The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  Even from his position in the line Vesna heard the answering roar of the Green Scarves, and before the eyes of their savage commander, kept at the king’s side, two legions charged to meet them and the crash of impact echoed out across the plain. The archers sprinted up behind, making up the ground quickly to bring their own swords to bear.

  The clash of steel was distant to Vesna’s ears, but the divine spirit in his blood quickened at the faint clamour. With the archers swarming around the left flank, the Devoted were taken by surprise, and when their supporting troops moved to assist, the remaining Green Scarves charged.

  ‘Colonel Dassai’s giving them a bloody nose,’ Swordmaster Pettir commented. ‘Weren’t expecting a punch right down the centre.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t backfire then,’ Sir Cerse, commander of the Ghosts, replied. ‘Dassai’s young and eager to fight, but he’ll get swamped if he stays there too long.’

  Vesna watched the fight continue. The legions had dissolved into a senseless mass as Dassai’s men hacked a path into the panicked Devoted, but the enemy had more skirmishers, and cavalry not far away. He checked left, waiting for any activity on the rise to the left, but for the moment there was nothing – no response from the reserve cavalry stationed there.

  The centre of the Devoted broke, fleeing back towards their lines, while those on the right peeled back away, seeking the protection of their infantry stationed on the hill. Almost in the same moment the cavalry on the rise started to move, heading down the shallow slope towards the left where there was still fighting. The skirmishers had already turned to join that battle, but they faltered as they saw two fresh legions heading towards them, while the Green Scarves were in chaos still after the fighting.

  ‘Come on, Dassai,’ Vesna found himself muttering, ‘get your men away.’

  The fresh troops charged towards the fighting, swarming around the rear and pressing in on the beleaguered Narkang men. That spurred the rest of the Green Scarves into action, but it wasn’t to withdraw; instead of leaving their comrades to flee as best they could, they charged in a disordered mass towards the fighting, first one legion absorbed into the fighting, then a second, and the skirmishers followed fast on their heels.

  ‘Fate’s eyes,’ Vesna breathed as the centre of the plain became a broiling storm of steel and screaming horses.

  He knew the main body of the army were too far away to be able to help them – their pace was already slow to avoid exhausting the men before the fighting itself. With an effort he tore his gaze away, knowing he had his own work to do, and instead inspected the enemy lines as they came closer.

  The rise on the left had two lines of troops, a thick band of spearmen and a thinner one of archers behind, while more cavalry remained at the peak – no doubt waiting to outflank the Narkang troops and attack their rear. The hill had a double tier, the accessible slopes too constrained for so many soldiers, so before they even started up the hill they would have had to break through a shield-wall. It was a daunting prospect, one made more alarming if the best of their cavalry was in the process of being slaughtered.

  ‘Are they being driven back?’ Sir Cerse asked, sounding hopeful as he peered forward.

  Vesna looked around the fighting for any reference points. There, the first engagement, he thought with a flicker of gladness.

  There was a stretch of debris-strewn ground leading to the current fighting, surely an indication that the savage Green Scarves were still driving into the enemy. The conflict abruptly collapsed in on itself, the Devoted cavalry fleeing and the Green Scarves holding their ground, content to let them go.

  ‘Now get out of the way, you bastards,’ called Pettir, sparking cheers and shouts from the Ghosts all around. ‘Clear the way for the real soldiers!’

  Vesna nodded. They were closing on the enemy lines; already the first arrows were arching towards their left flank and more would be coming soon. The Green Scarves quickly retreated, bloodied and under sporadic fire from both enemy positions, but their point had been made. Vesna knew Daken would be snarling with a white-eye’s fervour at the display of aggression, but the worst was yet to come for all of them.

  ‘Two hundred yards,’ he commented, pulling on his helm and lifting his shield to prop the bottom on his thigh.

  All around him men were doing the same as they came into range of the enemy bows. Most likely they wouldn’t be targeted, being the furthest from each enemy line and the most heavily armoured, but Vesna knew this would be a day of terrible surprises. There was quite enough to kill him out here without adding complacency to the list.

  ‘May Nartis be with us,’ he said aloud, a common commander’s blessing among the Farlan.

  Pettir cackled at his side. ‘Don’t need ’im!’ the Swordmaster called out to all those within earshot, ‘we got our God o’ War right here beside me – today, boys, we fight like Gods!’

  The air became hot in Isak’s throat, each breath a rasping struggle as he staggered on down the tunnel. The slope was shallow, the tunnel wide enough for four Harlequins to comfortably walk abreast, and very high – even had he been able to stand upright and stretch up his arms, Isak wouldn’t have been able to reach the irregular roof of the tunnel. All of a sudden the tunnel opened up and those leading spread out into some sort of cavern without a word. Ruhen walked on into the centre of a space thirty yards across, all dark stone and looming stalagmites. The dull, lambent red glow was stronger in here, but it was still so dark Isak could see only the flow of rock and the barest details of those ahead of him. Stalactites above shone wetly in the faint light. Beyond them the glint of a crystal seam crossed the roof.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ Ilumene asked, unimpressed with the bare rock chamber.

  ‘Less than halfway,’ Ruhen replied, facing away from them.

  Isak looked past the boy and saw more tunnels leading off into darkness. Which path was the right one, he couldn’t tell, but he felt a flicker of hope as he looked around the room. There still was time for the army to break through; he just had to hope they would do so in time, and that someone like Legana could follow the link between them through these tunnels quicker than Isak was moving.

  The room swiftly filled behind him, the Harlequins and Acolytes forming neat squads while they waited for their saviour’s directions.

  ‘Koteer, leave some Acolytes here,’ Ruhen said suddenly, turning to face the dozens filing briskly in.

  As the boy spoke Venn began gesturing with his Crystal Skull, and trails of darkness followed his movements; the magic gave the curling gestures an elusive life of their own as they spread out and lingered faintly on the walls and rocky formations. Koteer spoke a few words in his own dialect and a group of five Acolytes bowed in acknowledgement, followed by a pair of Harlequins who did the same at a gesture from Ruhen.

  ‘Let them blunder in the dark, led a merry dance,’ Venn intoned, his Crystal Skull pulsing with red-tinted light.

  Isak heard a dry whisper race around the edges of the cavern; he wasn’t the only one there to look for the source. The black Harlequin laughed as he saw the surprise on the faces of those around him, but instead of explaining he gave a theatrical flourish and bowed to the assembled figures.

  ‘What was that, an invocation?’ Tiniq asked from behind Isak.

  Venn inclined his head to the man just as a sudden stink of decay filled the cavern. Isak’s stomach lurched again and he dry-retched as the stench betrayed a presence he recognised only too well. A gust of wind rushed up from nowhere, sliding greasy fingers across his brow, and as Isak recoiled at the touch, a cold cruel voice whispered, ‘Now I see you bound and kneeling, a slave as you tried to make me, white-eye.’

  Her presence momentarily surrounded him, but before Isak could attempt to respond the Wither Queen was dragged away again. He shuddered as the stink of plague washed over him in her wake, but he forced his head up to see the Aspect of Death manifest at Venn’s side. In the magic-suffused air Isak could sense enough to see he
was not the only one shackled by Ruhen’s disciples: the power Venn held contained her just as effectively – and without it she would be almost as stricken as he was.

  ‘My Queen,’ Venn said, the echoing voice not quite his own, ‘you will haunt these tunnels too, distract any who follow us, lead them astray as you play your games.’

  The Wither Queen’s dead eyes flashed with hatred. ‘I will do as you command,’ she croaked in the rasping voice Isak remembered only too well from his own dealings with her.

  At a tug on his leash Isak forced himself on again as Ruhen started off down a tunnel set just behind a stalagmite. Venn turned to follow without a further word, secure in his hold over the Goddess, and an escort of Harlequins padded along behind.

  Through the rock and dirt underfoot Isak thought he felt some distant shudder – the roar of daemons, or the heave of great beasts fighting. Again he tested the silver chain, but with magic running through it, its strength far exceeded his own. His thoughts on the friends no doubt fighting and dying on the surface, Isak stumbled on as slowly as he dared through the dark towards his enemy’s final victory.

  ‘Now.’

  The command went out as the sky filled with noise. Vesna heard no response, he just had to hope Nai and the other mages had heard him as the Farlan heavy cavalry charged. Behind, ahead, left and right: the voices rang out with hatred and fury, the soldiers screaming down their fear as the shuddering impact neared.

  He didn’t look; there was no time, and the God in him already knew. With near-perfect timing the centre hit their enemy positions almost as one, the Menin and Ghosts making up ground with a mad, reckless burst of speed, the left flank not far behind.

  The Devoted infantry stood behind a shield-wall at the foot of the hill. The irregular slope and narrow front meant their packed thousands could not all fit, so the first line of defence was set at its base. Arrows hammered down from the slopes, regiments of archers perched on every precarious ledge on the rocky hill, while more legions of spearmen waited in a second line on the slope.

  Behind him, Vesna sensed a powerful pulse of magic break like a storm-cloud over the charging cavalry. A shockwave raced through the ground, causing his own hunter to check its stride mid-charge, but the magic flashed forward ahead of them in a heartbeat. Without looking back, he knew Legana’s Crystal Skull was blazing with power, the magic gathering up stones and dirt around the defensive trench dug by the Devoted. In his mind Vesna heard her scream with pain at the power she wielded, but ahead the loose ground jolted and writhed before rising up across a hundred yards of ground.

  The line rushed up to meet them in those final yards, and Vesna tightened his grip on his sword and roared. His horse leaped in that final moment, and the whole leading line followed suit, the horses’ minds soothed by magic to be unafraid of the solid wall ahead of them. His head down, Vesna felt the impact on the beast’s barding, bodies and shields smashing against it, a spear punching into its belly and snapping under its momentum. All around him the tidal wave of cavalry smashed forward, crushing the ranks of Devoted infantry in an explosive impact.

  The black, bitter taste of incarnating daemons blossomed in his mind and he tasted their unholy scent away on the right flank. He bellowed with renewed strength, colours and flashes of light dancing before his eyes, the Land moving too fast even for his God-blessed vision. Impacts rocked him one way then the other and his horse writhed and screamed beneath him as the stink of blood and bowels filled the air and added to the chaos and clamour.

  His feet slipped from his stirrups and he threw himself forward, not waiting for his horse to fall. The golden lion helm blazed with unnatural light as Vesna unleashed his Skull’s power and before his feet touched the ground, one Devoted was dead on his sword. Vesna charged on with terrifying speed, driving his shield at a standard bearer, and as the man’s helm crumpled under the impact, his sword sheared through the shield and breastplate of another, spraying blood high into the air. He moved on through the reeling ranks, chopping and battering so fast they could do nothing but watch their deaths come.

  All around him Vesna sensed his brothers driving forward, killing and bludgeoning, falling from dying horses or impaled upon the spears of their victims. Many of the first charge had died, and Vesna sensed their deaths with sudden intensity as the God of War honoured their falling, but their loss had been accompanied by hundreds of the Devoted, rank after rank killed in one swift burst; three legions broken so quickly many of their number did not yet even know it.

  Behind came more mounted Ghosts, driving into the last remaining space with slaughter on their minds. Vesna felt the blood spatter and gush over his black armour while the roar all around only got louder.

  Larim, Lord of the Hidden Tower, looked around in confusion. The charge had been astonishing, driven by a desperation he could not understand. They had advanced under a hail of arrows, tramping forward while they died in their hundreds, but never wavering. When the charge had come a white corona had surrounded Larim and the mage gloried in his new power, while waiting for a magical assault.

  On his right, black shadows blossomed, daemons raging out across the weakened boundaries and leaping for the first line of the defenders. Larim sent a dozen golden arrows to answer them, each shining dart the length of a man, but he gave no order; it was a feint, he knew it. Within the Menin ranks, men were ripped apart, golden light enveloping their bodies and charring their flesh before they even fell to the ground, but Larim held back the full force now at his command.

  The daemons had been only half-summoned into the daylight; they were easily driven off. Larim laughed, realising it was that fool Nai who’d dragged them forward. Even without the Skull he was a far more powerful mage, his necromancy far more refined than that shoeless worm’s.

  There.

  Larim found his gaze dragged right, where the attackers had yet to close on the rise. Thirty yards left to go, and deadly rain was hammering through shields and armour, when a burst of magic rippled the ground between them. From nowhere dark figures appeared; tall, ragged barbarians rushed forward, outstripping their allies in the last yards of the charge. Magic flashed out from the ranks, cutting forward into the defenders with red and white light, and fire erupted around one legion standard just as the unnatural barbarians reached the Devoted spear-points.

  At last he unleashed the power of his Skull; churning the earth across the defending ranks as he threw wave after wave of golden arrows at the Legion of the Damned. In his mind he shouted up to Vorizh, circling up above, never slowing his assault, even as the air screamed around him under the force of bucking energies. Man and undead alike were torn apart, the nearer flank shattered by his furious assault, even before the dark shapes of the crimson wyverns dropped down from the heavy clouds above. A larger one followed – Ruhen’s grey dragon, called from Byora – and landed awkwardly on the furthest edge of the attacking Legion.

  The pale white-eye giggled as he saw, amidst the cloud of dust and further, the dragon had crushed a whole section of Devoted defenders. As though inspired by its careless abandon, he redoubled his efforts at the attacking force, though they had closed with the Devoted now, and his magic incinerated attacker and defender alike.

  From the broiling maelstrom of fighting, coils of black smoke reached up and whipped across the dragon’s flank. The two wyverns recoiled at the attack, realising the power behind it was beyond them; and they flew up into the air until they were hovering above the fighting. Larim laughed more, and directed his assault on the source of that magic. A white shield formed above the troops and his arrows burst upon it, cutting short his laughter. There were two Skull-bearers there, one deflecting his attack and the other tearing strips from the dragon’s wings while the beast writhed and bellowed in pain.

  ‘I don’t need to kill you,’ Larim muttered. ‘Enjoy this while it lasts. You cannot afford your attack to be blunted, and even now it falters.’

  As he spoke, a figure dropped from the lower w
yvern, spiralling down towards the mage attacking the dragon. Magic lashed up to meet him, but Vorizh reached the ground with blade slashing down. The black-armoured vampire disappeared into the press and Larim flinched in shock, sensing a sudden cut-off of energies – but not through a mage’s death; it was the casual abandoning of a spell.

  The surging mass of undead troops enveloping the Devoted line vanished in the blink of an eye, and though the dragon and wyverns dipped again to attack, Larim felt it like a punch to the gut.

  Mage Endine struggled to keep his seat, one hand wrapped tightly around the saddle horn, the other was outstretched towards the Devoted lines. At his side Emin looked around, craning his neck to try and make out what he could of the left flank.

  ‘The illusion’s gone,’ Endine reported, sensing the break in Morghien’s spell.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Emin demanded, watching the three monsters renew their assault. He smacked a gauntlet on Doranei’s shoulder and the King’s Man yelled an order. The foot legion of the Ghosts bellowed and charged forward with the Legion of the Damned, towards their hero, Vesna, raging at the heart of the slaughter.

  Endine didn’t reply; he couldn’t tell, and he had only one thing on his mind right now. It wasn’t hard for him to make out the brightly coloured figure of Lord Larim on the hillside, huge golden arrows erupting from the shuddering air around his hands. The small mage narrowed his eyes and felt the Skull respond, momentarily glowing hot before a bolt of crackling white light flashed forward towards Larim.

  The white-eye saw it coming and a grey shield briefly obscured him from view, but then the bolt struck – not the shield, as Larim had expected, but at the ground, further down the slope from him.