by Tom Lloyd
‘So they never came back from the waste? That’s not even surprising, hardly some dark mystery.’
‘Morghien came back, alone. I doubt anyone but Emin knows the truth of what actually happened, but if you mention the expedition to Morghien-Well, best that you do not. It was after that Morghien started travelling the Land, tracking down Verliq’s Children, keeping the links between them alive. King Emin employs a handful of men who assist him in this, perhaps only twenty or thirty in all, but they’re as lethal as Harlequins, and utterly loyal to him.’
‘You’ve met them?’
‘They deliver messages, ask for news, offer help if I need it-‘
‘Help?’
‘I have no use for them myself, but I’ve heard rumours: competitors disappearing, mysterious fires, city rulers suddenly going back on decisions. There’s never anything definite, of course, nothing that could be laid at their door, but they bring letters whenever they come and sometimes I can trace the hand of fortune to their footsteps.
‘There’s a famous gang of criminals in Narkang, the Brotherhood. That’s the name they use. You can recognise them by a black tattoo on their left ear, very small and easy to miss, an elven rune meaning “heart” - though I don’t know the significance.’
Isak’s entire body went rigid and only by a huge effort did he manage to prevent his hand going to the scar on his chest. How many years had they been using that symbol? Could they have known? He was certain Xeliath had been telling him the truth, for the connection to her was undeniable, burned into his skin and quite sensitive enough to recognise a lie.
Isak barely registered the knock at the door; it was Fedei who jumped at the sound, flushing guiltily as he hopped up from his seat. Isak saw the panic on Fedei’s face: this man who’d taken a white-eye by the arm and virtually dragged him inside was nervous even talking about the Brotherhood.
‘Come,’ Fedei eventually called and Ahden strode in with a tray piled high balanced carefully in his hands. Isak helped him lay out the dishes on a side table, then set about them with a will, suddenly starving, and glad of the interruption. The scar on his chest felt tight, constrained, against the beat of his heart.
Eventually, Fedei could stand no more and noisily cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of symbols, I see your crest is a crowned dragon. Did the Heraldic Library properly appoint it?’
Isak nodded. ‘What of it?’
‘Well, the dragon is a portentous symbol. I suppose it is to be expected, but those who have also worn it include Deverk Grast and Aliax Versit.’
‘Versit? The Yeetatchen Lord who sacked Merlat?’
‘And was only defeated within sight of Tirah. That was him. Grast was the Menin ruler who almost wiped out the Litse, before forcing his tribe to take the Long March. Both men were followed by destruction their entire lives.’
‘Did either have a crowned dragon?’
Fedei squirmed under Isak’s gaze. ‘No. I’ve never heard of any man to have that,’ he said quietly, staring at the floor.
‘Tell me about your work,’ said Isak suddenly.
Fedei began to relax as he detailed a variety of projects, chattering on for the best part of an hour while Isak ate his fill, then sat nursing a large goblet of warmed wine. It was clear that Fedei relished the opportunity to talk to someone who showed a real interest in him-most of his colleagues were correspondents rather than visitors. While Isak couldn’t provide much in the way of intelligent questions, he did display sufficient enthusiasm, and the Seer made the most of it.
Finally Isak interrupted him, changing the subject entirely. ‘So if you’re a Seer, can you tell anything of my future?’ He remembered Xeliath, and what Morghien had said, but he couldn’t resist hearing what Fedei might be able to tell him.
The Seer nodded slowly and reached out to take Isak’s hand. He closed his eyes, and started breathing deeply, rhythmically. Isak felt more than a little foolish; had it not been for the focused, entirely serious expression on his host’s face, he might have pulled his hand away and laughed it off as a joke.
Fedei’s hand was perfectly still for a time, then it twitched suddenly and Isak flinched at the unexpected movement. For the first time he felt a slight rush of magic from the Seer, just a trickle. The candles guttered under a draft that didn’t touch Isak’s skin; he sensed rather than saw a movement, something flashing around the shadows of the room. He twisted in his seat to follow it over his shoulder, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He would have dismissed it as fancy before he saw Fedei looking in the same direction.
‘What was that?’
‘I’m not sure, my Lord.’ The Seer’s voice was level but Isak could smell his fear. He shivered and took a deep breath. ‘When I touched your hand, I had a vision of some sort - not a portent of the future, but something else. I saw Aryn Bwr - or perhaps you, but the figure seemed lighter, less substantial than you are - fully armoured, with dragon horns on his helm. He casts a perfectly black shadow. He stands within a circle of twelve crystal columns, each one twisted and bent into some awful shape. Facing him is a figure, a knight with a fanged sword in one hand and a hound’s leash in the other.’
Isak couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through his body as he pictured the knight in black armour and his massive fanged sword. He could remember the icy bite of its edge all too clearly from his dreams.
‘The leash runs to two figures that sit at his heel; a naked Chetse on one side and a winged daemon on the other.’ The Seer’s voice shook a little.
‘What does it mean?’ Isak could hardly bring himself to ask the question, but he forced out the words.
The Seer, pale as a ghost, slowly swivelled his head to match Isak’s gaze. The movement appeared to break the stupor he was in and he sank back into his chair as though drained of strength.
Isak got up and moved quickly to his side. The Seer’s breathing was shallow and for a moment Isak thought his heart had given out. He lifted him into a more comfortable position and asked what he should do to help. He felt useless.
‘I feel so weak. Please, ring for Ahden,’ the old man whispered.
Isak found a bell-pull beside the fire and tugged it hard, setting a jangle of bells going in other rooms. Within a matter of seconds, Ahden was storming in to the room, ignoring Isak as he made his way straight to his master’s side.
The servant told Isak curtly that his companions were waiting for him downstairs. Maids would show them to their rooms. Isak looked at Fedei and said softly, ‘Feel better. We’ll be fine.’ He received a wan smile in reply.
Isak rejoined his friends, who were gathered together in a stately but comfortable room, chatting. He said little for the rest of the evening, the image of the dark knight and his fanged sword weighing heavy on his soul.
CHAPTER 27
The desert smelled of age. Looking around at the withered trees clinging to the rocky ground, Kastan Styrax felt his own fatigue even more strongly. The ghost of an evening breeze yawned past his face as he removed his helm and looked at the cultivated scrap of land that, astonishingly, had warded off the desert long enough for the houses here to grow old and dilapidated.
Unhooking the golden rings of his belt from the great padded saddle, he slipped down from the wyvern’s back and on to the dusty earth. The freezing air high above had left his muscles cold and stiff, but it took only a few careful steps to recapture his balance. He flexed his huge shoulders twice and then drew the fanged sword from behind his back.
He stretched his back, arms and shoulders by working through forms, slowly, assuredly. As the massive blade hissed through the cool air, the grunting wyvern behind him turned its head, then returned its unblinking eyes to a figure trotting towards them from the distant houses.
The figures completed, Styrax returned the obsidian - black sword to its sheath and sucked in a great gulp of air. The scent of the desert was more apparent down here, where the air was warm and calm, and he stood still for a moment to savour it. He
spotted a miniva, one of the strange, dust-coloured plants that flourished all over this desert, providing food for animals and humans alike. Styrax bent down to examine the delicate fronds of the miniva leaf that absorbed what little moisture there was in the air. Lifting the flattened leaves, he exposed the deep-red plant stem. The tiny fruits were pale, not yet ripe, but he plucked and ate one, savouring the sharp sourness. A smile hovered on Kastan Styrax’s lips as he waited for his vassal to approach.
‘My Lord,’ said the arriving soldier. He removed his black-iron helm and dropped to one knee. His hair fell down untidily as he bowed his head. When he peered cautiously up he had to shake the long strands out of the way. After a pause he was motioned to rise. The man was small for a white-eye, and it was even more apparent when he stood before the Lord of the Menin.
‘Duke Vrill. Everything proceeds as planned?’
‘As well as I could hope for,’ replied the duke. He cursed himself as he heard the nervousness in his voice; however slight, Lord Styrax would notice. In recent years their rare meetings had been in the comfortable surrounds of Crafanc and Anote Vrill had forgotten just how overwhelming his master could be, particularly when dressed for battle. The soul-sapping, weirdly curved armour grated on the edges of the duke’s soul as much as the vile air of malice radiating from the sword Kobra. He shivered.
Styrax said, ‘You’ve had problems with the centaurs. The Dark Knights are about to return home. Suzerain Zolin ran a sword through one of his own bondsmen, and a mage of the Order of the Five Black Stars was murdered last night.’
If any other man had said that, Vrill would have gaped in surprise. The duke prided himself on being better informed than his peers, yet his Lord always managed to surprise him. It had often occurred to Vrill that, in another age, he would have been Lord of the Menin, for no one, nobleman, merchant or politician, could match him for intellect and plotting - with the exception of Lord Styrax. As it was, Duke Vrill’s lust for power had not overshadowed his intelligence and it was clear that Lord Styrax was at least equally adept at intricacy and cunning. Even the Mages of the Hidden Tower lived in fear of his skill. Only a madman would exercise the Menin right of challenge - though that most ancient of laws stated combatants should use identical weapons, it would make no difference. Styrax had won his right to rule at the age of twenty when he had killed his predecessor, who had ruled the Menin for three hundred years. The old Lord had wielded Kobra. Kastan Styrax used a steel broadsword. His prowess was unsurpassed and soon the entire Land would come to recognise that.
The duke put his musings to one side and concentrated on what his Lord was saying. ‘How did you know about the mage?’
‘I told Kohrad to do it. The man was a necromancer, and my son relishes any chance to practise his own arts.’ There was a hint of laughter in that statement, but Styrax was a man who laughed alone. He didn’t joke for the sake of others.
‘So that’s why he burned a unicorn. I hadn’t realised there was reason to it.’
That was the reason. Kohrad is not completely gone yet, but I am hoping he overextends in the battle. Pitting him against the Order of Fire might amuse him enough to draw more magic than he can control. If that happens, Gaur knows what to do. You will assist him however he wishes.’
Vrill nodded, then ventured, ‘Is Kohrad dying, then?’
The white-eye Lord drew in a sharp breath at the question, but Vrill had proved many times that he knew his place; that he intended to find greatness in Styrax’s shadow. He could be trusted, as far as Kastan Styrax trusted anyone.
He answered the question. ‘Eventually it will consume him, but I have no intention of losing this battle - or any other.’
Vrill nodded and bowed low, discreetly withdrawing from Styrax’s presence. ‘I will have a man bring you food.’
Styrax nodded distantly, staring away to the fading sun. As wisps of cloud stretched away like the sun’s smoky trails, dusk wrapped the landscape in chill shadows. ‘Make sure he’s young, and of no consequence.’
Vrill hesitated, surprised by the command, then nodded curtly and marched back to his men. Styrax returned to the wyvern and unbuckled the saddle - none of his beastmasters were there to tend to the creature and a hungry wyvern wouldn’t let a common soldier see to it. Once the ornate saddle was removed, Styrax took hold of the creature’s nearside horn and roughly pulled its head towards him. The wyvern resisted for a second, then moved. Styrax peered into one massive green-veined eye and checked the shine and dilation of the pupil for a moment. He gave a grim smile, satisfied the beast remained sufficiently in his thrall.
He ran his fingers over the massive, blue-green scales that covered the wyvern’s head. His left hand, snow-white now, was bare, as always. He felt little sensation through the skin since the day he’d won his armour on the battlefield. He ran a red-stained fingernail down the edge of one scale, teased out a small parasite and crushed it. He tapped lightly, listening carefully, and found two more of the potentially lethal parasites. There was no time to check the wyvern’s entire body so he stopped once the head was clear. That would do for now. From his saddle he withdrew a large, tightly wrapped bundle and untied the leather straps that held it together. He shook the bundle out and laid it on the ground. The woven silk looked creased and worn in the fading light. He didn’t bother pulling out the waxed tent-cloth. There would be no rain tonight, only a biting cold that the many layers of silk would keep at bay.
The wyvern stamped one clawed foot and dragged a furrow through the ground, then shook its large horned head at Styrax, stretching out its wings to their full extent. He silenced it with a short gesture, but it was clear from the glare it gave him as it hunkered down that the wyvern was not wholly cowed. A minute or two of foraging found an armful of sticks, not enough to keep him warm throughout the night, but sufficient for his needs. Once the wyvern settled down for the night, it would willingly allow him to curl up against its belly.
Styrax divided the sticks into two piles and waved a hand over one of them. It burst into flame. He smiled, wondering idly when he had last lit a fire by natural means, until a snort from the wyvern made him look up towards the buildings in the distance. A figure trudged slowly towards him, a bulky soldier carrying a bag in one hand and a skin of wine in the other. He was tall and well-built but as he drew closer, his youth became apparent, as did his fear.
Styrax could imagine what was going through the young man’s head. The Menin attitude to sex was open and permissive - the male form was rightly admired in a warrior tribe - but the youth looked less than pleased at the prospect. That wouldn’t matter soon. What Styrax had in mind was something rather more unfortunate than buggery.
He turned quickly and retrieved two small leather bags from a larger one. Drawing a rough circle in the parched earth with his foot, he emptied the smaller of the bags into it. A dozen or so white objects tumbled on to the ground. Styrax quickly checked that none touched the edge, then pulled a pinch of black withered herbs from the other bag. As the youth covered the last few yards, Styrax raised his fingers to his nose and breathed in the sour, sickening flavour of deathsbane that had been soaked in blood and left to dry. It was a truly repulsive smell, but he had to ensure the herbs retained their potency.
The soldier reached him and dropped to one knee, but was immediately ordered up and told to put the food and wine by the fire.
The boy kept his gaze glued to Styrax’s face. The wyvern snorted and hissed in the background, weaving its head from side to side until a second glance from the Lord quietened it down. Styrax stood at one edge of the circle and beckoned the youth forward. One pace, then a second and the boy was standing inside the circle.
With no warning, Styrax’s hand flashed forward and the soldier gave a gasp of shock, his hands flinching up to his chest as his entire body swayed with the unexpected impact. Styrax withdrew his hand and the youth wheezed in fear and pain as he saw a dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. Tiny noises escaped his throat
; his knees trembled, but somehow he stayed upright. His shaking fingers reached up to touch the ornate bone handle that blossomed from his sternum.
Styrax reached forward with the treated herbs on his upturned palm, the desiccated plants twisted and cracked with the pain of being plucked from the ground. He raised his hand to the man’s face and ignited the herbs as the soldier touched the hilt of the dagger. The agony of his mortal wound suddenly hit him and his eyes rolled as a hot lance of pain ran through his entire body. With one last gasp of horror that sucked in the dirty smoke of the burning herbs, the man crumpled down. As Styrax whipped the dagger from his chest, the soldier’s descent halted with an unnatural jolt.
A gloom fell over the rough circle, the calm breath of the wind shivered to a halt and time itself seemed to shudder and slow. Despite himself, Styrax twitched as a chill ran down his spine. He stared at the corpse jerking uneasily back to an upright position: he could feel the void of death close by now. He sighed. Only a madman would be comfortable around this.
The boy’s face looked hollow, drained. His lips were drawn back tightly over his teeth and his tongue lolled out, useless. The limp head angled its way up to meet Styrax’s gaze, dropped down to check the circle that contained it and then returned to the impassive white-eye.
The dead features somehow managed to convey a hint of anger that it had to crane its head up to face the white-eye. ‘You bind me?’ The voice was grating and harsh, bubbling its way past the still warm blood in the body’s lungs: it clearly came from the corpse, though there was a strange, distant echo.
‘I bind you,’ confirmed Styrax. ‘I have no interest in seeing you slaughter an elite regiment, not to mention my most valuable general.’
‘Your promises are empty. You offered a river of souls, yet I have had a mere handful. I think you forget with whom you have made a bargain.’