by Tom Lloyd
Styrax backed up and charged again, and this time he felt the stones buckle under the pressure. A third blow, and a section of the wall toppled down onto the soldiers behind it. For good measure Styrax kicked the doorframe again, sending another cascade of stones onto the Arothans outside. For a moment all he could see was the dust of the fallen building, then the screaming began as the Menin soldiers surged forward.
Behind them charged the minotaurs, shoving aside the Menin infantry in their eagerness to get at the enemy. They leapt nimbly over rubble and bodies alike, and the line of defenders buckled, then collapsed, brutally ravaged by the minotaurs. Styrax left them to it and headed out the back of the Tollhouse, following the stream of Chetse troops still piling through the broken doorway.
He emerged into a sea of enemy soldiers, the bulk of whom were formed up behind a line of archers. The berserker Chetse charged straight for the bowmen, who managed to take out a few before breaking ranks and running for their lives.
A squad of soldiers charged Styrax, their pikes levelled, and he dodged to one side to avoid them, deflecting the last with his sword. They had no chance to reform as he pushed on past the long weapons and into the tight squad, cutting around him with superhuman speed. Only two men survived his blistering assault, but they backed into an advancing minotaur, who clubbed one and gored the other, tossing him high in the air before he fell, broken, upon the ground.
More Arothan soldiers ran for Styrax, who found himself parrying three, then four desperate men. One black-clad soldier armed with two axes came in on his left, turning into Styrax’s sword as it came up to stop his axe, bringing his other axe around to catch Styrax’s arm in the next movement - and the manoeuvre would have worked, had Kobra not pushed back the guarding axe and shorn through the shaft. The red-black blade carried on forward, chopping through arm and into his ribs.
Styrax saw the soldier’s mouth fall open in wordless agony as he hung there for a moment, the fanged weapon snagged on his shoulder, his body torn open and his life’s blood flooding out. Their eyes met, and the soldier’s jaw worked for a moment, as though he was trying to give Styrax a message with his last breath.
No words came, and the soldier’s eyes fluttered as death took him.
Styrax tugged his sword from the corpse.
Behind him the Chetse reserves surged on, widening the breach in the wall and reducing what was left of the defensive line to mangled bodies and shattered bone.
‘No quarter!’ Styrax roared as he threw himself forward with his Bloodsworn bodyguard, following in the wake of the crazed minotaurs. More troops joined them, both Chetse and Menin, breathlessly stampeding into the belly of the enemy.
‘Raze the city to the ground - kill them all!’ cried the Lord of the Menin, and the soldiers heard the savagery in their lord’s voice and watched as Styrax threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon, memories of Kohrad’s death filling his mind as he waded through the collapsed city defences. They hurtled further into the city, killing everyone, and setting light to the buildings before they’d even finished the slaughter.
Even before evening drew in, the sky was so dark with smoke that it seemed Tsatach himself, refusing to witness such horror, had turned his fiery eye away from the Land. The rain fell like tears, washing a river of blood from what had once been Aroth into the two lakes.
CHAPTER 30
Mihn ran his fingers up the back of Hulf’s neck, digging into the grey-black fur to scratch the dog’s skin underneath. The oversized puppy arched its neck appreciatively and licked at Mihn’s wrists, and shuffled forward to press its chest against him. Hulf was already bigger than an average dog now, and his shoulders were developing real muscles, but he was still growing into his body, and Mihn reckoned he had a way to go before he had reached his full size.
He turned closer into Mihn, demanding the attention continue, and lifting one huge furry paw up onto Mihn’s thigh. Before Mihn could move, Hulf caught sight of Isak leaving the cottage and bounded forward with a bark, shoving Mihn aside. He turned to watch the exuberant dog charge into Isak and slam both paws into the white-eye’s midriff. It took Isak a moment longer to react than anyone else might have, but once his mind caught up with events a crooked, distant smile crossed his face.
‘It’s a good sign, that,’ Morghien called from the lake shore, where he was fishing.
‘Why do you say that?’
He pointed at Hulf. ‘Dogs have a fine sense for the unnatural. However you brought him back, he’s here now, and with no stink of the Dark Place about him.’
‘Hulf doesn’t smell it,’ Isak said, looking up at him, ‘but I do.’
‘What, the Dark Place?’
The white-eye nodded sadly. ‘On the air, in the fire: a song on the wind.’
‘It is a memory,’ Mihn said firmly. ‘You are here, you are alive - and the Dark Place has no claim on you.’
‘But there I walk,’ Isak said, ‘one foot within, one without, unbound and unchained, but yet the chains mark me still.’
Accompanied by the leaping, fawning dog, Isak joined Mihn and sat. Hulf wedged himself between them for a restless minute before he bounded up again and headed off to make a nuisance of himself with Morghien’s feathered fishing lure.
‘Do the scars still hurt?’ Mihn asked as they watched Morghien playing with Hulf, sending him chasing after the lure with practised flicks of his rod.
‘Without the pain, what would I be?’ Isak replied, his eyes on the far shore.
‘Still yourself, always yourself.’
He turned to look Mihn direct in the face. ‘And what’s that?’
‘A man, blessed and cursed equally,’ Mihn said eventually. Isak had taken to asking questions that Mihn had no real answer for - questions he doubted anyone but the Gods could manage.
‘Blessed? No,’ Isak whispered, pulling his robe tighter around his body as though to hide the scars on his chest and neck. ‘No blessings in the grave, and no curses either, not any more.’
‘So you are just you, then, free of everything that was heaped upon you — the conflicting destinies, the prophecies and expectations, exactly as you intended when you faced Lord Styrax. You are free of obligation now.’
‘All that’s left is me, all of me I have left,’ Isak said, watching Hulf struggle through the water. The ripples raced towards them and although they were a yard or more short of the edge, Isak still drew back his legs protectively. ‘Ripples through the Land, change and consequence unbound — ’
Hulf paddled his way to shore and raced past them, barking furiously at the figures emerging from the forest path, leading a pair of horses. One moved ahead of the others, obviously unafraid of Hulf’s bluster, and Mihn recognised Major Jachen, returning as ordered.
‘Major,’ Mihn called, hurrying over, ‘did you — ?’
But he didn’t bother finishing the sentence as he recognised two of the people following Jachen: the King’s Man, Doranei, looking distinctly puzzled, the other - while Mihn hadn’t actually met her, he could hardly mistake Legana’s piercing emerald eyes, even at that distance. They were as conspicuous as the shadowy handprint at her throat and the seams of copper in her hair. The Mortal-Aspect of a dead Goddess stood awkwardly, using a long oak staff for support. She and Doranei were dressed much alike, in green tunic and breeches, but still her presence screamed for attention.
She cocked her head at him. As they had left the shadow of the trees she had screwed up her eyes against the afternoon sun. As Hulf, finished with the major, edged forward to sniff at her, Legana recoiled at the unexpected movement, and she had a knife in her hand before she caught herself. She tucked it back into her sleeve and hesitantly held her hand out towards the dog, who sniffed again and retreated with his head low, obviously unnerved by her scent. A slight smile appeared on her lips.
‘Welcome, both of you,’ Mihn said.
Doranei looked wary, and older than when Mihn had last seen him. King Emin’s agent look distinctly drained, ragged a
round the edges.
And for that we call you brother, Mihn thought as they grasped each other’s forearm in greeting. Doranei’s grip at least was a strong as ever, Mihn was glad to discover.
‘Good to see you again,’ Doranei said, unable to stop himself peering over Mihn’s shoulder at Isak. Mihn turned briefly; the white-eye had not moved from his position, or given any sign that he knew someone had arrived.
‘And you,’ Mihn said warmly, ‘as they say in Ter Nol, “Too much has come to pass since last we met”.’
Doranei scowled. ‘Too damn much, aye.’ He released his grip as Morghien arrived and embraced him.
‘Brother,’ Morghien, ‘how fares the king?’
‘As well as can be expected, but the strain’s taking a toll on us all and . . . well.’ He rolled up his sleeve and showed his arm to Morghien. ‘Beyn was in Aroth. He used the wyvern claws to send me an’ Coran this message two days ago.’
Mihn turned his head to read the three words in the Narkang dialect, now scabbed over: We are lost. ‘So Aroth has fallen.’
The King’s Man nodded and looked away. ‘No more word after this. Beyn didn’t respond to my reply. That’s another Brother dead.’
A moment of silence descended before Hulf whimpered and pressed against Mihn’s legs. When he looked, he saw Legana had advanced a few steps. Her face was unreadable, not unexpected, he thought, of one so profoundly touched by the Gods. Mihn realised she was looking past him, but he couldn’t see anything himself.
Grimacing in the light, even with the sun covered by cloud, Legana walked clumsily for a few moments, leaning heavily on her staff, until she got into her stride. Her face set, she ignored the three men.
‘So it’s true then?’ Doranei asked, his voice a half-whisper.
‘The message?’ Mihn replied, still watching the Mortal-Aspect, ‘it is true.’
‘How?’ He sounded incredulous.
Morghien snorted. ‘Which part? The resurrection, or the fact he reckons he’ll get lucky second time around.’
Mihn shot the cantankerous old man a warning look. ‘No more of those comments; they try my patience.’
‘Hah! Well, meself? I’m fresh out o’ blind faith,’ Morghien growled. ‘Alive he may be; sane? That I ain’t so sure about. You want to trust the future of us all to a man driven at least half-mad by his own foolish schemes?’
‘Isak was bound by prophecy and destiny,’ Mihn said, turning to face Morghien. He was not quite squaring up to the man, but he’d moved close enough to make his point. ‘Kastan Styrax was born to kill the Last King, and that fate also bound Isak. But you know perfectly well no obligation nor tie can follow a man beyond the grave. And that means that now there is no link between the two, no predetermination of the outcome of a second meeting. The slate is blank.’
Doranei sucked his teeth. ‘Gotta say, there’s nothing binding me to Lord Styrax’s destiny either, and I ain’t keen to cross swords with the man any time soon.’
‘The message said nothing about fighting the man, only defeating him.’
‘But he won’t say how, and that’s what bugs me,’ Morghien continued stubbornly.
‘That does not interest me.’ Mihn turned away to watch as Legana at last caught sight of Isak. ‘He is most certainly damaged, broken, both as a warrior and as a lord, but he has seen what lies behind the veil of this Land.’
‘Death’s halls? He’s not alone in that, I’d bet the witch has too.’
‘More than that,’ Mihn said, ‘the fabric of the Land, the subtle balance of all things - Gods, men, even daemons. He was blessed by the Gods, not to be the greatest of warriors, but in a way both more delicate and more profound. You’ve seen the results of what he can do unwittingly already.’
‘You mean the Reapers? Can’t argue there, I suppose,’ Morghien said gruffly. ‘Severing an Aspect’s link to Death wasn’t something I thought possible.’
Mihn dipped his head. ‘My point exactly. The minstrel’s magic opened the door, but it was Isak’s hand that performed the impossible in Scree. Intentionally or not, he summoned Death’s Herald and tore the Reapers from Lord Death’s grasp. Even more telling, perhaps, is the fact it was unintentional - the Land is his to command in a way no mage of Narkang could claim. Even before Scree he had defeated Aryn Bwr and chained him in his own mind - a feat only Gods had previously managed, and all this achieved by an untutored youth barely a year after his Choosing.’
‘Somethin’ I had a hand in,’ Morghien pointed out.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Mihn agreed, ‘you gave him the tools - but he acted alone. The Gods made Styrax the great champion, the unbeatable warrior, and then he rejected them - though they have come to realised how disastrous their direct manipulation was, it is too late to undo that. Isak was never intended to be the equal of Styrax; he was not created to be a great general. If anything, they intended him to be a fulcrum, a point on which history could turn, so that Styrax’s power alone would not determine the future.’
‘Whatever was intended, it got twisted awry,’ Doranei interjected. ‘Azaer, the Last King, maybe others too - they all tried to get a hand in, and they sent the whole thing spinning off-course.’
‘So Isak was left with nothing?’
‘Well, no, not exactly nothing,’ the King’s Man admitted.
‘Consider what he has already done, even bound by all these efforts to control and direct him. He is that fulcrum. He has become a catalyst of events, for good or for ill, intended or not.’
Morghien pursed his lips. ‘You sayin’ that scarred wreck of a man can remake the Land as he sees fit? He can determine the course of history because it’s him making the decisions?’
Mihn looked at Isak, then said to them both, ‘I am saying Isak has already done many remarkable things. I am saying his mind is a tool as much as his body, and it has been forged in the fires of Ghenna. To unpick and reshape the works of Gods and emperors requires an understanding of the very fabric of the Land such as mortal minds could never grasp. We were never intended for that. What you see as madness might instead be Isak discovering a part of him more akin to the immortal mind.’
The three were silent as they watched Legana catch Isak’s attention and eventually down sit beside him.
Then Doranei spoke, his voice a rasp. ‘Or it could be he’s just fucking mad and we’re all screwed.’
Mihn nodded. ‘True.’
— Do you remember me?
Isak looked up at Legana’s face. There was no recognition in his eyes, but eventually he nodded. ‘We are both broken,’ he said, returning his attention to the surface of the lake. ‘All twisted and broken.’
She looked at his face side-on. The lines of his head were unnatural, reminding her of a copper bowl battered by years of careless use. White-eyes could heal remarkably quickly, and often with barely a trace of the original injury, but Isak’s head bore the record of the abuse inflicted upon him.
Scars ran up his cheek from jaw to hair-line. The curve of his earlobe was frayed, like the wing of a dead butterfly. A furrow ran down the ear that looked remarkably like a massive claw had raked it. The furrow petered out where it reached the clear indentations of a massive chain pulled tight around his throat, each link looking like it had been burned into the skin with acid.
The extent of the damage shocked her, and she was reminded of the battle between the Lady and Aracnan. Her last memory of her Goddess had been one of agony, both personal, and that radiating out from the Lady as the power of a Crystal Skull burned through her divine form.
— Not completely broken she wrote. She held the slate in front of Isak’s face, but he said nothing.
— Mihn sent a message to King Emin. About Lord Styrax.
Isak shrank back from the name in front of him, drawing his hands protectively up to his chest until Legana pulled the slate away. Eventually he took a deep breath and turned to look at her again, and this time Legana saw a spark in his eyes, the return of something human that
was hiding behind the damaged remnants of his mind.
‘There are holes in my mind,’ Isak said. ‘I will never be remade - not even the Gods have such strength.’
— What do you see in those holes?
‘Shadows,’ Isak said, with a lopsided attempt at a smile that would have terrified children and unnerved the mortal Legana . . . but it was pity that filled her heart now. ‘I see shadows where once there were memories, the parts of me I’ve lost.’
Legana looked at him, and Isak reached out a hand to awkwardly pat hers; he had two fingernails missing and not one finger followed the natural line. A man’s touch had always made her skin crawl, sparked a flutter of panic in her heart. It had taken her years to learn how to keep such reactions in check, even with her unyielding strength of mind . . . but Isak was as a child.
She took his hand and held it between her own, feeling him tremble slightly as he spoke.
‘These holes are the only weapons I have.’ He raised his other hand and Legana flinched as she realised he held Eolis in it. ‘This I have no use for, I’m just waiting for someone to need it.’
Legana let Isak go and wrote - Will holes be enough?
‘Perhaps,’ Isak replied, enigmatically, ‘but no. There will still be sacrifices. How it may be done I don’t know.’
— I don’t understand.
Isak stood, and looking down at Legana, said, ‘I know what will stop . . . him . . . but . . .’ He flexed his damaged fingers, as if reaching for a solution, then said sadly, ‘The pieces are not yet complete.’
— And Azaer? ‘How do you kill a shadow?’
— There are ways. There has to be.
Isak held up a bag that hung from his waist. ‘These are the key, hidden somewhere inside them.’ He opened the bag and showed Legana the object within, a Crystal Skull. It wasn’t one of those given to Isak by the Knights of the Temples, but the Skull of Dreams, the one fused to Xeliath’s skin until her death.
‘Look inside and find the answers. That’s what I was born to do: crack open skulls and expose what lies within. These were there at the beginning, when Aryn Bwr set out on the path of rebellion. They were old when he found them, they were old when the shadow led him to a barrow caught in twilight and twisted history. To understand this war I must understand them and their place in this Land. Until then, we are lost.’