by Tom Lloyd
‘Bloody sapphires. Damn minstrel gave us the Skull and took a book belonging to Vorizh Vukotic, that mad blood-sucking bastard hisself. An’ guess who’s gotta ask ’is sister what’s in it?’
‘What’s in it?’ Sebe echoed. ‘What’s worth giving up the Skull of Ruling for? We ain’t going to like the answer to that one, are we? Might piss off Zhia that we’re prying into family business too.’
‘More brandy, woman!’
CHAPTER 7
Though he was flanked by two squads of personal guards, Isak nevertheless found himself walking towards the massive ornate gates with his shoulders hunched. The Temple of Law was based around an enormous central hallway, almost a rival to the white marble halls of Isak’s dreams, only this was teeming with life. Light filled the hall from mullioned glass windows of white and yellow, two full storeys high.
Three massive doors, peaked like the hall’s main gates but without the swirling lattice of ironwork, led to courtrooms on the left, while the right wall was studded with small doorways and corridors that stretched out into a rabbit-warren of offices. Cautious faces poked out from those doorways and watched from the main stairway, and the clank of advancing armour was unable to drown out the whisper of voices and the scurry of footsteps on the marble stair.
The largest and grandest courtroom was at the furthest end of the blue-tiled hallway, opposite the main staircase and the entrance to the cells. Isak swept down the corridor like a surging tidal wave while Major Jachen, the commander of his personal guard, led an assorted party without dragon livery in his wake. The soldiers were dressed for battle, save for their helms, as tradition dictated, and each man carried a short-handled glaive, ready to swing into action at the first movement towards them. They looked threatening, and even onlookers standing well clear found themselves trying to shrink further back from them.
Flags lined the hallway: the red fox’s head of Alav, Goddess of Justice, alternated with the blue snake of Nartis and Isak’s own crowned emerald dragon. A crisp breeze rushed in through the open gate to greet them, gathering up the goldentasselled flags and lifting them high. Isak felt the wind on his face and scowled as it carried the voices of the crowd in Irienn Square to him. The people had been gathering since dawn and the square was already packed when he arrived for the opening formalities of Duke Certinse’s trial: the swell of flushed and furious faces had been a stark contrast to the pale young man who’d knelt in the black square at the centre of the courtroom.
Behind a line of black-and-white-liveried Palace Guard raged a mob of clerics of all colours, intermingled with the whole range of Tirah’s assorted citizenry. Foremost among them all were the scarlet-edged robes worn by the Cardinal branch of the cult of Nartis, men and women of all ages and ranks. Three full cardinals were in attendance, each accompanied by a squad of liveried soldiers and three times as many novices in blue, all carrying cudgels.
Those of the Temple of Death had gone a step further - alongside the assembled priests was at least a company of grey-robed men, the novices of Death’s cult. Few of the novices of Nartis were more than eighteen summers old, however, and this group were considerably older - to Isak’s eyes they looked remarkably like foreign mercenaries. He didn’t bother to count; there would be exactly fifty-one of them: a company of five squads and one man to lead them.
The threat was unspoken, but clearly understood. The priests were showing their hand: they had their militia already recruited, and they were daring him to become embroiled in a power-struggle at a time when he had so publicly announced the need for unity.
‘They underestimate you. The fever they have caught from their Gods makes them foolish.’ The voice was scathing.
For once, Isak had to agree with Aryn Bwr. If he had been thinking clearly, not even Cardinal Certinse would have had the arrogance to think he could face down the Lord of the Farlan and win - but therein lay the problem. They were not thinking clearly, and this was indeed a conflict he could ill afford.
‘Send your shadow to Certinse,’ the last king whispered in a moment of clarity. Isak tensed for a moment, until he realised Aryn Bwr only meant Mihn. ‘Have him slip into the cardinal’s palace one night, and tell him that the first death in such a war will be his own. He has distanced himself from his own family to save his position, so offer him the chance to keep all he is desperate to hold onto, if only he quietens the voices of his brethren.’
‘Right now I’ll be happy if we get out of the square without having to kill anyone,’ Isak muttered, too softly for anyone else to make out, but Major Jachen still caught the sound of his voice.
‘Sir ?’
‘Nothing, Jachen,’ Isak said with a dismissive wave. ‘Just make sure your men keep calm out there.’
‘They won’t start swinging, my Lord, I can assure you of that - Sir Cerse has three Swordmasters out there with him to keep an eye on the guardsmen.’
‘Good. I think we’re outnumbered.’
‘Not badly, my Lord,’ Count Vesna said with forced cheer, ‘and the Ghosts have faced worse on the battlefield - and let us not forget we’ve got a second regiment inside this building and a third covering all the surrounding streets. If they do start anything, it’ll be us ending it - and you won’t even have to touch your blade.’
Isak turned to look at his friend, resplendent in his black silks and full-length coat adorned with gold braid. His long black hair was oiled and immaculately plaited, affording a glimpse of the knighthood tattoos he was so proud of. As well as his golden earrings of rank, Vesna wore a golden lion’s head at his throat, an echo of the one on his armour, right down to the ruby in its eye.
Though the famed soldier was still in prime condition - Isak had seen him fight in Scree - he knew the count was feeling his mortality these days. Vesna looked older than when they’d first met, and his familiar roguish grin was occasionally edged with fatigue.
I hope your wedding will change that look, my friend. I don’t need an old warhorse; I need a general I can depend upon, Isak thought a little sadly.
‘It’s a beautiful day, Vesna; let’s hope none of us have to touch our blades.’
The weak winter sun was already halfway behind the buildings in the east, but still it cast a pale luminescence over the white tiles of Cold Halls opposite. The Ghosts had cordoned off a square at the entrance to the Temple of Law and were holding back a crowd that appeared as fractious as when Isak had entered two hours previously. Sir Cerse, Colonel of the Palace Guard, saluted Isak from his position just within the cordoned-off area and barked an order to his men as the Lord of the Farlan walked down the two steps to the square.
The lines of Ghosts pushed into the crowds to drive a wedge through it for Isak to walk behind, but the cheering townsfolk behind the priesthood parted easily and there was no need for the extra weight. Isak was conscious of the protective ring of black-iron glaives surrounding him as he ignored the shouts ringing out from both sides.
After twenty yards Isak, towering over all his companions, spotted two figures walking onto the square from Hunter’s Ride, heading straight for him: a man and a woman; the woman was hooded and anonymous while the man wore a hurscal’s livery. Isak paused. Red and white checks. The colours stirred a memory, but it took him a moment to place them.
Tildek, seat of the Certinse family.
‘Vesna, that’s a Tildek hurscal coming towards us,’ he said.
Even before he’d finished speaking the count had slipped past his lord, his hand closing around the grip of his sword. Even if the man was simply looking to make a statement, they didn’t want Isak involved.
‘Lord Isak!’ the hurscal shouted, marching ahead of his companion. Vesna too increased his speed.
Isak looked around; Jachen was ignoring the hurscal and instead scanning the crowds behind them in case this was a feint. Returning his attention to Vesna, Isak was just in time to see the man stop and fall to his knees. Vesna closed the gap as quickly as he could, but he wasn’t in time to shut
the man up.
‘Lord Isak, you shame the tribe and Nartis!’ the man called. He was young, not many years older than Isak. He had bushy eyebrows and a diagonal scar crossing his mouth where his broken front teeth were visible.
Isak could see the fervour in the man’s eyes as he pulled a dagger from his belt and held it up for a moment before reversing it and driving it into his own chest. A collective gasp ran around the onlookers as a flash of pain crossed the man’s face. Isak saw him sway, his hands still wrapped around the hilt of the dagger.
The hurscal’s mouth fell open and his eyes closed, but he jerked the knife out again with a breathless gasp of agony. A jet of scarlet followed it and spurted out across the paving stones at Count Vesna’s feet, stopping him in his tracks. Isak felt the Land freeze around him as everyone turned to watch the hurscal. Unbidden came a memory from his year of learning swordsmanship from Carel: a moment is all a soldier can ask for.
He opened his mouth to shout, but before he could voice his warning, the hurscal’s companion had raised something up above her head and hurled it down at the dying man’s feet. Isak heard it shatter on the stones. Liquid sprayed in all directions as shards of glass flew across the ground and scores of tiny black objects bounced madly about. A dark-red liquid spilled over the pale stones and a bitter taste filled Isak’s mouth. For a moment he thought he tasted blood, but then the flavour turned as dry and acrid as ash. The cool air turned frosty as the hurscal pitched forward and started convulsing.
A black burst of magic filled the air as the woman backed away. Her hood had fallen back and he could see the horror on her face.
‘Vesna,’ he roared, finding his voice at last, ‘get back! Everyone, get back!’ The power in his voice broke the paralysis and people started to run from the scene.
He drew Eolis and felt a surge of magic run down the blade as the Crystal Skull set into it pulsed with energy. Ahead of him the hurscal gave another violent jerk. The dead man’s arms shot out, wrenched in an unnatural direction. Isak took a step back. A war-cry came from his left and Isak watched as one of his guards threw his glaive end-over-end—
—only to have the dead hurscal pluck it clean out of the air. The taste of ash increased in Isak’s mouth as he recognised the massive surge of magic swirling around the corpse.
The glaive fell to the ground as the dead hurscal’s fingers splayed wide. His hands and arms distended grossly and split open like overripe fruit as grey appendages burst through the skin. From inside each arm came an angular, chitinous limb that grew in a heartbeat to the length of a man. Sharp spurs at the end slammed down into the ground as the corpse’s legs erupted in similar fashion. The strange, spiky protrusions drove between the paving stones as if looking to find more secure purchase below. Slowly they flexed, and as they started to raise the torso up, it too began to swell horribly.
Screams rang out from the crowd behind, interspersed with shouts from Jachen and the Swordmasters.
As Vesna started forward, his sword raised, one limb lifted and darted out, like a probing spear, and the count, realising he didn’t have the reach to get past it, quickly retreated to Isak’s side.
‘My Lord,’ he called, not taking his eyes off the creature, ‘we must get you away from this daemon.’
Isak was transfixed in horrified fascination at what the dead hurscal was turning into. ‘And let that - whatever it is! - run amok?’ he retorted. ‘Don’t be stupid!’
‘This is a trap,’ Vesna yelled in reply, but whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a livid screeching sound which filled the air, like the voices of a thousand maddened insects.
The corpse’s torso twisted violently and a long-beaked head burst out in a shower of blood, followed quickly by a solid, blockish body slick with oily blood. Two multi-jointed limbs hung from what might have been shoulders, so long that the clawed fingers almost brushed the ground.
The daemon’s head moved and it looked around briefly before crouching a little so it could snatch up the thrown glaive. The weapon looked like a toy in its hands, especially compared with the lance-like tips of its legs that were longer than Isak was tall. The savage beak parted to reveal slender stiletto-like teeth. It had a dozen vertically-slit eyes running chaotically from the mid-point of its beak back onto its grey bristling head.
As Isak watched, he could see the randomly searching eyes suddenly moving as one and snapping into focus on him. The daemon tensed and its head flicked forward, as if seeking to discover what he was.
It can see my power, he realised, and it doesn’t know what to do. But I do.
He drew on his Crystal Skull and raised Eolis. Vesna gave a cry and staggered away as a blistering flare of crackling white flames surged about Isak’s body. He had given in to Tila’s urging and wore the cuirass of Siulents, his magical armour, in case of assassins - but he was painfully aware that the rest of his body was clothed only in linen and silk.
Make it hesitate, he thought, remembering Carel’s training, and he increased the flow of energy.
The daemon gave a piercing shriek in response. It moved one leg forward, as if to take a step, and Isak wrapped the lightning-storm of magic around Eolis’s blade and raised the sword. At the back of his mind he heard a cry, Aryn Bwr, shouting out in alarm, and in the next moment he felt a presence on either side of him, twin shadows amid the storm of light, and the torrent of magic flowing through him ebbed. As the shadows surged forward heading for the daemon, Isak, shocked into inaction, stopped dead and gaped, his thoughts as frozen as his body - but it was only for a moment.
The Land snapped back into focus.
The Reapers!
He could see only their backs, but there was no need for a second look: the Soldier and the Headsman were all too recognisable. Their slaughter on the Temple Plaza in Scree would never be erased from his memory, and here in the pale light of day they looked no less terrifying: the Soldier was already swinging his bastard sword as the Headsman raised an enormous straight-bladed axe.
The daemon’s head turned from one to the other, then he lunged with one long leg at the Soldier. It looked to Isak as if the Aspect of Death merely leaned to one side to avoid the blow before hacking into the daemon’s leg. Ichor spewed out of the wound and over the Aspect’s face and shimmering ice-blue armour, but he ignored it and continued chopping at the limb.
The daemon shrieked, this time in real pain, and tried to pull itself back, but the Headsman took an almighty swing at its other front leg and buried his axe deep. The daemon sagged, dropping the glaive it had retrieved. It used its hands as props to keep itself upright while its lower limbs thrashed about wildly, trying to escape the heavy blades. It scrabbled for purchase on the paved ground, but the Reapers pursued with blow after blow. Isak watched in astonishment as the howling monstrosity retreated, spraying ichor in all directions, scattering the crowds who’d run in from Hunter’s Ride to see what was causing all the noise.
As he watched, he saw a woman caught in the neck by one lance-tipped leg. She was pinned to the ground like a speared fish, though the daemon didn’t appear to notice, so busy was it trying to free itself - and in the next moment the Soldier had lopped off the leg. The daemon, losing balance, fell, but the severed limb stayed upright, still piercing the woman who was twitching uncontrollably as she died. The Headsman took advantage of his downed target and chopped down, splitting the daemon’s head in two.
Isak flinched as a burst of bitter-tasting magic rushed out over the square and the daemon winked out of existence. A sudden calm descended as the Reapers stared down at the uprooted flagstones, slick with the daemon’s viscous blood. The people froze where they stood, all eyes on the Aspects of Death.
A gust of wind rolled over the square; Isak flinched as the movement stirred the Reapers into action. Both looked at him. The Soldier’s face was half-obscured by ichor-matted hair; the black eyes of the hooded Headsman were all that were visible. His guts clenched as their focus became predatory and Isak re
membered the Soldier’s words in Scree. They wanted Aryn Bwr - how many times would he be able to deny them? He could feel their insistent tug on the magic flowing through his limbs; they were drawing energy from the Skull directly.
I will not be forced. He took a step back and stopped. The Reapers didn’t advance; they simply watched him, the hunger plain on their faces. The only movement was the goo dripping from the Soldier’s armour. Isak tightened his grip on Eolis and tried to stem the flow of energy from the Skull.
The Reapers shuddered, and Isak felt the magic buck like a mule as they fought back. The impact ran through his massive shoulders, but he refused to let go. He forced himself to take a step forward, Eolis raised, and continued his pressure to dam the energy from the Skull - and suddenly the Reapers could fight him no longer and the stream of magic vanished. Without the power it provided the Reapers were thrown backwards, fading to nothing before they hit the ground behind them.
Isak lowered his sword and gulped down air. He staggered as his wobbling knees threatened for a moment to give way. Jachen and Vesna ran up to him, shouting words it took him a moment to understand. Vesna was forced to jump back as Isak turned quickly with Eolis still drawn. His guardsmen, close behind Jachen with weapons raised, looked bewildered.
One of the Swordmasters ran straight past to where the woman who had started it all stood, apparently transfixed by the chaos she’d caused. Her hood had fallen back and Isak saw a middle-aged woman looking aghast, obviously as shocked as anyone else by what had happened. As the Swordmaster reached her she seemed to wake from her daze and raised her hands as if to plead with the man, but he didn’t let her get a word out before he smashed his fist into her face. The woman flopped to the floor and went still, but the Swordmaster took no chances; his blade was at her throat within a breath, ensuring any further movement would be her last.
Isak turned to the crowd, watching in silence. A few had fallen to their knees in prayer; he could see their mouths moving, though no sound reached his ears. With an effort he sheathed his sword—