by Tom Lloyd
‘What about judgment?’
There was a pause. ‘Judgment is His alone,’ the priest muttered, aware that the dogma of his cult was too plain on the subject to argue, ‘but that does not mean we should comply with the threats of tyrants.’
‘Is it a threat to ask for peace?’
Knight-Cardinal Certinse laughed. ‘No, little prince, I don’t believe so.’
‘Then do not judge, unless you want men to kill each other.’
The little boy turned and headed back towards Ilumene, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. When he reached Ilumene and raised his hands, asking to be carried, the big soldier lifted him with the greatest of care and started back towards the ruined Fearen House, the library where Ruhen had been playing earlier.
Before he was out of earshot he heard someone break the silence.
‘So, Lord Styrax; now that we are suitably chastised, what assurances can you offer us?’ Certinse asked.
Ruhen smiled.
Venn stopped and looked up at the thin shafts of light pushing through the leaves. All around him the Harlequins stopped, their attention solely on the black-clad figure leading them. He ignored them. Breathless anticipation ran through his people whenever he paused or began to speak. Flies danced and swirled and winked in and out of sight as they passed through the dappled light.
‘Oracle?’ came a low voice on his left: Paen, the priestess with eyes of deepest amber, his first follower. ‘Do you sense something?’ Like many of the priests among them she had bleached her robe to a dull white - black remained a colour they would not wear, though now it was out of deference to Venn rather than Lord Death.
Venn turned to her. ‘Only that evening is near,’ he replied at last. ‘We should camp for the night.’
‘I will have Kobel post sentries.’
Venn looked over at the ageing Harlequin, who stood waiting for his command. The old man had been one of the last to come around. His resolve was stronger than most, but in the end Jackdaw’s magic had found some spark of ambition within him and now he was Venn’s general, commander of his followers, the eighty Harlequin warriors and trained youths.
‘Do so,’ Venn ordered, ‘then see if we have any of that ice-wine left. We’ve covered a good distance today.’
Aside from the blades there were only two dozen others in the party, the priests and clan members who had begged to accompany their oracle on his search to find the child. They were making good time through the Great Forest east of Farlan territory, particularly since they had not yet had to take any diversions to avoid Elven encampments. They had few luxuries with them, but ice-wine was drunk in thimble-sized cups, so it was no great burden to carry.
‘Oracle,’ called a returning scout, and Venn went forward to meet the young man, resisting the urge to break into a run for the sheer pleasure of having his strength restored to him.
The youth was no more than sixteen summers of age, too young to have passed the tests yet, but he carried the blades like the others and even now he would be the match of any Elf or soldier he might encounter.
‘You have found a camp?’ Venn asked.
The young man skidded to a stop ‘A camp, of sorts,’ he said, and took a deep breath.
‘Only sorts?’
‘I — Capan thought you would want to see for yourself, Oracle.’
Venn ignored the youth’s discomfort in suggesting what he should do and gestured for him to lead the way. The camp proved only to be a few hundred yards away, but even before he reached it Venn knew what was waiting for him.
‘A perfume on the wind,’ Rojak sighed at the back of Venn’s mind, ‘the scent of change.’
Venn knew what scents delighted the dead minstrel, he’d smelled enough of them in Scree. What he could detect on the wind here certainly fitted, and the sour smell of decay grew stronger as he approached. By the time he reached Capan he was guessing at dozens of bodies, rotting fast in the warmth of a spring day.
He looked up, taking a moment to pick out the high platforms that were usually built in the huge trees of the forest as both refuge and sentinel-post, then turned to the scouts.
The stoic Capan was the only one of the four not to have covered his mouth; he seemed barely to have noticed the stink. He moved only when Venn was close enough to bow to. The Harlequins used their bodies expressively, since they spent most of their time wearing white masks, but Capan gave nothing away through gesture, or through intonation.
‘Oracle, it is like nothing I have seen before.’ He turned and led Venn to the entrance to the camp, where a half-fallen tree was resting on a hump in the ground. Venn almost gagged on the smell as soon as he ducked his head under the thick tree-trunk, but he recovered himself to follow Capan in. A natural hollow in the ground had been dug out to extend it, though it was still small and cramped. It centred on a crudely built circle of stones that resembled a cairn. There was a hump-backed chimney arrangement that diverted the smoke away and over the earthen walls to disperse less obtrusively, which made Venn guess it was a communal fire.
The ground was littered with bodies, not long dead and as yet unmolested by scavengers, but that did not surprise him. The Elves hadn’t been attacked and slaughtered, though some had weapons in their hands, and there were no signs of violence - other than the brutal effects of disease, including protruding black nodules on their necks, wide white blisters on any exposed flesh and strange orange-tinted scabs on the flesh of their fingernails.
Venn had no idea what diseases caused such outbreaks, but whatever they were, they had obviously come on too fast for the Elves to bury - or even move - the first afflicted. There were fifty or more bodies on the floor of the camp, adults and children alike, and whatever had killed them, it had been swift and terrible.
‘This cannot be natural,’ moaned Jackdaw. Venn could feel the man’s revulsion, increased by the fact he had no body of his own with which to retch and shudder.
‘I doubt it is,’ Rojak said, his voice betraying his fascination. ‘I smell magic on the air.’
Venn looked around. Bodies, roughly made tables, discarded and rotten food - nothing he wouldn’t expect to see here. All the Elves were dressed the same. If any of them had been mages, they lacked the human inclination to marry power with grandeur, which he found unlikely.
‘Jackdaw,’ Venn said in the privacy of his mind, ‘what can you sense?’
There was a long pause before the Crystal Skull he’d retrieved from the cavern’s entrance-shrine one night gave out a pulse of warmth.
‘There is something here,’ Jackdaw said with a horrified whisper, ‘like nothing I have ever seen - and it is not alone, it’s like there are fireflies dancing all around the camp, all watching us.’
‘Capan, leave me.’
The scout had advanced further into the camp than Venn, picking his way through the piled bodies with balletic grace, but at Venn’s words he at last showed some emotion, tilting his head in surprise to look at Venn, but when he said no more Capan ducked his head in acknowledgement and left, careful not to touch any of the bodies as he went.
Venn looked around at the scene of horror, frozen in time and undisturbed by wind, predator, scavenger or insect. As he wondered who or what had the power to do this, and who would bother with just a tiny camp, Rojak’s mocking little laugh echoed through his head.
The minstrel had been quiet since first revealing himself, speaking to Venn only a handful of times, and refusing to answer the hows or whys of what had happened since his body had been consumed by a firestorm in Scree. Venn could guess, however: Rojak’s soul had been bound so tightly to Azaer that it had not been his own for many years before his death. No doubt the day the minstrel had lost his shadow he’d suspected that instead of receiving his Last Judgment, he would continue as some subordinate shadow-Aspect of Azaer.
But Azaer had taken mortal form, and when Jackdaw started playing with magic to hide himself in Venn’s own shadow, there had been a transference, whether in
tentional or not.
‘Well my pretty, won’t you come out to play?’
Venn blinked, and felt Jackdaw recoil in his mind. Nothing changed at first, then he noticed a pale wisp of light hanging in the air. He looked up and saw more, a spray of dozens in the late-afternoon air, some almost hidden by the pale sky behind, others clearly visible against the trees.
‘Created in the image of your Gods,’ came a whisper from nowhere, a woman’s voice, soft and ancient, ‘and like your Gods, you enslave those around you.’
From the mud-bank opposite him suddenly appeared a woman as terrible to behold as the ruined bodies all around him. Cold eyes shone out from a pale, emaciated face half-obscured by a curtain of tangled greying hair.
She wore a small crown of grey metal, as ragged and dull as her clothes. After the first moment of shock, Venn realised who she was, and a cold sweat broke out down his back. The Wither Queen was not known for her welcoming nature.
Venn pointed up. ‘They are your slaves?’
‘Bound as I am bound by another,’ she hissed, her dead blue tongue flicking like a snake’s, tasting the air, ‘but not for much longer. My power grows, and a dead man’s bargain is soon broken.’
‘Bargain? Is that why you killed them?’ Venn asked, indicating the dead Elves all around.
The Wither Queen reached up with long broken fingernails and caressed the nearest of the wisps of light. ‘Such is the nature of my bondage, to scour the forest of Elves and leave the humans unharmed.’ She stopped and peered at him with rapacious intent. ‘But what human has three souls?’
‘One who would honour your work, my queen,’ Rojak replied before Venn could speak.
The Reaper Aspect cocked her head in curiosity - not in a human way; it reminded Venn more of a cat’s unfeeling interest. There was no doubt she had heard the words, and she was surprised at the way Rojak had addressed her. Her eye narrowed. ‘To do that you must free me of my bargains.’
‘And if we did?’
Her expression went even colder. ‘Do not think I would substitute one set of chains for another.’
‘Never shall you be chained,’ Rojak crooned, ‘never caged like a God’s pet.’
She took a breath and her tongue tasted the air once more, flicking out towards Venn, as though lapping the sweat from his cheek.
‘Tear down the temple to me in Lomin, defile the ground and break my chains - then you may ask one thing of me, so long as it does not leave me bound to another.’
‘A Goddess asks for her own temple to be defiled?’ laughed Rojak, his delight unrestrained at the perversity of the request. ‘Such a thing would be a joy in itself.’
Venn bowed to her. ‘It will be done.’
CHAPTER 20
Major Jachen squinted up at the sun and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was mid-morning and they’d been travelling since dawn, making a final push to reach Llehden before the end of the day. The sun had been in their eyes all the way and Jachen’s head was hurting because of it - that, and the questions running nonstop through his head.
Lord Isak’s final orders for his Personal Guard had been to travel to Narkang and enter the service of King Emin. That in itself had been enough to provoke near-rebellion in the ranks. Count Vesna had limited the impact by returning the married men to their previous positions before giving the order, but still it rankled. Some of the men still refused to believe Jachen was as much in the dark as they, especially once they had found their new master at his castle outside Kamfer’s Ford.
‘You will go to Llehden,’ the king had said, his face inscrutable. ‘You will find the Witch of Llehden. She has a use for you.’
Jachen shook his head. He had been a mercenary for years, and had served many masters, but this was the first time he’d been passed around like a piece of currency.
‘Can you not tell me any more, your Majesty?’ he’d pleaded. ‘What do I say to my men? They’re the best of the Farlan Army, and they’re ready to die for their lord without hesitation - but to be handed off like mercenaries or slaves . . . they’re men of honour, your Majesty — ’
‘They are men of war,’ King Emin had replied, with enough snap in his voice that the black-clad bodyguard at his side put a hand on his sword hilt.
Jachen had been given an audience by himself, while the rest of Lord Isak’s Personal Guard were left in the courtyard below and told in no uncertain terms to stay put until Jachen returned.
The king’s reaction had left Jachen even more confused; the Farlan and the people of Narkang were allies, were they not? Yet everyone at Camatayl Castle had treated them with suspicion and hostility, as if they were enemies in their midst rather than proven friends and comrades.
‘What is more,’ King Emin had continued after a tense moment, ‘you will go to Llehden with only two of your men - am I right in thinking not all are Palace Guard?’
Jachen had been slow to work out what the king was talking about, and his silence prompted the bodyguard to take a warning step forwards. ‘The Ascetites? Yes, your Majesty, three aren’t Ghosts but agents of the Chief Steward.’
‘They will stay here then, I have need of such men. Their names?’
‘Ah, Tiniq, Leshi and Shinir - they are as thick as thieves and about as honest, but Tiniq at least can be trusted to follow order. He’s General Lahk’s twin brother.’
‘Ah yes, now I remember. I have some knife work to be done. You may tell those three - and any of the rest with the necessary skills - to report to Dashain.’
‘Your Majesty — ’ Jachen had begun, only to have his protests cut off once more.
‘Major! Is there any part of that instruction you do not understand? ’
Jachen hung his head, well-aware of his place and how far any objections could be taken. ‘No, your Majesty.’
‘Then carry out your orders, and without further question, if you please. Narkang shares your grief for Lord Isak, but it does not excuse forgetting your place - indeed, it shows just how serious events have become.’ King Emin’s face had hardened as he leaned forward over his desk. ‘You may not fully understand your orders; you may not have all of the information you think you need, but that should be nothing new. This is a war, and you must do your part. The more you do not understand the reasons for your mission, the more you should realise the deadly importance of the task. Do you understand me?’
Jachen, chastised, saluted, not trusting himself to speak. He had talked his way into trouble his entire career, but he knew enough about the Narkang king to realise talking back now wouldn’t just result in demotion.
‘You all right, sir?’ came a voice from behind him.
Jachen flinched, and Private Marad chuckled in a half-hearted way. The other member of their party, a grizzled sergeant called Ralen, just squinted at him, but as he looked back, the major couldn’t tell whether Ralen’s expression was one of concern or just discomfort at the sun.
‘I’m fine, Sergeant, just wondering what’s waiting for us.’
‘Bunch o’ jabbering monsters, sir,’ Ralen drawled, ‘if it’s anything like the last time we was ’ere.’
‘Nah,’ Marad said, ‘gentry only comes out a night.’ He pointed past Jachen to a long line of huge pine trees that dominated the view. ‘See them big stones at the base o’ them trees? They’re called twilight stones; gentry stand on ’em and watch the sun set. That’s the first you’ll see of ’em all day, so we were told.’
Jachen followed the line of Marad’s finger. He thought he could make out shapes in the shadows under the trees, but with the sun so high it was hard to make out much more. ‘We’ll soon find out enough,’ he said, urging his horse into a trot again. ‘Let’s hope we get more answers here than we did from the king.’
‘From a witch?’ Marad scoffed. ‘Not bloody likely - ’bout as much chance as ’er lettin’ the sarge shag ’er.’
Ralen gave a wistful sigh and started on after Jachen. ‘Man’s gotta have goals in life,’ he said, promp
ting another laugh from Marad. ‘Considerin’ the closest thing she’s got to a friend has blue fur and fangs, I ain’t givin’ up yet.’
The three soldiers found themselves riding through the belt of ancient pine that denoted the Llehden border in silence. There was an occasional marker stone, but it was clear few travelled this way. The woods were strangely hushed for a spring afternoon, the birdsong sounding distant, coming in clipped bursts, as though even the birds were wary to break the silence.
The pines extended a mile past the twilight stones, dwindling in number as the land rose, then dipped away. Only when the last of the huge trees were behind them did they start to see signs of civilisation, and when they reached the first hamlet it was the soldiers who were more surprised. At a fork in the path they came across eight cottages huddled along the bank of a stream, penned in by a wicker fence and cultivated hawthorn thickets. To the right the oak and birch trees thinned out and they could make out the long grass of pastureland.