The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  Isak lay on the floor, overwhelmed by what he was hearing, but not so dazed that he did not desperately search for a way to escape. He knew it was futile: Aryn Bwr had been the supreme warrior; he had killed Gods. He had fallen only to Karkarn, the God of War himself.

  The elf sheathed his weapon and reached down to haul Isak up. Bringing him close, the last king stared deep into Isak’s eyes.

  Isak returned the look, staring into pale, gold-flecked eyes as though the answer would be there. He felt a fog about his mind, enveloping his thoughts and slowly draining the strength from his body. The heavy sleep of the grave called to him, drawing him in to its embrace, but as his strength faded and his mind weakened, understanding suddenly unfurled in his mind like a bud bursting into flower. ‘Now I know,’ Isak said calmly.

  Aryn Bwr hesitated, eyes narrowing as he tightened his grip on Isak. He had felt the change in Isak’s mind and a flicker of uncertainty crept on to his face.

  ‘Tell me, elf, can you remember your own name?’

  The last king said nothing.

  ‘Your name. Can you remember it?’

  ‘I-‘ Uncertainly blossomed into loss, then fear. Aryn Bwr’s true name had been struck from history, and like the Finntrail in Morghien’s mind, that loss weakened his spirit.

  ‘Can you remember your death?’ As he said that, Isak felt the grip on his throat falter and weaken. ‘Oh yes, that you can remember, that pain is still inside you. You’re dead; a memory barely beyond Death’s reach. Without name or form, what are you now?’

  Isak smiled and raised his left hand, though his arm was sore, numb from the fight. Despite his feebleness, Isak took hold of Aryn Bwr’s wrist and prised the fingers from his throat. Lifting his right arm, the hand twisted and curled over the broken wrist, Isak spread his fingers as best he could in front of his enemy’s face and remembered what he’d done to Morghien. Under his touch, the weaves of magic parted like morning mist.

  The last king shrieked and writhed in Isak’s grip, but the white-eye felt his strength rush back into his body. Now the elf spirit was helpless to resist. Isak forced down the snarl that built in his throat as he embraced the magic all around and gathered a storm of power in his hand, determined not to submit to the rage in his belly as he had outside Lomin.

  Reaching out with his mind, Isak cast a net of magic over the dead king’s soul and savagely bound it, ripping it from the body it had tried to inhabit. Aryn Bwr howled with terror.

  The elf’s soul, held tightly in Isak’s grip, was a feeble thing now. The shadows darkened as Death’s reach crept closer. Aryn Bwr renewed his screams and struggled futilely until Isak pulled the soul away from the darkness and into himself, where part of it had hidden to avoid Death’s constant watch.

  Isak stood alone and breathed deeply; the air was fresher now and the weariness had left his limbs. Even the pain was gone now, for the damage was not to flesh and bone but the product of his mind. The sky was lightening, and faintly the scents of heather and wet grass came to him, smelling wonderful to him after the dead land.

  In his mind Isak held the spirit of Aryn Bwr, but gently now; the time for force was over. There was no way for the elf to wield power over him any more.

  What have you done? Isak felt the elf’s voice in his mind, soft and pained, but tinged with fear.

  I’ve survived; just like you’ve taught me to every day of my life.

  What will you do with me? Aryn Bwr knew he was closer than at any other time to the final retribution of Ghenna’s deepest pit.

  I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you mean. I think I can find a better use for you. If the Land looks to me to be the Saviour, then I think I’ll need your brain.

  You were never meant to be Saviour—

  I know, Isak interrupted with a smile. ‘In silver light born, in silver light clothed.’ That was never intended to be me; that was your rebirth tonight. Except now it’s not going to happen. All things have their time; remember that, my chained dragon. Your time has passed.

  You’ve broken history. Destiny had you die this night. Do you realise what that means?

  Isak stretched and felt a cool breath of air drift past his face. He could feel himself returning to the temple inside the trees, to the life that was at long last his own.

  It means we make our own future now. It means no prophecy fits what is going to happen. All we have is ourselves.

  He smiled. The Land awaited him.

  The Twilight Herald

  TOM LLOYD

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Map

  PROLOGUE: PART ONE

  PROLOGUE: PART TWO

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  ENDGAME

  PROLOGUE: PART ONE

  A lined face, pale against the deep shadow of the archway, looked out into the street. The ground before him was empty of people, but movement was everywhere as the deluge that was worsening by the minute turned the packed earth to spattering mud. The old man had a heavy woolen scarf wrapped over his head and tied tight under his chin so the now-sodden material framed his face. Anxiety filled his eyes as he saw only the plummeting rain churning the ground, running in rivers off the rooftops and overflowing the gutters in the middle of the street. The black feather tattoos that marked the right side of his face looked crumpled; over the decades the once-crisp lines had faded. The tumult of the rain slashing down filled the air as the old monk trembled in the darkness. He felt it crowding him, driving him back into the shadows.

  ‘Where are you, Mayel?’ His voice was nothing more than a shivering whisper, yet almost as he spoke a figure turned the corner and headed towards him, arms held uselessly over his head against the storm.

  Mayel made straight for the archway, head hunched low, and splashed into the dark recesses of the monument that sheltered the old man. He shook himself violently, like a dog, scattering water like a fountain. ‘Abbot Doren,’ he said urgently, ‘I found him. He’s waiting for us at an inn, just a few streets east of here.’ There was a flicker of triumph in his eyes that saddened the abbot. Mayel was young enough to think this was a grand adventure; that a murderer was pursuing them seemed not to have filtered through into the novice’s mind.

  ‘I have warned you,’ the old man said, ‘this is not a game: even a hint of my name could mean our deaths.’

  ‘But there’s no one out here!’ he protested, eyes wide in dismay. The abbot could see Mayel had not been expecting another scolding; the youth deserved praise, he knew that, but their safety was not something they could take any chances with. Their mission was too vital for that.

  ‘Still you must be careful; you can never be sure who is around. But you’ve done well. Let’s find ourselves somewhere warm and get a hot meal and a bed for the night. We’ll find a more permanent place in the morning.’

  ‘I think my cousin will be able to help with that,’ Mayel said, trying to sound cheerful again, despite the storm. ‘He rents rooms to workmen, so I’m sure he’d give me a good price - and watch out for us.’ He started shivering, his saturated clothes clammy against his skin. Glancing nervo
usly out from under the archway he saw the sky was an angry grey. It felt more like autumn than an early summer’s evening, as though their pursuer swept away the joy and warmth of the season as he closed on them.

  ‘We’ll need a house, somewhere with a cellar,’ said the abbot. ‘I have work to do; I’ll need complete privacy. It can’t wait any longer.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Mayel stared at the old man, wondering what could possibly be so important when they were fleeing for their lives.

  ‘If Prior Corci does find out where we are, I need to be ready for him - and I need your help, not just to carry the books, but to protect me from the rest of this city.’

  ‘Do we really need all these books with us?’ There was understandable irritation in Mayel’s voice: he had been lugging around the six thick volumes for two weeks now.

  ‘You know what they are, boy. Our order’s texts are sacred. That traitor may have made me flee the monastery, but he will never force me to give up the traditions that he himself has tried to destroy. The books must not leave the presence of the abbot - that is one of the very first lessons we learn.’

  ‘Of course I know that,’ Mayel said, ‘but are you still abbot if you flee the island?’

  The old man shuddered and Mayel continued hurriedly, ‘I mean, surely the sacred texts are there for the community, to look to for guidance. Should they not stay on the island?’

  ‘This current situation is more complex than that,’ snapped the old man. ‘You are a novice; don’t presume you are in possession of all the facts. Now, enough of your chatter. Show me to this inn where your cousin is.’

  Mayel opened his mouth to argue, then remembered who he was talking to and clamped it shut again. He pointed down the street, and Abbot Doren pushed past and begin to make his splashing way through the puddles. His bag, which held his few possessions - two more books and a strange, pearl-inlaid box that Mayel had never seen until the night they fled - held tight to his chest. The abbot hunched over low, his eyes on the ground, trying to protect the bag from the rain.

  ‘You don’t fool me, old man,’ Mayel muttered. The wail of the weather drowned his words, but if the abbot had turned round, he would have seen a coldly calculating look that had no place on the face of a novice. ‘There’s something in that box that Jackdaw wants. He killed Brother Edin for more than madness. The prior wouldn’t be following us for just a few dirty old books, so why won’t you tell me what’s in that box? It’s got to be worth something if Jackdaw wants It so badly - enough to buy my way into my cousin’s gang. If we do survive this, you’ll be carrying these bloody books back to the island yourself, old man.’

  He scowled at the abbot’s back, then hurried to catch him up, at the last moment swinging his own bag around to his chest to shelter it somewhat.

  From upper reaches of the monument where the abbot had been sheltering a soft voice spoke over the sound of the rain. ‘He has the Skull with him, I can feel it.’

  ‘We must sacrifice that for the greater prize. The old man is not as frail as he seems, nor as unprotected. Be content that he has done as we wanted. Now the next act of our play can begin.’

  ‘But I could kill him now.’ The speaker’s deeply-set eyes, hooded by thick brows, glittered avariciously. He ignored the rain soaking his thick black hair and running down over the tattooed feathers on his cheek and neck as he glared down the street, but the abbot had already turned the corner.

  His god would not let you,’ said his companion. ‘Renouncing any God as you have is not done lightly, and Vellern would stop you from harming one who is first among his worshipers. Perhaps the Lord of the Birds would take the opportunity to extract a measure of revenge too ‘ the second man wore a green minstrel’s hat and tunic and hugged a flute close under his left arm. He looked only a little damp, as though the rain were reluctant to touch him. His soft brown hair was not wet enough to have darkened and his cheeks, as smooth as a young man’s, despite the air of age about him, remained dry. A slight smile, both knowing and scornful, curled the edges of his mouth.

  ‘We have others who could,’ growled the dark-haired man. Once known as Prior Corci, now he was Jackdaw, reviled as a traitor and murderer. His new master had called him that the first time they met, no more than six months past, in one of the monastery’s dank, unused cellars. He had thought it a joke, but steadily he’d found the name had spread, even amongst Brothers who knew nothing of his intended treachery. Prior Corci was being steadily erased from history, as every week that passed, another man had forgotten about him. Jackdaw knew there was no going back, no escape from the choices he’d made, and only the thought of what else Azaer’s power could achieve stopped him sinking into glum desperation at the loss of his former life.

  Now Jackdaw blinked the rain from his eyes and squinted through the gloom at the empty street. ‘The old man might be strong with the Skull, but an arrow would go right through that withered neck, whether or not he was holding magic. The Hounds would be glad to tear him apart.’

  ‘He is more intelligent than that. He has taken precautions against assassination, and there are inherent dangers whenever a Skull is involved. They contain too much power for a novice to control. He already keeps his Aspect Guide close at hand; it would be a simple thing for him to lose his grip on the magic and then we would be faced with a minor God of vast strength instead. Better to let someone else deal with the problem on our behalf. We will kill priests soon enough, that I promise you.’

  From a pouch, the minstrel took a peach and raised it to his lips.

  His companion sniffed and then looked away in disgust. ‘How can you eat that? It’s rotting.’

  ‘Decay happens to everything,’ replied the minstrel softly, eyes on the clouds above. ‘Corruption is inevitable. I am but its servant.’ He took another bite, then tossed the half-eaten fruit into the street. ‘No one could want that Skull more than I do, but our master has a greater plan.’

  ‘One that I am not to be party to?’

  ‘If you have the courage to complain, do so.’

  ‘I-‘ Jackdaw faltered. Too late he remembered that Azaer was always close to the minstrel, lingering where the man’s shadow had once been.

  ‘You require something of me?’

  Jackdaw jumped as Azaer’s voice rang suddenly inside his head.

  Beside him the minstrel inclined his head, as though giving a slight bow.

  ‘No, master,’ the former monk spluttered. He felt a hand caress his cheek, then a sharp pain caused him to yelp involuntarily. The flesh just above his jaw-line felt raw and exposed and when he touched his face, Jackdaw found blood there. Raising his hand, he saw a black feather stuck to the blood on the back of his fingers. He didn’t need a looking-glass to know that part of his tattoo had gone.

  ‘Hush your throat, or I’ll pluck more feathers out. We have a game to play here in Scree, friends to find and friends to lose. Lure them all here and let the drama unfold as it will. We take our bows when the performance is done.’

  PROLOGUE: PART TWO

  In the half-light of the long corridor a shadow moved. Only the listless swish of the thin white drapes covering the tall arched windows at one end disturbed the quiet. A wrought-iron railing decorated with vine leaves separated the corridor from the open hallway below, but the heavy afternoon heat had stifled all activity within the palace; that too seemed shrouded in silence. Even the servants had found cooler corners, where they dozed wearily.

  The guard sighed inwardly. The heat was oppressive enough even without the heavy leather uniform. Rivulets of sweat ran down his arms and over his scalp and prickled hot in his crotch. His head sagged, eyelids drooping as the corridor before him blurred into grey emptiness.

  The shadow drifted behind him, sliding smoothly over the wall but never actually touching the soldier. Despite the gloom of the corridor, the shadow seemed insubstantial. As it hovered against the white door next to where the guard stood, the profile of a blank face showed, impri
soned within the door’s border, then the shadow eased into the dark crack between door and jamb and gently disappeared into the cool shade of the room beyond.

  As outside, all was still within, except for the gentle movement of drapes at the open window, through which came no more than a wisp of a breeze. A huge four-poster bed to the right of the bolted door dominated the room. Curtains of green and gold were tied at each post. The shadow ignored the bed and its occupants, who lay across the linen sheets, barely covered. It ignored the ornate basket-hilt rapier hanging on a chair-back with an axe, the blade of which was perforated by glowing red-edged runes, and moved to the far corner of the room, where a small spiral staircase looked up to a circular mezzanine no more than four yards across. A simple but elegant desk stood at the centre. Eight thin apertures cut into the stone gave a view of the room below. Hanging from the wall were eleven purple slate tablets, two feet high, each covered by a green velvet cloth embroidered with a bee with wings outspread and the name of a city. The shadow ignored the nearest and glided around the desk in the centre until it reached the cloth that bore the word ‘Scree’. It raised a long finger that tapered into a cruel claw and began to trace through the air in front of the covered tablet. A faint scraping broke the quiet.

  The shadow finished its writing and looked through a stone slit at the couple slumbering on the enormous bed. ‘Come and join the performance, my friend. Yours is a starring role,’ it murmured as it twitched the cloth slightly askew.

  Then the shadow spread its insubstantial fingers like an eagle’s talons. As it gave a sharp twist through the air a muted crack echoed around the room. The deed done, the shadow retraced its movements, pausing momentarily at the bed where the two figures still slept, legs fill angled despite the heat. One ethereal finger caressed the man’s cheek before pausing over an eyelid that gave a tiny twitch.