The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  Isak nodded and returned his attention to the shrine ahead. ‘We’ll gather his ashes and take them home?’

  ‘It’s what he’d have wanted,’ Tiniq broke in from Isak’s other side. ‘Eternity with his comrades was always his wish. Me, I’d want to be set free on the winds, but we always were different.’

  Carel grunted in response. ‘Not sure I give a damn,’ he said eventually. ‘As long as a cup’s raised in my memory, I’ll be happy. Don’t reckon I’ll be there to care, after all, but I’d like to be remembered well. Isak?’

  The white-eye flinched. ‘Just as long as it’s not like last time,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘Aye,’ Carel said, putting a hand on Isak’s arm. ‘Sorry, lad, didn’t think there.’

  Isak lifted his hands up so his long sleeves fell back and revealed the bent and scarred fingers. ‘The memory’s always there, whether you bring it up or not. As for what happens after, I don’t care – it’s the way I die that interests me.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a plan,’ Carel said suspiciously.

  ‘More peaceful than last time, that’s all I’m asking. General Daken’s taken his cavalry on ahead. He’s forced a few skirmishes with their rearguard, but that’s all; their pace is fast enough that we can’t catch them, and the bastards aren’t interested in fighting.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘That this is building to one last battle. Daken’s snarling like a frustrated dog, so I hear.’ He flexed the black fingers of his right hand. ‘When they get to where they’re going, they’ll give us the battle we want and not before. We’re not far off matched, so how far I’m prepared to go might swing it for us.’

  ‘You’re going to sacrifice yourself?’ Carel said in horror. ‘You can’t!’

  Isak pursed his uneven lips. ‘I’m not saying that, just that it might get desperate. I don’t know what I’d do – I don’t know what I’m able to do, but there’s more power in this sword than in any Crystal Skull. If I use it to win a battle, I doubt there’ll even be anything left to cremate.’ He sniffed. ‘I never much liked prayers or temple anyway, so maybe it’s fitting I dodge one last boring service.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glint of a tear in the veteran’s eyes.

  ‘What is it?’

  Carel shook his head, but Isak persisted. If it hadn’t been for the solemnity of the occasion, he realised Carel might have even shouted at him, but as it was he saw a shocking and profound sadness in the man’s face.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Carel croaked at last, tears spilling down his cheek. ‘You have the power to change the Land around, the strength to command the Gods, and yet you never really understood people half the time, did you?’ He was quiet for a dozen heartbeats as he studied Isak’s brutalised face. Eventually he sighed, looking deflated in his borrowed tabard.

  ‘Funerals aren’t for the one who’ve died,’ he started, ‘they’re for the rest of us, to remember. Gods, boy, I stood in the Temple of Nartis at your funeral, then just a few weeks later I was standing there again, mourning Tila – but it wasn’t just her memory in my mind that day. I loved that girl, but you were the son I never had. I stood there all alone; I couldn’t leave, not even after the High Cardinal had finished the rituals. It felt like my damn heart was ripping open, the pain worse than when I lost my bloody arm.’ He looked at Legion Chaplain Cerrat, standing at the head of the body, his white robes billowing in the cold evening wind, then at the man kneeling next to him.

  ‘Look at Vesna,’ he hissed, jabbing a finger towards the man, clad in his famous black and gold armour. ‘Lahk was a friend of his, a man he served with for more’n a decade. Look at him.’

  Isak did so, and realised that the hero of the Farlan was weeping, his hands shaking as his tears flowed over them. His head was bowed, as if he couldn’t lift it for the weight of grief. His normally pristine black hair fell in disarray about his face and though he was not making a sound, every Ghost was aware of his grief. Swordmaster Pettir put his hand on Vesna’s shoulder as Chaplain Cerrat continued, but the gesture seemed to increase the burden Vesna felt, and he bowed lower under its weight.

  ‘He’s grieving Tila as well,’ Isak said when he found the strength to speak again.

  ‘Pain like that doesn’t just go away,’ Carel said in a small voice, ‘not when it cuts to the heart of you. It’s grief for you too,’ he added after a moment.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The Gods only know why, but you do have friends, Isak. Your death hit more’n me hard, and we had long enough thinking of you as dead to let the pain go in deep. That you were – all that you had to—’ He gestured helplessly at the scars on Isak’s hands and neck.

  ‘Your worst fears were confirmed?’

  ‘Gods, boy, you’re really no good at this, are you?’ Carel said, wiping his sleeve over his face. The tears still flowed, but he ignored them. ‘It’s hard enough to lose a friend; near breaks a man to lose one he loved. The guilt and shame we feel at letting you do what you did, end up where you did – that opens up another tear in an already broken heart.’

  ‘And if we leave the best of us in our wake,’ Tiniq added in a choked voice, ‘what then for the Land we march on into?’

  At the shrine, Vesna stood to face the crowds. It took him a while to find the words, but once he started they tumbled out with ease: the battles Lahk had won, the defeats he had salvaged, the unswerving devotion to their tribe’s cause – and the legion surrounding him now.

  Before he had even finished recounting the most notable of General Lahk’s deeds, a low murmur arose from the ranks all around him: the battle hymn of the Ghosts, three lines, repeated again and again, while Vesna spoke his last and set the fires burn ing. The song rose with each heaving breath of the Farlan’s finest as they honoured the best of them, and it continued as the flames rose higher and the officers retreated away from the burning body, until it was echoing around like a storm, rumbling through the hills where they stood and crashing out across the Land for allies and enemies alike to hear.

  And still the tears flowed, but pride shone in every face.

  King Emin turned in his saddle and surveyed the mud-stained ranks trudging along in weary, sour silence. The rain had been falling for a week, a near-constant drizzle that never quite cleared up but never grew strong enough to rain itself out. The rivers they forded grew steadily deeper and swifter, leaving the troops soaked from head to foot.

  The undulating, fertile foothills around Thotel had gradually levelled off as they marched beyond the Chetse’s capital city and further into the break in the mountains that led to the unknown reaches of the Waste. Now they were on vast open plains with barely a handful of trees visible. Away from the rivers, the ground was brown, covered in scrub, few crops able to survive in the open, exposed earth.

  This countryside was the province of sheep and goat-herders. There were a few communities, clustered around the rivers, while the bulk of the population were closer to the mountains, north and south of the army’s path, affording them a clear route. The few Chetse warbands that shadowed them kept their distance – the Menin troops were sandwiched by a legion of light cavalry, more than enough to stop any hotheads who might have disa greed with the honour settlement.

  ‘They’re quiet again, Doranei,’ King Emin commented.

  ‘It’s a strange march we’re on,’ Doranei replied, his eyes on the road. ‘They’ve all got things on their mind, and no outlet.’

  The coldness between Emin and his King’s Man was visible to the whole army, but neither let it interfere with the task at hand and the army’s officers and men of the Brotherhood steered well clear of mentioning it. Forrow kept a suspicious eye on his Brother – his job was to mistrust all of them – but they all knew neither was to blame.

  ‘I’d expected Ruhen to leave a force in his wake by now, to sacrifice some troops in order to slow us down, but aside from a few raids, there’s been nothing; they’re all marching
with him. Why?’

  ‘Azaer doesn’t have much interest in battle, so might not have thought so hard about tactics.’

  ‘But Ilumene?’

  Doranei shrugged. ‘The man’s no general, whatever he thinks. He might have more of an instinct for battle than Azaer, but Ilumene’s never led an army. I can’t say for certain if I’d want to lose a third of my forces – and my numerical advantage – in an attempt to gain a few days’ breathing space. Those Devoted generals will have realised they’re not in command now, so they won’t be keen to volunteer their experience, not when it’s likely to get them sacrificed.’

  ‘Or perhaps they have a vested interest in keeping us close? How many Skulls do they have? Five, at least one of which could still be hidden in some soldier’s pack in our own ranks.’

  ‘Want to order another surprise search?’

  Emin shook his head. ‘No, it’ll be well hidden, I’m sure. Magic had to have been used to gain entry to the general’s tent, and we don’t have enough mages to search so many thousands. And anyway, I don’t trust all the mages.’

  Doranei looked over at the collection of juddering carriages and brightly caparisoned horses at the heart of the army. Magic was their one major advantage over the Devoted, so King Emin had gathered as many battle-mages as he could bully into service. They might not be able to match Tomal Endine for power or skill, or even Fei Ebarn, but more than a dozen extra magic-users would add bite to any assault.

  ‘Me neither,’ Doranei said eventually. ‘Bunch o’ whining children, the lot of ’em. It’s amazing how many different delays they found that prevented them reaching Moorview in time. Most of them’ll just shit themselves when the battle starts.’

  ‘Your Majesty!’ a small man perched on a powerful horse called, and with some difficulty, High Mage Endine negotiated his way past a regiment of infantry in Canar Fell colours to reach the two men.

  ‘Endine, you’re well? Not too drained?’ King Emin enquired. ‘I know you’ve taken on the bulk of the scrying and warding each evening.’

  ‘Pah! Most of those fools can’t be trusted with it,’ Endine huffed, almost overbalancing in his saddle as he cast a dismissive look over his shoulder.

  ‘Gods, man, you’re still crap on a horse, even after all these weeks,’ Doranei exclaimed.

  ‘I have had little practice,’ Endine replied tartly. ‘I’ve spent half the days sleeping in the carriage, but those bickering idiots who flatter themselves my peers have driven me to refresh my riding skills again.’

  ‘It’s good to see you getting some exercise,’ the king said with a small smile. ‘It lifts the spirits of the whole army. We do need you rested, however, and preferably not catching a chill in this damn rain.’

  Endine scowled. ‘Your Majesty, you’ll not get rid of me quite so easily, I’m afraid.’

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘Emin,’ the mage broke in sharply, ‘you are my friend as well as my king, and I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re being politely evasive. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks now, and we both know why.’

  The king took a breath, about to retort just as sharply, but instead he sighed. ‘Doranei, would you mind?’ he asked.

  The King’s Man saluted and rode away to a suitable distance, giving the two some privacy but remaining close at hand.

  ‘Endine, my friend,’ Emin began, suddenly at a loss for what to say. Even as he faltered he realised that was sufficiently telling already, if the mage hadn’t already worked out what was wrong.

  ‘Were you not going to bother to say goodbye?’ Endine asked quietly. ‘We’ve been friends for more than ten years – I’ve known you since you founded that damn club of academics. You were the one who paired my skills with Cetarn, for pity’s sake!’

  ‘And as such,’ Emin replied slowly, ‘I don’t want to acknowledge the end of what I built there.’

  ‘I’m not your pet, your Majesty.’

  ‘I know that – but I am your king, and you are my subject, and I am responsible for my subjects. If I must ask them to do some thing foolish and dangerous, the responsibility remains mine.’

  ‘All the more reason why you should spend some time with your friend,’ Endine said, ‘remembering better times, before he volunteers to do something stupid.’

  ‘You will not volunteer, my friend.’

  ‘No?’ Endine sat tall in the saddle. The thin, sickly man was shorter than his king, but with a Crystal Skull in his possession he had a grander presence these days. ‘King you may be, my friend, but some things you cannot dictate!’

  ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant,’ Emin said, trying to placate him. ‘I won’t have any man volunteer for something I know must be done. I am the king. I know why you would do so, but I will not allow you to absolve me from responsibility. My duty to my subjects is this – that I must look them in the face and askthem. Cetarn’s sacrifice at Moorview – he realised it just as I did, and Legana with me, but I asked him all the same. I would not have the burden of cowardice added to my guilt.’

  Emin lowered his head. The recent years had taken their toll: there was more than a little grey in hair that looked thin and wispy under his rain-sodden hat. His cheeks were gaunt and greying. Though the king had never been a large man, there was less fat on his body than ever before. Though he might be strong for his age still, worry had slowly eroded what bulk he had possessed.

  ‘There is a war to win, your Majesty. You cannot distract yourself with feelings of guilt.’

  ‘And yet I do,’ Emin said sadly. ‘I have lost many friends, and I will lose many more in the weeks to come. I know I must ask you to push yourself far beyond a sensible limit, that Ebarn and Wentersorn stand almost no chance of surviving what I must ask of them, and so I am reluctant to ask—’

  ‘Then don’t!’ Endine cried. ‘Make that one fewer burden to carry. We’re not the only ones who’ll go to our deaths when it comes to battle – far from it. Wentersorn’s a mercenary – you recruited him just for the attack on the Ruby Tower and he’s had plenty of opportunities to escape if he wanted.

  ‘These soldiers here – they’re the ones who must fear, they’re the ones in the jaws of uncertainty. We mages, we have a single, noble purpose that we embraced a long time ago.’

  ‘One fewer burden?’ Emin managed a smile. ‘The fate of the entire Land rests on our shoulders. The blood spilled in the Waste will be the ink used to write the future of all peoples.’

  He broke off and watched the ordered lines of Legana’s Sisters as they followed close behind the mages. There were more than a hundred of them now, a dozen priestesses with at least a regiment of spear-wielding former acolytes. Legana had named them the Sisters of Dusk, though she declined to explain why, even to those few brave enough to ask Fate’s Mortal-Aspect directly.

  The women wore leather armour reinforced with steel bands and, perhaps in echo of their leader, each carried a pair of long-knives on her belt. Legana was at the heart of them, a thin shawl hiding her face. Though she limped, as always, the pace of the group never faltered. As evening fell, she would walk through the camp, her face uncovered and her green eyes shining bright. She looked taller in the ghost-hour, edged in light as the shadows lengthened, while her bodyguards, blessed and augmented by the touch of the divine, faded into the background as they pulled off their boots to reveal Mihn’s owl tattoos.

  Emin could feel her green eyes on him now, and thought he saw Legana’s head dip in greeting. Her knives were hidden by the folds of her cloak, but everyone in the army knew they would be there when she needed them. There were rumours in the camp that she could call them to her hand, the same way Isak could produce Termin Mystt in an instant, but Emin knew it was just the speed of a skilled woman enhanced by her divine blood.

  ‘There are too many I’ve failed to spend the time I should with, these past few weeks,’ he said at last. ‘Too many I may not see again.’

  As one the Sisters turned to face them, a hundred face
s looking their way, making Endine flinch. Emin smiled, knowing that was Legana, talking into the minds of her followers. The Mortal-Aspect had been Emin’s closest advisor leading up to the battle of Moorview, becoming friends as she’d helped him to plan a war that involved Gods, magic and belief. That disconcerting, otherworldly reaction had been a private joke between the two of them – a salute from a friend.

  ‘Legana? I think she’ll be the last of us to fall,’ Endine grum bled, ‘her and Daken, soaked in blood and standing back to back most likely.’

  ‘You may be right there.’ Emin squinted up at the angry grey sky, ignoring the rain falling onto his face. There were birds circling high above, despite the poor weather. ‘Let us hope they won’t be the only ones left.’

  CHAPTER 38

  Light snow fell unnoticed as Morghien stood at the hill’s peak. His attention was focused solely on the plain, a featureless expanse scoured by centuries of storms. In the distance a fat column of soldiers advanced towards them, a creeping stain of shadow over the grey earth. They were miles off yet, their scouts not yet in threatening range, but fear still fluttered in Morghien’s stomach.

  ‘So many years ago,’ Morghien mused, breaking the tense hush, ‘all these years, and what have I learned?’

  ‘Learned?’ asked Shanas, the tattooed young woman at his side. ‘Old man, don’t start on that rubbish – you can go senile and catch up with your true age later. For the next few weeks I need you sharp.’

  ‘Need me?’ Morghien echoed. ‘I’m not sure what good I’ll be doing here. I’m not a soldier; I’m nothing to what’s coming.’

  Shanas flashed a smile. ‘Maybe not, but until we meet up with the army your spirits and magic’ll keep us safe at night. I’m buggered if I’m witnessing all this only to get eaten by some bastard daemon in the night.’

  Morghien turned to look at the attractive young woman. She had changed in the few months he’d known her, hardened from a meek, wary girl into a more elegant version of Ardela. He didn’t much approve of that, knowing Ardela’s dark history, but when he reflected on it, it was more sadness that he felt. She was better educated than either Legana or Ardela, and capable of far more gentleness. In another age, Morghien thought, she would have been a truly great Temple Mistress, tempering their youth and guiding her order wisely. Instead, she had developed hard edges and a brittle strength, and reminded Morghien more and more of Doranei, a good man damaged by brutal times.