by Tim Stead
Mott took a swipe at him, but Fane blocked it and stabbed the man in the shoulder. It was a wound that healed instantly, but it hurt. Mott kept backing away.
“He’ll kill me,” Mott said.
“What do you think I’m going to do?”
Mott attacked again, a clumsy hack at Fane’s hip. Fane cut his hand off and Mott screamed. Any wound heals instantly for a Farheim, but amputations take longer. Hands, arms and legs need time to grow back, a day or two for a leg, less for a hand. Leras had told him that.
He kicked Mott’s sword aside and stuck a blade through his thigh.
“I can do this all day,” he said. “Or I can kill you quickly. Either way you’re a dead man.”
Mott twisted free and tried to run. He made for the stairs, but Fane caught him by the collar and threw him back across the room. The thug fetched up against a table with a crash and struggled to regain his feet. Fane was on him at once, kicking him in the face, stabbing him in the back. Mott howled in pain.
“I don’t know,” Mott said. “I don’t know who he is.”
“You know something,” Fane said. “Tell me.”
“He killed everyone, everyone in Patterton. We was recruited by Lord Whitedale. He’s a boy, a fucking boy,” Mott screeched.
“Lord Whitedale killed everyone?”
“No, it was this other fella, the one wearing a hood. We didn’t see his face.”
“And Whitedale works for this other man?”
“I guess. Must do. I don’t know.”
“And you don’t know this other man’s name?”
“No. He never said, Whitedale don’t know either.”
Fane’s blade was hovering inches from Mott’s face. He twitched it and drew a drop of blood from the tip of Mott’s nose.
“How many of you are there?”
“There was twelve, twelve from Patterton, but there’ll be more. Whitedale said there’d be more.”
Fane believed him. He didn’t know Whitedale, but the man couldn’t be a major power. Someone was making Farheim, killing hundreds to do it and sending them against… who? Why attack Red Hill? He should tell Cain, but nobody but Fane could pass through the Farheim Gates and he was needed here.
Fane crossed his blades again and this time Mott’s head rolled from his shoulders. A better death than he deserved, perhaps, but Fane had things to do, and he had to think.
There was a sound, a whimper, so quiet that he almost didn’t believe it. He spun around, saw nothing.
“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”
A drop of blood fell, spattering on the stone floor. He looked again. One of the women was breathing. She was alive. For a moment Fane was frozen with indecision. What they had been through, their wounds, it might be kinder to kill her. Her family was dead and she’d be scarred for life.
But that was not who Fane was. He went into a side room and found blankets. He covered the three women, cut the ropes from their wrists and ankles and then ran down the three flights and out of the door. He went to the gate and opened it.
“Get a healer!” he shouted to his escort. “Quickly!” He signalled to Wenban to bring his men. One of the escort rode hard back towards the camp and Wenban came forwards with fifty men – those he’d chosen to garrison the place.
Fane waited for him.
“We’re not keeping this place,” he said when Wenban arrived. “I want it burned. Build pyres in the keep and by the gate, but don’t set a fire until I give the word.”
Wenban raised an eyebrow. “The defenders?”
“Dead,” Fane said. “Butchered. You’ll see.” He didn’t mention the Farheim. That would spread disquiet among the men. “One of the daughters is still alive – just,” he added.
“Who did it?” Wenban asked.
“Two of them were still here,” Fane said. “I killed them.”
The colonel was still curious, but he nodded and began to direct his men about their new tasks. Fane could see the rider coming back with the healer, so he waited a moment longer. The escort rider and the healer both dismounted and handed off their mounts.
“Upstairs,” Fane said, and led them up past the corpse on the stairs, through the butchery in the main hall, the troubling scenes in the room above until they got to the upper room.
The healer, Fane didn’t know his name, was clearly distressed by what he’d seen. His eyes were big and his hands shook.
“The girl,” Fane said. “Over there.”
“She’s alive?” The man seemed almost afraid to approach his patient.
“Do your job!” Fane said. That seemed to switch the man on. He went forwards and put an ear to her mouth, raised an eyelid. He began to unpack his bag, bringing out bandages and ointments. Fane looked away. He’d done what he could, but doubted that she’d thank him for it.
“Sir?”
Wenban was in the doorway, his eyes taking in the butchery.
“What?”
“Sir, I’ve looked at the bodies. They’re all Red Hill, sir. The men who killed them, there are none of their dead.”
“Apart from those two,” Fane said, and pointed, but he was pointing at nothing. The bodies of Kelso and Mott were gone. He stood for a moment trying to conjure an explanation. They’d been dead. Not even Farheim grew new heads. They hadn’t got up and run away, so the bodies had to have been taken, and taken by a god-mage – the one who made them. That meant that he’d known they were dead, and perhaps that he’d been somehow watching the whole thing.
“What two?” Wenban asked.
“Never mind,” Fane snapped. “Are the pyres ready?”
“Waiting for your word, General.”
Fane looked about again. This place was something he’d never forget. It rivalled the worst he’d seen in the homeland.
“Search the place,” he said. “Take anything of value – money, weapons, clothing that the men might use. I’ll want a strict accounting. Then burn the place. The army starts north today. We’re going to Raven Down.”
69 Resignation
Mordo sat in a chair in the cellar under his headquarters and stared at the wall. It was quiet. There was a single candle burning on the table beside him, but he didn’t need the light. His eyes were closed. A cup of wine sat next to the candle, but it was untouched.
He had dreamed of this day for years, ever since he’d known it was possible.
He’d been born poor, but with a good mind and clever hands. They counted for nothing. He’d watched stupid men with good blood pass him by again and again, rising to heights he could never scale, wielding power that he could never touch.
Until now.
Now he was somebody.
He opened his eyes and reached for the cup. He sipped the wine. It was a rough vintage, but it tasted so good. It was the moment, he supposed, the spirit of the moment that infused the rustic vintage with depth and flavour.
He stood.
In the corner of the room was a stone. It was a cube of the granite that had been used to build Falini’s walls. Mordo had no idea how it had found its way down here, but it was stained dark with what he assumed was human blood, so it had clearly served a purpose.
He walked over to the stone. How much did it weigh? A ton? Two? He couldn’t say, but an hour ago he had tried to lift it and it had seemed nailed to the floor. He couldn’t even push it an inch from its place.
He bent his knees and wrapped his arms around it. The thing was awkward. There was no easy way to grip it. He squeezed it tight and leaned back a little.
The stone shifted. For a moment it came free and slid towards him. He let go and fell back. That was disappointing, really. It was too heavy to lift, but he should have expected that. According to Pascha’s book only a quarter of the strength taken from the dead would be his, and he had managed to gather ten men for Gayne to kill for him. That meant he had added the might of two and a half men to his own. That was good, but not amazingly so. But he had gained speed, long life and the abilit
y to heal from wounds, to be free from illness.
He had other power, too. He had the power to take people off the street, to question them, to have them killed. This was a perfect building for it. He had no idea how long the Falinis had been doing that same thing here, but whoever had designed this building was a genius. A river ran beneath it, and Mordo had spent days trying to trace where it went. It certainly didn’t seem to connect with the main river that flowed through the city. He proven it by pouring yellow dye down into it and then walking the river to see if there was any trace. He’d seen nothing. He’d posted men to watch for it and tried again.
Eventually they’d found it, a daffodil bloom in the deeper end of the harbour. A perfect place to dispose of any inconvenient corpses. And now he had ten. Well, they would keep until morning.
He sipped his wine again and inspected the candle. It was half burned, which meant it was around midnight. He leaned back and closed his eyes once more.
A few minutes later he heard the faint squeal of the trapdoor being opened from above, then creaking steps and the door being closed again.
He waited.
Footsteps approached and paused just beyond the door. One of the cell doors opened. Mordo heard the hinges squeak. That was cell seven. He knew them all by their signature sounds.
The door closed again and the door to Mordo’s room opened. Mordo opened his eyes.
“You killed them all, then,” Eridani said. The assassin was standing in the doorway, filling it.
“That was always the plan,” Mordo replied.
Eridani scratched his head. “Then why not let me torture them?”
“For fun?” Mordo asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
Mordo shook his head. “You’re an idiot, Eridani.”
The assassin took a step forwards, but stopped, perhaps unwilling to jeopardise the easy money he was getting from Mordo. He was angry, though. Mordo could see it on his face, even by candlelight.
“I should explain,” Mordo said. He stood up and walked over to Eridani. He was a half head shorter and more lightly built. “It’s a matter of what you want, how far you can see. You see now, and you like it, but I see a different time, a future when I wield great power, when powerful men step out of my way in the street.”
“Fucking daydreams,” Eridani sneered.
“Not really, no. But it would be easier if I showed you.”
He reached out, his hand quick as a swallow, and seized the assassin by the neck. Eridani was surprised, but confidently reached up to prise Mordo’s fingers from his throat. But he couldn’t. He strained, his face colouring and his expression changing from anger to confusion and finally to fear. He was choking to death.
He drew a knife and stabbed Mordo in the side.
The pain was considerable, but Mordo had expected this. He threw Eridani to one side. Furniture broke under larger man’s bulk and Mordo pulled the knife free. The pain vanished. He flipped the knife – clever hands – and looked at his prey. Eridani was clambering to his feet, angry again, and rubbing his neck with his hands.
“You see?” Mordo said.
“I see you’re going to die, you fucker,” Eridani said. He drew another blade, a longer one this time, and stepped forwards. Mordo saw that he was favouring his left leg, but it hardly mattered. He stepped back and carefully took the candle and cup off the table, placing them on the floor. He picked up the table.
That make Eridani stop. The table weighed a good two hundred pounds and Mordo handled it like a chair,
“You see?” he asked again.
Eridani may have seen, finally, but Mordo would never know. The assassin charged him, fast and deadly. Mordo hit him with the table, bringing it over his head and hard down on his attacker.
The table broke, split right down the middle. Eridani went down and didn’t get up.
Mordo picked up his wine and took a sip. He walked over and pushed the assassin with a foot. The man’s head had changed shape, being unnaturally flat on top and it lolled on a broken neck. Dead.
“You just can’t teach some people,” he muttered. He could clean up in the morning. He took the candle, climbed up from the cellar and headed for home.
70 Unnatural
Wolf Narak sat at the very top of Golt Castle’s highest tower. The view from here was spectacular. He could see for miles to the west, fields and forests and more fields. It was a beautiful place. Even so he missed his own forest, the ancient trees, the thick, soft forest floor and the dimly dappled light. These young forests were different. They were still growing, striving for the light. In Narak’s forest that battle was long since over. Only when a great tree fell was it renewed, a sudden burst of bright green racing for the open sky.
His own forest was natural, untouched by men. He liked it that way. Oddly enough he did not miss Col Boran at all, though he did miss Pascha. She was still his anchor, his reason for being.
But Narak himself was far from natural. Since Kirrith had changed him he was growing increasingly, alarmingly different.
He reached out his hand and made to grasp a sword that wasn’t there. But it was. His fingers closed around the hilt of his dragon steel blade. A moment ago it had been in his room on the other side of the castle. Now it was in his hand. It had not flown here, not been attracted by some force. It simply appeared because he wanted it. That was magic, pure and simple, and it made Narak uncomfortable. His magic had always been bound to his wolves. He was strong and fast, but everything else, all that had been taken from him by Pelion’s destruction of the Sirash, had been his wolves. He no longer saw through their eyes, no longer felt their presence or translocated with them. The absence of the Sirash had diminished him. He could still grant his favour, but that was it.
Now this.
He opened his hand and the blade vanished. He knew that if he made his way down to his room it would be there, waiting for him. It was almost as if the thing could read his mind, but this was not the only unexpected miracle of which he was now capable.
He walked to the northern edge and looked out. Here, too, the view was impressive. In the distance, about a mile away, stood a grey stone farmhouse. It nestled in a copse of ash trees, a defence against the prevailing wind.
Narak looked steadily at the building, concentrating, trying to keep his gaze centred on the house.
It jumped. The house leaped towards him. It was disorienting, but Narak knew that the house hadn’t moved and neither had he. Now he could see the smoke curling out of the chimney, the blue paint on the door. He kept staring, forcing himself to look closer. The house jumped again. Now it almost filled his vision. He could see the flowers in a bed under the window – marigolds. He could see that the path to the door was made of bricks, the gate of wrought iron, painted black.
He squinted. How close could he go? He’d tried before, but this time the house jumped again. He could see rust on the door hinges, a chip out of a brick next to the door. It was as though he was standing mere feet away.
He closed his eyes. For a moment he was dizzy, and when he opened them again the house was back in its place, a distant, grey blob.
It was unnatural. It was impossible, or so he would have said. But it happened. He didn’t understand why this was happening. Kirrith had changed him decades ago. Things had been different then. He’d somehow created the First Pack – wolves that could speak to his mind, wolves that thought like men – but that had been all. It had stopped after that. Now it seemed it was starting again. Narak was changing.
He was afraid, and he blamed Kirrith.
In the fight against Pomeroy’s men he’d felt something. At the time he’d dismissed it, thought it a mere illusion. It had seemed that sometimes he had not even touched the men he killed, as though the motion of his blade sent a wave of death before it, sweeping them aside. An illusion, of course. But what if it wasn’t? So many strange things were happening to him that he couldn’t be sure.
He heard footsteps on the flight up
to the tower and turned to see who it was. He was not surprised to see Prince Chillarin step out onto the roof. The young man had become something of a worshipper since Wester Beck. That, too, made Narak a little uncomfortable.
“Deus, you do not mind?”
Narak considered telling the boy to go away, but he relented.
“What is it, Prince Chillarin?”
“Do you have news, Deus? News of Bas Erinor?”
The prince, and the rest of Degoran’s court, knew that he was in touch with Pascha after what had happened at Wester Beck. They also knew that she watched the world. Even so, he was reluctant to tell Chillarin the news. It would cause problems. But could he lie? Could he refuse to answer? He didn’t really have the right. He would make his arguments to the king.
“Alwain has lifted the siege,” he said. “He marches west to quell the uprising there.”
Chillarin’s face lit up. “Wonderful news, Deus!”
“It is indeed,” Narak agreed.
“We should march at once,” the prince said. “I will tell the king.”
“There will be a council,” Narak said. “I will advise against it.”
Chillarin’s face fell. It was obvious that he wanted to fight, to be part of the glorious battle that ended Alwain’s rebellion. That was because, Narak assumed, he had never been in a battle. Nobody who had lost friends and allies, seen good men hacked apart, would want to be part of it. Narak preferred, these days, to fight alone. He could not be defeated and it risked nobody. But his oath to Pascha meant he could not face Alwain, he could only defend the king.
“But we must,” the prince said. “It is only fitting.”
“And if you die in the battle?”
“Then I die in a good cause.”
“Why not live for a better one? You are Avilian’s future lord. There is no other. If you die the succession is thrown open. If you and your father fall on the same field then there is no king. Avilian would fall into chaos. Better to let Alwain have it.”