The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘But what is that to us? We’re leaving the West aren’t we?’

  ‘We are somewhat impoverished of late,’ Larim pointed out. ‘Money is no issue, of course; we just need to murder a few people for that, but who knows what sort of trouble might await us at home, our journey notwithstanding? Spending a few months in Byora is unlikely to make much difference to what happens at home, and we might yet profit from the time. Our soldiers will have to become mercenaries if they are to have any chance of returning home, and we might sensibly do the same, if the pay is better than gold. It will make us stronger.’

  He straightened his robe, tattered and muddy though it was, and indicated the two laden horses tied to a nearby fencepost. ‘Bring the horses. It’s time we sought honest employment – or whatever approximation of it I can be bothered with at any rate.’

  ‘And if they attack us?’

  Larim’s pale lips turned into a thin, lizard-like smile. ‘Then I’ll kill them all, of course.’

  The farmhouse by which they stood had been recently abandoned, but he saw no signs of violence done there. Perhaps they had fled the Menin advance, perhaps daemons had taken them in the night; Larim didn’t care much. This nation meant nothing to him, and the rural eastern parts even less so. Rumour said the city of Narkang was a place of learning and magic, and Larim had hoped to take Narkang for his own private fief once Tor Milist’s mages had been slaughtered, but beyond the city there was nothing here to interest him.

  Not bothering to wait for his none-too-deft acolyte to bring up the horses, Larim walked around the farmhouse and headed for the village. It was a warm evening and still bright, so the first sentry spotted him well before he had neared the village proper. Before he had even reached shouting distance, a pair of riders had galloped out past the picket on the road and, stopping well short of the white-eye, called out, ‘Halt! State your name!’

  Larim scowled at that. Even though in a less than pristine state, his size and colourful patchwork robe should have made him unmistakable. Since neither of the riders appeared to be carrying a bow he continued walking. He could hear Govin huffing somewhere behind with the horses.

  ‘I said, stay where you are!’ roared one of the Devoted, a bearded young man with some insignia of rank on his shoulder.

  ‘I wish to speak to your commander,’ Larim replied, still walking, ‘and if I stop, he will have to come to me, surely?’

  His Menin accent startled the pair and they backed away. The probable lieutenant barked something at his companion and spurred his horse back towards the village without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Apparently new to the Order,’ Larim commented over his shoulder, but Govin made no reply.

  The other soldier moved to the side of the road as Larim approached. He was as young as the first, but with a harder face, for all his apprehension. He kept his spear-tip high, as though trying to avoid giving offence, but the white-eye ignored him and marched past, heading for the picket. A cart stood at one side, ready to be rolled back across the small bridge that crossed a little brook; he supposed the cart would provide some conceivable barrier to invaders, but the bridge was so small it barely warranted the name. Of course, the brook may be small enough for me to hop across, but some visitors might be less able to cross running water, he thought.

  ‘Where’s your commander?’ he demanded loudly, and right on cue an officer appeared with the bearded lieutenant, now on foot, trailing along behind.

  ‘I’m Captain Derral,’ the man replied, doing a fair job of not sounding afraid, ‘and you’re under arrest.’

  The man looked Litse, Larim judged, and his stupidity sealed the deal for him. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he replied, ‘but I will travel back to the Circle City with you. I don’t intend to negotiate with a mere captain. I have an offer to put to your superiors.’

  ‘You’ll come with us in leg-irons and dosed,’ warned the captain, motioning to his soldiers.

  The two on the picket levelled their crossbows at Larim and at last he did stop.

  ‘You’re Menin, and as such, you’re to be arrested or killed on sight.’

  Larim sighed and was about to release the magic he’d been casually storing when another man appeared in view. This one was not of the Devoted.

  ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance?’ the man enquired, putting a hand on the captain’s shoulder, and the gesture was enough to make the soldier deferentially fall back and out of the newcomer’s way.

  ‘Oracle?’ he said in surprise, ‘my – my orders are clear: I have to arrest him.’

  The oracle cocked his head at Derral. ‘In the interests of keeping you and your men from being slaughtered, might I suggest he be put into my custody instead?’

  Larim watched the exchange with fascination, trying to work out who the oracle was. He wore a Harlequin’s patchwork clothes, but dyed black, and instead of a mask he had teardrops tattooed onto his face. That in itself should have been enough to warrant Larim hearing of the man, but it was clear he was a powerful mage too. Larim could taste the swirl of magic spicing the air around them, twisting uneasily on a breeze that failed to touch the grass between them.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Me? Just a simple storyteller,’ the oracle said with a half-smile. ‘I have many names, but you may call me Venn.’ He gestured for Larim to come closer. ‘Come, you can remain in my custody while we eat.’

  Larim accepted in the invitation and accompanied Venn to the village inn, passing a sloped expanse of common ground currently shared by sheep and soldiers. The inn itself was set on a small rise and flanked by a pair of old spreading oak trees that provided the inn’s name. The road ran below it.

  The villagers were gathered in small, nervous clumps to watch the Devoted soldiers pitch their tents, but as Larim arrived he saw a party of white-clothed preachers had started to collect each group and usher them to one side. They spoke respectfully but firmly, and the presence of the soldiers ensured there was no argument from the locals.

  ‘Have you experienced the peace Ruhen offers?’ Venn inquired as he offered Larim a cup of wine.

  ‘I have had little time for peace recently,’ Larim said, watching a new group exit the inn to look him over. He counted five Harlequins, a low-ranked Litse white-eye and a variety of armed men wearing various badges of rank and office from Akell and Byora. They all kept a respectful distance, watching him, not the preachers who were asking a similar question of the villagers.

  ‘Few of us have,’ Venn agreed amiably. ‘However, the time is coming for men to choose: Ruhen’s peace or King Emin’s war.’

  ‘I’ve fared badly with one, but now my thoughts turn elsewhere, beyond the problems of the West.’

  ‘Even a man with such obligations is well served to embrace peace. Ruhen’s message is one of clarity, of simplicity. I see hunger for power in you – a power rightfully yours, perhaps, but your eagerness to claim it eclipses all.’

  Larim put down his cup. ‘I am a white-eye and Chosen of Larat,’ he said quietly. ‘The Lord of the Hidden Tower is power. My thoughts are not clouded; my whole being demands I return to the Ring of Fire and claim my position. Do not think I can be persuaded or turned – my devotion is to my art and no words could change that. Save your message for those for whom it was intended.’

  ‘The Hidden Tower is a long way to travel.’ Venn inclined his head to look past Larim and at the acolyte struggling along behind him. ‘Certainly in such limited company.’

  ‘My means are diminished,’ Larim confirmed, ‘and that is why I’m here. I know my worth to any ruler facing war, whether or not they espouse peace.’

  Venn arched a practised eyebrow. ‘You seek employment?’

  ‘If you have something of true value to offer in payment.’

  Venn was silent a while. ‘Such a thing could be arranged, but you would have to kneel to Ruhen first.’

  ‘A mercenary must know whose orders he obeys,’ Larim acknowledged.


  ‘Good. Your terms will be acceptable to him, I believe, and payment is assured by the fact we have currently have no mages of your skill.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled a chain from out around his neck, which he offered to Larim.

  The Chosen of Larat inspected it carefully before accepting it. The chain and the coin strung on it were made of silver, but he could detect no actual spell on either, nothing beyond an echo of some presence – and even that was eclipsed by the strange swirl of magic surrounding the black Harlequin.

  ‘Wear this – show it to Sergeant Kayel and he will know we have met.’

  ‘What is it?’ Larim turned the coin over and inspected the scored lines on its surface. ‘Your runework needs practice.’

  ‘It is just a symbol, acceptance of our Lord’s peace. You need not wear it publicly, but few know of its use anyway. Not all Ruhen’s Children wear it. Kayel will know you have got this from me.’

  ‘Might he not think I killed you and took it from your body?’

  Venn laughed, his voice unexpectedly high and strange, as though not his at all. His finger tapped his belt, which, Larim now noticed, had been custom-made to include a discreet pouch; he recoiled as a burst of power pulsed out from it.

  Somewhere behind, Govin cried out in shock, causing the horses to startle.

  ‘He knows you would find that difficult,’ Venn said, taking his hand away from the concealed Skull.

  Larim nodded. ‘Now I understand – but what are you doing out here, escorting a handful of preachers – and with Harlequins for company? Haven’t you just torn down every temple in Byora? So how are they here with you now?’

  ‘Ruhen is here to intercede with the Gods on our behalf, to perform the role that the greedy, vainglorious priests have failed to do. This is no war on the Gods, only on the dogma and vanity that fallible man has used to shade their light. The Harlequins understand purity of thought and action – that is the art they are devoted to – so they have embraced Ruhen’s message.’

  ‘Impressive, but you didn’t answer my first question. What are you doing out here?’

  Venn inclined his head. ‘My apologies. I am bound for the West, tasked with something other than spreading Ruhen’s word.’ He paused and looked again at Govin as the acolyte struggled with their horses. ‘Does he follow you into Ruhen’s service?’

  ‘Govin? He lacks the brains to do anything without orders.’

  ‘But if he is an acolyte of the Hidden Tower he must be skilled.’

  Larim curled his lip. ‘His talents are sufficient to follow orders, but expect no greatness from the man. If I should find another acolyte in the Circle City, or a sufficiently intelligent mule, his worth is greatly diminished.’

  ‘I could use him,’ Venn said, thoughtfully. ‘Our mages are limted, but an expendable one on my journey could prove useful.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Larim turned and raised his voice to his acolyte.

  ‘Govin, you will accompany Master Venn here; obey him as you would me.’

  He didn’t wait for a response but returned his attention to Venn, who refilled their cups and raised one in toast. ‘Our first bargain,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let us drink to many more.’

  King Emin signalled the halt before they reached the northernmost defensive works and went on ahead, accompanied only by a small body of guards. He looked tall beside his companions, the diminutive Dashain, who was second-in-command of the Brotherhood, and High Mage Endine. Behind them were a messenger and two more Brothers, Endine’s favourite thief, Tremal, and a pock-faced young Brother called Ame Forrow who now served as the king’s personal bodyguard.

  For reasons best known to Forrow, he had foregone the Brotherhood’s usual anonymous black and instead wore scarlet sleeves and pauldrons. While he lacked his predecessor’s size, he apparently wanted it made clear that he had taken Coran’s place in more than just name. Given he shared the man’s thuggish lack of humour, no one was inclined to argue. There was a grim air around the young Brother that was a stark contrast to the Land around him.

  The sun had remained consistently warm on their faces as they skirted the Blue Hills and travelled southwest through the unspoiled heartland of the Kingdom of Narkang. At the roadside fruit was ripening amidst a bustle of bees and butterflies, and birds chattered constantly around them, filling the air with song, but Forrow took his new position seriously, and he saw nothing but potential dangers.

  ‘Where’s Suzerain Cotterin?’ the king wondered aloud as he surveyed the ring of defences surrounding the town of Farrister.

  All looked peaceful there, just as they’d been told, but he knew the sight of his standard might change that very quickly. The town was surrounded by a wooden fence, more a barrier to stop untaxed goods than attacking forces. This deep into the kingdom there had never been a need for anything more.

  The Menin army currently occupying Farrister hadn’t had time to be picky about where to make their stand. They had been sent to harry the south of the kingdom and lure troops away from the main invasion, but they had fought only one minor battle before the decisive battle of Moorview. When they had realised their lord was defeated they had taken Farrister and barricaded themselves in while their allies from Thotel and Tor Salan fled home. They’d been there for the last few weeks, sending scouts out in search of news and fortifying their position as much as they could as they realised how far from home and supply-lines they now were.

  ‘Riders, sire,’ Dashain said, pointing east. She was as serene as a standing stone, and nearly as immovable. It had taken a while for the men to get past her beauty and realise they couldn’t dominate her; several had suffered in the process.

  While the king waited for the cavalrymen he sent the messenger to order the troops to make camp within the spiked earthworks that protected the besieging army.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ called Suzerain Cotterin as soon as he came within hailing distance, ‘I’m relieved to see you fit and well. The reports we’ve had from Moorview have been most grave.’

  ‘Good to see you too, Cotterin,’ the king replied, adding gravely, ‘Unfortunately your reports were no exaggeration. The kingdom mourns many heroes.’

  ‘Truly? I heard thirty thousand Narkang men marched to the Herald’s Hall.’

  ‘A shade over,’ Emin confirmed as Cotterin reined in and dropped from his horse to kneel before the king. ‘We took as many as we lost. A few Menin regiments escaped, but none surrendered.’

  Cotterin rose but didn’t immediately reply as he looked over to the town he had been besieging. He was a broad man with long fair hair, and only a winter or two older than the king. His accent betrayed the fact he’d not been born into nobility; to many in Narkang that was a sign that he was not a man to trifle with: the king remembered his friends, and many of them greeted the men of the Brotherhood by name.

  ‘That’s a poor omen for what this lot will do then, your Majesty.’

  ‘We must hope they’ve had time for their blood to cool. How many do you estimate are in there?’

  ‘Approaching ten legions-worth, now their allies have abandoned them.’

  ‘So it’s rather cramped in there now.’

  ‘Must be. Half the townsfolk had already fled, but the local lord says there’s never been more than four thousand living there at the most.’

  Emin looked around at the fortifications before walking up the earth bank the army had thrown up, the suzerain and the bodyguard following closely behind. A river cut through the city, running southwest off the Blue Hills, and the surrounding ground was parcelled into fields growing a whole range of crops. From what he could see, the Menin had not been able to harvest most of it: Cotterin’s troops had arrived too soon for that.

  ‘But we’re still not going to starve them out in a hurry,’ he commented.

  ‘No, your Majesty: the town is the wheat market for the whole area. The grain stores will most likely have enough left to keep them fed a good while longer. They’ll be ripe for disease, b
eing confined like that, but there are reports of that from the east anyway, so we might not do much better outside. The common folk are saying a plague followed in their wake. That might not be too far from the truth.’

  King Emin looked down at the group waiting for him on the ground. ‘Dashain, go and fetch out an envoy,’ he called. As she hurried to her horse and started off towards the town, Emin caught his mage’s eye. ‘Endine, if they fire on her or anything else, I want a hole ripped in that fence, understand?’

  The scrawny mage bowed, one hand on the Skull at his belt. He knew Emin was keen to avoid a fight, so magic would be the best way to persuade the Menin. They might have nowhere to go, but they were largely heavy infantry, the brutal mainstay of the Menin Army, the troops who’d almost slaughtered Emin and his entire Kingsguard at Moorview. Narkang had to march on Byora; they didn’t need to fight any more Menin élite to the death first.

  Dashain returned untroubled half an hour later, in the company of two Menin officers. Both were bearded, their long black curls neatly tied back. Most tellingly, Emin decided, their grey uniforms were clean and in good repair. Grief-stricken madmen were unlikely to take pride in their appearance. Though their invasion had been destroyed, these men maintained their military order.

  ‘King Emin,’ Dashain called, jumping down from her horse, ‘may I present General Arek and Colonel Dorom?’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the king said coolly, inclining his head to the soldiers. With their clipped beards the pair looked similar-enough to be brothers. ‘May I offer you some wine?’

  Aside from dismounting, the officers made no gestures of respect, and they ignored the wine that had been brought out. The discourtesy started Forrow growling, until the king stopped him, as he often had Coran. A twitch of the finger proved sufficient.

  ‘You summoned us, King Emin.’ Arek said at last. ‘Do you offer your surrender?’

  ‘Not quite,’ the king said calmly. ‘I assume some of your scouts made it back, so you will know of the events at Moorview.’