by Tom Lloyd
Vesna hefted his plundered spear. The men on the floor were dressed as penitents, he now saw; most likely mercenaries. Better than zealots, he thought as he raised the spear, but not much.
He waited until they were no more than a dozen paces away before hurling the spear. The lead man had been expecting it and dodged, but the man behind him was caught in the thigh and went down yelling. Without any more time Vesna transferred his broadsword to his right hand and drew his duelling dagger, moving clear of the bodies on the ground. The weapon afforded him little in terms of range but the steel guard extended down over his fist and could be used to deflect a blade.
Time to play the only card I’ve got left. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he yelled at the top of his voice.
The group slowed to a trot with the lead man indicating for them to fan out around. This close he could see they wore the grey robes of the cult of Death rather than the black of penitents of Nartis.
Shit, both cults are involved, and these ones will be tougher.
They carried an assortment of swords and axes and looked like they knew how to use them. It was a strange thing to be cheered by, but warfare wasn’t as sophisticated as duelling. Spearmen would have simply closed in and spitted him like a boar; these mercenaries would swing their weapons in ways he could predict and he was sure none had his skill.
‘Aye, we know you, and we’re goin’ to kill you.’ It was a Farlan accent, from the north, which made it less likely they were simple mercenaries out for the highest price.
Vesna turned in a slow circle, not bothering to keep his eyes on the leader. There were twelve in total, more odds than he’d ever faced before.
One at a time, said the memory of a past weapons teacher, a man who’d taught him the value of a kick to the crotch on the first day. Move when they don’t expect, kill one and move.
‘Then you know my lord,’ he said, edging closer to one man in the ring. ‘Whatever you’re being paid, we will double, treble even.’
The man gave a heartless laugh. ‘And get me a knighthood too, I’m sure.’
‘It can be arranged. You’ll have information we need.’
‘Sorry, friend, it don’t work like that.’
Vesna kept turning, sword extended, while the others watched him. He was moving in short sharp bursts, not fast enough to get dizzy, but at random, so his back wasn’t turned to anyone for long.
‘How does it work, then? You don’t sound like a fanatic.’
‘Enough of the pleading, I’d hoped for better from—’
Vesna didn’t wait for him to finish but lunged forward at the youngest of the group, the one whose eyes had been darting between the speakers. The boy yelped in surprise as Vesna dodged his axe and rammed his dagger into the boy’s guts. He felt the youth’s breath on his cheek as he held him in place, his eyes on the next man in the circle. He deflected a sword-lunge and spun his own up and around, faster than his opponent could, his enchanted blade lighter through the air, and biting deep into the man’s arm.
The man howled and dropped his sword as Vesna dragged the spitted youth in an arc to block the rest, kicking the wounded man to drive him back into a comrade.
Kill and move, yelled the voice in his head, and Vesna obeyed.
Pushing off one foot he darted out of the way of two blows, then ran forward into two hasty cuts which he caught on dagger and sword. Swerving left he stepped around one and slashed down the man’s ribs. He ignored the man’s screams and continued moving, kill and move, barely getting his sword up in time to deflect a falling axe before taking the opportunity to hammer his pommel into the next man’s face.
Blood squirted down his cheek but Vesna ignored it as he kept up the momentum and pushed past the broken-nosed novice to slash at the next man’s legs. The man hopped back and collided with another mercenary as Vesna rashly followed it up. A sword-tip scraped over his cuirass as the man rode the impact and lunged forward himself.
Vesna felt the sword nick his arm but his training saved him as he pulled his dagger back to his chest and twisted left to pin the sword. Pushing off his left foot he cut up into the man’s armpit and tore his chest open. Kill and move.
The pinned sword was released as the novice fell so Vesna used the guard of his dagger to flick it at the nearest novice. As that one batted the flying weapon into the ground Vesna turned, aware there were men behind. His fencer’s instincts saved him again as a sword flashed forward and a line of fire cut through his ear and scraped his skull; he stepped forward past his enemy’s hilt and drove his dagger into the man’s side.
Moving like a dancer now, Vesna swung his sword underneath his extended left arm, pivoted and slashed up at the next novice to reach him. Steel rang on steel as the man parried, but Vesna didn’t wait to trade blows, instead using his impaled enemy as a shield. In his haste to wound the hero, the mercenary followed and was caught by a comrade’s mace. As he cried out, the comrade hesitated. Vesna didn’t. Kill and move.
The novice fell in a heap with the injured man as a roar came from somewhere behind Vesna and he turned, caught a sword stroke on his cuirass and again stepped closer to slash at the man’s hand with his dagger. Instead, he caught the sword blade, but he smashed down onto it with the dagger’s guard and knocked it from his attacker’s grip, then stabbed the unarmed man in the belly.
Now, as men closed in on both sides, he retreated a couple of steps to some clear ground behind where he could see all of his attackers. One man he’d driven back tried to catch him off-guard, delivering a high cut as he attempted to kick Vesna off-balance. Rotating sideways, Vesna caught the cut and stabbed his dagger into the man’s knee in a single movement. A quick twist freed the narrow blade and he took another pace back, drawing in an enormous gasp of air as he at last remembered to breathe. The crippled man toppled over, howling in pain.
Two more advanced towards him: the leader of the group and a tall man brandishing an axe. Behind them, the man with the broken nose was shaking blood from his face, but he still carried his sword. One more was struggling up from underneath the corpse of his comrade.
Time to show off, Vesna thought, sucking in as much air as he could manage. He tossed his dagger up in the air, transferring his broadsword from right hand to left while the dagger spun through the night. Instinctively the men watched it looping lazily up. This was a duellist’s trick, one that relied on sleight of hand as much as skill to succeed. Vesna swept a low cut through the air between them and the pair instinctively hesitated and lowered their weapons to follow.
Vesna grinned as he felt the dagger slap down into his right palm and he hurled it at the taller man’s unguarded chest. Without arms or axe to avoid, it was an easy throw; it caught him straight in the heart. To his credit the leader didn’t turn as his man gasped and staggered, but it made little difference now that he was alone. Bringing his hands together, Vesna traded two blows before nicking the man’s forearm. The injury only put the leader off balance, but the next cut neatly opened his throat.
Vesna dislodged his sword with a grunt of effort and assessed the remaining enemies. Kill and move. The choice was easy as the man whose nose he’d broken ran forward, yelling his fury. Vesna turned the blade aside and checked him with his shoulder, almost knocking the man off his feet. The novice staggered back a step, his eyes widening with horror as Vesna’s sword ripped across his gut then hacked into his neck.
Five men left, all injured. The one he’d speared first lay where he’d fallen, unmoving, so Vesna discounted him. Another had fallen to his knees, hands over his belly, and was making some sort of a mewling sound. Vesna dismissed him too; no one carried on after a sword to the gut. Of the last three, one had a ruined knee, and two were standing, weapons ready, but both favouring one arm. The younger looked far from confident about using his left hand so Vesna made it easy for him. He ran forward and cut down the other two with ease before stepping clear once more.
‘You,’ he roared, pointing at the last novice left s
tanding, ‘drop that now and you’ll live.’
The man looked at his kneeling comrade and saw he was effectively alone. He let the weapon fall to the floor and raised his hands in surrender. In the blink of an eye the shadows behind the man boiled with activity and a figure stepped forward from the darkness. A weapon flashed, once, twice, and the two remaining novices fell, headless.
Vesna gave a cry of surprise and stumbled backwards, his sword already raised, but the newcomer only laughed, while his black robes whipped all around him like living shadows.
‘Apologies, but there could be no witnesses.’
‘What is going on?’ the count demanded. ‘Who are you?’
The figure stopped and sheathed his black-bladed sword with a flourish. Vesna focused, and found himself face to face with a hairless young man a little taller than he was. He had a tattoo of bloody teardrops falling from his right eye.
Oh Gods, that’s no tattoo . . .
Vesna dropped to one knee, his limbs shaking from the exertion of the fight, but still obeying him. ‘Lord Karkarn.’
The God of War surveyed the slaughter surrounding Vesna with an expression of professional satisfaction. ‘You fought well. I am impressed.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’ Vesna coughed, watching the blood tears fall in horrified fascination. He knew there would be fifteen, one for each of the slain. Piss and daemons, please let there be only fifteen.
‘Ah, how did you know, my Lord, that they were going to ambush me here?’
‘I arranged it, of course,’ Karkarn snapped, his face shimmering in a brief moment of anger, almost as though underneath this face was another that had briefly asserted itself, the Berserker Aspect of the War God. Vesna remembered the six temples in the heart of Scree whose Gods had been worst affected by the chaos there. Karkarn was one of them.
Merciful Gods, don’t let the Berserker out, he prayed silently. I won’t survive that.
‘Have I offended you, my Lord?’ Vesna bowed his head as he spoke, not daring to see the reaction to his words.
‘Not at all - you’ve pleased me. But I had to test your abilities. I was right to think that one group wouldn’t be enough, too,’ Karkarn said dispassionately. ‘A good thing I brought those two together, I think.’
‘Ah, my Lord, you’re testing me?’
‘Stand up, Count Vesna,’ Karkarn commanded, his voice suddenly booming, resonating with the weight of centuries.
Shakily, the count did as he was ordered.
‘The heresy of Scree has nicked me - no great a wound, but one I cannot ignore, and one that festers in the blood of my priests. It fell to me to defend the Gods at the Last Battle, to lead the charge that broke the enemy, and that cost me dearly. I do not intend to allow such a thing to happen ever again.’ There was a growl of barely restrained fury as he spoke.
Vesna nodded hurriedly to show he understood.
‘Good. It is clear there are forces at work that go unnoticed by divine eyes. I need a mortal agent to protect the interests of the Gods.’
Karkarn stepped forward and looked hard into Vesna’s eyes. The God had iris-less eyes the colour of steel. As he breathed, Vesna recognised the foetid stench of the battlefield.
‘I—I don’t understand what you are asking of me. I’m no Chosen, Lord, I’m no white-eye.’
‘My faith in the Chosen has paled,’ Karkarn said, his lip curling with anger. ‘I intend for my agent to be more than just a warrior, I need a leader of men - a general to take the fight to our enemy.’
‘You want me?’ Vesna asked, too dazed to think straight.
Karkarn nodded. ‘I want you to be my Mortal-Aspect. You will be the general and hero that all warriors need.’
‘Mortal-Aspect? To become part of you?’ Vesna’s mind was a blank as he stared at the blood-streaked face of a God he’d only ever prayed to in desperation. ‘But mortal?’
‘To share in my power, but to remain living the life you are.’ From somewhere under his robe the God produced a glittering gemstone that he held up to the weak moonlight. It looked like a ruby, a tear-drop faceted shape half the length of his thumb.
‘The tear of a God. Take this and keep it with you. When you accept my offer, cut your cheek with its tip.’
‘And then?’
Karkarn gave him a cold and terrible smile. ‘And then you will become part of me, both God and mortal. Do not think there will be no price for my gifts - but the rewards will be eternal.’
Without waiting for a reply, Karkarn stepped backwards and was swallowed by the boiling shadows once more. Vesna blinked and stared straight ahead. The street was empty, shrouded in grim silence.
‘The tear of a God?’ he wondered aloud, bending to wipe his sword on the nearest corpse. He hissed with pain as he pulled the cut on the side of his head. He wiped the sword clean and sheathed it before retrieving his nicked dagger. The actions were mechanical, ingrained by so many years of habit. Once the dagger was clean Vesna gave the battered weapon an affectionate pat before stowing it away in his belt.
‘The tear of a God,’ he repeated, wincing again. He looked at the carnage all around him. ‘Right now, I’d prefer a horse.’
Mihn tied his horse to the wrought-iron archway that served as the entrance to the small park and walked inside. Death’s Gardens backed onto an ancient shrine to Death that pre-dated the city’s principal temple. It was surrounded by a waist-high stone wall and a tall bank of laurel hedges. Once inside it was easy to feel as though one had left the city completely. In the darkness not even the city’s towers were visible. Mihn struggled to make out the gravel path now the yellowy light of Alterr had been covered by cloud.
The quiet crackle of a fire cut through the night and he let his ears guide him in the right direction. The witch had pitched a double-layered tent towards the far end, strung underneath three yews that had grown together to create three-quarters of an uneven dome. He set off down the path, but had gone barely a dozen paces before a deep voice spoke out from the shadows.
‘It is late for callers.’
Mihn recognised Fernal’s growling voice. ‘Would I be intruding?’
‘No, she will see you.’ Fernal stepped out from under the yew’s branches and joined Mihn on the path. The massive Demi-God sniffed the air as though checking for other visitors. ‘She is used to being awakened.’ He beckoned with one hooked talon and Mihn followed without further comment. Fernal, bastard son of the God Nartis, had an air of implacability about him, one that Mihn could only aspire to. With his savage lupine face and monstrous size, he looked out of place in a city of humans, but however keen he might have been to return to his wilder home in Llehden, he appeared unperturbed by it all.
The witch was standing beside the fire when they reached her small camp. ‘Am I needed at the palace?’ she asked as Mihn came close enough to be identifiable.
‘No, I’m not here on anyone else’s behalf.’
She cocked her head to one side. Though visible, her face was as unreadable as Fernal’s. ‘Then what can I do to help you, Mihn ab Netren ab Felith?’
‘I came to ask what you knew about death.’
‘Our God, or his deeds?’
‘The process as much as anything else.’
She scrutinised him for a few moments before gesturing to the fireside. ‘Please, join me. Even under that fleece you must be cold.’
Mihn did so gratefully, squatting down to warm his hands in front of the flames. Fernal picked up a small bowl and gestured at the pot hanging over the fire. ‘Something warm?’
‘What is it?’ Mihn asked as he took the bowl gratefully.
‘Nettle tea,’ the witch of Llehden answered as she sat on a log next to Mihn. She straightened her dress so it covered her ankles properly. He knew they were of a similar age, but Mihn felt like a child in her company, the memory of their first meeting surrounded by the gentry, Llehden’s forest spirits, reinforcing that feeling.
‘But in this weather, who cares so lon
g as it’s hot? Now - what can I tell a man with a Harlequin’s knowledge about death?’
‘I—I do not rightly know,’ Mihn admitted after a brief pause. ‘I have been thinking about fate and prophecy, about the threads that bind our existence. I am not yet certain what it is I’m looking for, but I believe I need to know more about death if I am to understand my lord’s fears correctly.’
‘Then I doubt I can help you,’ the witch said gently. ‘Your knowledge of myth and legend surpasses my own - you know the descriptions of Death’s grey hall better than I, of the final judgement he delivers and of the Dark Place. I am familiar with the moments of death and birth, but not the halls of the immortals. You would need a priest of Death or a necromancer to tell you things you do not know.’
‘I suspect a priest would be even less likely to help me than a necromancer nowadays,’ Mihn said with a grim expression, ‘but perhaps . . .’ His face became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps the answers are already written for those who can reach them.’
The witch studied his face. ‘Are you talking about scripture or heretical texts? Just how much are you willing to risk?’
‘You bring me to my second question. Lord Isak feels the strain of responsibility on him; he fears the hurt his position may cause those around him. Xeliath, Carel, his father - they have all been permanently damaged by their association to Isak, and that guilt runs deep. He sees me without weapons or armour, and so he fears to let me serve him.’
‘He is right to do so.’
Mihn tried to read her expression but it was devoid of emotion. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he said sharply.
‘It is a consideration,’ Ehla replied in a calm voice. ‘For all his power and gifts, it does Lord Isak good to think like a normal person from time to time. Concern for his friends may prove a useful reminder that he is a man and not a God. You do remember there is no actual obligation holding you here? You could leave tonight and walk away from the death that lies in that young man’s shadow.’