by Tom Lloyd
‘So they are who the Saviour’s supposed to fight?’ Isak wasn’t sure he wanted a true answer to that. Like most, he had assumed that there was some cataclysm to come, so the creeping worry of disaster would be lurking on the horizon until it actually happened.
They believe so, but they are intellectually insular. I suggest you would be better off having a care of your own shadow more than you do the Fysthrall. Your friend the king is the man to ask about the Saviour - he has written some excellent essays on the subject. The man is obsessed with history - and making his own mark upon it.
Now, return to your friends.’
Isak sensed her disappointment with him, but he couldn’t work out whether it was because he wasn’t all that she’d expected, or because Siulents had brought back old and unhappy memories.
‘So what’s your part in this now?’ he asked offhandedly.
‘Don’t banter with me, boy, it’s beyond you.’
‘You said their cause was not yours,’ he explained hurriedly. He was more than aware of the angry prickle of magic surrounding her. ‘What do you want - it’s obviously not my death.’
‘Nothing you can give me, but it should be easy enough to guess, if you have any imagination. Enough of this. Go.’
He didn’t wait to be told again. His friends needed him. Isak saw the main arena gate lying flat as Emin had promised, and bodies - Kingsguard, mercenaries, ordinary people, both noble and peasant - lying everywhere. He couldn’t see Vesna’s distinctive armour anywhere among the fallen, so presumably he had made it through.
A group of horses stood tethered to a rail at the back of the public stand, nominally guarded by a mercenary who’d walked out to a rise in the ground to see what he could of the fighting. The unnatural vigour of his ascension was still running through Isak’s limbs, and his aim was true as he threw Eolis thirty yards to impale the man. Like a hunting dog, Mihn padded away to retrieve the sword. As he returned, Isak saw the streaking of tears on his face.
‘Thank you,’ he said as Mihn handed him Eolis. He caught Mihn by the shoulder and held him there, forcing Mihn to look him straight in the eye, though the man could hardly bear to lift his head.
‘I am your bondsman,’ he said, quietly. ‘It was my duty.’
That’s not what I meant,’ Isak said. ‘I know you don’t fear death, as a sensible man should - and dying bravely would have been easy there, even though I saw how fast you were: you’re as good a swordsman as I’ve ever seen. That must make it hurt all the more.’
‘I needed Arugin. Dying bravely wouldn’t erase my shame. Your cause is my life as much as my penitence.’
It was hard to argue with him, but there were things to be done. Isak made a mental promise that he would continue this later and then turned his horse towards the city. ‘Come on, we need to get to the baths. The man who builds one tunnel builds many. I can’t see Emin’s reinforcements, so this could get desperate, and I don’t intend to watch from the sidelines.’
CHAPTER 35
‘Look alive, they’re coming again.’
Tired eyes and bloody faces lifted automatically at Vesna’s voice. The black knight’s reassuring presence meant they nodded grimly and tightened their grip on their weapons. The walls were manned by Kingsguard, bolstered by watchmen and palace servants, but without a real-life hero in their midst they might well have been broken by the hardened troops attacking. They murmured encouragement to each other and straightened their backs.
‘Have you left some for me then?’ bellowed Isak with forced humour. Vesna whirled around, relief washing over his features as he hurried down from the battlements. He sheathed his sword and took Isak’s arm.
‘Gods, you’re alive,’ he said, thankfully. ‘When they said you’d been dragged from the royal box I thought you didn’t stand a chance. I was going to go back, but Tila - and Mihn - said-‘
Isak held up a hand to stop him. ‘Enough, Mihn was right. He’d not have got past the guards with company. How are we doing here?’ Isak waved to the walls as shouts came from the other side.
‘There’s more than we expected, some regiments of mercenaries I’ve never seen before. Yeetatchen, or something - wherever they’re from, they fight like daemons. The king’s at the main gate - the lowest part of the wall is to the northern side of the gate.’
‘Where’s Carel?’
‘He’s fine, he’s with the king. I’m commanding the running repairs, but the bulk of the attack so far has been up by the gate. We’ve been able to contain those few trying to sneak their way in, but it’s pretty tight.’ He stopped as he suddenly realised what was strange. He looked around. ‘How in the names of the Upper Circle did you get into the castle?’
Isak smiled and waved the question away. ‘King Emin is a man who likes to have secrets. If you need me, send someone and I’ll come with the storm on my heels.’
‘And in your hands too, I hope!’ he laughed. A shout from the wall attracted his attention and he ran back up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, ‘Be safe, my Lord.’
Isak and Mihn ran to the main gate, stopping briefly as a servant appeared with the rest of Siulents. Mihn helped Isak to strap it on as screams and the clash of steel rang out from the left of the main gate. He could see soldiers clustered on the wall, the longest stretch between towers, with a rise of ground outside. As Isak approached, he noticed the changes that Vesna had predicted upon their arrival. The count had got it absolutely right: this was no longer an indefensible pleasure palace, but a place of war.
The air above the walls shuddered as a blazing light burst into life, blinding the defenders momentarily until it snapped out as suddenly as it had appeared. From the nearest tower, fire stabbed out in reply and crashed down on the other side of the wall. Isak heard the thump as it hit and distant screams.
The wall shook once, twice, and Isak felt magic beat against the stone. They were trying to punch a hole in the wall so they could pour men into the palace. The white-eye leapt up the steps, sliding on his helm and shield as he ran. One of the Kingsguard on the wall turned at the sound of metal on stone.
Delight flowered on his face when he saw the silver giant and he called out, ‘Lord Isak!’
More faces turned and saw and took up the call. Isak waved acknowledgment, but headed directly for the group of dark figures with King Emin at the centre. The curved edge of Darklight glowed at Emin’s back, illuminating his golden armour. Even in the middle of battle, the man looked composed and at ease. His palace had shaken off its delicate image; the king had no need. It made Isak wonder exactly what would ever cause that to happen.
This is a fine toy you’ve brought me, Lord Isak,’ Emin called, raising the axe in salute. ‘Doranei found you, then?’
Isak nodded his thanks - he had been quite right in thinking Emin would have a number of tunnels for his private use. The path to the public baths had been clear and when they’d arrived, Doranei had stepped out of the shadows, armoured and sword drawn. Some furtive sneaking through deserted streets and a second tunnel brought them inside the palace and once past the welcoming sword-tips of the Kingsguard, a huge stone block had been moved over the trapdoor, just in case Isak wasn’t the only one to work out the king’s predilection for secret tunnels.
Carel hugged Isak briefly, then turned to Mihn and clapped him on the shoulder. A warning shout erased any thought of conversation as Mihn wordlessly handed Arugin back to the veteran Ghost. There was a clatter of ladders, and through the crenellations Isak could see untidy clumps of soldiers waiting to scale the walls and attack.
One of Emin’s men leaned out to aim a crossbow down at them, flinching as an arrow hit the stone beside him then skewed wildly upwards. Isak nudged the man aside, a young watchman wearing ill-fitting armour and an apprehensive expression, and leaned out over the wall.
Holding his shield against arrows and the dying sun, Isak squinted down the ladder. The first man was only a few yards off. Isak took in the scene, then a flurry of ar
rows prompted him to haste. With a muttered apology to the sword, he used Eolis to cut away one side of the ladder. The enchanted edge sliced through the iron rods bound roughly to the top like a hot knife through butter and the ladder lurched and fell.
A howling war cry pierced the air as Isak pulled himself back to relative safety. Two figures, flailing madly, flew through the air towards the wall and landed safely on the walkway: Isak recognised the distinctive shapes of Fysthrall as the warriors began to strike out with furious purpose.
The king raised Darklight, but before he could move, Coran had rushed from his master’s lee. Bellowing like an enraged bull, he swung a huge mace above his head, slamming it square on to the shield of the first man. Sheer animal strength smashed the man off the walkway on to the gravel path below. The second Fysthrall half-turned at the sound of the impact, and his error cost him his life as one of the Farlan guardsmen brutally decapitated him.
A Kingsguard stepped into the space they left, ready to hack away at the ladder, when an arrow flew almost clean through his throat. The impact sent him collapsing backwards, pawing weakly at his neck. Coran ignored the dying man’s feeble wails and stepped over to crash his mace down on the head of a mercenary emerging over the wall. A second mercenary right behind was ready; he pushed his colleague’s corpse out of the way and stabbed wildly with his spear, trying to drive the white-eye back.
As Coran gave ground, another Fysthrall landed on the walkway. Doranei darted forward and trapped the man’s sword between his own axe and sword, then stamped hard into the side of his knee. The king’s man jumped back again as Coran swung up the butt of his huge mace and caught the Fysthrall under the chin, knocking him back over the battlements to fall amongst his own troops.
‘Bloody mages,’ spat Carel. He was unscathed, and looked younger now. He swung Arugin with ease. ‘They keep tossing these dark-skinned monsters at us; bloody things don’t know when they’re dead.’
Isak didn’t have time to correct the veteran as more mercenaries rushed up the ladder. They fought with desperation, and their numbers kept increasing. Isak could feel magic billowing on the wind as blood flew and lingering screams haunted every shadow. He ducked a wildly swung axe and ran the man through, pushing him back off Eolis and over the wall. A sword glanced off his cuirass and he lashed out with his shield, feeling the hard edge crunch into teeth and bone.
There was no time to see how anyone else was faring. He caught glimpses of Emin, shining in the firelight, a dark trail following his axe, and he could hear Coran roaring above the clang of steel and the howl and sob of death. Isak followed the white-eye’s lead and threw himself at the attackers. Cutting and stabbing with furious abandon, he closed the few yards to where men continued to spill over the walls. His guards, close behind, drove off the mercenaries to give Isak the respite he needed.
Putting a hand on the stone wall Isak steadied himself, opening his senses and drawing magic in. He could feel the bank of ladders set against the wall and the image of a flame appeared in his mind. Stretching out his hand, Isak felt the fire grow there. The flames rose and expanded as the climbing mercenaries shrieked in fear. Leaning forward he dropped the still-expanding fireball over the wall. It engulfed one man, who screamed and threw himself backwards, flailing desperately as he fell to earth, but the unnatural fire was not yet finished. With malevolent purpose the flames licked out, and where they touched, they stayed, until they had crept slowly out to mark every one of the siege ladders.
The climbers, seeing the fate of their fellows, tried to escape, fighting each other to get away. Some fell, the flames already devouring their clothes; others stared futilely, almost mesmerised, at the fire flashing slowly down towards them.
‘Isak,’ called King Emin, ‘can you see their mages? The wall’s weakening.’
As the king spoke the wall shook again, as though some invisible giant pounded its fists against the stone. Isak gave the fire one last burst of strength and released it to surge down the walls, wrapping everything in dancing orange sparks. The ladders were all alight and for a brief moment they had no one left to fight.
‘We need to stop them breaching,’ Emin told Isak. A thin line of dried blood ran down his face and lay in sticky trails on his armour. ‘I don’t know how much longer the wall will hold, but if they had any sense they’d realise throwing more soldiers on to the walkway would win them a breach anyway.’ Amidst all the chaos, the king still sounded calm and in control.
Isak leaned out as far as he dared behind his shield. He knew Siulents was an obvious target now the sun was fading. An arrow sped through the gap he’d left and skimmed off the cheek of his helm. He flinched and withdrew. He had an idea of the ground outside the palace; that would have to be enough; the rest was magic. He knew roughly where the king’s mages had been attacking; soon he could sense the enemy as they readied themselves for another assault.
The clouds above were stirring restlessly. They’d been massing since Bahl’s death, swarming to salute the new Lord of Storms. Isak could almost feel their animal nature: giants of the air yawning and stretching, growling with barely contained anger. He could taste the anticipatory pressure in the air. Both attackers and defenders felt a tingle down their necks and glanced nervously at the sky.
As the first bolt of lightning crashed down, the soldiers near the enemy mages scattered. Isak perceived what appeared to be their scent on the wind as though it were the musk of a frightened deer. There were three, women, but Ostia was not among them. One was gathering her defences, trying to form a shield about herself, so Isak concentrated down on her first, urging the energy in the air to focus on the ground at her feet. With an enormous effort she managed to redirect the bolts of lightning towards her companions. They, feeling Isak’s gaze on her, had backed carefully away, constructing their own defences as white daggers of light smashed down all around them, but one was too slow. She was caught in the teeth of the storm, lashed brutally and cast aside. The third survived for a moment, but she had forgotten about the king’s mages; in seconds she was consumed by their fire.
Isak felt a weak note of confidence in the woman he had first targeted as her shield held against the storm. He smiled.
Now Isak pushed his hands together, driving his senses out as the Land obeyed his commands, willingly responding to the touch of the Chosen. Isak could feel earth between his fingers; he could smell the trampled grass. As he spread his palms out, the Land followed his guidance and ripped apart underneath the mage.
She fell, all defences gone, confidence supplanted by horror as she lay crumpled and broken, looking up from her grave at a raging sky. A whimper escaped her lips. She reached out to touch the walls of earth on either side, recoiling from the damp soil as though it had scorched her. Fear paralysed her. Isak closed his hands again.
The defenders had a little time to rest as the mercenaries drew back in disarray, but Isak didn’t want it: time brought back the human part of him, the part that thought and mourned. It was cowardly, he knew, but he wanted to escape from his responsibilities, to hide behind the beast that came out in battle. That side of him didn’t care who was dead or alive, who was Lord and who was servant. He kept silent about Bahl’s death, though guilt gnawed away inside him.
He told himself he had never quite believed that palace by the shore to be real. Even after he’d recognised Bahl, he had refused to accept it. He had deliberately shied away from warning Bahl - he knew the old Lord wouldn’t have listened, for Bahl had half-craved the release death would bring, but still it would have meant acknowledging too much. Normal people didn’t have premonitions of the future, not even the Chosen. It meant Isak was different, and he was as afraid of that as he was of the dark knight who he himself would one day have to face, and that cold face he’d one day stare upon as he died.
‘Isak.’ Carel approached carrying a skin of wine and some ripped pieces of bread. ‘Get something into your stomach, boy, it’ll give you strength.’ The old man handed Isak
a chunk of bread. It looked rather pathetic in his huge hand, but he recognised the need to eat something, however small.
‘What’s wrong, lad? Are you injured?’
Isak shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. He was keeping more and more from the one man who knew him better than anyone; one of the few people he knew he could trust absolutely; it was beginning to look like there was never a good time for the truth.
‘My life has become more complicated,’ Isak eventually managed.
Carel frowned, then squatted down next to Isak with his sabre resting on his shoulder so he was close enough to whisper, ‘What happened in the arena? Something Mihn said?’
‘No, we don’t have time right now - and anyway, none of it matters if we don’t survive today.’ The dark corner of his soul wanted to laugh. If this is all true then it doesn’t matter what you do. You’ll not die here unless the dark knight appears, and he won’t. You know who he is already. You’re just too scared to face the truth. Go and cower behind the battlements, watching others die and waiting for your time.
‘And that’s it,’ Isak said aloud. ‘There are others, and they matter. Perhaps they matter enough that the truth shouldn’t be hidden.’
‘Isak? What are you talking about, boy?’ Carel sounded bewildered, perhaps worried Isak was losing his mind.
‘Nothing.’ Isak dismissed the question with a wave of the hand and stood upright again. Now that he’d made his decision, Isak felt new purpose filling him. ‘Call the battle hymn. The enemy is coming.’
‘Ah, Isak, lad, that’s only supposed to come from Lord Bahl, from the Lord of the Farlan. They’ll sing it for you, but… it’d be wrong. People might think you meant rebellion.’ Carel sounded anguished as he spoke, his loyalties torn.
It seemed strange to Isak, but he knew the pride Carel set in those few lines of verse.
‘Better that it would, but I am Lord of the Parian now,’ The catch in his voice was unexpected. ‘Carel, Lord Bahl died this afternoon. Pass the word on. Tell them to sing to Lord Bahl’s honour - I’ll not have a defeat as his memorial.’