The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘It is Aenaris,’ Endine confirmed, wincing. He shook his head as if trying to clear it of something.

  ‘Isak, we didn’t plan for this – we all agreed the shadow would be wary of using a weapon containing purest light! So what now? My money’s on the rest of our mages being hit at least as hard as Endine. You’re the only one who uses your Skull as a buffer.’

  ‘Something comes,’ Isak said again, looking up but seeing nothing in the eastern sky. ‘Let’s save the guessing about why for later – it’s the what I’m worried about.’

  ‘And if he’s trying to force your hand? The toll Termin Mystt is taking on you just by holding it . . . how long will you survive if you’re made to use it in battle?’ Emin sounded desperate.

  Isak glanced down at his black hand, resting as always as though around the grip of a sword. ‘If I fall, someone else will pick up the burden. If he thinks to win that way, he underestimates our resolve.’

  ‘Vesna? Legana? They might survive for a time, but for long enough? And what of you? You’re the very heart of our plans – the fulcrum for it all. But everything hinges on Ruhen believing the same, that you’ll be there at the end: the Gods’ own agent of change.’

  ‘Life gets in the way,’ Isak said impassively. His eyes returned to the sky, and this time he saw two dark shapes against the high clouds. ‘But before all the crying and manly embraces, we’ve got a pair of dragons coming our way. Any thoughts?’

  The king’s face tightened. ‘Only that you might be on your own for the time being.’

  The dragons flew in tandem, scrutinising the ground below. The armies were obvious even from such a height. They did not communicate, but instinct drew them to the further army, to the sparkling needles of power they could sense within it: mages holding their power close to hand, Crystal Skulls, throbbing with latent power.

  The mages did nothing in response, even as the dragons closed and descended. There was no call to the clouds above, no surge of warning energies to threaten them. The dragons dropped with shocking speed, all wariness gone as they dived towards the soldiers below. Within the ranks were the mages, the dragons could taste them on the breeze, but the stink of men and horses were just as tantalising. Thousands lay below them: enemies to kill . . . enemies to feast upon . . .

  Isak watched the dragons drop like hunting falcons, tilting their wings only at the last moment to avoid crashing to ground. Their talons splayed, they swooped over the Narkang legions, gouging a path through the ranks before spitting a lance of flame into the heart of the troops and climbing again.

  From someone within the ranks of the Kingsguard came streaks of green fire. The first cut between the dragons as they neared, but the second caught the larger across its white belly. The dragon was kicked back through the air, momentarily halted, but otherwise unharmed. It spat another gout of fire into the soldiers below, but the mage appeared to be unhurt; a third bolt flew up and struck it full on the wing, bursting like a firework and scattering in all directions. It provoked a furious roar of pain and anger, but it caused no damage that Isak could see; although the dragon retreated hurriedly, the wing was still whole, its movements unhampered.

  ‘Born of magic,’ Isak said to himself, realising why the battle-mage with the Kingsguard – Fei Ebarn, he guessed – had not managed to wound it. ‘It’s more resistant to her spells.’ He turned to the king and pointed. ‘Ruhen’s created dragons of his own. The Gods alone know what that must have cost him.’

  ‘Ebarn can’t hurt it?’

  He shook his head. ‘She can: the power’s there, but not the instrument. She’s scared of drawing deeply on the Skull; she doesn’t have the strength to control it. It’s not she can’t kill it – the Skulls can kill Gods. But she’ll burn her mind out in the process.’

  ‘So what then?’ Emin turned to follow the dragons as they wheeled for a second pass. ‘Can you bring down a storm and drive them off?’

  ‘No – not without tearing holes in the army. The storm loves me a bit much, and I’ve got more power than just a Skull to control. Endine?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The mage’s face was screwed up on concentration. ‘Can you shield me?’ He sank to his knees, both hands wrapped around the Crystal Skull entrusted to him. Isak went to stand behind him. As he stretched out his arms, his sleeves slipped back to reveal the unnatural white and black skin. In his left hand he held the Skull of Ruling, while the black sword of Death appeared in his right. A spinning skein of black and white started to turn in the air above them while Endine muttered and chanted below him.

  He tasted the eager strains of magic reaching up to the heavens and had to force himself not to add his own spirit to that familiar flavour. It spoke to something deep inside him, resonating with the kernel of fury in his soul. The shackles on his white-eye nature were strong, chains of pitted iron in his mind, but he would for ever be a Chosen of Nartis, and the spirit of the Storm God raged within him, undeniable, and unextinguished, even by death.

  The dragons above turned towards them, then parted and raced out over the flanks of the army, wary of Isak’s power and Endine’s spell. Isak looked up to the clouds and saw the swirl above as the air lazily responded to the mage’s call, but it was short-lived as light suddenly parted the clouds in the east, diffuse and white against the pale blue sky beyond.

  He checked behind him. The sun was still covered, but even as more clouds were drawn near, the new light was undoing Endine’s spell like a sword cutting through a weaver’s work.

  ‘I can’t,’ Endine moaned from below him, ‘I’m being countered.’

  Isak growled and lowered his arms, his shoulders sagging as he released the power he’d been holding. ‘We’re running out of options.’

  A great crash echoed out across the plain, followed by distant screams, and they turned to see the smaller dragon scattering their cavalry on the left flank, tearing at men and horses with impunity. Another mage on that flank gathered his wits enough to attack it, hurling up slender bolts of grey magic, then a murky grey shape followed, huge wings beating as it dragged a heavy body up into the air.

  ‘No!’ Isak exclaimed, ‘don’t waste your strength!’

  But his warning was unheard, and a third monstrous shape appeared above the army and drove towards the white dragon. It assumed a sentinel post above that flank of the army, daring the dragon to attack. The white dragon broke off its slaughter and wheeled away, then turned back and flew hard and fast, directly at the newcomer, which climbed higher, seeking some advantage over its enemy, but the white dragon didn’t care about positioning, only about closing the distance between them.

  It picked up speed and flew hard up towards the grey monster, head stretched forward to meet its foe – but when they came together there was no impact, no snapping of jaws and tearing of flesh; the grey beast simply winked out of existence and with an exultant roar the white dragon turned and arrowed down towards the army again, careless of the bolts that burst on its scaled hide and tore thin streams of blood from its tail. It flamed at the illusionist below with terrible accuracy and the dragon rose again, armour-clad figures tumbling from claws as sudden detonations of magic and light burst from the ranks below it.

  ‘Piss and daemons,’ King Emin moaned, ‘that was Camba Firnin.’

  ‘Pretending to fight fire with fire,’ Isak said, a brief, black spark of grief in his belly as he recalled her smiling, scarred face. She was one of those who’d brought a much-needed touch of compassion to the Brotherhood, for all that her strength of will matched the rest of them. ‘But dragons aren’t so easily fooled.’

  He hesitated, then grabbed Endine by the shoulder. ‘Keep them occupied, watching and wary,’ he shouted, then pushed out through King Emin’s bodyguard and hurried towards the thin corridor between the Kingsguard and the regular legions. The space had been left for messengers and mages; it was wide enough for a single white-eye, even with Doranei trailing wordlessly in his wake.

  He emerged the other side t
o the cold smell of fear and blood. The faces behind the helms were frightened, and the sight of a scar-covered white-eye carrying a long sword that hurt to look at didn’t help. Inside him Isak let the magic slowly build, a wellspring bubbling up through his heart, and the ache grew inside him and sank deep into his belly. Isak stumbled as the scars on his stomach flared with pain and memory, black stars burst before his eyes and an overwhelming loneliness washed over him, images of the dead appearing before his eyes: Camba Firnin joining Mihn and Tila, ahead of a host of other faces. The wind whipped around him, gathering in a spiral of snowflakes in response to the building magic. Whether the dragons noticed, he couldn’t say, nor did he care; he simply walked on, getting clear of the army’s lines while filling his tired bones with rage and fire.

  ‘After all this,’ he said aloud, ‘you think I’m frightened? All this loss and you think I’ve got anything more to fear?’ His voice became breathy and constrained as the anger inside him was fanned by magic.

  ‘All I’ve done – all those I’ve killed? Nothing’s going to stop me; nothing’s going to slow me. I’m coming for you, Azaer, and when I catch you, I will chain you like a dog.’

  He looked up at the sky and saw the dragons high above, circling and watching, not sure whether to attack or flee. He smelled their animal nature, the blind and unthinking obedience filling their minds. But these were not true dragons: they had no will or sense of their own. They would not be driven off; they would kill or be killed, they could not comprehend anything more. On the plain ahead of him he saw the crowd of Ruhen’s worshippers closing alongside the Devoted cavalry. He ignored them. They were too far to stop him, and too close to run now.

  ‘Is this what you wanted?’ he cried to the eastern horizon. ‘To have your followers see the darkness inside me? To reaffirm their faith? To have the Land bear witness to your pathetic claims of purpose?’

  He lowered his head and looked at Termin Mystt, the black sword reversed in his hand.

  ‘So be it,’ he said, and stabbed the sword into the ground at his feet. A great crack of thunder split the air and the dragons rocked as though struck by lightning. ‘I don’t fear the darkness any more. Fear can’t stop me now.’

  The ground trembled, deep, distant rumbles welling up through the earth. Anchored by the sword, Isak dropped to one knee and stayed steady, as though about to fulfil some ancient prophecy. All around him the Land shook and the magic pervading it rushed up to meet Termin Mystt. The sound built, booming underground, growing loudly and more violent the closer it came, as the plain shuddered beneath them.

  Distantly he sensed the charging enemy falter, and in their hundreds men fell and were trampled, horses screamed and reared, turning desperately, looking for some avenue of escape, but the whole plain reverberated with the building power of Termin Mystt and they could see no way out. Isak closed his eyes and let his senses sink into the ground, carried deep below by the raging force of magic emanating from Death’s black sword.

  His ears rang with the jangling clamour of rampant forces – the numbing, pounding, shifting earth, the blistering energies that tore the ground and seared the sky. Down he went, unaware of his own body beyond the frantic hammer of his heart. The magic ripped a jagged path and dragged his mind with it. He knew what it would seek; he had done nothing more than send it down. To try and command such power would rip his soul away. No mortal would survive such an attempt, even to try would mean being torn from the Land and the Gods that ruled it, to be destroyed beyond even Death’s compassion or judgment. The magic plunged onwards, guided by something more basic than a mage’s skill. Isak felt the heat on his cheek and though he felt no fear, something deeper and more primal gripped him.

  He opened his eyes, rocked back by the buffeting winds, but still held steady by the sword. His shoulder screaming, his clothes billowing, Isak added his own voice, howling his pain up to an unhearing sky. The clouds roiled and the sun was driven off as even the air was ripped open by the deadlight of Termin Mystt.

  Isak forced his head down and tried to make out the plain through the swirling magic surrounding him. Great rifts appeared in the ground, and as he watched, half-blinded by pain, the rents were savagely pulled open. The wild magic shook the ground and worried its wounds with a frantic fury. Ear-splitting crashes detonated as the plain opened up and three, then four enormous cracks in the ground started racing towards the enemy, a hundred yards long, then two hundred, swallowing the nearest of the cavalry, covering others in dust before the fissures finally stopped.

  The cliff-edges of each rift shuddered all the while, the ground crumbling further with every passing moment. Isak watched them fall, while from below clouds of stinking smoke were expelled by the force of their collapse, and faint trails of red light tinted the sheer earth walls on either side.

  Soon a huge wedge of ground ahead had fallen away completely, spreading out from where Isak knelt. The entire centre was broken up: a barrier to both forces if they still intended to fight.

  For a time only red-lit clouds of dust were visible, but then he heard a sound, one he knew only too well: the heave of pained breath, the scrape and rasp of a body dragged over rock, the clank of huge chains.

  Something moved below him and forced its way up the jagged slope he had created. He could see little, but he turned his head up to the sky and watched the distant dragons peer down from their far positions. The magic spent, they came closer once more. He could see their necks craned forward, their wings outstretched to steady themselves as they stared down.

  ‘I’ll see your dragons,’ Isak croaked, his throat dry and aching, ‘and I’ll raise you.’

  The white dragons swooped closer, scenting power within the wedge-shaped crater, but unsure what they faced. They flew with the staggered creep of hunting animals, their growing hunger driving each other forward. It wasn’t the scent of prey on the air; even these mindless creations would know that, but they had been created to kill and now the scent of death hung thick around him.

  They obeyed their compulsion, ignoring Isak as they came to the edge of the crater, hissing with savage desire. In the dimmed light they looked ghostly, but their claws and teeth were obsidian-black and more terrible than ever. The larger dropped to all fours, wings held high above its back, ready to take flight once more as it quested and snapped at the air.

  A roar greeted it, an ear-splitting challenge that had purple stars bursting before Isak’s eyes even as he cringed from the sound. Through the smoke he watched the white dragon tense and crouch, ready to move, either in attack or escape – while from the darkness another winged shape slowly emerged. It roared again, wings also raised, but forever held crooked and stiff above its back. It was soot-black and massive, with a brutal horned snout and mad red eyes. The ragged, smoky wings cast an unnatural shadow over its awkward body. It was hampered both by the great chains that tethered it and the savage, unhealed wounds gouged from its rotting flesh, but still the Jailer of the Dark advanced on its smaller cousin, roaring.

  Now Isak could see the terrible slashes oozing black-red ichor that Xeliath had inflicted as she fought it on the slopes of Ghain; only its unnatural strength allowed it to move with such injuries. Once again he felt the hot ache of loss for the fearless woman who’d died at this dragon’s claws.

  The white dragon wove its head left and right, still hesitant, but its companion had no such uncertainties: it screamed an answer to the challenge and leaped forward, throwing itself down from the edge of the crater to strike across the newcomer’s back. Its claws tore into the larger dragon’s wings, tearing ribbons from the membrane as bones snapped under the weight. The Jailer rode the assault and lashed forward with its blade-tipped tail, punching a hole in the smaller dragon’s wing before stabbing its side and causing shocking scarlet blood to fly.

  The other hurled itself forward, claws extended, and the Jailer wrenched itself around, half-dodging to one side despite the weight on its back, and its teeth caught the dragon’s le
ft foot, snagged it and dragged it off-balance. The white dragon’s claws were scrabbling for purchase on the rocks while its wings slapped at the smoke-laden air, trying to regain its balance. The tattered black dragon didn’t give it time to recover but shot its head out with shocking speed and caught it by the wing.

  It dragged its prey closer, and both beasts reared with their claws extended, but the Jailer was by far the bigger and with ease it pushed past the white dragon’s defences and caught its arm. The white dragon twisted to bite its captor, but the Jailer pinned its other forelimb and raked a claw down its scale-armoured neck before continuing its assault, rocking from side to side to dislodge the one on its back.

  It snapped and bit down on the white dragon’s wing, crushing it, before releasing and wrenching itself around to deal with the one half-perched on its back. It used its tail to tangle the other, which was quick to try and escape, but the combination of tail and huge iron chains snagged it and it found itself writhing and twisting to try and work its way free. Then the Jailer brought its huge claws to bear. One rear foot pinned the shoulder and it raked its claws horribly along the belly before gripping its enemy’s forelimb with its mouth. As it tore at the shoulder with its free claws, ripping open the scaled skin, the Jailer heaved backwards with all its Gods-cursed strength.

  Isak heard an enormous crunch as the joint distended. The white dragon’s desperate clawing broke off as it screeched in pain, but the Jailer was remorseless and worked the ruined limb back and forwards. Bones snapped, flesh tore, and at last it heaved its prize free as the white dragon screeched and shuddered, bright blood pumping furiously from the wound.

  The Jailer, seeing the other scrabbling back up the slope in an effort to escape, left its stricken prey. With its undamaged wing flailing frantically, the white dragon limped forward like an injured bird, pushed off-balance by its own efforts. The Jailer of the Dark was hampered by its own injuries and chains, and the white dragon reached the top of the crater and started to creep back towards the Devoted lines, but before it could go far, the larger beast caught hold of its tail.