by Tom Lloyd
‘Got the bastard!’ Endine screeched, his lined face suddenly filling with animation. ‘He’s drunk with blood-lust – he’s not thinking properly!’
As he cried out, the ground at Larim’s feet tore open, a jagged wound ten or twenty yards long, and the white-eye was thrown down, together with the mages and soldiers around him. Stones the size of men tumbled down the slope, cutting a path through the second line of defenders waiting below, but it was the sight of Larim falling forward that made King Emin catch his breath. All around him energies corkscrewed up into the sky as the abandoned magic dissipated. The white-eye lurched drunkenly before toppling over, only just catching himself as his head and shoulders went over the edge into the fissure.
‘Close it up on him,’ Doranei demanded from the king’s other side.
‘I don’t have that sort of power,’ Endine snapped.
‘Not even with the Skull?’
‘You’ve been spending too much time around white-eyes,’ Endine said. ‘The rest of us need a little more elegance if we’re to avoid our hearts exploding out of our chests!’ He closed his eyes and with the Skull of Knowledge held in both hands, he began to whisper arcane words under his breath. A bluish aura appeared around him, whipping up from stillness to a sudden fury in seconds. With a grunt of effort Endine pulled his hands apart again and cast the magic forward. It arched through the air towards Larim, tearing through the desperate defences of the lesser mages and plunging directly down onto the white-eye. Larim somehow managed to wrench himself around, and Endine rocked backwards as the white-eye dragged himself from the fissure’s edge. Enveloped in a blue-tinted cloud, Larim’s own Skull winked and sputtered with light while Endine moaned with effort, his exhausted muscles suddenly straining to close his hands again.
‘Emin!’ he croaked, his hands shaking wildly, and the king looked at him, wild-eyed for a moment until he realised what he needed to do.
‘Daken!’ he shouted to the tattooed white-eye on Endine’s other side, ‘grab his hands!’
Emin took one, Daken the other, and together they forced Endine’s palms back onto the Crystal Skull. The mage cried out with pain as they did so, but suddenly they heard a crack and a crunch of bone and the pressure vanished. The mage’s hands crashed against the Skull with force enough that Emin feared he might have broken them, but Endine was already straining to see the figure on the hillside.
Figures fluttered around where Larim had been, but there was no sign of the white-eye, or the magic he’d been struggling to re-gather.
‘Dead,’ Endine confirmed hoarsely after a moment, almost slumping forward in his seat until Daken jerked him back.
‘Then the time’s come,’ Emin announced. He pulled Endine around to look the scrawny mage in the eye again. ‘You have command of the army, my friend.’
Endine nodded weakly as Ebarn forced her way up to his side, the crystal shards on the battle-mage’s jacket shining as she prepared to unleash her power while Endine gathered his strength.
‘I want a defensive square of those spearmen,’ Emin added, directing his words to Dashain as well as Endine. ‘We need this hinge to hold, or we’ll be split apart and butchered.’
‘We know our duty, your Majesty,’ Dashain yelled, ‘now move!’
The king didn’t wait for a response but spurred his horse forward, the King’s Men and Legana’s Sisters close behind. Ahead the ground was stained rusty-red with blood and churned to a muddy mire, but they all knew that was only the beginning.
CHAPTER 42
They walked for what felt like an age. Isak dragged down the pace as far as he could, but whenever Ruhen got too far ahead, Tiniq or Ilumene would hammer at Isak’s broad back with the pommels of their knives – never hard enough to break his bones, but the pain of the blows lingered long after he had dragged himself up again.
The tunnels twisted and turned, forever descending into the bowels of the Land. The oppressive warmth of the tunnels grew and the mixture of sweat and blood dried stickily across his back while the silver chain remained a hot presence against his skin. They passed through another chamber, then a third and fourth, and each time another squad of soldiers was left to hide in the side tunnels, ready to ambush anyone passing through. Twice Ruhen turned back from the path he had taken, doubling back without haste to take another instead. No one questioned his decisions; Ilumene and Venn were the only people even to speak to the child, and it was clear from the brief responses that Ruhen was not interested in conversation. He was too close to his goal; from time to time his serene face flowered briefly into moments of rare animation and expectation before he caught himself.
Isak kept his eyes down, exhausted and pained by the burden of Termin Mystt, enfeebled by the proximity of Ghenna and the ache it sparked deep in his bones. As they descended he felt the silver chain as Death’s final judgement, the weight of his sins bearing down on him as he came ever closer to the Dark Place of Torment. At last he realised they were in a wider tunnel than before, one that was slowly broadening until it suddenly opened out into a vast cavern that made even Ruhen stop in wonder. Isak heard Ilumene breath an oath at the sight, stopping as he stared up and all around.
Isak took the opportunity to sink to his knees.
The cavern was barely brighter than the chambers they had passed through, but magic filled the air with such intensity that Isak felt a stab of pain in his gut. Behind the great twisted scar on his stomach a fire burned, reminding him of the agonising wound that had killed him. He screwed up his eyes in pain, moaning piteously, but Ilumene kicked him in the ribs and sent him sprawling. His eyes flashed open and he stared up at the roof far above.
The cavern was several hundred feet high, with dozens of natural pillars all studded with crystal formations that glinted with orange-red light. As Isak hauled himself upright he realised the light was coming from the centre of the cavern, fifty yards off, and obscured by pillars wider than a man’s outstretched arms. Through them he glimpsed movement, flickering orange flames reflecting off the stone surfaces. Ahead were carved columns marked with ancient runes and angular images.
‘Come,’ Ruhen called to those behind him, ‘the sacrifice has begun. Soon we will be ready.’
Under Ilumene’s urging Isak shuffled forward, trying to make more sense of the cavern before he slipped and crashed face-first to the floor again. His jailers wasted no time in beating the white-eye brutally until he cried out in agony.
Then Ruhen’s voice stopped them short. ‘Enough. Let him rise.’
Isak stayed on the ground a little longer, curled protectively as best he could, expecting the violence to return, until he looked up tentatively and saw the boy with one white eye staring at him. ‘I promised you peace if you do not interfere,’ Ruhen said, the swirl of shadows in his eyes never more obvious than in the cavern’s half-light, ‘and torment if you defy me. But trust is not easily won; faith is never your first instinct.’
Isak grunted in response, unable to form a coherent reply, but Ruhen said, ‘Let this be a gesture to you. They will not harm you unless you break my faith. I am to be a God this day, so let mercy be my first act.’
Isak stared at Ruhen, momentarily forgetting the pain as the unexpected words slowly fitted into place in his mind. ‘Mercy?’ he croaked in disbelief.
The shadow-eyed boy smiled. ‘You think I do not know what mercy is? King Emin might not believe it, but he has long been my enemy. When you are at war your enemy sees you just as a monster, you understand? A creature incapable of reason, abhorrent in all ways. How else could you fight them?’
‘What about the rest, my friends? Mercy for them too?’
‘Most will die,’ Ruhen said, ‘but such is the nature of war. You fear eternal retribution? I admit I do not know what Godhood is like, but I choose to believe petty revenge would stain my victory. Those who oppose me must be dealt with, but to cast them all into Ghenna out of spite?’ He turned away and headed for the centre of the vast cavern.
&n
bsp; ‘We have time yet, Isak,’ Ruhen called back as Harlequins began to make their way between the stone pillars. ‘Rest a while, then join me with your Gods. We stand at the heart of the Land, on the cusp of a new age. History is born anew this day; the fulcrum of this moment can be permitted a few breaths to savour a purpose fulfilled.’
Vesna snatched up a sword that stood in his path, buried in the chest of a dead soldier. He ducked a blow and brought his own longsword up under the movement, dragging it across the Devoted’s chest with Gods-granted strength, opening the man up. The next attack he caught on his new weapon, shoving the soldier back and slashing at his face. The man stumbled and fell before the blow could connect, toppling backwards over the corpse of a comrade.
The Ghosts on either side of Vesna continued forward, their glaives swinging and falling in terrible rhythm. The fallen man was trampled, unnoticed, by the Farlan élite who squeezed the breath from his lungs before a heavy boot landed on his neck.
Vesna was the heart of their relentless march, shouting himself hoarse in between savage assaults on the Devoted. The remains of the first line were butchered and they drove on into the second, faltering on the slope as the effort sapped their limbs and arrows smacked down on all sides. But a renewed surge came behind Vesna, silent and swift, and it drained the resolve from the faces ahead of him. He didn’t need to turn to see the Legion of the Damned behind him, just charged on ahead of them, casting terrible flashes of light into their ranks to disrupt them before the wave struck.
Shields dropped, spear-heads lowered as yellow flames danced over tabards and tunics. Vesna ran forward with a half-scalped man at his side, grey, desiccated skin flapping loose as the undead mercenary chopped down with his enormous axe and almost split the first defender in two. Vesna took the one beside him, but blinded by spraying blood, the man never saw his own death as Vesna impaled him, shoving him bodily him into those behind.
The ranks were deep enough for most assaults, but Vesna’s veins sparkled with war’s own lifeblood and he punched through them with ease. In his wake came the undead, spreading like rot in a wound, dragging the fractured line apart with every batter and swipe. An arrow smashed into Vesna’s back as he turned to survey the breach, momentarily unable to reach any defenders. The force smacked him forward and he staggered, half-falling against a dead man, who grinned up at him with a broken, hanging jaw.
An arrow protruded from that man’s gullet, but he had no use for talk anyway; the undead soldier shoved Vesna aside and drove on, ruined face no hindrance as he surged down behind the line, chopping with abandon at the rear ranks. Vesna recovered his balance and flexed his shoulders. Feeling no wound, he waved forward the remaining Ghosts at the base of the hill. As he did so, more of the undead jumped past him and Vesna turned to see a counterattack barrelling down the hillside, several regiments of the reserve charging to seal the breach.
The God-spirit inside him whispered words Vesna didn’t know and an arc of blood-tinted fire whipped across the advancing Devoted as arrows dropped like hunting falcons. The front rank collapsed, cut in two as blood sprayed high and shockingly bright against the threatening sky. Vesna ran to meet those remaining, battering one fear-crazed soldier aside and parrying the spear of another before smashing his vambrace into his chest. The soldier was thrown back as Vesna chopped through the legs of the next, both men savagely finished off by the eager undead.
Behind him came the remaining Ghosts, the foot legion who’d arrived in the wake of his insane direct charge. They swarmed forward after the Legion, almost a thousand men in heavy armour bursting their hearts to ascend the slope, swinging their short-handled glaives. The second line crumpled, split apart and descended into chaos. The archers and remaining reserves behind them raced to stem the tide, but with Vesna holding his ground and the Legion chopping through all who faced them, they could do nothing.
Gasping for air, the Farlan nobleman drove onward; King Emin and his black-clad attendants were close behind as he headed upslope. There would be more at the crest, of that he had no doubt, but the breach was won.
There’s still time.
‘Form square!’ Endine yelled hoarsely, his reedy voice echoing like thunder across the battlefield. The Narkang spearmen ran to obey, the first legion forming a shield-wall in the centre of the dip between rise and hill. On their right the Farlan Ghosts tore into the defending lines, but the Narkang men knew they were not there to help them. Arrows dropped from both sides, the Devoted on the nearside of the rise barely involved in the battle, but also aware they needed to hold their position.
Ahead of the shield-wall, on the open ground past the gap between rise and hill, stood a great huddled mass of white-cloaked figures. It was unclear whether they were armed – or whether Ruhen’s Children posed any threat at all. Although they massively outnumbered the three legions of spearmen, it didn’t look likely that the fanatics would be able to do much at all.
Endine turned to the left flank, where the battle clans were embroiled in savage fighting. The mercenaries were less enthusiastic in their assault, but holding position and tying up the Devoted forces as required. They didn’t need a breach there, despite the efforts of Wentersorn and Morghien, trying to draw Vorizh into the fighting. So as long as the left held their ground and prevented the remaining cavalry from encircling the centre, their job would be done.
For a moment he stood still, overwhelmed by the cacophony that surrounded him. The breach on the hill was clearly marked by a great stain of churned bloody mud. The High Mage felt a sudden, powerful sense of dismay at the sight of the desperate, savage struggles going on all across the field, the piled corpses, the screams of hundreds of injured men and women. The dead, already in their thousands, reminded him of the emptiness of that victory at Moorview.
Then a memory of his great friend, the oversized mage Shile Cetarn, filled his mind. They had been colleagues and rivals for years. Cetarn had always been cheerful and ebullient, even as they parted and he walked to his death. The man had been imperfect and arrogant, blinkered and stubborn – and he had been a hero.
When Death’s winged attendants called to him, Cetarn had not blinked or faltered. What more could a man ask for but be remembered like that? I’ll see you soon, my friend, Endine thought, drawing once more on the Skull he carried. Above him the air erupted into flame. Soon, but not yet. I’ll keep you waiting a while longer now.
Amidst the chaos, Amber found a moment of peace. As he moved through the ranks, cutting, hacking, battering his way through, his mind receded into calm. The pain of memory was gone, the fear and exhaustion of daily life had faded into the background. No black birds lingered on the edges of his vision, no ache of their presence drained the strength from his limbs.
He saw only the enemy ahead of him – the splintered shields and spear-studded bodies, the terror on their faces, the shocking scarlet of blood on the pale ground – as the Menin drove steadily forward. They were almost silent, lost in the slaughter as their God had taught them, unaware and disinterested in what happened beyond this fight. The Land could have burned around them and the Menin heavy infantry would not care; until the enemy were all dead or the last frantic defender fell, they would keep to their task.
Amber lunged, his right-hand scimitar scraping across a Devoted’s shield as his left-hand blade hacked into the man’s neck and he fell. Another took his place, only to be smashed from his feet by the infantryman on Amber’s right. Another volley of arrows flashed down and his comrade was caught in the shoulder. He reeled and hissed with rage, but continued to push forward. Another glanced off Amber’s pauldron and clattered against the man behind him even as a ricochet skewed wildly past his face and struck someone else.
The line was fragmented, their order barely holding as more soldiers pushed past Amber, eager to be in the thick of the fighting. The first of those died in a heartbeat as an arrow pierced his neck; the man died standing in the spot his general had been about to take.
Amb
er felt the blood spatter against his helm, but this was not the time to hesitate. He shoved the corpse forward and as it toppled it tangled the legs of a Devoted officer for long enough to let Amber stab him in the face. The man fell shrieking, his mouth a butchered ruin. Amber, numb, trod on the officer’s head and used him as a platform to attack the next.
‘Reform!’ came the shout behind him, the cry taken up by the sergeants up and down the blood-soaked band of ground, and he looked around, momentarily confused, until he realised the enemy were all dead. Arrows still crashed down on all sides, and he watched a Menin raise his sword with a victorious yell, only to have one thwack straight into the eye-hole of his helm. His head snapped back, his limbs twitching as the arrow drove deep into his brain, then he dropped to his knees, pitched face-down into the mud and was still.
As the rear ranks moved up past Amber, he watched the hail of arrows clatter onto their upraised shields. Still nothing could stir him until the sight of Nai running towards him, blood running from a cut down his cheek, awakened something else inside him, reminding him of their purpose there.
He looked up the slope. It would be a hard tramp, one few commanders would want to assault had there been only a legion of defenders ahead; as it was, there were at least five: five thousand men there, bracing themselves. He raised his sword as the new front rank locked shields and the disordered remnants of his own moved in behind them.
‘No surrender!’ he roared, and his shout taken up by the thousands all around him. ‘We are Menin – we will show these cowards how true warriors fight!’
They started up the slope with steady, careful steps. Arrows smacked down, but the soldiers didn’t even flinch at the impacts. Amber pushed his way back to the front, ready to enter the fray again when there was space. If he was fatigued, he couldn’t feel it. If he was wounded, the pain was another part of him that had receded into the shadows. He would kill, and kill again: no retreat, no rest.