by Tom Lloyd
‘Who else am I to blame?’ he said aloud.
‘What use is blame?’
Isak’s hand tightened, but he kept his anger contained. ‘What in the name of Ghenna do you mean by that?’
‘Blame serves no purpose other than to fuel the fire inside you.’ Ehla’s face softened somewhat. ‘Don’t focus on who is to blame, or who should bear guilt for what has happened. Care about rectifying the matter, not stumbling over it.’
‘I’m Lord of the Farlan,’ Isak said in a controlled voice. ‘Despite what some think of me I’ve learned a little of what that means. I know my duty to the tribe is more important, but such things cannot go unanswered or we will appear-‘
‘Duty to the tribe?’ the witch scoffed. ‘No wonder there are so few warlocks in the Land if all men are so blind. A man thinks he is a great lord if he sacrifices himself to duty to the tribe, never once thinking that the tribe is better served if he recognises the duty he has to himself.’ She squatted down suddenly to be on Isak’s level, her fierce gaze seeking his. ‘Blind faith in duty will drain you as surely as a vampire, and leave you nothing more than a dead husk. Your lord knew that, did he not? Lord Bahl knew that it would, use him up and spit him out, suck the very marrow of his being and leave only dry, broken bones.’
‘“Your blood, your pain, shed for those who neither know of it nor care,’” Isak mumbled, remembering Bahl’s warning when Isak had first strapped on the last king’s armour. The taste of magic buzzing through that underground chamber, the rasp of a dragon’s scales running over the Stone floor. The old lord had warned him that those close to him were in danger, so why had he not listened?
Ehla cocked her head. ‘He said that to you? So he knew what it was doing to him, and he warned you against it. Xeliath tells me he died in the Palace on the White Isle, searching for a Crystal Skull.’
‘He was driven to it,’ Isak said, suddenly desperate to defend Bahl’s decision though he knew it had been foolish. ‘A necromancer drove him there so that Kastan Styrax could kill him.’
‘And before he went, he warned you not to become the same as he, not to make the mistakes he could not help but make. He gave himself to guilt and grief; lost himself in duty until there was nothing left of the man he’d once been, only the lord. He didn’t want you to fail in that duty as he had.’
Isak leapt up, Eolis flashing through the twilight as he cried out angrily. Ehla did not back out of range of his sword’s terrible gleam but faced him down with an expression of calm determination, raising a hand to stop whoever was behind her in the corridor. Isak felt a flood of magic course through his body as he realised it was Fernal there, watching over the one he’d sworn to protect.
‘There is no need for anger; you do not curse him by accepting that as a man he had faults. They are as much a part of a man as his qualities and they tell far more about his character.’ She took a step forward, close enough to reach out and put a comforting hand on Isak’s arm.
For a moment he thought she was going to touch him, to pass on her serenity, perhaps, but she made no more movement towards him. He lowered the sword, ashamed of his temper.
‘Accepting one’s own faults is vital for any man, even more so for a lord. Without understanding what is inside you, it is impossible to understand the Land outside your mind; it is the filter through which you see everything.’ She turned and walked away, so smoothly that she glided like a ghost, the tattered hem of her dress silently brushing the cracked floorboards.
Before she turned to go down the corridor, she paused to give Isak one last considered look. ‘Look inside yourself, my Lord. Understand what lies within you first, and then you will look upon the Land with fresh eyes.’
Isak found himself unable to move as the witch departed. He heard the creak of the stairs as Fernal walked down them, and finally the bang of the door as they left the house and he was again alone in a silent oasis, separated from the others by the walls he’d placed within himself. It took him a while to realise his anger had all but vanished, like smoke on the breeze. The guilt remained; that could not be so easily erased, but now he was not consumed by the desire to destroy everything within reach he could think clearly. He undipped Eolis’ leather scabbard from his belt and sheathed his sword before sitting down, this time with his back resting against the wall.
‘Look inside? What would I find there?’ he wondered aloud. ‘A boy, pretending to be a king? A king, pretending to be a boy?’ He grimaced. ‘A beast straining at its shackles? Or all of them?’
He thought on Ehla’s words. Fresh eyes. He needed to look upon the Land with fresh eyes. ‘What I need fresh eyes for is this damned city, for a way to understand the madness here,’ he said aloud.
And finally he realised the witch, intentionally or not, had been teaching him a lesson sorely needed, and guiding him towards the answers they had all been seeking, answers neither Zhia Vukotic nor King Emin could provide, but that might spell salvation for them all in the years to come.
Look within yourself.
Isak smiled and did so. There, he found fresh eyes.
So now, my chained dragon, he thought, before I go to kill Isherin Purn, I need your eyes. You’ve been hiding yourself away inside me ever since we arrived in Scree, as quiet as a mouse - or as a child hiding under the blankets. Like a king pretending to be a boy. Something here frightens you, doesn’t it? Something on the air, something you recognise.
He stretched out his legs and placed Eolis between them.
So, tell me about Azaer.
Like flowing swathes of grey in the darkness, the mercenary armies surged over the shattered remains of the Foxport gates and into the city. Rojak watched them through failing eyes, sensing the frothing tide of hatred and petty jealousies, now inflated to monstrous proportions by the theatre’s spell, more than seeing the men themselves. He was propped against a cracked column, part of the once-grand entrance to the Merchants’ Forum, and the building’s prominent position gave him a fine view of his handiwork. The inrush of soldiers swept up the maddened flotsam of the city’s population and drove it on through the channels of Scree’s streets. He felt them in his veins, their energy forcing his weary heart to beat on, the violent movement rocking his dying body as viscous, sludgy blood filled his arteries and powered his muscles.
The Forum towered over the neighbouring buildings. The fire that had ravaged the fretwork roofs around the central courtyard and devoured the beams holding them up could do nothing about the fat Stone platform the Forum stood on. On one of the steps, where blood had pooled in the worn-away centre and dried to form a cracked lake-bed, a figure lounged contentedly. She watched her own handiwork with a girlish self-satisfaction, looking back at Rojak every minute or so to ensure he was appreciating how prettily her blazes were lighting a path through the city. Flitter had cast off her delicate theatre clothes in favour of a stained tunic and hauberk, but there was still an intangible femininity about her carriage that Rojak recognised as something that would have stirred him in those years before Azaer called him to service.
He did not give her the satisfaction of appreciating the fires, instead forcing his face into a mask that hid his approval. He could feel her annoyance growing at his lack of reaction. Through the pain in his chest, a flicker of pleasure still shone. At one stage they had all assumed they could manipulate him. One by one, Rojak had dismissed their efforts. Flitter was simply slow in realising that she was nothing compared to him, her fires were paltry in comparison to the conflagrations he had wrought. Only by the light of the coming dawn would Scree be seen as the sculptured masterpiece over which he alone had laboured.
‘It is time,’ Rojak croaked. His throat was a ruin; speaking was a rapturous agony that sparked every nerve in his body, one that would soon culminate in the final pain of his demise. Not death, never death, he thought with the twist of a smile. The loss of his body was inevitable, even necessary, considering the runes cut into his festering flesh that echoed those once
painted on the theatre’s walls, and the ultimate goal of that spell. But he would not die.
I will be spared the gross indignity of that empty beings final judgment.
He gave a cough and saw Flitter looking up at him. Clearly the ruin in his throat had made him difficult to understand. No matter. As he tried to push away from the pillar, one of the Hounds saw his intent and scampered to help. The creature’s arms were like polished oak under his body and he submitted gratefully, letting it bear most of his weight down the two dozen steps to the street below.
‘Where are you going?’ Flitter asked, appearing in a blur on the cobbled road before him. Rojak kept his eyes on the street. She had always moved faster than he could see, even when he was healthy.
‘We go to finish our task.’
‘But surely it’s done?’ she said.
The remaining Hounds joined them, stepping out from the shadows to surround Flitter. The woman paled and instinctively slipped her fingers around the hilts of her hooked knives as the Hounds stared inscrutably at her with their large black eyes. Her eyes flickered between the two she could see and strained to focus on the one just on the periphery of her vision. When at last her nerve broke and she turned to face it, the movement prompted all the Hounds to grin wolfishly and lope off down the street.
Only the one assisting Rojak remained, and the minstrel knew which of them, dog or master, Flitter was most frightened of. He could feel her eyes on him as he watched the Hounds trotting through the dark and snuffling at the air, as though there were horrors worse than them in Scree.
‘What else would you have me do?’ Flitter asked, looking cowed. ‘I thought driving the people towards the abbot was all you intended.’
‘Merely a means to an end,’ Rojak whispered, ‘as is everything in this city.’ He took a tentative step forward, his helper as gentle and tender as a nursemaid. ‘They will not hurt the abbot, only frighten him into doing something foolish.’
‘They will tear him apart!’ Flitter said. ‘The Skull will not protect him against thousands who are so lost to madness they do not understand fear.’
‘They will not harm him,’ Rojak asserted, wincing at having to repeat his words. ‘I have another plan for the abbot, and when it comes to fruition I must be there.’
‘To do what?’
Rojak stopped and looked deep into her eyes. They widened in horror as he looked deep into her soul. Her mouth fell open to shriek but no sound came, only a tremble of air from her shuddering lungs.
‘To do our lord’s will,’ he hissed.
Leaving Flitter shaking and gasping, Rojak and his Hound started off down the street again. In the distance he heard hollering voices, discordant sounds of no meaning against the background of the growing crackle of flames. On his cheek he felt a breath of wind as Hit’s zephyrs tentatively crossed the boundaries he’d raised and once more explored the avenues of Scree.
He smiled. His strength had been too meagre to maintain that blockade any longer, but the wind’s return would serve him as well as its absence had. Flitter’s fires were burning quickly now. The newly returned breezes brought him a taste of their soot and he knew it wouldn’t be long before it carried sparks and heat as well. The placement had been careful, sending the throngs of people east towards the abbot and the soldiers of the Greengate; now they would spread the flames throughout Scree as well.
He heard footsteps behind him, Flitter hurrying to catch up, calling out as she did, ‘Rojak, they’ve seen us! Not all went that way, there are some behind us.’
He could hear the panic in her voice, which was understandable; they’d watched the common folk of Scree tear each other apart with a frenzy even Rojak could scarcely believe. The cruelty in the hearts of men, he thought to himself. How we underestimate it. Master, you are the only one who sees them for what they truly are.
‘Do not be afraid,’ he said as clearly as he could. ‘I am the herald of their saviour; they will not harm us.’
Flitter appeared in front of him again, forcing Rojak to stop abruptly. ‘Are you sure? They’re coming after us,’ she said anxiously, looking over his shoulder.
‘Foolish girl,’ Rojak said, ‘why are you afraid? None of them could catch you, and I have already told you that I am safe.’
With difficultly he turned. Twenty yards down the street a pack of a dozen or so people were scrabbling towards them with savage intent, some on all fours, like the animals they had become. They closed the distance quickly. Rojak could see the twisted face of the leader, a large man with a gross hanging belly, criss-crossed with scratches, rattling a long club on the ground before him as though it was a blind man’s cane. Part of his lip was torn away to expose the bloodied teeth underneath, but his eyes never left Rojak as he advanced. The minstrel recognised avarice there. Greed and envy were his favourite of man’s weaknesses.
Even after all this, Rojak marvelled, even after the curses I have placed upon these people, the vestiges of humanity remain; the arrogance, the envy, the foolish desires - curses of the Gods that they do not recognise in the faces of all those around them. Oh, how their weaknesses rule them.
As the group neared, they faltered. The Hound supporting Rojak snarled furiously; not yet letting go of the minstrel’s arm but tensing under him, readying for the fight. Rojak stared at the big man, daring the mad-eyed wretch to come closer - and astonishingly, he did, shuffling nearer until Rojak could smell his foetid breath.
The man’s eyes darted between Rojak’s face and his chest - the augury chain, Rojak realised. He was careful not to break the man’s gaze. His body was too frail to chance anything. One hasty swipe could pitch him to the ground, never to rise again. Soon, soon he could allow that, but to come so close and be undone by nothing more than a bold animal-He took a calming breath. That could not be permitted.
The leader of the pack sniffed nervously, as if unnerved by the odour of decay that overlaid his own base stench, and reached out a tentative hand. The fingernails were torn and bloody, one ripped off entirely, and the man’s fingers twitched and trembled uncertainly. The minstrel summoned enough strength to squeeze the Hound’s arm, keeping the creature still.
At last he broke eye contact and looked down. The man was brushing a wondering finger against Death’s coin, then his hand began to close about it. He didn’t even notice the shadow falling over them, the deepening dark of night that enveloped Rojak. He chuckled and the man froze, arm poised to grip the coin and wrench the chain off him.
‘If it is death you want,’ he began.
‘Then death you shall have,’ finished a cruel voice from all about them.
The man let the coin fall from his fingers and staggered back, falling fearfully to his knees.
‘To touch my herald is to ask to share in his blessings,’ the shadow continued, and a note of pleasure crept in to its voice. ‘So you shall.’
The man gave a distressed wheeze and fell down, his legs sprawled out before him and a look of horror on his face. He raised his hand and a desperate keening rose in his throat. Rojak smelled the familiar corruption on the air as he watched the man’s finger start to fester. Fat blisters of pus grew and burst all over his hand. The man howled and swatted frantically at his hand as the pustules swiftly worked their way down towards his blackening elbow, but he succeeded only in spreading the contagion onto his left hand.
He fell onto his back, limbs spasming as the blisters popped and hissed on his skin, spattering a foul paste of blood-streaked pus over his belly that began to distend and strain at the skin. His companions were almost yelping in fear; screaming, they fled into the side streets, leaving the man to his unnatural fate.
Rojak hardly noticed, for his bright eyes were fixed on the crumbling figure before him. Fingers curled and fell to the floor like fat maggots tossed into a fire; the man gurgled in terror as he writhed at Rojak’s feet. Distantly, he heard Flitter spewing onto the street and the sound sparked a laugh in his belly.
At last, th
e decaying shape before him stopped squirming as what remained of the man’s life fled under Azaer’s touch. He watched the remains a little longer, then, with a fastidious sniff, he turned and let the Hound support him as he set off once more on his final mission.
Up ahead, somewhere in the streets where they were heading, Rojak felt the pulse of a colossal surge of magic arc through the air. It shook the very ground under his feet, and was followed by a bright while flash, then a crash of thunder, like a raging giant - then a sudden, terrible silence.
Rojak shuffled on, eyes half closed as he felt the enormous swell of suffering ring out through the city that was so closely linked to his own hotly.
‘Abbot Doren, little black-winged bird snug in your nest, so glad you could make your presence felt,’ he said softly, as though whispering into the ear of a beloved child. Against the dark swathe of sky lit by bloody flickering spots, the first screams began. Rojak’s tongue flashed out to taste the air, as though he found some lascivious delight in the mingled corruption and rising stench of fear.
In the distance, coal-black clouds obeyed his summons and drew closer.
‘Our sheep have gone to fold and the night has no more need of its herald; let the final act begin,’ he murmured.
‘So tell me about Azaer.’
‘Azaer.’ The word came back no louder than a whisper, fomenting a buzz of fear that rippled from Aryn Bwr, through Isak’s body and out into the city beyond.
‘You do not know what you ask.’
‘I’m asking for knowledge - and surely I need not remind you that I’m all that stands between you and Death’s final judgment.’
‘Threats, from a whelp? The last king replied with scorn. ‘I had legions burning under my hand, Gods screaming their last at my feet.’
‘And for that, the deepest pit of the Dark Place has your name carved above its entrance,’ Isak said. He had heard there were daemons that restlessly walked the Land searching for the soul of Aryn Bwr, trailing the chains with which they would bind him, if ever they found the enemy of the Gods. He hoped that was just a myth - his own enemies were plentiful enough without vengeful daemons joining their ranks.