by Lloyd, Tom
‘Shanas,’ Morghien called quietly, ‘get the men ready to move out.’ He took a few paces forward, then stopped as he saw the leading villagers flinch and tense like fighting dogs going on guard.
‘“We come in peace” might not be the best opening here,’ Morghien muttered to himself, roughly wiping the blood from his weapons and sheathing them. He saw now that several of the villagers were carrying weapons, hatchets or knives for the main. They might not be a soldier’s weapons, but they were enough to kill. There were a few-score of them now, and more were trickling out from the village behind. Now Morghien could smell the anger in the air.
‘Invaders, tattooed daemons!’ shrieked one man.
Before he could continue his tirade a tall woman with long, greying hair raised her voice above the mutters. ‘Leave our lands,’ she called. ‘We want none of your savage ways here.’
‘You would prefer the iron fist of the Devoted?’ Morghien called, ‘religious zealots writing your laws, fanatics torturing anyone who disagrees with you?’
‘Priests have ever ruled us,’ the man spat. ‘Now we are free of them, but assailed by your king’s heresy!’
‘There was no heresy.’
The woman shook her head. ‘Your king weakened the Gods; your king opened the gates of Ghenna! This plague we suffer, it comes from the hand of your lord.’
Morghien shook his head despite the sourness in his gut. He knew the king had done that – Morghien himself had threatened the Chief of the Gods not so many months ago, but the blame was not so simple as one isolated act.
‘It is Ruhen who has weakened the Gods. Ruhen is the heretic!’
‘Lies!’ hissed the man beside her, his face contorted with rage. He was smaller, and dressed in some sort of bleached cloak that Morghien realised was intended to echo those worn by Ruhen’s Children. ‘Your king brings an army of daemons to kill us all – your king brings the end of all in his wake!’
‘Ruhen has murdered priests of the Gods,’ Morghien continued, returning his gaze to the woman who looked to be a village elder. ‘Ruhen has weakened the Gods by killing and driving out their servants. He seeks himself to be made a God.’
‘Go, leave this place!’ the woman shouted, her gaze darting to those edging forward on either side of her, weapons in hand. ‘Your king is not welcome here; your cause is not welcome here.’
‘You prefer this peace promised by the Devoted?’ Morghien replied, aware he had little time before they ran for him and his men were forced to slaughter civilians too. ‘You tell me, who stands here with a Goddess at my side, that my enemy is an emissary of the Gods and my cause is a heretic’s?’
The woman stepped forward in front of her more hate-filled neighbours. ‘The Devoted promised us peace. Ruhen promises protection to those who follow him.’ Her tone turned bitter. ‘And you? You offer nothing but the slaughter of our protectors – whatever they might preach, daemons walk these woods at night. We’ve lost several of our children already – livestock have died and the chickens will not lay, the goats do not give milk any more. Will your Goddess fight for us tonight, if the daemons come?’
‘She will!’ Morghien declared, but the woman just shook her head sadly.
‘But tomorrow you’ll be gone. You have your war to fight; you’re not here to protect us, and the beasts of the Dark Place are legion. Either you go, or you stay and kill us too, but don’t pretend you haven’t condemned many to death already.’
Morghien hesitated. His relationship with Emin Thonal had always been rocky: two wilful men with certainty in their hearts, but of late Morghien had been increasingly nervous of the path they trod. He could see no other that led to victory, but he knew his friend well.
The King of Narkang and the Three Cities was a bold strategist. He had risked much during his conquest, and grown confident after decades of success. That he had only a half-mad white-eye and remorseless Mortal-Aspect of a dead Goddess to temper his plans was little comfort to a man who could sense just how great the upheaval in the Land was.
‘We leave,’ he said with a troubled heart, seeing even the clear-thinking people of these parts were against them now. Folk needed to survive the days and weeks, and only his enemy could ensure that at present.
‘Are we still on the side of right?’ he whispered to himself, though he knew Seliasei could hear him still. ‘Or has this Land been so turned upside down it’s now Azaer who’s right?’
Seliasei touched his arm and urged him to turn away. The Ghosts were formed up, ready to defend him if necessary. Shanas, at their centre, had a worried expression on her young face.
‘Azaer forces you to do this,’ the Aspect said softly. ‘The shadow wounds you wherever it can, and this cuts both you and the king to the quick. The stakes have been raised by both sides. This must end one way or another, else both sides fall and chaos reigns.’
‘And that is what I fear,’ Morghien said. ‘We’ve both done so much damage in the name of victory – can either of us win now? Can this hurt be undone, stemmed even? Azaer would let it all fall to ruin rather than lose – but if Emin has the choice, what will he prefer?’
By way of reply Seliasei drifted inside him, embracing his soul and surrendering herself to him, as she had for decades now. The act wasn’t submission; he didn’t need to dominate the Goddess they way he did the Finntrail.
But can I trust Emin still? he wondered privately as he headed to their camp. Fate’s eyes, do we even know what we’ve done? Are we all damned?
CHAPTER 28
The column wound its way slowly towards the border, through lands scoured clean by the Menin invasion. Villages and towns were half-flattened or burned by foraging parties, the skulls of the slain piled high alongside the road by their newfound allies in honour of their lord.
The silence in the ranks of the Narkang Army was palpable. Emin felt it like a sickness in his gut. He was glad Amber had insisted his troops marched separately – how any general would be able to restrain his men after witnessing this, he didn’t know. The eastern flank of the nation had become a wasteland, a memorial of empty fields and settlements slowly returning to nature’s embrace.
The Menin lord had wanted his enemies to know the devastation he inflicted was as much the price of refusing battle as wanting his own troops to know there was no retreat. He had given them only one stark option: victory was the only way for them to survive.
From his saddle King Emin watched buzzards circling lazily over the fields. ‘The scavenging will have been good this summer,’ he commented sadly to his bodyguard, Forrow, then asked, ‘How many more days of this, Dash?’
‘Before we reach the border?’ Dashain said. ‘Not many – another week and we’ll be into Circle City territory.’
‘And another week on from there before we sight Byora?’
‘Or an army marching out to defend it.’
‘You think they would face us?’ Emin looked back down the long column of soldiers behind them: nearly twenty thousand heavily armed men, Narkang recruits mainly, in this army alone, with Denei mercenaries adding a swift and savage edge.
‘Azaer does not care about losses, only to blunt our advance. It has all the Knights of the Temples at its disposal, so why not throw some in our path to drain our strength? But I for one do not look forward to laying siege to Byora. We can’t encircle the whole of Blackfang and now the Circle City’s unified behind the shadow, we’ll be attacked on all sides as we try to break the Byoran walls.’
The king sighed, hearing the truth in her words. ‘We are the invaders,’ he agreed, ‘and whatever slaughter we inflict will only cement the impression Azaer wishes the Land to hold.’
‘That he’s the beleaguered emissary of the Gods, besieged while his followers are slaughtered across the Land. More and more will flock to his banner until he has enough followers to become a God. Would the shadow usurp Death Himself?’
Emin gave a bitter snort. ‘I’m sure it would love to – but we will not allow
it. It cannot, not without Termin Mystt and the Skulls.’
‘What about—?’
Emin shot Dashain a furious look. ‘Not another word – don’t be such a fool!’
She ducked her head in apology. ‘Not a cheering thought, though, is it?’
‘No,’ Emin said, frowning, ‘but it only adds to my resolve. We must finish this now. Isak must use Death’s own weapon to end this finally. If we fail in this, it is only a matter of time—’
Captain,’ Dashain called suddenly, barking the word loud enough to make the general’s aide flinch in his saddle, ‘pick up the pace. The bastards can rest when we’re all dead – until then, march them harder.’
General Amber turned and felt the spear crash into his breastplate and bounce away. Following decades old training he cut down without seeing, following his own momentum to twist and bring his other scimitar around into the neck of his attacker. The man fell and Amber pushed past, his right hand held close to his body as he stepped behind the next soldier’s spear and shield and drove his scimitar down into the man’s arm. The Devoted yelled in pain, trying to fall back, but before he could, Amber reversed the sword and punched upwards, shattering his jaw with the guard. Another party of Menin appeared from behind some trees and charged straight into the Devoted flank. Nai was at their fore, and Amber’s attention was caught by the poorly fitting square edged helm on his head. He tore his eyes from the mage – distraction here could get him killed – but even as he did so the Devoted troops crumpled under the pressure. Some turned to run, but few made it more than a step or two before Menin spears and swords pierced their backs.
He stumbled over a fallen man and had to catch himself on the nearest soldier, a squat brute who stood over a downed enemy, huffing with restrained bloodlust.
The soldier flinched at his touch, then noticed Amber’s Menin armour. ‘Hurt, General?’
Amber grinned, though his shoulder was aching badly where an axe had dented his pauldron. ‘By these little fucks?’
The soldier laughed at that – he was perhaps the only Menin there who couldn’t look down on these short westerners. ‘And the pay for killing ’em ain’t bad.’
Amber grunted as he sheathed one scimitar and transferred the other to his right hand. His injured arm was starting to go numb – not broken, he guessed, but it wouldn’t be in any shape to swing a scimitar for much longer: his were savage chopping blades which required strength as well as skill. With an effort he stooped and tugged a shield free from a corpse. It wouldn’t be much fun taking a hit on his bad arm, but the fight was far from over.
‘Nai,’ Amber called, waving the necromancer over, ‘where’s the Legion?’
‘Not far.’ He limped over, and Amber noted blood running down the leg he was favouring. ‘About half a mile that way.’ He pointed towards the trees on the other side of the clearing. Little more than deer paths ran through the heavily wooded ground south of the Evemist Hills and the army was split into companies and regiments, fighting a hundred individual battles in this place where there were no clearings or fields to fight in. ‘Bastards are dug in like ticks,’ Nai added. ‘They’ve got scouting parties and support groups in all directions.’
‘Lancers!’ someone shouted, and Amber’s regiment immediately contracted, like a spider drawing its legs in close. Leaving their injured, the infantrymen ran for the cover of their comrades and raised a wall of shields against the threat.
Nai abandoned Amber without a further word as he returned to his unit.
The crash of horses through the undergrowth was coming from two directions. Amber craned his head around to see if anyone was left out in the open, but he couldn’t see anyone. Clearly the lancers had come to the same conclusion; urgent shouts rang through the trees, calling off their charge.
Amber could just about make them out as they wheeled about: the soldiers wore dark blue tabards, and red caparisons protected the horses.
‘Must be Vener’s army,’ Nai called from twenty yards away, answering Amber’s unvoiced question. ‘That’s full uniform they’re wearing.’
‘So these are the men they’ve sent ahead,’ Amber realised at last. ‘Thought there were too many left to be the Akell troops.’ He looked up at the sky, squinting for a moment through the yellowed autumn leaves, but the sun was hidden behind thick cloud. ‘Someone find me west,’ he growled, glancing at his wrist where there was a tear in the sleeve under his vambrace.
A lieutenant shouldered his way over and pulled a lodestone from his own sleeve – it was a traditional gift for Menin receiving their commission. The mage-forged thin iron bar was hammered to a dull tip at each end, with a hole punched through it so it would hang free on a thread. It pointed west, towards the Palace of the Gods, the Land’s greatest concentration of power, unless skewed by something nearby.
‘That way,’ the officer said once the bar had settled on a direction. Both he and Amber looked east, following the other black-painted tip.
‘We can’t wait for those lancers to come back,’ Amber announced. ‘We’ll push through the trees there, move on another couple hundred yards, then settle down.’
The lieutenant repeated the order as he tucked his lodestone away, but the troops were already moving off, and Nai’s regiment followed suit a few moments later. The path was clear enough that they made good time, heading towards the same place the Legion were bound.
Amber caught the distant sound of fighting on the air, and looked around for a suitable place to defend if necessary. After some minutes he found a rise and positioned the two regiments up and around it. Once he was happy the men were properly deployed, he tried to get a better idea of the source of the sound: there were screams and shouts and the clash of weapons, but Amber was beginning to recognise the difference between normal troops in battle and the Legion.
‘Captain, hold this position until we return,’ he ordered, then turned to the necromancer. ‘Nai, you’re with me,’ he said, and pushed his way through his men. Two tall infantrymen fell in behind him; he was a general now, and the pair had been ordered not to leave his side without reason.
It didn’t take them long to find the source of the noise: a large encampment beside a river, surrounded on three sides by an earthen mound studded with stakes. It was filled with Devoted troops and a contingent from Tor Salan – Amber recognised the city-state’s standard – but the majority were not soldiers of any army. With a creeping sense of dread, Amber realised they were civilians, and they were being butchered.
‘Nai, order the Legion to withdraw,’ he hissed.
‘I’ve already tried,’ Nai said anxiously. ‘They’re ignoring me, or blocking me in some way. We can’t stop them.’
There had to be a thousand people in and around the camp, Amber thought. He could see some had weapons and were frantically trying to fight back, but the dead merceneries were savagely chopping through them.
‘Ruhen’s Children,’ he muttered, watching as two figures in long white robes went down under a flurry of axe blows. ‘They’ve brought their supporters here – are they supposed to be fighting with the army?’
‘I don’t call that fighting,’ Nai said darkly.
‘No,’ Amber agreed, ‘that’s just dying early. You can’t stop this?’
‘They’re ignoring me. I know Ozhern can hear me, but his head’s full of bloodlust, nothing more. Amber, don’t risk going out there. I don’t know they’d even recognise you.’
‘I ain’t going,’ Amber said, rising. ‘Let’s get back to our own men. Those lancers may be watching this too. There’s nothing we can do here and evening’s coming on. I want to be in a camp by sundown – with this much blood there’ll be an army of daemons round here, true enough.’
Nai scowled and glanced back towards the Legion of the Damned. ‘Just at nightfall, eh?’
Amber opened his eyes and scowled. ‘Could have sworn you were someone bringing me brandy there.’
The priest of Shotir gave him an anxious smile an
d looked around as though expecting to see someone doing just that. Then he advanced cautiously on the blood-spattered general, his hands held out before him as though Amber were a growling dog. ‘Just coming to see to your arm, sir,’ the Menin healer said, his voice apologetic. ‘I do not touch liquor myself.’
‘Gods, you’re serious?’ Amber forced himself to sit a little straighter. ‘All the blood and death you people see and you don’t drink? You’ve been seeing to the worst-wounded first, right – I’ve seen enough of them today to need a drink, and you get in much closer than me.’
‘Drink is a mocker,’ the priest intoned solemnly as he knelt by Amber. He was a young man, little more than twenty summers, with a thin face, unusual for his calling, for the work provoked a fierce hunger. This was a man of iron-hard will, Amber surmised.
‘It brought my father low, and his father before him,’ the priest continued as he unfastened Amber’s armour and helped the general get his cuirass off.
Amber grunted in pain as the healer levered his arm up enough to unhitch the pauldron. ‘Brings us all low,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘but after a day like this, that’s the whole idea.’
The darkness was punctuated by the lights of cooking fires and torches lining the freshly dug rampart. If he stood on the top of the rampart, Amber knew he might just about be able to make out the fires of another camp on either side: the Menin straddled the makeshift road, with the ground in between patrolled by those half-mad Narkang Green Scarves.
‘I find other diversions,’ the priest replied as he finally freed the general’s arm. He gently probed the injured shoulder, observing Amber’s discomfort until he found the spot where the pain was worse, at the very top of his arm. He put his fingers flat against the flesh and closed his eyes, and a slight warmth permeated Amber’s skin as he probed the damage.
‘The bone is cracked,’ the priest pronounced after a moment. ‘You’re lucky; I can make it useable for the morning.’