The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  It was a young man of no more than fifteen summers, barely an adult, thin-limbed and pale. Old scabs had formed around his mouth, and the white scars of ringworm were clear on his neck. His collarbone had been cleaved through and Amber’s scimitar had chopped into the ribcage below as well. Blood poured from the wound, bubbling up like oil from the ground. The youth stared in shock at the sky above, his mouth working feebly as he tried to scream his last pain. Before Amber could end it, he saw the light fade in the young man’s eyes; his body sagged and the flow of blood tapered off.

  ‘Guess that answers one question,’ Daken commented as he kicked a corpse out of his way.

  Amber looked up with a frown.

  ‘What the reception would be like for us,’ Daken explained, pointing towards the city walls a few hundred yards off. ‘No Devoted, but plenty more o’ these fuckers.’

  ‘None of them ran,’ Amber muttered, wiping his scimitars and sheathing them again. As he reached up his pauldron snagged again and he was forced to tug it back into place. The straps holding it had been sheared through in the last skirmish. ‘Not even when they realised they would be slaughtered.’

  He looked around at his troops. They all bore the scars of the running war they were fighting: half-healed cuts and deep bruises, mismatched armour where some piece had been irreparable. Every skirmish now ended in a flurry of scavenging, belts and boots as valuable as weapons and food. With every day they looked less like a Menin army; more barbarian warriors than hardened, drilled infantry.

  Every day Amber felt their eyes on him, the unspoken thoughts that he was the one doing this to them – he was the one asking for this relentless battle, and he could promise only leagues more of it to come.

  ‘Aye, I heard folk were dumb in these parts,’ Daken said.

  ‘That’s what surprises me – not that they’re dumb, that they were so fanatical. Tor Salan was as secular a city as I’ve ever seen, founded on magic and science, not devotion to the Gods. Not the most fertile grounds for tales of a saviour.’

  Daken made a face and went back to surveying the haphazard shapes before them, the mounds of steel, brass and stone resting where they’d fallen. The Giants’ Hands – Tor Salan’s famed defences – were now lying useless.

  ‘Oh I don’t know. Your lot cut the heart out o’ this city, remember? You killed every mage here, so those defences don’t work and their way o’ life collapsed around them. Might have made them a little desperate, a little more open to persuasion.’

  Amber nodded. For all his bloodthirsty bluster, Daken had travelled far across the Land and seen enough to know how life worked for most folk. His counsel, or the kernel of it, at least, tended to be useful more often than not.

  ‘At least the Devoted couldn’t use the Giants’ Hands on us,’ Nai said, joining them. The necromancer used his mace as a walking stick, the odd-sized boots he was wearing making him lurch even more than normal.

  ‘Your king said they would retreat, that they don’t want to fight here,’ Amber pointed out. ‘They never intended to defend Tor Salan, only recruit here.’

  ‘Well they did that,’ Nai said. ‘The scryer says forty thousand have dug in around the road to Thotel. Too many for us to break through, I’d guess, what with another army marching down from the north.’

  ‘North? Where did you hear that? The scryers didn’t tell me that,’ Amber said.

  Nai shifted uncomfortably. ‘Ah, a different source, that one.’

  ‘Fucking daemons?’ Daken exclaimed. ‘Tsatach’s fiery balls, you just don’t learn, do you? Bloody necromancers.’

  ‘I didn’t invoke anything,’ Nai protested, ‘but some covenants still hold true.’

  ‘So what now? Do we dig in and wait to be attacked?’

  ‘The army needs a rest,’ Amber said. ‘The king said supplies would follow us once the way was clear. I don’t think we’re welcome in Tor Salan now, and we’ve killed enough civilians for the time being. We advance as far as we can without getting caught in a battle and dig in, but we won’t be attacked. Daken, your Green Scarves can raid the Devoted as much as you like, but the way home is blocked to us, so until King Emin’s army reaches us, we wait.’

  He looked east towards the Devoted army, many miles away now. His skin felt cold. Even the realisation that they would have to fight through Ruhen’s armies to find the way home did nothing for him. The first milestone on that journey had been crossing the border, such as it was. The second had been reaching Tor Salan and ridding it of Devoted troops.

  Perhaps by the third, I’ll start to feel something again. He scowled and looked up at the sky. Crows wheeled high above.

  Isak blinked and uneasily opened his eyes. Slowly his surroundings came into focus: curved wicker struts arched over his body. His feet pressed against wooden boards. Underneath him was a sticky bedroll; above him, a ripped canvas was lashed over the struts, admitting a little light through the various tears. He could just make out a pale grey sky through them, and dark patches on the canvas showed where spots of rain had fallen.

  The bed rumbled and jolted beneath him; igniting a dull ache in his skull that made him groan and put his hands to his head—

  —or one hand, at least. Isak blinked at his white palm in confusion until he realised his right arm had been loosely bound to the nearest strut. The dusty black palm was empty, as it usually was when he woke, but clearly someone had decided not to take the chance.

  He fumbled with the leather ties, eventually getting free. He inspected himself, and discovered someone had changed his clothes, put him in breeches and left a shirt and boots to one side. The blanket had slipped off, and he stared down at his body. The indentation in his belly was most obvious: a wide mess of scarring the size of his flattened hand, followed by the raised circle of the rune burned into his chest. That seemed so long ago, his first night in Tirah Palace, but unlike his other injuries he remembered that searing pain with fondness.

  ‘Still not so pretty,’ Isak croaked and patted the cloth strip that bound the Skull of Ruling to his waist.

  He’d not been without the Crystal Skull since taking Termin Mystt. Without it his mind, assailed by the raging power of Death’s black sword, would be torn apart completely.

  The faint smell of mud drifted through the hanging canvas flaps at the rear of the wagon, evoking fragmented memories of his life with the wagon-train before the day he was Chosen by Nartis. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. ‘If that’s my father driving,’ he muttered, ‘I’m gonna punch the bastard.’

  ‘If I were your da,’ laughed Carel from the driver’s seat just behind Isak’s head, ‘I’d have whipped you out of that bed at dawn and told you to set the traces!’

  Isak struggled around until he was kneeling on the grimy mattress. Bowing his head to avoid the struts above, he shoved the canvas open to see Carel’s grinning face looking back while another man held the reins. Carel held out a filled pipe to him while the hooded driver turned to acknowledge Isak: Tiniq, General Lahk’s brother. He was one of the few bodyguards who hadn’t been returned to the ranks of the Ghosts – as he disliked riding almost as much as horses hated to be ridden by him, he’d doubtless volunteered to drive the wagon.

  ‘Thought you’d lost that habit,’ Carel commented mildly. ‘Passing out like some girl on the battlefield? I dunno, smacks o’ cowardice to me.’ He laughed.

  The white-eye tried to find the words to respond to Carel’s banter, but his mind was blank.

  Carel thumped him on the shoulder and smiled fondly. ‘Don’t worry; I know what you’re like when you’re just woken up. Here, make yourself useful, lazy bugger.’

  Isak frowned, but he took the pipe and pressed his thumb into the bowl, lighting it with a spark of magic before handing it back. ‘I thought for a moment I was back on the wagon-train,’ he said as Carel puffed away at the pipe.

  ‘Relieved, then?’

  Isak sighed and scratched the patchy stubble on his cheek. ‘I

&nbs
p; don’t know, to be honest.’

  ‘Fate’s eyes!’ Carel exclaimed, ‘I never thought you’d miss that lot! Don’t tell me you’re looking back fondly on life there?’

  ‘Nah – they’re still a bunch of bastards; the ones I can remember, at least,’ Isak said. ‘I think I’ve lost a few in my head; I can’t remember enough names and faces for all the caravans.’ He shrugged. ‘But life was simpler then. I might not have liked it much, but at least I wasn’t coming apart at the seams.’

  ‘Ah, well, life ain’t fair. At least people care about your opinion now, eh? All those wagon-folk would pretend you’d never even spoken; now a whole army’s marching on your word alone.’

  ‘Not my word, the king’s.’

  ‘Hah! Sure, he gave the order, but he’s following your lead – yours and Legana’s.’ Carel paused. ‘They’re an odd couple those two, but thick as thieves nowadays. You reckon they, ah—?’

  ‘Reckon what? That they’re—?’ Isak laughed. ‘Bloody soldiers, only one thing on your minds.’

  ‘Well, he’s a king, ain’t they expected to shag everything in sight? Anyone who gets married for political reasons won’t stay faithful.’

  ‘Any man tries that with Legana, he’ll find out the hard way how quick she can draw a knife. They’re friends, nothing more. They both – they can see each other as a person, not just a Goddess or king. Brings them close, means they can trust each other, and so can I.’

  ‘Plus Ardela looks the jealous type,’ Carel added.

  Isak looked past the veteran at the column of men, horses and wagons and recognised the broad road they were slowly trundling down: the trader route to Tor Salan. ‘So how long was I asleep?’ he asked.

  ‘Passed out like a big girl, you mean?’ Tiniq quipped, attempting to join the banter.

  ‘Fuck off and drive the wagon,’ Isak snapped.

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence Carel waved the pipe in Isak’s face and the white-eye took it, happy to have the distraction.

  ‘You were out three days,’ Carel said. ‘The king went after the Devoted troops when they retreated, but they were in better shape to march and they’re well ahead. He left you with a rearguard, but after a day I decided there was no telling when you were going to wake up, so we loaded you into this and went to catch ’em up. We reached the army mid-morning today – they keep having to stop and probe ahead because the Devoted have left divisions of troops staggered behind them – they’re not waiting for a fight, just looking to strafe any ragged edges, but it all needs a proper response.’

  ‘We’ll make good time on the road,’ Isak said after a moment. ‘Is anyone cutting cross-country?’

  ‘Aye, Vesna and Lahk have taken five divisions to harry their flanks, but given the ground this road’ll be the fastest route for as many infantry as we got.’

  ‘So now we chase them,’ Isak said wearily, ‘all the way to the Waste. Let’s hope the Chetse take exception to them, slow them up enough for us to force battle.’

  ‘Reckon they will? Where’s Ruhen going, anyway?’

  ‘Keriabral, Aryn Bwr’s fortress – where this all started, near enough.’

  ‘Why? What’s out there?’

  Isak took a long draw on the pipe before replying, as though reluctant to voice the answer. ‘Why? Because I weakened the Gods, and now’s the time to challenge them, when they can’t defend themselves.’

  ‘And he can really do it?’

  ‘That and more,’ Isak said with a grim expression. ‘He’s got thousands of devoted worshippers, near-limitless power and half the opposition he expected.’

  Carel fell silent.

  ‘And you can stop him?’ Tiniq asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘If I can catch him, I can kill him – not just his mortal body, Azaer too. And we still hold the majority of Crystal Skulls; without them he can’t make the Gods of the Upper Circle kneel, so he can’t avoid us forever.’ He sighed. ‘Unless he’s mad enough to kill them all. There’s always that.’

  CHAPTER 34

  Ilumene lit his cigar from a burning stick, puffed appreciatively at it and continued on. There were wary faces around the campfire; Devoted soldiers watching him like mice watching the cat. He ignored them; he enjoyed their fear, but he had better things on his mind.

  Venn walked silently ahead through the regimented rows of tents, the white leather grip of his sword almost the only thing visible in the dark. Ilumene caught him up again before they had reached their destination, the tents of the Jesters and their acolytes at the edge of the main army camp.

  ‘Any guesses what this’s about?’

  Venn shook his head.

  The former King’s Man blew a lungful of smoke across Venn’s face. ‘Not even a guess?’

  ‘I suspect they will offer us a drink,’ Venn said at last, realising Ilumene was going to keep talking until he got a response.

  ‘Well, I won’t complain there. Doesn’t sound like ’em though, unsociable lot, our Jesters.’

  ‘It is an unusual sort of drink.’

  ‘Seen it before, then?’

  Venn nodded. ‘In my years of bondage,’ he said solemnly, ‘I travelled the Waste for a time. The Jester clans welcomed me as befitting one bearing a holy charge.’

  ‘Too bad most others thought of you as the entertainment, eh?’

  Venn stopped and looked Ilumene in the face. ‘Our reasons for being here are not so different.’

  ‘Never said they were.’ Ilumene looked Venn up and down. ‘Someone’s got prickly now he ain’t the fighter he used to be.’

  ‘I remain skilled beyond most others in this camp.’

  ‘Never said you weren’t,’ Ilumene said with a grin. He puffed away at his cigar and then continued, ‘Come on. If it’s some quaint barbarian custom we’re invited to, Rojak will complain if he misses it. Won’t bother me o’ course, but I reckon he’d keep you up the rest of the night singing all manner o’ filth. Minstrels are all the same, after all, just entertainment for the low masses.’ If Rojak responded to that in the privacy of Venn’s mind, the former Harlequin made no sign; he gracefully matched the taller man’s pace without appearing to hurry. They were admitted to the Jesters’ camp without a word by the white-masked guards and escorted by curt hand gestures to the tall tents where their Demi-God lords awaited them.

  The small camp was strangely silent, even quieter than the subdued Devoted on three sides of them. The warriors were all loitering on the edges of a central square around which were the Jesters’ own tents. Over the last few weeks he had discovered there was a clear division within their ranks, though little difference in the way they dressed. The Harlequins wore their porcelain faces to ensure all roles and moods were conveyed solely by gesture, but Venn had suggested it had started as an echo of the serene faces of the divine, unencumbered by emotion. What ever the truth, the only way to tell white masked Acolytes and Hearth-Spears apart were the weapons they carried. The Acolytes, the élite, carried long, two handed swords; they worked as mercenaries alongside their lords. The Hearth-Spears, the men and woman of the clans, defended their homes with javelins or spears and oval shields.

  Ilumene looked around. Most of the hundred élite Acolytes were assembled here, so whatever was going on, it looked like they were involved.

  ‘Lord Koteer, Blessed Sons of Death,’ Venn called as he approached the seated Demi-Gods, ‘I thank you for your invitation to attend this ritual.’

  Koteer, the eldest of the Jesters who spoke for them all, looked up. His grey skin faded into the night’s darkness, leaving his white mask even more stark and ghostly. ‘We intend to raid the enemy – with your permission, Ilumene, as the voice of the Child,’ he announced. His voice was accented with age, but his words remained precise and clear. ‘We invite the Harlequins to join us.’

  ‘Just the Harlequins?’ Ilumene asked. ‘What if the rest of us want to join in the fun?’

  Koteer regarded him. ‘It will be a night raid, tomorrow, when t
he moon is darkest. The Harlequins can move silently at night. Any others will betray us.’

  ‘Your Acolytes can see in the dark?’

  Koteer gestured and the two disciples of Ruhen edged forward to get a better view. Smoky braziers flanked the entrance of each large tent; the flavour of incense was heavy on the air. Ilumene could make out a blackened bowl, some dark liquid bubbling gently within it, sitting upon a small iron brazier. Koteer unbuckled the vambrace from his left arm and pushed up his sleeve. Accepting a knife from the nearest Acolyte, the Demi-God started intoning something, then slit open his wrist, letting a stream of darkly glowing blood pour down into the bowl. Then he stirred the contents with the blade of the knife and handed it back.

  With blood still dribbling from his wrist, he ran his fingers over the wound and spoke more arcane words in Elvish, the language of magic, and the wound sealed. An Acolyte came forward with a fresh piece of linen to wrap around the wrist and Koteer held that in place while his vambrace was buckled back on.

  Another Acolyte stepped forward with a silver jug, poured something that looked like water into the bowl and stirred it again with a naked blade, then small flasks were passed forward by all the watching Acolytes and carefully filled by Koteer’s attendants.

  ‘The clans share our blood, one and all; many of the Acolytes are our sons, but they remain human,’ Koteer said. ‘This ritual temporarily brings out the divine in their blood. Mortals cannot endure that too often, but in times of war, the risks are worth taking.’

  Venn said, ‘I will send thirty Harlequins to join you – I can spare no more; the risk of assassins remains too great.’

  ‘Acceptable,’ Koteer confirmed. ‘We will double back while the army moves on; the enemy are close enough that we can cover the distance in the day and strike their camp in the darkest part of night.’

  ‘And when you reach them?’ Ilumene asked. ‘You’ll never get near Emin or the Farlan boy; they’re too well guarded.’