The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘That tells us nothing, bar the fact that the killer might have found what he was looking for. Still, I assume you would be more animated if Calath had been capable of magic so perhaps we should be looking elsewhere.’

  For the next account Brandt took position by the empty fireplace, leaning easily on the mantelpiece with a rather more relaxed air about him.

  ‘We have now a report taken yesterday from a shopkeeper on the Springs Road, a man named Gorters. It refers to an incident that took place just over a month after the marshal’s first fit. The manservant, Veser, tells me that this instance – of which he was unaware until I asked him – preceded a dramatic tumble in both spirits and health of Marshal Calath.

  ‘“Marshal and Lady Calath had entered the shop with something of a celebratory air, so Gorters was careful to state at the outset. Though the marshal’s leg seemed to be affording him a little discomfort it didn’t appear to have affected his mood a shred as they went about looking for a present for the lady. The shop is one that sells fine gifts; ornaments and furniture of the highest quality I’m told, but with people like my brother and his family passing most of the year in Narkang these days, I’m sure trade remains good.”’

  Brandt and I shared a smile there. His brother, Suzerain Toquin, was a proud and extravagant man whose wealth had increased dramatically as Narkang prospered. The brothers lived very different lives nowadays and I knew Brandt was more comfortable as a part of my family than his own.

  ‘“The shopkeeper guessed from their demeanour that she was expecting a child – though when we questioned the servants there none claimed to know of it so we must assume Gorters was wrong – but they would take no suggestion from him and were content to browse.

  “When the marshal expressed dissatisfaction with the wares on display, the shopkeeper directed him to the back room where some of his most recent arrivals were stored. Accordingly, the marshal entered this room, leaving his wife admiring a cabinet of trinkets with Gorters.

  “Only a minute had gone past when the heard a cry of dismay, a yelp like a frightened dog so the shopkeeper described it, but Lady Calath rushed through as if it were a matter of life and death and Gorters followed. When they entered they discovered the marshal facing a massive ornate mirror; one Gorters had bought from an auctioned estate only a week previously. It was of an old style; unremarkable in form or provenance but of a sort recently popular with the merchants of the city apparently.

  “The marshal stood with his back to the door, hands gripping the frame of the mirror and shoulders trembling. His wife rushed to his side, but Gorters said he could not bring himself to enter the room. While Lady Calath tried in vain to drag her husband away from the mirror, crying out his name in a terrified voice, Gorters caught sight of the marshal’s reflection. The man was quite willing to express his cowardice in this matter, rather surprisingly I felt, but the man was adamant about what he saw.

  “In the mirror he could see the marshal’s face clearly, or rather, in his own words; ‘it was the face of Marshal Calath, but distorted into something awful. His features were twisted, his eyes filled with shadows racing like clouds on the wind, lip curled in purest hatred.’

  “Whatever Gorters truly saw, it shocked and horrified him enough to ignore Lady Calath’s repeated calls for his assistance. As he stood there, transfixed by that ‘daemonic visage’ he heard a voice, a voice he claims came from the mirror rather than the marshal himself.”’

  ‘Well, his fear got the better of him then, this is clearly another symptom of Calath’s illness,’ I said, unable to keep my opinions to myself. ‘At this point I don’t believe in any supernatural explanation. I may not understand the workings of lunacy, but I’ve heard enough of it to believe our marshal had become a truly ill man.’

  Brandt looked at me with what I term his professional expression; one he normally reserved for overeager young watchmen. It was only my advanced years that reminded me not to apologise, even if I kept quiet thereon.

  ‘“The voice was distant; echoing and faint, but still it burned into my memory and I’ll never forget that moment. It said ‘no escape from the shadows.’ In response the marshal spoke, a single word in the voice of a man near dead with terror: Azaer. I don’t know what it means but he spoke clear enough and it seemed to shock Lady Calath as much as I – more, for she seemed to recognise it and went white at its meaning.”

  ‘And that is the real reason I came to speak to you,’ Brandt said in a subdued voice. ‘As much as I value your experience, I’ll win no friends by consulting with you on a case such as this – not with the reputation they painted you with. But I remember that case not long after I came to work for you – when you killed a vampire, or at least that’s what the whole city said. Years later, when I married Liese, you told me the truth about that, how it was a madman who thought he was possessed by a daemon called Azaer.’

  Brandt had a grave expression on his face, but what I wondered most was how much was he resting on this case. That celebrated victory over a ‘vampire’ changed my life and Brandt knew this all too well. It set me upon a path other than that of a simple watchman. Was he hoping that for a similar turn of fortunes, an avenue into high office that had been denied to him by three elder brothers?

  He raised the parchment without waiting for me to find a response and cleared his voice.

  ‘“Before anything more could occur the marshal wrenched his hands off the frame of the mirror and drew a dagger from his belt. Because of his leg he had never been trained to use a blade and wore none, but carried a dagger that had been a gift from his father instead of the more traditional blade. The marshal raised the weapon in both hands above his head, struggling as though either his own body resisted or it were the weight of a grown man he lifted. Only then did Gorters find his courage, his fear of that monstrous face in the mirror eclipsed by his fear for Lady Calath’s life now a weapon was drawn.

  “He dragged her away from her husband, but the marshal seemed not to even notice her absence. It took all his strength to face down whatever he saw in the mirror before he stabbed the dagger down into the mirror itself – right into that twisted face, so Gorters tells. The moment ended, Calath slumped to one knee and would have collapsed entirely, knife abandoned on the floor, had his wife not run to gather him. Gorters particularly noticed the marshal heaving for breath, gasping like a man who had just run a race across the city”.’

  ‘Indeed, or perhaps more fittingly, fought a battle – with whatever daemon inhabits his soul.’

  ‘Daemon?’ questioned Brandt.

  ‘Daemon of the spirit,’ I corrected. ‘This man was not possessed, nor haunted I’ll wager. Calath is – was – learned, and learned in the supernatural. That means he may well have come across the Azaer cult in his studies.’

  ‘But what was that? I can find no trace of any such cult in any library or history.’

  ‘And nor will you,’ I said firmly. ‘I doubt you’d be allowed to enter the sorts of collections that contain such a reference unless your brother was the one to make the request. They would only be found in the king’s private collection and other closed libraries, but that’s of little matter. The Azaer cult has been dead for years; knowledge of it is restricted because about a decade back a necromancer tried to revive it. Though the order was long dead the name still carries weight among men of power, most especially those who are trained in magical arts. There’s an irrational fear they carry from the old wives’ tales taught to novices at such places. Once you get them to acknowledge the truth of the Azaer cult, I’m told they do admit the foolishness of their fears, but it’s a fear that lingers in the bones and defies explanation or exorcism.’

  ‘So this is a dead end?’ asked Brandt with a most disappointed tone. I am afraid that under my tutelage he must have contracted a love of the mysterious, one I should have discouraged. Few of us can profitably spend too long considering the stranger side of this Land and even fewer remember to consider the inherent
dangers. Even with the example of my own disgrace, Brandt remained fascinated by things that went beyond everyday life.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I confirmed. ‘There’s no way this extinct cult could have caused any deaths, excepting the foolish or mad enacting deeds in the cult’s name. A friend of mine wrote a work on the subject once, “The Origins and Place in History of the Azaer Cult” I believe. He’d seen the hurt caused by rumour and ignorance so he sought to consign it to history – demonstrate how there had never been a daemon called Azaer and those who acted in its name were merely the credulous or the criminal.’

  ‘Damn,’ Brandt said with abrupt finality. He gave the sheaf of papers one last look then dropped them lightly on a table and turned his back on them.

  ‘Well then, I’ll not bother you with the other accounts here. They’re merely the same events recorded from the memories of others involved.’ He then gave me a curious look. A sparkle of mischievous cunning I felt, one that made me wonder what foolishness I had just uttered. ‘I shall therefore proceed straight to the murder report, wherein lies the mystery.’

  Brandt took a moment to stretch his limbs, quite aware of the torment he was now causing. Walking over to the window he stared out at the gardens below, the faint smile on his face at my expense since I doubted the gardener at work was a sufficiently enjoyable sight. Brandt was a tall lad and at that moment I was struck by the realisation of how he towered over me. Despite my advancing years I still thought of Brandt as the awkward youth who had once scurried around the watch-house and blushed whenever he saw my daughter – not least because I had delighted in passing on her intentions to marry him as soon as she announced them.

  Liese had been a mature girl of sixteen at the time, he a bumbling youth of fourteen. The difference in their station had been entirely overcast by the embarrassed awe he held my daughter in. It was hard to remember that this tall and powerful man was that same boy, now possessing a sharp mind and political aspirations.

  ‘To begin with I shall set the scene,’ he started suddenly, rounding on me with a smile on his face, but his eyes grave. ‘As I have told you, the marshal and lady were found together, dead. We are not entirely sure what they were doing, but they were in his chamber with the door locked from the inside. They had brought out the only other large mirror they owned in the house …’

  ‘Wait, what was the condition of the marshal in the days before?’ I asked in a professional capacity. If the man was touched by madness then his demeanour in the preceding days would have been crucial to shedding light on the deaths. If a man was to spiral down towards murder and suicide, there would surely be worsening signs in the days and weeks prior.

  ‘His manservant insists that both the marshal and lady were in excellent spirits. They had spent many hours reading and writing together in his study and it was as if the fruits of this endeavour had restored their strength. They ate well, both taking a healthier colour due to restful sleep and many hours in their garden.

  ‘Anyway, the scene,’ he reminded me. ‘On the marshal’s desk was a book that dealt with exorcism and they had inscribed various symbols to this accompaniment on the wooden floor, having rolled back the rugs. Various historical works were scattered on the desk, all pertaining to Calath’s usual studies according to Count Antern.

  ‘The most significant addition to the room, aside from the mirror – which betrays a certain courage considering their experiences – was an amulet that was hung from the mirror’s frame itself. It appeared that they had secured its loan from a friend of the Antern family, a priest of the temple of Larat who, among other things, had tutored Marshal Calath in his more arcane research. The amulet was a charm against hostile magics. All I can conclude from it is that they were taking a scientific approach to the matter …’

  ‘And attempting to rule out malevolent curses or spells cast by any unknown enemy,’ I finished for him. ‘A commendable effort, and I suppose one that will aid us later on since it can be tested by some authority in the city for validity.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Brandt, sounding slightly put out that I had jumped in. ‘I’ve already done so; as far as can be determined the amulet is not a fraud, but was not required that evening. Apparently it would have broken had malign magic been done against Calath, or at least broken before anything so fatal could have taken place.

  ‘The windows of his study were fastened securely; in fact they had been nailed in by the stablehand that morning. An iron grille set into the brickwork protected the chimney flue, we cannot determine any possible point of entry that would leave no trace, nor alert the servants below who had remained in the building. As a last measure the same priest of Larat had consecrated the room, supposedly sealing it against intrusion by malign spirits.’

  ‘So, we have a room that must, as far as I can tell, contain the killer. Continue.’

  ‘The servants had received strict instructions not to intrude. They did not until it became clear the next morning that the marshal and lady had not left the room at all during the night. They broke the door down to discover their bodies lying on the floor; the marshal before the mirror, the Lady Calath a little way closer to the door, but evidently she had made that distance crawling weakly. The blood trail is quite distinct – that she made it even a few feet while losing so much blood attests to a remarkable strength of will.

  ‘The room was untouched, but there was a hole in the mirror – whatever had made that hole had smashed through the glass with enough force to shower them in shards. One such piece had torn the throat of the Lady Calath and remained lodged in the wound, the others caused a dozen minor wounds to each.

  ‘The marshal had died where he had stood. Some weapon or implement had been driven through his chest, crushing the bones that stood in its way before ripping at his heart and rending it to pieces. That is all they found and nothing was touched before I arrived.’

  He hesitated. ‘And there is our problem. Our only explanation is that Marshal Calath in some fit of madness murdered his own wife for no reason, then managed to rip out his own heart using just shards of a mirror.’

  Brandt stopped, seeing the effect his words had had on me. I bowed my head in prayer as I pictured the pale, waifish figure of Marshal Calath – my watchman’s mind making it all too easy to see him broken and dead on the floor. It was an even more shocking image when my thoughts turned to the joyful and gracious lady I had seen from afar on several occasions; pain where once there was only sweetness and cheer. Sitting down opposite me once more, Brandt maintained his silence while the awful scene played before both our eyes; a whirl of sickness and horror filling my head.

  Danc, perceiving the quiet from the room that he had left mere minutes before, took this quiet to be a natural break in proceedings and hurried in. He faltered somewhat when taking in my ashen features, wracked with confusion for a murder I could not explain no matter what my experience had boasted when Brandt arrived.

  Handing Commander Brandt an envelope with a muttered apology, Danc retired hurriedly and closed the door behind him. Brandt took one look at the seal and glanced up with increased concern etched on his youthful features.

  ‘It’s from the king. The courier must have been directed here from my office.’

  ‘Well open it, what does he say?’

  Drawing a knife from his belt, Brandt slid it under the seal and removed the expensive vellum that bore the crest of the king. As Brandt flashed the page toward me, I saw it was in the king’s own ornate script. The letter had not been sent by a palace functionary but King Emin himself.

  Brandt cleared his through. ‘It reads:

  ‘“Commander, The matter concerning the death of Marshal and Lady Calath is closed. The thief who broke in and committed this deed has been apprehended and justice served. You are to be commended for your efforts and I trust fanciful theories pertaining to this matter will be discouraged.”

  ‘I …’ Brandt looked up with a bewildered and pained expression, one I recognised on
ly too well from my past.

  Rising, I took the papers from where Brandt had left them and dropped them into the empty fireplace. I had no intention of actually setting them alight, but the look in Brandt’s eyes showed I had secured the desired reaction of resigned agreement.

  ‘This isn’t the first time, trust me. The concerns of the king are not ours. Not justice, not the facts that detail each movement and action, not whatever you think of as truth. Truth is, to him, merely a weapon; a tool to use for whatever—’

  He raised a hand to cut my feeble speech short. With an effort that seemed to add twenty years to him, Brandt lifted himself from his seat and made his way to the door.

  ‘I’ve heard enough of your stories to know what you mean – and seen the king greet you personally, which tells me enough of their validity. You’ve been more of a father to me than my true sire. If you’ve lived with it and keep a respect for yourself then so can I.’

  He paused and stood a little taller before he continued. ‘Then so must I. I’ve always trusted your guiding hand when I couldn’t see the way myself. I hope you’ll explain to me one day, but until then I’ll follow.’

  He reached the door and then turned with a curious expression on his face. ‘Tell me one thing though. With the circles you run in now, who was it that wrote the book – the book that disproved the existence of the Azaer cult?’

  I gave him a weak smile, no humour in it but a trace of pride in the instincts he’d learned at my side.

  ‘A friend.’

  A MAN COLLECTING SPIRITS

  Morghien looked up at the man staring at him from the next table. A blacksmith’s brawn, a mule’s face and a pig farmer’s smell – this wasn’t encouraging. Ever since Morghien had sat down with his beer and taken that first blessed mouthful, mule-face had been glaring at him. It was late afternoon and the village tavern had a half-dozen patrons, but only this one was giving him the evil eye.