by Mok, DK
“Lady Amoriel.” Barrat gave a stiff bow from the saddle.
“General Barrat.” Amoriel’s dark cloak stirred in the air. “It looks awfully boring up there.”
“Unfortunately, the person who was supposed to be leading this army decided to embark on a suicide mission.”
Amoriel’s mouth pulled thoughtfully to one side.
“It’s always fun seeing which way they’ll go,” she said. “I suppose the Fey always did have a bit of a berserker streak. Wasted on such a sentimental folk, though.”
“Lady Amoriel,” said Barrat with the faintest hint of reproach, “the army must decamp by dawn. I advise that you rest. Perhaps Liadres could attend to you.”
Amoriel smiled, her eyes dancing with firelight.
“Barrat, the show’s just begun.” She held out her hand; it was part entreaty, part command. “Come watch it with me. Let someone else do the things that history won’t remember.”
Barrat’s expression softened grudgingly. He turned his head slightly towards a brown-haired soldier.
“Damel!” boomed Barrat. “Hold formation. If the flag stays high at dawn, take the city.”
“General!” nodded Damel, riding away with a team of captains.
Barrat turned back to Amoriel, trying to remain in a dour mood.
“Shall we?” Amoriel held out her hand to Barrat.
“Lady,” said Barrat, taking her hand.
It was carnage.
Bodies, parts of bodies, chunks of flesh and shreds of bone, scattering the city like the floor of an abattoir. And she had let it get this far.
Haska leaned close to Ciel, the city rushing past them in a trembling chorus of rising smoke and violence. She’d let herself be carried away by the rush of war cries, the pleasure of willful leaders bending to her command. It had been glorious, and that was why leaders should never forget what it was like on the front line. What it was like to wade through the blood of children, watching the innocent grieve for the mistakes of their sovereigns.
She wouldn’t forget this again. And one way or the other, neither would Delmar. A cluster of Talgaran soldiers swept in front of her, and Haska charged through, ducking two near blows and deflecting another. Ciel raced past a squad of Goethos soldiers, and Haska saw a scrum of grey-black armour ahead, protecting a familiar figure.
Ciel drew to a graceful stop just beyond blade’s reach, offering her most dramatic profile. The armoured figure turned, a bloodless smile on his lips.
“Lord Haska,” said Jaral. “Glad you could join us.”
“Recall your soldiers,” said Haska.
“A little late for that now,” said Jaral, the crackle of flames wafting around them. “You couldn’t stop it if you wanted to.”
“I do,” said Haska. “And I will.”
Jaral’s smile widened slightly, and Haska thought his skin might crack from the effort.
“You’d like to think you’re like your mother, but take it from someone who knew her—you’re far more like your father, and we all know what happened to him.”
Even in the midst of heated battle, locked in mortal combat, the tangle of soldiers around them paused long enough to offer a wordless chorus of mental “Oooohs”.
This was followed by a startled chorus of “Aarghs” as Ciel sailed over Jaral’s guards and landed beside his horse, just in time for Haska’s fist to send Jaral sideways out of his saddle. The Goethos general landed hard on the cobbles, and he looked up derisively at the looming shadow of Haska and Ciel. Jaral wiped a trickle of blood from his lip.
“Stupid child,” said Jaral. “You think you can just march up to Delmar and make everything stop. What will you do? Reason with him? Kill him? You started a war without knowing how to finish it. In the end, you’re just a girl in her mother’s shoes.”
Ciel took a step towards Jaral, planting a hoof meaningfully beside his kneecap.
“When I come back, I’ll remember that you said that,” said Haska.
She turned to face the circle of Goethos soldiers, their eyes hostile and unforgiving but just a little frightened. They parted reluctantly, allowing her to pass.
“If any of you are still here when I return, I’ll mark you enemy,” said Haska.
“You think Delmar’s just going to open the gates for you?” called Jaral, not quite having a handle on the dignified defeat. “Not everyone cowers before the Half-Faced Lord!”
A massive shudder suddenly rocked the city, and Haska lurched in the saddle as the ground quaked. A violent schism ripped up the wall of Delmar’s sanctuary, like a message from the gods. Or very fortuitous geology. Haska glanced over her shoulder at Jaral, which she felt said it all.
She turned and rode for Algaris Fort—it was as close to an invitation as she was ever going to get.
They were outnumbered five to one, but the Talgaran soldiers had one advantage—they were fighting for their homes, for their families, and for a prince who knew where they lived and how their mothers were doing lately.
“Hold the northern line!” yelled Falon. “Push forward! Push forward!”
Falon’s horse raced down the main street as Talgaran soldiers wove in and out of intricate lines, threading through the city.
“Ralter! Re-form at the markets!” called Falon. “Hold them at the second perimeter!”
Echoes of “Aye!” were quickly lost in the bedlam of battle as Falon rode back towards the core defence. He fended off several darkly armoured soldiers, who seemed surprised to see the Talgaran prince riding without an escort but quickly discovered why he didn’t need one.
As Falon sent the last rider crashing to the ground, something caught his eye without him quite knowing why. A pile of bodies against a bloodstained wall, a scattering of broken swords. In the cloudy moonlight, he couldn’t be sure, didn’t want to be sure, but he thought he saw a ponytail bound in red cloth—
The ground shook and cobbles jittered out of the ground like leaves on the surface of a boiling lake. Falon turned at the sound of stone cracking, and he saw a dark seam snaking up the castle’s outer wall. The ground thundered again and a jagged chasm ripped down the street towards him. He glanced briefly at the pile of bodies as he galloped past.
It must have been his imagination. Qara was still in Horizon’s Gate, and his priority was making sure she had a city to come back to.
As Falon pounded towards the ragged line of Talgaran guards, a captain rode towards him.
“Your Highness!”
“Gomez! Report,” said Falon.
“The Half-Faced Lord!” gasped Gomez.
Falon’s chest tightened.
“Whole sentences, please.”
“We couldn’t stop her,” said Gomez, temporarily unable to remember how many parts a whole sentence usually contained. “She was alone—She just—”
Gomez made a gesture with her hand that indicated something flying over something else. Falon decided that partial sentences were still better than hand gestures.
“Which way?” said Falon, already knowing the answer.
Gomez pointed to the gaping breach in the curtain wall. Falon turned to Gomez, and his eyes could have levelled a forest of sequoias.
“Defend the breach,” said Falon. “Fail, and I will find you.”
Gomez saluted, eyes shining with a mixture of devotion and fear. Falon turned towards the broken wall and rode into Algaris Fort.
EIGHTEEN
The rumbling grew in intensity, the shuddering jolts coming closer together as the ground churned and strained. Algaris had experienced the occasional earthquake, but nothing like this. Seris could see fires breaking out across the city, roofs sliding from houses, and everywhere around him the streets were splintering in ragged chunks. But this was no ordinary earthquake. He could feel the energy splaying through the ground, sizzling through the air like a cloud of invisible wasps.
Seris leapt over the jagged rubble, dodging falling timber and trying not to look at the slick puddles of blood that
coloured the ground.
He probably shouldn’t have said those things to Elhan. In her own way, she wanted to be good—he knew she did—she just didn’t know how. No one had ever shown her how to be kind, how to care about people. And maybe now he’d pushed her too far, maybe she couldn’t be stopped—
Seris skidded to a halt, his gaze catching on a robed figure huddled over a bleeding body. A battered quarterstaff lay on the cobbles.
“Morle!” cried Seris, throwing his arms ecstatically around the robed woman.
Morle stiffened, looking at him with the same expression Seris often gave to strange drunks who tried to embrace him. There was a pause before recognition flashed through Morle’s eyes, and then a broad smile broke across her face. She wrapped her arms around Seris, squeezing him hard before pulling back, holding up her bloodied hands apologetically. Seris looked down at the man in the gutter, who stared up at the pair, somewhat dazed. The man prodded weakly at a scab on his forehead, and Morle waved her hands in a shooing gesture.
“Morle, why aren’t you with Petr?” said Seris.
“I was at the castle,” said Morle softly. “When the fighting started, they wouldn’t let me out. I had to squeeze through the gate.”
Seris looked at the shuddering castle, then back at Morle.
“Morle, I…”
“Be careful, Seris,” said Morle with a tight smile. “Come back soon?”
Her eyes said, “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”
“I’ll try.” Seris squeezed Morle’s hand.
The street rocked beneath them again, and a hairline crack tore across the ground between them. Seris stumbled backwards, letting go of Morle’s hand.
It was up to him now.
He raced towards the castle, the paving buckling beneath him. Perhaps he should’ve done things differently. Perhaps he should’ve acted sooner. Perhaps he should even have listened to Falon. But none of that mattered now.
Now, the curse had to be broken.
No one could storm a castle quite like Haska del Fey, her burnished half-mask frozen in a demonic howl under the moonlight. Flames flickered like liquid on the glossy flanks of her warhorse, tufted hooves tearing through the courtyards. Soldiers scattered in Haska’s wake, and the castle itself was a frantic mess of scurrying staff and servants. Teams of guards rushed to evacuate the castle as giant blocks of granite tumbled from the turrets.
One last line of defence loosely circled the central keep, the guards trying to maintain their footing as the ground jerked beneath them. Haska paused in the yard before them, stones smashing into rubble around her.
“Where is your king?” said Haska.
A Talgaran captain held her sword firmly before her.
“You will not pass.”
Haska looked at the soldier, taking in the battered armour, the faded epaulettes, the leg wound.
“What’s your name?” said Haska.
“Captain Arteres. Turn back, Lord Haska. You will not pass.”
“Your city burns, your castle crumbles. What commands such allegiance, keeping vigil for a falling tower?”
“My king, my land, my duty,” said Arteres.
“And ‘I’ll-Find-You’ Falon,” muttered another soldier.
Haska glanced over the ragged guards.
“I commend your dedication,” said Haska, “but tonight, nothing stands in my way.”
To be honest, it couldn’t be said that a lone combatant defeated several dozen Talgaran guards. It was, more accurately, a Fey warrior—no less than the Half-Faced Lord herself—and her preternaturally lethal warhorse who penetrated the last line of defence at the heart of Algaris Keep.
The courtyard was a mess of rubble and bodies, scattered with panicked guards and servants, by the time Falon arrived.
“Captain!” Falon knelt beside the body of Arteres.
She had a gash in her side and several broken ribs. Her helm was badly dented, and a trickle of blood trailed down her forehead.
“We tried…” bleated a soldier lying semi-conscious nearby. “Really… Don’t… Argh…”
The soldier flailed and passed out.
Falon looked around at the bloody yard, chunks of stone raining onto the shuddering earth.
She had desecrated his kingdom, invaded his city, attacked his people, and turned his own feeble-minded brother against him. Lord Haska would not live to glory in her works.
Falon drew his sword and strode through the crumbling archway into the towering keep at the heart of the empire.
Seris’s plan had involved sauntering over to the massive crack in the castle’s defensive wall and sneaking through. Unfortunately, by the time he got there, a fierce battle was in progress between a tide of enemy soldiers and a valiant, faintly hysterical, but very effective Talgaran line of defence.
Seris crept along the perimeter of the wall until he arrived at the massive front gates, the entrance flanked by two guard towers crawling with archers. Although the wooden drawbridge was firmly raised, the earthquake had shifted it slightly off-kilter, creating a slim gap between the door and the stone. Seris managed to squeeze through with only a minimum of joint dislocation, although he had to remove his belt to wriggle through the grill of the portcullis.
In the disorganised chaos of the falling fort, wounded soldiers were carried through the yard with no apparent destination aside from “not here”. Seris grabbed a passing guard.
“Where’s the king?” said Seris. “Where’s the prince?”
The guard quickly took in Seris’s clerical robes.
“The king and queen have barricaded themselves at the top of the central tower. As long as they survive, our empire lives.”
Seris had fundamental difficulties with this philosophy, but now wasn’t the time to argue, although he wasn’t sure if there was going to be a later.
“And the prince?” said Seris.
“Everywhere, I think,” said the guard, glancing over his shoulder nervously. “The nobility have retreated to their estates outside the capital. I expect they’ll return when this is all over.”
Seris doubted that very much. This wasn’t just another skirmish you could wait out. Many devastating conflicts had been called the war to end all wars, and these were invariably followed some years later by the war that was really going to end all wars. Really. But this time, he was convinced they were in an end-of-days scenario, and not just because he could feel it rushing towards him like a gargantuan wall at the end of the universe.
Seris stared at the massive silhouette of the keep. Turrets and towers ran up its sides, winding around the central spire like vines clinging to an ancient tree. The central tower rose from the heart of the keep—the shimmering sunroom at its summit like a glass eye gazing up at the moon.
The heart, thought Seris. This was where Elhan thought she had to be—where she would be set free.
The buzzing sensation had become almost unbearable, stabbing at his skin, his lips, his eyes. A strange pressure was building in his chest, and at the edges of his vision he could see whips of energy thrashing through the air.
Seris gritted his teeth as he ran through the collapsing archway into the cool, dark corridors of the castle keep. Flakes of stone rained from the ceiling, and Seris stumbled as he pounded up the shaking stairs. By the time he reached halfway, his palms were raw, his lungs burned, and he looked as though he’d rolled through a beach, a battlefield, and a construction site. A section of stairs collapsed behind him, and Seris scrambled desperately to the next landing, clinging to the floor breathlessly.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He reached for Eliantora, praying for comfort, for strength. He felt her hands resting on his shoulders, her sympathy flowing through him like fresh water through a wasteland.
What am I supposed to do? thought Seris. Your rules about bangles, bread, and puddings don’t tell me what I’m supposed to do now.
He opened his eyes weakly, his fingers tingling and trembling. Elhan was here s
omewhere—he just had to find her.
And then what?
Seris pushed the thought away. He had to find her first. This had “destiny” written all over it, and he wished he’d written down that quatrain Olrios had recited. Something about the rising sun—
Seris suddenly stared out the narrow window. The sky on the far horizon was turning a dusty violet, the stars growing fainter on the rim of the hills. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the starlight, but as he looked down, his heart froze over.
It wasn’t just the city being torn up by the earthquake.
Great, black tendrils stretched across the land. Widening chasms crawled over the farms and fields, hills and valleys, to the horizon and beyond. The land was being sundered, huge tears forming in the flesh of the world, a dark red glow flaring from the depths. Molten rock burbled at the lips of the deeper scars, burning the grass into blackened welts. From edge to edge, the world was waking, was dying, was being torn apart.
A foot scraped on the landing behind him. Seris turned and gasped as an armoured fist clenched tightly around his throat. He found himself staring into an inhuman metal face glowering in the light of a city on fire. The bronze helm, the reptilian armour, were like nothing he’d seen before, as though the wearer had stalked from the depths of lost legends. The figure slammed him against the wall, and Seris wrapped his hands helplessly around the armoured wrist, his feet dangling above the floor. He could just make out the other half of the figure’s face, and if he’d had any doubts about what a warlord looked like, they instantly evaporated.
“How do I get to the tower?” said Haska, her voice deep and lethal.
“I don’t know,” choked Seris. “I don’t work here.”
Haska took in his bloodstained robes.
“Then what are you doing here? Looting?”
“I’m looking for Elhan,” said Seris, his voice barely more than a rasp. “The Kali-Adelsa. Are you here to kill the king?”
Haska loosened her grip just enough to stop Seris from turning purple.
“If I were, would you try to stop me?”