The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘Aenaris?’ he asked.

  ‘It is the breath of life,’ the boy answered. ‘Its gifts I shall share with my faithful servants.’

  ‘To the same effect as it had on Rojak?’

  ‘I still have my herald,’ Ruhen said, ‘I have no need of twenty thousand more. No, this gift is a burden too, a covenant with my chosen few. Gods are anointed in the blood of the innocent – but who says the innocent can’t put up a fight first?’

  As Ruhen walked back through the camp heads lifted at his passing. Devoted troops saluted their leader, while the preachers and white-clad followers knelt, heads bowed in prayer. Ruhen’s smile lifted the fatigue from their faces, provoking gladness from all he passed. Luerce, first among Ruhen’s Children, fell in behind his lord and the rest followed without any order needed, the ragged column swelling with every step.

  The campfires that lit the way were small, limited by the paucity of wood on the parched plain, but enough to define the boundary of the camp. Through the lines of tents, past the watching soldiers and generals of the Devoted, Ruhen went with a train of attendants. Those spread further out sensed something on the wind, and answering some unspoken command, men and woman crawled from the tents to join the burgeoning crowd. Soon it became clear Ruhen was heading to the furthest part of the camp, where the supply wagons were drawn up. The pickets set around the supplies parted like evening mist as they approached. Cauldrons of rice-heavy stew bubbled slowly over cooking fires, and as he continued to the wagons at the back, the men tending the food stepped aside and watched the mass, now numbering in their thousands, as they followed in reverential silence. The crowd surrounded the wagons, kept separate and under guard by the Hearth-Spears, the grey-skinned warriors from the Jesters’ loyal clans.

  Ruhen climbed up onto one of the two wagons piled with fruit. He looked around at his assembling followers: people were still coming out of the camp, but there were enough present for him to start. He slipped the wrapped sword from his back and a collective sigh raced around the crowd. Under their white cloaks and ragged clothes he saw they were emaciated and dull-eyed with fatigue. Most had been painfully thin before the journey had started; they were barely standing now, driven on by fervour and desperation to the very limits of their life.

  ‘Brothers and sisters of peace, our time draws near,’ he started, his clear voice carrying. ‘This Land is a wounded beast, weakened and fearful. The Gods themselves tremble at what must come to pass, at the betrayal of their priests and the heretic King of Narkang.’

  Ruhen held up the sword for them all to see. Even with its light covered, there was a palpable air of power around it. The coin hanging from Ruhen’s neck glinted in the fading light, displaying the rough cross scored on its surface.

  Slowly, solemnly, Ruhen slipped the covering from Aenaris and pure white light blazed out like a beacon across the camp. The boy’s skin looked unnaturally pale in its light as he held up to for them all to see. As one the masses fell to their knees, crying out blessings and wordless sounds of devotion. Ruhen turned in a full circle, allowing all of his assembled worshippers to see his face, not trying to hide the burden Aenaris was as his blind right eye shone in the gloaming.

  The massive sword was as light as a feather, but it ate at the shadows inside him, making it feel as though it was made of lead rather than pure, flawless crystal. He was forced to squint against its light, the camp beyond growing darker to his one remaining eye as the Key of Life eclipsed his shadow soul, but even in the darkness he spied a shape moving, circling beyond Ruhen’s Children like a wolf on the hunt, her cold blue eyes bright in the darkness. Ruhen nodded respectfully and the Wither Queen faltered, matching his gaze for a moment before taking two last steps and fading into nothing.

  He looked down at the peaches, which had been restored to ripeness by Aenaris. He lowered the sword and whispered lovingly to the unnatural crop. Power flowed out of the weapon and the sickly-sweet stink of fruit almost past their best grew, filling the air with their odour while the skin of his fingers hissed and crackled.

  Wincing at the sensation, Ruhen completed the spell and went to do the same with the other wagon. He transferred Aenaris to his other hand and staring down at the palm of his right, which was burned as white as bone by the sword’s power. As he repeated his workings, Ruhen faltered slightly, his legs wobbling underneath him to moans of fear from the onlookers, but then he caught himself and stood straight again, forcing himself to look up at them and meet their eyes before he rewrapped the sword and hid its searing light.

  ‘These fruit are my gift to you, most faithful of siblings,’ he said hoarsely, struggling to find the strength to raise his voice momentarily. ‘Share them amongst yourselves, ensure all of your brothers and sisters are permitted a bite.

  ‘Soon we will be forced to defend this holy site. This is the place of our rebirth, of the Land’s rebirth. Here we will defend our Land, our Gods and our future.’

  With stiff limbs he returned Aenaris to its sheath and took a slow breath before continuing, ‘During the Great War the Gods blessed many of their followers as they headed into battle. Battle is soon coming to this place. The Knights of the Temples are steadfast and brave, and they will do their duty to the Land, I know. But no one will escape the savagery, and the Gods have granted me this boon for you: we stand in service of innocence, defenders of the weak – you have all followed me here out of that ideal, but now you are the innocents to be protected.

  ‘The Knights of the Temples have sheltered you, fed you with their own rations, and done so without complaint, for they see our holy mission. And now it is my turn: so eat of this fruit, share it amongst your enfeebled and exhausted brethren, and receive my blessing.

  ‘The path before us is hard; the covenant I offer is as much a burden, for it is one of strength. As I have taught you these past months, the defence of innocence is no easy duty – but do not fear this burden, do not fear the heavy blessing of the Gods, for I will care for you. Come the dawn light, you will be reborn, and then we will lead the Land itself to rebirth!’

  A fervent roar rose up from all around him, shaking the ground with its upwelling of passion. Arms raised to the heavens, some prayed, some shouted and howled and many wept. Luerce and his senior preachers stepped forward, climbing up into the wagons to renewed calls and wordless paeans echoing out across the dark sky.

  With the greatest reverence Luerce picked up a peach. Juice ran down his fingers as he bit into its flesh. He tore a chunk away and passed the peach to the eager hands of the next man, then swallowed the sacrament with his eyes closed, his face turned to the sky above. All around them the supplicants reached forward, desperate for their lord’s blessing, and soon the preachers were handing out the peaches as fast as they could.

  Copying the First Disciple, those nearest tasted the flesh and passed the rest back, moaning with ecstatic pleasure at the sickly, half gone peaches as they handed more and more to the crowd beyond. Many grabbed handfuls and started pushing back into the crowd beyond, holding the fruit aloft as they made for those who could not get close to the wagons.

  Ruhen stood on the wagon and watched them approvingly, dark shadows dancing in his eyes. He turned back at the hilltop almost a mile away. ‘The twilight reign is here,’ he whispered, the words sweeter on the tongue than any fruit. ‘My reign is come.’

  CHAPTER 39

  General Daken reined in and raised his hand to call a halt. Almost as one, the Green Scarves stopped to survey the enemy. The white-eye glanced around at his men, élite among the Narkang army. The officers had all been marked with flowing blue tattoos by Litania, the Trickster Goddess inhabiting Daken’s skin, and they were almost as irregular as the savage men they led.

  Many wore Menin armour and helms, mismatched pieces scavenged from the dead, which were now augmented by the banded armour of the Knights of the Temples. There were now five complete legions wearing green scarves – King Emin had expanded their numbers with reinforcements
from Canar Thrit, troops experienced at fighting Black Swords from Vanach and their Carastar mercenary allies – and they had been entrusted with the job of leading the way towards the Devoted.

  ‘Looks like all of ’em,’ Daken said at last, scanning the plain ahead. ‘Anyone else suspicious about that?’

  ‘Aren’t we expecting sort of mage’s surprise?’ Colonel Dassai asked.

  ‘Aye, but it would still be nice if they pretended otherwise. Makes it a bit bloody obvious when they’re all lined up like this.’ He gestured towards the Devoted army, stationed at the base of the hill ahead and a shallower rise on the left flank. He couldn’t make out the earthworks around the hill, but he knew they were there from the positioning of the enemy soldiers. Angled lines of troops marked stark lines of defence, static positions around which their cavalry could move. More than a legion of cavalry patrolled the open ground between them and there were clear channels for more to descend from the high ground in response to any threat.

  ‘And the scouts say this is the best approach?’ Daken said with a scowl.

  ‘Aye, sir, given the size of our army. The ground’s more broken on the east flank of the hill, a defender’s dream. There’re ridges to defend and stick your enemy full of arrows from, while you’ve got nothing more than a tired mob coming up towards you, all leading to a slope too steep to climb.’

  Daken grunted. The Devoted had divided their infantry broadly equally between the hill and the neighbouring rise, unwilling to concede high ground so close to the part they had to hold at all costs. King Emin hadn’t given him the full picture about what Ruhen would be doing there, but he’d made it clear they needed to punch right in and give a small force under Isak’s command the chance to end the war.

  ‘Dassai, send a rider to the king,’ Daken said after a long, silent look at the defences ahead of them. ‘He should send the Denei cavalry to the east and south flanks – might not be we can attack there, but we can still rule ’em. The Devoted’s got nothing to touch Denei horsewarriors – two legions will be a right thorn in their side. Skirmishers too – in close formation, if Endine don’t think much of their scryers; might make ’em think the Legion o’ the Damned’s about to crawl up their arseholes.’

  The colonel repeated the instructions to a messenger as a respectful suggestion to their liege and sent him off, then turned back to the white-eye. ‘And now?’

  Daken spat on the ground ahead of him. ‘Now we secure this plain.’ He turned in the saddle, watching the rider race back the way they had come. They were several miles ahead of the main army, which was heaving forward like an aged and weary monster. The king would be ordering a halt soon; it was well into the afternoon and getting any closer would be foolish. Better to set camp and rest for the coming day, then march unencumbered the few miles.

  ‘There’ll be no fighting today, not unless we provoke it.’ The white-eye forced a grin. ‘What do you say, Dassai? Want to pick a fight?’

  ‘First blood for the Green Scarves, aye,’ Dassai agreed. ‘We’ve got a reputation to maintain after all.’

  Isak sat outside his tent and watched the orange flames flicker and glow. Hulf had burrowed under his legs, teeth bared at faint sounds the humans were trying to ignore. It was well past the ghost-hour, but many hadn’t yet retired in the Narkang camp. King Emin and Legana shared the fire with him in a tense silence. The culmination of their plans was at hand, and they all feared the coming day.

  Snow fell fitfully, adding to the shroud of quiet over the camp. On the edge of hearing, daemons howled like unholy wolves anticipating the morrow’s feast. Hulf growled softly again and Isak put his white hand on the dog’s back, trying to calm him, but it did no good; Hulf would not be soothed.

  It’s hard to reassure him when I can’t forget, Isak thought sadly. We’re an army in mourning already – how many of us believe we’ll see dusk again?

  He looked at King Emin, and recognised the glitter of tears in his eyes. Emin’s grey hair had been roughly cut back and with his hat discarded, revealed even more clearly the lines of his ageing face.

  ‘What was your son’s name again?’ Isak asked softly.

  Emin jumped as though stung, then said quietly, ‘Sebetin. Oterness chose it – Sebe died in Byora just before the naming day and she always had a soft spot for him. She said he had a gentle soul compared to the rest of the Brotherhood. I don’t think I could ask for Sebetin to grow up better than that.’

  Isak didn’t say anything else; he had nothing that could alleviate Emin’s own guilt and fear. There were thousands – tens of thousands, in opposing camps, but united in that moment – all thinking of those they might never see again. Vesna had gone off to watch the sun set and be alone with his thoughts of Tila; Doranei sat a little way from his king, staring down at the black star-speckled blade he’d used to kill his lover. It wasn’t clear the King’s Man had even heard Sebe’s name spoken, though Isak knew he felt guilt for both deaths.

  And what about me? he wondered. Is this fear I’m feeling, grief for those who’re lost, or something else? I wish you were here, Mihn; that I do wish, but my guilt’s unchanged. There’ve been too many deaths on my account already, so perhaps one more makes no difference to the weight of my chains. Or maybe I’m just too broken to feel anything more.

  His hands tightened and he felt a slight resistance in the palm of his right where the black sword still resided between one Land and the next.

  You deserved better, but I know you’d say they all did – all those I killed, all those who died alongside me. Is it cowardly of me to want a way out of all this? I fear the chains I’ll be dragging up Ghain’s slope, but I’m so tired of this fight.

  ‘Look,’ Legana said unexpectedly into their minds, brushing the grey-seamed copper hair away from her face as she tilted her head up to the sky.

  High above them the dark clouds of night were cut through by flame, a thin trail of light that faded only slowly, then a second bright path streaked alongside where the first had passed.

  ‘What is it?’ Isak whispered, watching the strange sight with fascination. ‘A shooting star?’

  Legana shook her head and pointed as another blade of light tore through the dark, this one an arc, curving gracefully around. The air was perfectly still and silent, no deep and savage cry of dragons breaking the calm.

  ‘They’re hunting,’ Legana said at last, wonder and delight in her voice. ‘If only you could see it with my eyes.’

  Isak frowned, still not understanding, but a gasp from Emin told him the king had realised what they were looking at.

  ‘The phoenix dance,’ he croaked in astonishment. ‘I’ve heard the stories but not even Morghien has seen this!’

  ‘Phoenix?’ Isak asked. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Birds of flaming plumage, who scorch the air as they dive on their prey,’ Emin said softy, and Isak gaped at the sight as two trailing paths like fire arrows raced through the night above them, faster than any falcon could swoop. Distantly he heard the click and chatter of bats in the night sky, Death’s messengers fleeing the talons of the phoenix: the chosen creature and symbol of the Queen of the Gods.

  ‘Is it an omen?’ King Emin wondered aloud. ‘Do they herald the rebirth of the Land?’

  Legana shook her head. ‘Some will see them that way perhaps, but I’ve had enough of omens. The future shall be as we make it. The phoenix tell us something far more important.’

  ‘Which is?’

  She smiled and rose to leave, unsteady on her feet until Ardela appeared at her side to steady her. Legana put her hand on Ardela’s, letting her support her with loving care. ‘They remind us that there is still beauty in the Land.’

  Isak stepped out of his tent and looked up at the sky. A brisk wind threw the drizzle down onto his face, but while his guards scowled at the cold, unwelcome dawn, Isak savoured it. His bones carried a memory of Ghenna’s close, oppressive air and unnatural warmth so for him, the chill winter rain slapping his cheek w
as a pleasure, the surging wind and open ground around him a moment of release from the memories that bound him.

  All around him men and woman were waking, and several Sisters of Dusk emerged from Palace Guard tents, dragging their coppery hair back into braids and ponytails for the day’s battle. Isak watched one, a tall woman in a studded jerkin at least a decade older than the grim-faced Ghost at the entrance of the tent she’d just left. With a deft hand she buckled on her spaulders and vambraces before collecting her long-knives and spear from the tent.

  She paused a moment to run an affectionate finger down the soldier’s cheek, then headed out without a backwards glance. The soldier watched her go, then caught Isak’s eye and ducked his head with a sheepish expression. The white-eye’s laughter echoed around the camp.

  ‘Morning, lad,’ Carel called, rising from beside the dull fire embers. ‘Get any sleep?’ He looked stiff in the chill morning air, and had dark rings around his eyes, but once he’d taken a few steps there was a renewed purpose to the ageing warrior’s gait. He was already dressed for battle and carried a peaked helm looted from some Devoted corpse in his hand. Carel had blackened the helm’s surface in the fire, Isak saw, burning off the painted insignia and ensuring he wouldn’t look like an enemy in the chaos of battle.

  ‘As little as you,’ Isak admitted. ‘As little of any of us.’ He’d slept in his breeches and long boots like the rest, but his chest was exposed to the faint daylight and he saw Carel’s eyes drawn to the scars on his body. Most prominent among them was the fat band around his throat and the distinct white mark of Xeliath’s rune.

  Around his waist was the cloth band that kept the Skull of Ruling pressed against his skin. It was faded and stained by many weeks of constant use – but then, nothing about him was pristine, Isak reflected. He reached up towards the sky and stretched out his white and black arms, still thickly muscled, despite the damage done to them.