by Lloyd, Tom
‘You suggest a flawed battle-order?’ Ruhen asked. ‘One that will go wrong quickly enough to require a retreat for all forces?’
‘For starters, but we need to sacrifice more than that. Our surprise is gone, you know that. So we can’t hold back the power you wield or Emin won’t buy what we’re selling. He’ll know using Aenaris will come at a cost for you, but he’ll be just as suspicious if you refuse to use it when you’re finally faced with your enemy.’
‘And we then pray for controlled disaster?’
Ilumene shook his head. ‘Leave the prayers to the Devoted. I’d prefer to trust our enemy: give them something on which to concentrate their ferocity, a sign of your power that the whole Land’ll take note of. It forces them to meet power with power, and in the sight of the Land yours is the more palatable.’
‘You’re suggesting we stay here?’ Venn demanded, advancing on them to force himself into the decision. ‘How long – days? A week? Are you so certain of our scrying that any delay does not risk us being trapped?’
‘March the Embere troops out with everything the Circle City has to offer,’ Ilumene urged. ‘Keep Certinse’s four legions from the West in reserve. Send the army beyond the fens to meet King Emin head-on. The faithful masses will follow them, and they’ll take grave losses, but the survivors will scatter, taking word of what happened far and wide. We lose what we lose and accept that. They’re recruiting hard in Embere, Raland and Tor Salan, and after this loss they’ll bring together every soldier they can.’
‘Who will lead this disaster?’ Ruhen asked.
Ilumene smiled. ‘Express your confidence in General Afasin – white-eyes are born for war, after all. He’ll be cautious, unwilling to commit, and Emin will break him. Telith Vener will support Afasin over Chaist, and Certinse won’t oppose if I tell him not to.’
‘We get word of the defeat and flee with the remaining troops, carrying word of their ungodly crimes in battle. Perhaps plague and ruin marches alongside our enemy? Rojak, does your bride-in-chains think she could manage that?’
Venn’s lips became a tight little smile as the dead minstrel came forward in his mind. He gestured with his crystal-bandaged hand and a flash of dark light burst onto the tiled floor at his side. Ilumene blinked, and then there was a ragged figure kneeling on the floor, her head bowed. Slowly the Wither Queen looked up, staring with undisguised hatred through her matted grey hair.
‘My queen would be delighted to aid your holy mission,’ Rojak said, savouring every word.
The former Reaper and Aspect of Death spat on the floor between them, and the spittle became a pale maggot wriggling on the ground, until Ilumene stamped on it. The action caused her to flinch, but the hatred in her dead eyes remained.
‘I am your slave,’ she hissed at last, ‘as I knew you would always make me.’
Ruhen shook his head. ‘Lord Isak made you this way; it was he who made you dependent on Venn’s power. But if you continue to serve, your price will still be paid: you will still have your place in the Pantheon, and before we are done you will see the truth of my words.’
‘I see only lies and false hope.’ She bared her broken, decayed teeth. ‘But still I have no choice.’
With that, she was dismissed and Rojak receded once more, leaving Venn in control of the body they shared. ‘The decision is made,’ Ruhen said after a long silence. ‘Let us go to the Devoted council and offer our wisdom.’
He reached behind his head and touched the weapon wrapped entirely in leather that was strapped to his back. The sword was enormous and unwieldy, but he bore it as though it weighed nothing.
‘Perhaps it is time we gave their sceptical souls a little encouragement.’
‘Your Majesty,’ the scryer croaked, looking up from where he knelt at the roadside, ignoring the splattering rain and the ground churned into mud by the soldiers. ‘The enemy has halted and taken position on the plain to the northeast.’
‘Scouts confirm it,’ Dashain said. ‘Looks like they’re all together, and actually offering battle for once. Can they think choosing the ground will win it for them?’
King Emin shook his head and scowled. Neither Vesna nor Isak commented. They were surrounded by a full regiment of both Kingsguard and Tirah Palace Guard, providing personal escorts to the two men, and the sight of the Ghosts’ distinctive black and white tabards had added fire to the bellies of their untested recruits.
‘How many?’
‘Your Majesty, I lack Master Holtai’s skill,’ the scryer said, a quaver in his voice. He tried to summon the image clearly enough to estimate the Devoted numbers. ‘Soldiers? Perhaps twenty thousand? Fifteen of infantry, five of cavalry, I’d guess.’
‘But?’
‘There are others – or something, at least. Civilians, or barbarians from the Waste—’
‘How many?’ the king demanded.
‘I have no idea,’ the scryer admitted. ‘I cannot even guess – several thousand, at least, but they are just a formless crowd. I have no means of comparison.’
‘An army of the devoted,’ Vesna commented sourly. ‘They’ve found their saviour. The people of the Circle City have come to fight for their new lord.’
‘The shadow would throw away its worshippers so easily?’ Dashain asked, but her voice was more hopeful than aghast. She had seen enough of Azaer’s work to know compassion was never a factor.
‘It doesn’t need so many now,’ Isak explained, his great shoulders more stooped than normal. ‘My actions have seen to that. Those it would overthrow are weakened. The shadow doesn’t need the power it had planned for.’
‘Not just your actions,’ Vesna said pointedly, ‘Zhia’s too – and handing Aenaris to Ruhen was deliberate, not the consequence of something else.’
‘We can save the blame for another day,’ Emin muttered, casting a quick glance towards the huddled figure of Doranei, still mounted and waiting on the edges of the king’s guards.
Whether or not Doranei deliberately had placed soldiers between himself and the man who had ordered him to murder his lover was unclear. No one, not even the king’s bodyguard, wanted to explore that question, but it hung in the air all the same. Zhia had betrayed them when she handed Aenaris to their enemy – Ardela had seen her attempt to poison Ruhen frustrated by the touch of the shining sword they had all been at such pains to hide.
Though they had no actual evidence it had been her, Zhia had always been one to play both sides, and her unswervingly principled brother Koezh was the only other one who’d known where it was hidden in the Byoran Marshes. Doranei had agreed to his king’s request – he had asked Doranei, rather than ordered – but none of that eased his hurt now.
‘This is almost the entire Devoted force this side of the Evermist Hills. They must have a plan beyond letting us slaughter them before the eyes of the Land,’ Emin said at last.
‘Is that not enough?’ Vesna asked.
Emin shook his head. ‘It’s a damn waste, and Ilumene’s too clever to throw away so many soldiers. For a start, we believe they’re looking for a reason to march east, towards Thotel and beyond. That’s a long way to travel, even if he can convince the Chetse to let them pass without a fight, and he’ll want troops to spend on that journey, not here.’
‘So they have a surprise waiting for us?’
‘No,’ Isak said suddenly. He wasn’t looking at Emin; his attention was also fixed on Doranei. For once Isak’s head was uncovered. His hair had grown long enough to hide the uneven shape of his skull, but the rain was falling like tears down the carved channels of his face.
‘No?’ Vesna prompted, black iron fingers flexing; the spirit of Karkarn within him sensed impending battle.
‘What surprise could they hide?’ At last he looked at the rest of them and pointed with one charcoal black finger at the scryer. ‘They don’t want the final confrontation here. We still control the greater number of Skulls. They’re not so stupid as to think they could hide another army from Endine or
Vorizh – so what surprise could there be?’
‘That’s what worries me,’ Emin said, ‘but we have no choice. General Bessarei, make camp. Tomorrow, we march on the enemy.’
Ruhen stood before the thousands who had answered the call to accompany their armies. He closed his eyes and breathed in the faint honey scent of snowflowers, carried on the swirling breeze that grew steadily colder as the morning progressed. The flowers filled the southern end of the Stepped Gardens where an old wall stood. Above them fluttered tiny, five-pointed winter stars, which dotted the uneven top and colonised every nook and cranny of the wall itself.
The wind carried more than just the scent of flowers. He tasted the hopes and fears of all those assembled and felt the fervour of their belief like unexpected sunshine on his cheek. On his back he wore the wrapped sword – Ilumene had adapted a cross-chest baldric and incorporated it into Ruhen’s tunic. He was small enough that the sword still threatened to catch on the ground, but Ruhen was determined to keep it with him, especially now Zhia was dead and her secrets revealed.
This was his temple, even more than the prayer-festooned Duke’s Chamber, with its walls of unassailable conviction built by desperation and longing.
He wore a pearl-detailed tunic, open at the front to display a scored coin hanging on a chain around his neck. His preachers had carried the symbol far and wide; people spread across hundreds of miles now wore one just like it as an expression of their devotion. Most had not been touched by Ruhen’s shadow-spirit, of course; they were simple objects of faith, but there were dozens that did carry some trace of him, and Ruhen could feel his presence reach out like the folds of night.
Behind him he sensed Ilumene and Venn moving up to stand close as Luerce appeared on Ruhen’s left. The pale-skinned Litse was known by the whole crowd and the murmurs increased as they saw him. He was the First Disciple in their eyes, the shepherd of their flock of children, their link to Ruhen himself.
Strangely it was not Ilumene but Venn who would remind Luerce of his true position – the one he occupied in Azaer’s eyes. Or perhaps it was the spirit of Rojak in Venn’s shadow that was jealous of the reverence they showed Luerce, reverence that should rightly belong to Rojak as Azaer’s most favoured.
My twilight herald has a human soul still, Ruhen reflected, smiling inwardly. He fears the slow dissipation that Jackdaw has succumbed to, forgetting he is not one to be burned at the wick but a far greater part of me.
The end comes soon; they can all sense it. And in their human ways they bicker and squabble, for the waiting is suddenly too much for them to bear.
‘Brothers and sisters of peace,’ Ruhen called out in his solemn, child’s voice. ‘War has come for us.’ He bowed his head, his eyes closing for a moment as he savoured the new flavours bursting on the air: the earthy tang of fear blossoming, nectar-sweet anticipation, and hope, too, their faith in their saviour remaining unshakable. Against such flavours, how could flowers ever compare?
‘War has come, with its many faces, but with one purpose.’ Ruhen spoke in his usual soft voice, but Rojak was on hand to carry those words to the faithful. ‘The king and conqueror, ever keen to expand his reach; the heroic knight, eager to kill for his lord and further his own legend; the white-eye butcher, hungry for blood and pretending slaughter is glory rather than a monster’s basest desire. They come, and this day the Knights of the Temples shall face them.
‘I am just a child, too weak to march, too small to fight. They go to defend us, those of us who cannot defend ourselves, but they are outnumbered by an enemy more terrible than any the Land has seen.’
He hesitated, showing rare apprehension on his face to those close enough to see and appreciate the frailties of their saviour.
‘Our defenders face a terrible enemy, but it is not the Knights of the Temples that Narkang’s daemons seek to kill: no, they are coming for me – it is my blood they seek, and if our protectors fail, this plague of daemons will come to the Circle City.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot allow this horror to befall you, you are all innocent in this, but as long as they fear my message of peace they will hunt me. It is clear to me now that I must leave Byora, leave this protecting home and step out into the Land to walk alongside the preachers who carry my words.’
He stopped, the conviction on his sombre face enough to dampen the dismay and alarm that rushed around the gardens. There were gasps, the spice of panic waxing strong on the wind, but no shouts or cries this time. He didn’t want them to feel outrage, not now. The horror of what he was about to provoke would do that.
Until then, let them have hope. Let them see the saviour they desire.
‘This path has opened before me. The Gods have shown me the way’ – he smiled – ‘and all without the help of priests to interpret their wisdom.’
The comment lightened the mood a shade and Ruhen saw many of his white cloaked followers sit up a little straighter at their saviour making a small joke in the face of such impending terror.
‘I will travel east,’ he announced. ‘I will journey into the Waste, letting the will of the Gods guide my feet. I will travel into the lands scarred by the excesses of war and hatred, over poisoned earth and across fouled water, to seek the answers I know are out there. But before I go, I wish to share with you a gift, to protect the brave defenders of peace and this city, all I have ever known.’
He turned, and Ilumene hurried forward.
‘I ask for three of you to carry this gift,’ he continued as Ilumene untied the bindings around the sword on his back, then he gestured at the Litse. ‘Luerce, bring forward three whose faith is strong enough to bear this burden.’
There was no lack of volunteers, but the stern, silent Harlequins at the base of the steps prevented a sudden rush forward. Luerce picked his way down the steps with an almost fussy precision, revelling in the reverential air, uncaring whether the awe was reflected or not.
This one is the perfect servant, content in his place and faithful to his word, Ruhen reflected as he watched the shaven-headed disciple survey his eager flock. He is a rare man within my coterie of flawed traitors, trusting in his rewards to come and careful not to dream too grandly. Ilumene did well there.
‘Venn, shield your senses,’ Ruhen called behind him, and a hurried flare of power told him his order had been obeyed.
Three white-clad disciples came stumbling up the steps behind their shepherd: a burly, bearded man with odd-coloured eyes and the mien of a soldier fallen on hard times; an older woman, grey-haired but with a proud bearing and strong, handsome features, and a slim, black-haired youth following close behind.
Ruhen bowed to the three when the tallest came level with him and they stopped, hesitantly sinking to their knees. The Stepped Gardens grew quieter still, a congregation at prayer, as Ruhen looked down and, without ceremony, slipped off the cloth wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
The air filled with sparkling light, each mote of dust on the breeze glittering like a cloud of ice crystals. Gasps ran around the crowd and the wide-eyed youth kneeling before Ruhen gave a moan of shock. Ruhen slipped his small fingers around the shining sword grip and drew it from the scabbard. The blade sang in the daylight, casting a corona of dancing, dazzling light around him, and his followers sighed and whimpered, their hands raised to shade their eyes from the burst of white light that was as bright as the sun.
Ruhen was unable to look at the weapon held high above his head, but he felt his hand tremble at its touch. Without looking he could feel the pure, bright light shining through his skin, seeping into his bones and forcing his shadow-soul away. He gritted his teeth, unused to the discomfort slowly building towards pain, but determined.
Aenaris – the Key of Life, had been buried far from the sight of others in the Library of Seasons until the Menin lord broke the spell hiding it. Aenaris, wielded by the Queen of the Gods, Death’s equal, until the last days of the Great War. Azaer had kept its distance during those terrible day
s of earthquake and flame, of which only confused memories remained.
Many said the Queen of the Gods had sided with her beloved creations and fought at their side. Her name was considered accursed by all followers of the Chief of the Gods; it was recorded only in works of heresy, invoked fruitlessly by the foolish or the mad.
Did Zhia know her gift would pain me? Ruhen wondered as his skin crawled and the palm of his hand shrieked in pain, or does the Land seek balance for the white-eye’s burdens?
With an effort he lowered the weapon, feeling the shadows in his eyes recoil as light filled his mind. He took a step forward, then one more, and sensed the three disciples were within reach.
‘My gift I give to each of you,’ Ruhen croaked, ‘and so I charge you: bear my blessing in the name of peace.’
It was a long blade, wider than Ruhen’s palm, with a short tip like a crystal formation and a large forward-slanted guard. Each of the grip’s eight smooth faces was engraved with a phoenix, flanked by leaf-laden branches. Ruhen forced himself to face down its breathtaking presence and stare directly at the weapon more potent and powerful than anything in existence except its mate, Termin Mystt.
With his eyes closed and a single image in his mind, Ruhen touched the tip to the chest of each of the three terrified disciples. ‘Bear my blessing,’ he whispered tenderly to each as the vast magic surged out of Aenaris.
The youth was knocked backwards by its force and caught by Luerce, standing behind him, while the woman cried out in something between agony and ecstasy. The bearded man shuddered as though impaled and dropped flat on his face. The air shimmered white around him and rampant magics hissed in his bones.
Ruhen staggered back, visibly struggling with the power until Ilumene came forward to steady him. With Ilumene’s big hand carefully holding his own, Ruhen managed to return Aenaris to its sheath. Ilumene wasted no time in rewrapping the hilt until the crystal sword was again entirely hidden from view, then he stepped back, blinking away the ghost-trails of light.