy infantry had been the élite of the Menin troops; Gaur had been in command of the cavalry or he’d never have escaped the field. The rest might be officers, but they commanded the weakest units in the army.

  When they were twenty yards off Vesna put his hand on his pommel and called out to the group and their escort, ‘That’s far enough. Stop there!’

  The squads flanking the Menin stopped dead, but when their charges failed to halt they hurried to make up the ground and get in front. Even then, and with spears half-levelled, the troops had difficulty persuading Gaur to stop. The beastman walked right up to the point of one soldier’s weapon and in imperfect Farlan called out, ‘I speak to your king. I offer surrender.’ Up close the beastman’s fur looked lighter, black brushed with white, but not through age; rather, it looked like Arian, the Land’s third moon, was shining down on Gaur on Silvernight.

  ‘You can offer it to me instead,’ Vesna replied in Menin, the dialect coming easily to the Gods-blessed soldier. ‘Is there a mage among you?’


  ‘You are the Mortal-Aspect?’ Gaur said, ignoring the question.

  ‘I am.’ Vesna took a step forward. ‘And you are most likely one of those responsible for the death of my bride, so do not test my patience or you’ll not live to see the king.’

  As though to emphasise his point the faint light of the Skull glowed bright as a flicker of anger raced through Vesna’s body. His words seemed to terrify the officers behind Gaur, but the beastman regarded him with what appeared to be a complete lack of interest, though it was hard to make out the emotions of a creature he’d never seen before, the thick fur and tusks hiding most expression. The beastman still wore his battle-dress. Blood matted his fur and streaked his breastplate, and the vambrace and gauntlet of his left arm were missing entirely.

  ‘There is no mage among us,’ Gaur said. ‘Menin do not send mages to offer surrender.’

  ‘But you’re not Menin,’ Vesna said sharply, his hand tightening on his sword. ‘You’re some sort of hybrid race the Menin keep as pets.’

  He stared straight into Gaur’s bronze-speckled eyes, hoping the beastman would rise to the insult, but he didn’t appear to notice. His eyes were vacant, as dulled as an addict who’d given up on life.

  ‘My heart is Menin; my master, Lord—’ Gaur faltered.

  Vesna saw Gaur’s eyes flicker, and he felt a similar ache as he also sought the Menin lord’s name in his mind, but for Gaur it intensified and became waves of pain. The weight of grief struck with the force of a blow and the beastman shuddered and sagged under it all.

  Insults he fails to note, but he still feels, Vesna realised. His mind is occupied by one thing alone. I could spit on his mother’s grave right now and he would hardly care.

  ‘I am a general of the Menin armies,’ Gaur said eventually, his rasping voice quieter than before. ‘I conduct myself accordingly.’

  ‘You act as any Menin-trained dog would,’ Vesna said contemptuously, ‘the chosen tribe of the War God, who prefer to win victory by trickery, who employ enemies of the Gods to assassinate your rivals. Your conduct might be as expected of a Menin officer, but that means little of value.’

  Gaur again ignored the barb. ‘Am I to be prevented from meeting King Emin?’ he asked. ‘Does your king fear to face me?’

  ‘Not my king,’ Vesna growled, stepping closer, ‘and I couldn’t give a shit what he thinks of you. There’s some stink in the air that I don’t like. You move another step further without my permission and I’ll kill the lot of you where you stand.’

  While the Menin officers cringed, the beastman looked at Vesna as though he’d not even heard the threat, let alone was unafraid of it. But before he could speak again, a voice called from the direction of the castle, and Mihn appeared, alone, come to investigate anything so strange that a Mortal-Aspect would send a vague warning before meeting it.

  Vesna was watching Gaur’s eyes, and he saw them twitch Mihn’s way, just for a moment, but it was enough alter the beastman’s demeanour completely. Vesna stepped back and looked at Mihn. The small man was carrying his steel-capped staff as always, but he was barefoot, and wearing only a cropped shirt that displayed his tattoos.

  ‘The thief,’ hissed a voice from behind Gaur.

  Vesna felt time slow as the scent of hot ashes filled his nose once more, and at last he recognised it as the memory of a winter’s day in Irienn Square in Tirah flashed across his mind: the day of Duke Certinse’s trial, and the daemon the duke’s mother had released.

  ‘Back to your lord!’ Vesna roared, drawing his sword, and his voice spurred Mihn into movement. The dormant spirit of the War God swelled inside the Mortal-Aspect, raising his voice beyond a shout as he called to the whole camp: ‘To arms!’

  A slim shape darted from the shadow of one Menin officer, off to Vesna’s left, but he had no time to follow it for two huge figures were unfolding from the darkness. The Crystal Skull on his fist blazed with light as he retreated a few steps, but in the next instant four more had appeared: strange, angular bodies erupting from thin air as the officers fell to the floor.

  The largest two advanced on Vesna, their crooked jaws hanging open with anticipation. Each bigger than a bear, their hides were covered in twisted overlapping plates of some green-tinted metal. Each forelimb ended in a pair of two-foot-long hooked talons. One dropped to the ground, preparing to spring, even as a dozen more daemons appeared from the shadows surrounding the Menin.

  Gaur stepped forward. His eyes had changed, now slanting sharply and entirely bronze in colour. He shook his body and some of his thick fur fell from his body, revealing pale plates of chitin covering his broad shoulders. Gaur – or the daemon that had once been Gaur – moved forward awkwardly, leaning at an unnatural angle to peer at Vesna. His arm reached jerkily behind his back and tugged his axe free, while a javelin coalesced from the night air into the other hand.

  ‘An Aspect of a weakened God,’ the creature rasped. ‘Kill him!’

  The two bear-like daemons started to circle Vesna, moving in opposite directions, while the rest spread left and right, to get around him and head up to the castle. Gaur gave Vesna a baleful look, then followed his minions, but Vesna didn’t see him go; he was already moving to attack.

  The crouching daemon reared back in surprise as Vesna made up the ground in one leap, striking as he landed. His slash opened the beast’s belly and it howled and raked down with its huge talons. Vesna raised his armoured arm and caught the blow on the Skull in an explosion of white sparks.

  The daemon shrieked at the contact, but its cries were cut short as Vesna went right and hacked up through its elbow, then, in the blink of an eye, thrust overhand with all his strength, driving the point of his broadsword into the daemon’s throat. The enchanted blade tore right through; there was a great gout of ichor, and the daemon was dead before it hit the ground.

  Its comrade dropped to all fours to leap and use its greater size. Vesna was preparing to jump aside, but he hesitated as the power of the Crystal Skull screamed to be used: the image of a white ball of fire appeared in his mind, and in the next moment the night air was split by raging energies.

  Before the daemon could move it was consumed by flames so bright even Vesna had to turn away. As it died away one of the squads of guards was running forward, their spears lowered. He left them to finish it off and turned to face the more dangerous enemy.

  ‘Gaur!’ he roared, running after the pale daemon, obvious amidst the darker bodies of its kin. A gust of chill wind swept down over him, momentarily washing away the stink of daemon from the air, but then the Gaur daemon stopped and faced him, leaving the rest of the daemons scampering on towards the castle.

  As the lead demon stood up straight and regarded Vesna, the shining bronze of its eyes burned through the night and Vesna felt a sudden, overpowering sense of loathing. His divine side recoiled from the creature’s stench even as his hand tightened on his sword, aching to strike.

  As the two closed the ground between them with quick, careful steps, Vesna recognised the challenge for what it was, and knew that none of the soldiers would dare interfere in this.

  ‘So the Gods have found themselves another champion,’ the daemon said contemptuously. ‘How long before they cast you aside too?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘So you say now, but your Gods are easily bored; soon you will find their promises empty, and you will see that their strength is spent in this Land.’

  ‘And yet you fear to incarnate fully as you come seeking your revenge. You wear a mortal’s form – that is who will die when I slay you – yet you send your minions without any such protection.’ Vesna laughed. ‘Spare me your coward’s words; my soul is not for sale, daemon.’

  ‘Are you so sure?’ It stopped and cocked its head at Vesna, tasting the air with its long tongue. ‘You wear grief like a mantle, a loss most raw.’

  ‘Enough!’ Vesna yelled, feeling the daemon’s words like a punch to the gut. He took a breath, knowing it was feeding off h
is pain and sensing his vulnerabilities, but unable to suppress his feelings.

  ‘Would you like to see her face again?’ the daemon continued, its voice husky with laden promise. ‘Hold her in your arms?’

  ‘Such a thing is beyond your power,’ Vesna growled. ‘It is beyond all power: Death is the final arbiter.’

  ‘Are you so sure? Her death was recent: I can tell that from the scent of your grief.’ The daemon edged closer and lowered its voice. ‘What if her soul still walks Ghain’s slope? My hunters can find her and bring her to me. That is within my power.’

  Vesna shook his head, unable to speak as the memory of Tila appeared in his mind, her beautiful face marked by a single spot of blood, the smile that lit up rooms twisted into a grimace of agony.

  ‘She is dead. She is gone,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Her body perhaps, but another can be found,’ the daemon insisted, edging ever closer. It was barely three yards from him now, its weapons held low. ‘She might be wearing some other beautiful face perhaps, but it would be her voice, her laughter still. There are many who pledge their souls to my kind: spurned lovers, vengeful mothers – many beautiful women whose bonds could be broken in exchange for their mortal form.’

  ‘It would not be her,’ Vesna insisted.

  ‘Her beauty exists in your mind,’ it continued. ‘You could share your bed with her double every night of your life – that too is within my power.’

  Vesna didn’t speak. He could hear the music of her laughter in his mind but then it faded, to be replaced with the crash of glass on stone. His stomach tightened, desperate to retch up the black grief within him, but he smothered the feeling, all too aware that the emptiness was not so easily expelled.

  ‘No,’ he whispered, and struck without warning: two quick steps with a God’s speed, his sword rising even as he extended into a duellist’s lunge. The weapon pierced the Gaur-daemon’s chest, sliding neatly in with barely a sound. The daemon never even managed to raise its weapons in defense; it simply stared at the weapon transfixing it as a strange laugh bubbled up from its ruined chest.