by R. S. Ford
Randal moved up beside him, eyes wide as he stared at the army before them.
‘This is really happening, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘It really is,’ Josten replied. ‘Scared?’
‘Aren’t you?’ Randal seemed surprised at the question.
‘Shitting myself. And I can’t wait.’ A smile crossed his face at Randal’s bemused expression. There was no way the tallyman would ever know how he felt. This was another battle, another siege in a long line. This time though, he was fighting for something worthwhile. He’d come a long way to find Livia and to honour the promise he’d made. If he met his end, at least it would be for a cause worth dying for.
Silver joined them and the three walked forward to join the rest of the attacking army. Ranks of warriors looked on as trebuchets battered the walls of Kessel.
High Lord Kraden bellowed at his men, raising their ire. He spurred them on with canticles of hate and promises of glory as in the distance the gate was being battered by a huge ram. From the parapets of Kessel arrows were flying, but for every warrior that fell another stepped forward to take his place, the ram never halting in its relentless assault on the gate.
Kraden pushed himself forward through the crowd of armoured men. As he passed by he seemed to infect them with his own zeal, and their war cries turned into a cacophony. Every eye was fixed on the gate as it trembled beneath the relentless ministrations of the ram. Every warrior desperate to see it fall.
Josten’s thumb strayed to the hilt of his sword, flicking up the cross-guard, loosening it in the scabbard. The wait was always the worst part. Josten scanned the crowd. He knew there were no allies here, no one he could rely on. Usually before a battle you were surrounded by friendly faces – men you’d lived and eaten and slept with. There were no friendly faces here.
He turned to Randal, who was staring down at Josten’s thumb as it flicked the cross-guard as though it was the most annoying thing he’d ever seen. It made Josten all the happier.
Silver just stared at the gates, sword in hand like all she wanted was to leap into the fray. Josten still didn’t know her story and didn’t care. He could only hope that when it came to the killing she’d remember whose side she was on.
The ram kept pounding out its beat and Josten had no idea how long they stood waiting. He marked each long moment with another click of that cross-guard, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beating in his chest and the churning of the tight knot in his gut.
Finally, the great gates cracked.
It was like wood hitting onyx. Shards fell from the gate and the massive iron hinges buckled. A roar went up from the warriors at the foot of the wall, and the men surrounding Josten began to bellow all the louder.
Silver was motionless, but Josten could see Randal begin to quiver.
‘Never been in a siege before?’ he asked, knowing full well the answer.
Randal shook his head. ‘Never been in a battle before,’ he replied.
Josten had no advice for him, even if he’d been inclined to give it. Don’t die, was about as good as it got. There’d be confusion and blood and screaming. In the middle of it all Josten had to find Livia and get out. That was all he knew.
As thoughts of Livia spun in Josten’s head, the gate fell. A horde of screaming cultists surged forward, and Josten was jolted into focus. The sword came ringing from its scabbard, shield gripped tight.
Silver was away, sprinting with the rest, a tiny figure amongst armoured giants.
Josten didn’t know if Randal was with him, and he didn’t care as he began to run with the horde. The ground was churned and broken beneath his feet but he kept his legs pumping. Don’t pause. Don’t take a backward step. That was the only way.
Past the sea of armour before him, Josten could see into the citadel and the open gateway. Several structures towered within, gigantic statues leering down at the warriors as they surged through the gateway.
The roars were deafening. There had been a time when Josten would be roaring right along with them, but now he had to think. Finding Livia was all that mattered.
The vanguard funnelled through the open gate and Josten was swept along. He lost sight of Silver ahead of him and soon the sound of screaming was joined by that of clashing steel.
As he reached the opening the press of armoured men became a crushing throng. Josten could barely breathe, but he kept his legs moving, fighting to keep his head above the mob lest he fall and be trampled to death.
Through the gate, the press of men spread wide to fill the courtyard. He kept moving, no time to feel any relief as he almost lost his footing, stumbling over corpses, desperate to stay on his feet.
In the courtyard the scene was of carnage. The chaos of battle hit Josten like a wave, almost drowning him with its intensity. Memories came flooding back of a dozen times he had faced similar horror; but it had never been like this. Where previously men had screamed in anger and fear, now there was frenzy and zeal. Bloodied and battered warriors fought with insane smiles, grinning maniacally as their limbs were hacked off or they were battered to the ground under a tumult of blows.
Josten found himself watching in awe at the barbarism, at the insanity of it all, before he was brought into sharp focus by someone screaming in his right ear. He dodged as a bone-armoured warrior fell down dead beside him, his face cleaved open, but the teeth still gnashing in a rictus grin. Another warrior surged past, yelling for vengeance, gladly throwing himself into the fray.
From out of the press ahead a masked cultist came at him, sword raised. Josten had time to lift his shield before the blade could cleave his head in two. The impact jarred his arm and he staggered back, losing his footing on a corpse and sprawling backwards. The cultist bore down on him, silently, efficiently. Not a move was laboured as he raised the blade again.
Josten could only watch. All he had done, his valiant journey, had come to this – to die at the hands of a madman in this damned place.
Randal cut in, his sword coming down hard, slicing the cultist’s arm off at the elbow. The warrior had a chance to regard it curiously before Randal dug the blade into his neck. Blood sprayed black in the half-light as the mad eyes dulled and the warrior fell, another corpse on the pile.
Josten could only sit there on his arse watching. Randal watched too, unable to quite believe what he’d done, before turning to Josten and offering his hand.
Reluctantly Josten took it and allowed Randal to pull him to his feet. The battle still raged around them and Josten looked about for any sign of where Livia might be.
‘Does this mean you owe me?’ asked Randal, as Josten spied movement atop the vast pyramid that lay in the centre of the courtyard.
‘We’ll see,’ he replied, moving towards the huge monument.
There’d be time to pay debts later.
For now, he had to find Livia.
52
HOT wind whipped the summit of the ziggurat. The monument rose from the centre of Kessel’s vast courtyard and Livia could only watch from it as the two armies battled below, butchering one another now the gate had fallen.
She had seen battle in her dreams. Demonic beasts and winged seraphs slaying one another under dark skies, but it had been nothing like this. These men were real, human, and their death cries were haunting. In her dreams, she had fed on the violence, yearned for it. Now it filled her with disgust.
The Blood Regent sat on an onyx throne. He watched proceedings with a gleeful look in his eye and for the first time he seemed like the child he was, delighting at a circus spectacle.
To the left of the throne stood Dantar, hand at the hilt of his sword, face expressionless as ever. On the opposite side was Kaleb, now dressed in black, a fine sword at his hip. He was far from the broken cripple she had first met, but a man born again. Just like Dantar, he stood proudly, but every time Livia caught his eye he looked away as though ashamed.
‘Do you see?’ said the Regent, his lips slick where he’d licked them in hu
nger. ‘The slaughter! All for you, Livia Harrow. They die for you.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for this.’
‘No, you didn’t. But the immortal inside you lusts for it. Surely you can feel it within, writhing for release?’
Livia laid a hand to her belly, but there was nothing malevolent in her gut. It was her head that felt the rush. She knew the violence was feeding something deep in her soul. Her disgust was turning to something different entirely… hunger… desire.
‘No,’ she gasped, fighting the feeling. ‘I don’t want this.’
‘You have no idea what you want,’ said the boy. ‘But the one that waits inside you does.’
‘There is nothing inside me,’ she cried. ‘I am Livia Harrow. I am Livia Harrow from…’
But she had forgotten. She could not remember that small detail. It seemed so far away. Insignificant.
‘Your past is meaningless,’ said the boy. ‘It is not who you are. There is greatness inside you. Let it out. Let it win. Give in to it.’
‘Never!’ she turned on him, hands twisted in rage. All she wanted to do was scratch the little wretch’s eyes out. To claw his hair from his head. To sink her teeth into…
‘You see,’ he said, smiling up at her. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it? It feels right.’
‘I am Livia Harrow,’ she said quietly, trying as hard to convince herself as the evil little shit in front of her.
She looked down at her hands, still curled into claws, but now they no longer belonged to her. It was as though she were looking from behind someone else’s eyes. As though she were an imposter in her own body.
Wings spread, bearing her aloft on scented air – a rich perfume that tasted of victory. This body was hers. She owned it as she would soon own this land and all the mortals that dwelt within. It could be hers if only she would accept it. Taste the blood of the kill. Consume her victory in a crimson flood.
‘Enough!’ Livia opened her eyes to see Kaleb standing before her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should never have brought you here. But you must fight this. You are still Livia Harrow. You can win.’
Before she could answer, the boy pushed himself up from the onyx throne.
‘Dantar,’ he cried angrily, as though Kaleb were ruining his sport. ‘Kill your brother.’
‘No!’ Livia cried, but two of the Bloodguard had already seized her, pulling her aside.
Kaleb’s blade rang from its scabbard as Dantar slowly drew his. Livia struggled in the arms of the warriors but she was held fast. Both Kaleb and Dantar seemed more resigned to the fight than determined to win it. They were like slaves forced to fight for the sport of their master. Both reluctant. But fight they must.
Kaleb give an almost imperceptible nod, which Dantar duly returned.
Then the men went at each other faster than she could comprehend. Their blades flashed twice, ringing loud above the sound of battle below. Kaleb darted past Dantar, blade sweeping down in a final flourish. Then both fighters came to rest, statues locked in a fighting stance.
Livia gasped as the blade dropped from Kaleb’s grip. She cried out as he fell, but the sound was lost on the hot air. Dantar moved to his brother’s side, catching him before he could hit the ground. As the warrior cradled his brother, Kaleb stared up, whispering something she couldn’t hear.
Rage. A crimson rage, burning from her core. A fire that could no longer be quelled.
Livia gripped the arm of one of the Bloodguard, steel fingers crushing flesh and sinew. He cried out as she flung him aside. The second she took by the throat, raising him high before throwing him over the side of the ziggurat.
The Blood Regent smiled at her from his onyx throne. Even as she bore down on him she could tell it was a smile of victory. The boy closed his eyes as she reached forward, grasping his head in one hooked hand and lifting him from where he sat.
A voice inside her cried out in triumph. It was a voice she had kept chastened for so long. Too long.
The boy’s neck cracked as Livia wrenched it to one side with inhuman strength. Her mouth opened and she bit down on his throat. The first taste of his lifeblood was luscious, as though she had been starved of it for decades.
Then the light hit her.
It was as though she could see her own body, as though she were witnessing her actions from several feet away. Livia could only watch as she dropped the child like a half-eaten hunk of meat, mouth dripping red. Her eyes were black now, solid pools of night. From the roots, her hair began to change, the colour draining, white strands creeping over the black.
Through the eyes of a stranger, she saw herself. She was Livia Harrow no more. Now she knew what had consumed her. What had infected her like a disease. A larva growing inside her, thick and rotten, now bursting forth like the darkest butterfly…
* * *
They were at the summit of the Blue Tower. Innellan, Armadon, Siff.
Innellan could not take her eyes from the Heartstone. So much had brought her to this moment. So many years of planning. Of dealing and scheming. Now everything was coming to fruition.
The Heartstone had been all but restored. It sat on a giant plinth in the centre of the tower’s summit, its surface playing with both light and shadow, each facet of it reflecting a different hue. It showed every scratch and imperfection, but aesthetics were not Innellan’s concern. She only cared whether the stone still functioned. Whether she could walk through it to another world. Whether she would rule as the goddess she was.
Siff held out a hand toward the Heartstone. The air grew thick as though the burgeoning clouds outside were growing heavy.
‘Durius has not fled,’ Siff said. ‘He has not gone through.’
‘And the gate?’ Innellan asked. ‘Is it repaired?’
‘It is imperfect,’ breathed Siff, clearly distressed that the stone had been wrought anew. ‘But it could still provide a pathway. We must destroy it. Armadon. Smash this thing to pieces.’
When Armadon did not move, Siff turned to face her fellow Archons.
‘Sweet Siff,’ Innellan said with a smile. ‘Gentle, caring, gullible idiot that you are.’
Siff shook her head. ‘What have you done, Innellan?’ she said, panic rising in her voice.
Innellan walked forward, staring into the Heartstone, feeling its burgeoning strength. ‘What have I done? I have restored our power. I have forged the Heartstone anew. Now we can cross into the mortal realm once more. Now we can rule as we once did. Feel the power we used to hold in both worlds, not just this broken land.’
‘But Durius…’
Innellan laughed at her sister’s stupidity. ‘You think Durius had a hand in this? He was the one who tried to stop me. Why do you think you were brought into this? Your desire to keep the Heartstone forbidden was just what I needed to defeat him. He was the last thing standing in my way. And you helped move him from my path. I did this, Siff. I have restored the source of our power. Now nothing can stop us.’
‘No.’ Siff’s voice was filling with rage. ‘You have damned us. You have condemned us to centuries of endless war.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, sister. This is what we were created for. Things are now as they should be. Now and forever.’
‘I won’t let you—’
‘And how will you stop me?’ Innellan moved towards the Heartstone. ‘Do you think I have not prepared for this day? Even before the Heartstone was fully restored it allowed me to commune with the mortal realm. A sacrifice has already been prepared, for both me and Armadon. Can you not feel them? Can you not sense their devotion? My acolytes are ready to accept us. The sacrifices ready to host our bodies. To give us form in another world. All we have to do is pass through.’
‘No,’ said Siff again. ‘I will not let you.’ She stood barring the way, her spear held defensively.
Innellan could only admire her sister’s single-minded devotion to keeping the Heartstone from them. She looked at Armadon.
‘Kill her,’ she said.
Armadon hefted his huge blade, the only thing he took any degree of pride in, and stomped toward Siff. She was tiny next to that huge frame, and Innellan licked her lower lip in anticipation of the slaughter. But her sister was quick. No fragile flower was Siff.
As Armadon’s blade swept down to cleave her in two, Siff span, her spear twirling. It skewered Armadon’s thick, meaty thigh as his blade came down, shattering the tiled floor. He gave a howl, grasping the spear shaft and wrenching it free of his thigh and Siff’s grasp.
Before he could attack again Siff leapt at him, hands outstretched, nails set to rake his face. Armadon took a step backwards, wounded leg giving way on the blood-strewn floor. As Siff’s hands closed about his face they both toppled back, falling against the Heartstone.
Innellan could only watch in horror as the power of the stone consumed them both, swallowing the Archons as though they had been cast into the sea.
She was left alone.
Her howl consumed the tower, the thunder outside rumbling in sympathy at her defeated plans.
Lightning flashed as Innellan rushed to the Heartstone. She could sense the waiting sacrifices; feel Siff and Armadon consuming their bodies on the other side of the portal. Slowly she realised that no one was waiting for her in the mortal plane. There was no longer a host for her to dominate.
Innellan resisted the temptation to cross over regardless. If she were to enter the mortal realm with no willing vessel prepared for her she might be consumed by a dominant mortal mind. It might be centuries before she had the power to overcome the host and by then her rival Archons might have built empires of their own.
She closed her eyes, hand straying toward the Heartstone, palm facing the glimmering facets. Power oozed from the stone, faint but still tangible. There was still worship there, despite the fact the Archons had been cut off from their source of power for a century. The mortals still believed. She just had to find one worthy.
Her mind reached out, probing forth into the mortal realm, scouring the lands for a suitable host. She needed a mortal of strength, of pedigree, but also vulnerable enough to be manipulated. Young, malleable, yet with the strength of a warlord in the blood…