by Luke Scull
‘The Time Before was a wonder of artifice and invention,’ Isaac said, as he and Eremul watched the cannons preparing to fire. ‘Our ancestors discovered how to permanently alter their bodies. They eliminated diseases. Grew taller and stronger with every passing generation. The wealthiest among them had new powers and abilities implanted directly into themselves; traits such as empathetic projection, that could be passed down to their children, and their children’s children. Eventually, they unlocked the secret to eternal life. It proved their undoing in the end.’
Eremul was suddenly overcome by a great sadness. He frowned up at Isaac. ‘I asked you not to do that,’ he said.
The Adjudicator reached out and, much to the Halfmage’s surprise, clapped him on the shoulder. ‘As I said, it is difficult to control. Ours is a story of triumph won through tragedy.’
The mechanisms driving the gigantic cannons ceased their whirring and clicking. A pregnant silence settled over the harbour. ‘You should cover your ears,’ Isaac said calmly.
Eremul did as the Adjudicator suggested. It wasn’t a moment too soon. A cacophony of explosions suddenly shook the deck beneath him and a fiery rain of death exploded from the flagship’s cannons. The sky was lit up as the loads from the cannons hurtled towards Thelassa. As the deadly storm descended on the City of Towers, it struck the translucent barrier and was thwarted, bursting apart, the explosive projectiles detonating in mid-air. The heat from the failed assault washed back over the ships and Eremul choked on air suddenly hot enough to burn his throat.
‘Cease the assault.’ General Saverian’s voice rang out like a clarion call, the command as irresistible as the tide. ‘The lady of the city approaches.’
The artillery went silent. For a long moment smoke wreathed the harbour, making it difficult to see beyond the barrier ahead of them. When it finally cleared, it revealed the shimmering wall of magic to be utterly intact.
Floating safely behind the barrier, her white silk robes dancing around her in the breeze, was the Magelord of Thelassa.
General Saverian raised a gloved fist in greeting. His voice was like iron, gripping all present in its power. ‘I am General Saverian,’ he boomed. You will lower this barrier.’
The White Lady’s response was perfectly modulated, carried on the wings of her magic. ‘Turn back, Ancients. You will not harm my city or my people.’
Eremul looked from the White Lady to Saverian and back. He could never have imagined he would live to see this day: a Magelord, an immortal wizard, made to look vulnerable in the face of something even she could not understand. Saverian was five thousand years old. He had been conquering the worst of what the Age of Legends could throw at his people before humanity had even learned to crawl.
To me the White Lady is inhuman. Terrifyingly ethereal, a figure to fear and look upon as something almost divine. To Saverian she is simply another buzzing insect. A queen bee, perhaps, with a dangerous sting – but inconsequential nonetheless.
The white-haired general crossed his arms in front of his chest and narrowed his ruinous gaze. His black cloak flapped around him in the salty breeze. ‘There will be no exceptions in our crusade, killer-of-gods. Your city will be destroyed and your people exterminated. Such is the fate of those we judge unworthy.’
‘And who are you to judge what is worthy?’ the White Lady asked softly. ‘It is as you said, general. Even the gods could not judge me.’
Saverian’s voice rose until it thundered across the deck. ‘Your gods were the only entities with the power to oppose us! Yet your kind slew them, just as you murdered two of our people. For that, there can only be one answer.’
‘You will not pass this barrier,’ the White Lady declared again. But there was a strained quality to her voice now; perhaps even a hint of doubt.
Eremul turned to Isaac beside him. ‘What would happen if the White Lady were to unleash her magic against Saverian? She could destroy your general here and now.’
Isaac shook his head. ‘We are not of the Pattern, and its rules govern us only loosely. For the eldest of our kind, magic runs off us like water. The resistance fades the further one is removed from the bloodlines of the blessed Pilgrims – but even one possessed of only a few centuries can withstand a great deal of magic. The elves, too, thought to bring their sorcery to bear against us during the Twilight War. It availed them little.’
Saverian drew himself up to his full height – over seven feet of harsh lines and too-angular limbs encased in that near impenetrable silver armour that flowed like cloth. ‘I chased the great serpents from Rhûn. I slew the king of the elves in single combat. I was ancient when your forefathers were scrabbling in the mud. I am General Saverian, and I declare now that you will be Reckoned. There is no shield, magical or otherwise, that will protect you from it.’
Having made his declaration, the general turned his back on the White Lady and gave the signal for the fleet to turn around. The Magelord watched the ships depart in silence. Then she turned and drifted back towards her city.
As the great fleet returned across Deadman’s Channel, Eremul summoned his nerve and asked the question that had been troubling him since he had first heard Isaac use the term. ‘What does it mean,’ he asked, ‘to be Reckoned?’
The Adjudicator stared into the distance. He seemed troubled, and for a moment the Halfmage wondered if he had pushed his luck too far.
Then Isaac told him.
*
‘Dust,’ he whispered. ‘Everything will be dust.’
Eremul sat in the dreary room in the Refuge that he shared with two other refugees. Ricker and Mard were poor company but at least they didn’t despise him like many in the city did. Sleep had eluded the Halfmage again this night. In all likelihood it would elude him every night from now until the moment General Saverian utilized the unspeakable weapon Isaac had described. The weapon that had broken worlds. Isaac’s words twisted around and around in Eremul’s skull.
In the Time Before, we called it the last resort. All nations had it come the end. The desperate scramble for immortality made rulers mad. Once one committed to using the weapon, they all did. Those who weren’t killed instantly were poisoned. The land, too, felt the effects of what we had done. The Pilgrims were our last hope. They left in search of a better place. Their journey lasted untold millennia, until eventually they found somewhere. A new land to call home.
The elves were the first to be Reckoned, their great forest cities reduced to blackened wastelands of ash and bone. The second Reckoning occurred far to the south, when an empire of scaled folk we named the saurons threatened to unleash their deadly poisons upon our people. We chose the lesser evil. I chose the lesser evil.
As an Adjudicator, Isaac – together with his sisters – was one of the select few entrusted with the moral conundrum of deciding when a civilization merited the use of the ultimate weapon.
The Halfmage’s hands shook as he opened the hidden box attached to the underside of his chair and removed the bottle of Carhein white he had purchased weeks ago. It had been meant as a gift for Monique; her favourite wine from her homeland in Tarbonne. But Monique was gone, and the clear liquid in that bottle might be the only thing that would allow him to forget the imminent destruction of the city and its people, at least for a time.
Then a rough hand darted in and snatched the bottle from his grasp. The broken smile of Ricker leered down at him. ‘Think I’ll be having that,’ he said. He popped the cork into his mouth and attempted to leverage the cork out with what few remaining teeth he had.
Eremul stared up at Ricker as he struggled with the bottle. ‘I am a wizard, you know,’ he said slowly. ‘I can’t help but think it might be wiser for you just to ask.’
‘Don’t care,’ Ricker mumbled around the cork. ‘Ain’t got nothing to live for. You want to take this off me, you kill me first.’
The Halfmage sighed. After a brief moment of deliberation he waved a hand at the fellow to continue. ‘Enjoy it,’ he said. Then Er
emul wheeled himself over to the corner of the squalid little room he had claimed as his own and closed his eyes.
So much for a quiet drink.
A moment later there came a knock on the door.
‘Who’s that?’ growled Mard. The old man hardly moved from his spot on the floor. In his more lucid moments he had claimed that he used to work the docks before his house was burned down and his family killed by Melissan’s thralls. The Halfmage suspected the tragedy had driven him mad.
The door opened and the outline of a woman appeared in the doorway. She hovered there uncertainly, cloaked by the darkness of night outside.
‘I told you,’ Mard yelled angrily. ‘I don’t want no cock-rot. My wife would kill me.’
‘Your wife is dead,’ Eremul said gently. ‘And we have bigger things to worry about than the cock-rot. Trust me.’ He frowned at the woman. Streetwalkers were common enough in the Refuge; everyone did what they had to in order to survive. But this woman wasn’t dressed for the job, so to speak.
He wheeled himself closer. ‘Do you need something?’ he asked irritably. Then he smelled her perfume and a soft gasp escaped his lips. He knew that scent. She moved closer and the moonlight caught her, revealing her features. The Halfmage’s heart seemed to explode in his chest.
‘I don’t want no cock-rot,’ Mard barked again, but Eremul hardly heard him. He stared at the face before him, the sleek black hair, the reading lenses perched on her perfect nose.
‘Monique?’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. An instant later she threw herself on him, wrapping her arms tightly around his body, her warm breath in his ear and her warm tears sliding down his cheeks.
‘I found you,’ she sobbed. ‘My love... I’ve found you.’
Eremul stroked her hair, hardly believing what was happening, scarcely daring to imagine this wasn’t all some great joke designed to rub further shit into his wounds. But it wasn’t. Monique was here. The only woman he had ever loved had tracked him down.
‘I don’t want no—’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Eremul whispered savagely. Mard fell silent with a whimper.
‘They sent me to Westrock,’ Monique said, her lilting Tarbonnese accident thick with emotion. ‘I was kept imprisoned there. When the invasion began everyone in town fled east, but I couldn’t leave. Not without you.’
The Halfmage held Monique as she sobbed. For the first time in years, he had the strange sensation he wasn’t entirely worthless after all. He actually mattered to someone.
He knew the gods were dead and the Creator long gone but nonetheless he offered up a prayer of thanks to whomever might be listening just then.
The fehd might be planning a Reckoning, but until it happened, he would count every minute a blessing.
Sidetracked
✥
DAVARUS COLE STEPPED off the Caress and took a deep breath. He turned back to the caravel and gave a small wave to those aboard. No one so much as nodded in acknowledgement. The captain blamed him for the loss of four of her crew, he knew, and no sooner had his boots touched down in the port of Ro’ved than she was making preparations to depart. Ed and the other dead would be taken back to Thelassa for burial. Cole wished he could be present to bid his friend a final farewell, but the urgent mission he had been entrusted with could allow no delays.
The streets of Ro’ved were little more than mud. The dockhands glared at him as he passed. He ignored them and made his way towards the stables as he’d been instructed. The writ of passage he carried was signed by the White Lady herself and requested that he be given whatever he needed, with the promise of full recompense in future. If the frowns on the faces of the Tarbonnese who were watching him were any indication, they weren’t likely to take kindly to a foreigner turning up and making demands.
It can’t be helped. I’m here on a mission of utmost importance. The future of the Trine could depend on my success.
He wandered narrow streets, looking for any sign of a stables. The wooden buildings were crowded tightly together and he soon became lost. The smells of baking bread assaulted his nostrils and hunger stirred in his gut; the right kind of hunger. He entered a bakery and was about to hand over some coins for a fresh loaf when he remembered the White Lady’s writ. He presented it to the gap-toothed old woman behind the counter. ‘My name is Davarus Cole. You see this? It’s an official document signed by the White Lady of Thelassa. She requests you render me whatever aid you can.’
The woman squinted at the parchment. ‘Who’s a white lady?’ she asked, in a strong Tarbonnese accent.
‘Not who. The. The White Lady. You know, the Magelord.’
The woman shrugged. ‘Never heard of her. I never cared much for politics. That was more Sebastian’s thing, before he was lost to the dreams. I miss my husband.’
Cole blinked. He knew a little about dreams himself. ‘What do you mean? What happened to him?’
The woman’s eyes grew moist. ‘After our son died in the wars he became depressed. He started muttering about a three-eyed demon that haunted his nightmares. Soon he wouldn’t talk except to mutter about the blessed embrace of the Nameless. One morning I woke up and he was gone.’
‘Gone? You mean he’s dead?’ A tear rolled down the baker’s cheek and Cole felt vaguely embarrassed, standing there waving a note in the old woman’s face.
‘Not dead. That might’ve been easier to bear. No, he’s gone.’
‘Right.’ Cole very carefully placed the note back in his pocket and stepped back. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in whatever strangeness was going on with this old woman. He put the bread down and turned to walk away.
‘Wait,’ said the baker. ‘Take that. Don’t worry about payment. You remind me of him. My son, I mean. Times are hard since he and his dad left me alone here, but you look like you could use something in your belly.’
Cole hesitated. He took in the shabby building, the cracks in the walls that had been left unfixed. The deep lines of grief beneath the baker’s eyes. ‘How much is a loaf of bread?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Fifteen coppers. But you needn’t give me anything.’
‘A Dorminian always pays his debts,’ Cole said brightly. ‘It seems a little expensive, but I’ll make a note here in case I forget. Fifteen silvers to be owed to...’ He trailed off, waiting expectantly as understanding dawned on the woman’s face.
‘Why... it’s Renée. Look at you taking pity on an old woman! Are you some sort of hero?’
Cole winced at that. ‘Not a hero,’ he replied. ‘Definitely not that. Tell me, do you know where I can find a stables? I need a horse.’
*
You’ll be a great man one day. Like your father.
Garrett had uttered those words to Cole often when he was a boy growing up under his care. That simple truth had shaped young Davarus Cole’s formative years. Given him the confidence to be braver than anyone else. Better than anyone else. To be a hero.
‘I’m not a hero,’ he said bitterly to himself for the third or fourth time that morning. ‘My father was a killer. My mother was a harlot.’ He kicked his horse and it responded with a slight whinny. The road east to Carhein from the port town of Ro’ved had given him plenty of time to ponder his miserable life; a life that until recently had been built on a foundation of lies.
Cole tugged Magebane free of its scabbard and glared at the dagger. The winter sun gleamed prettily off the blade and caused the ruby set in the hilt to burn brightly.
Like the eyes of the bastard who attacked me on the Caress. The bastard who had killed his friend Ed. Cole fingered the golden key now hanging around his neck. He had no idea what purpose it served, but it was a tiny measure of satisfaction to have taken something from Wolgred after he died. Taken something from the assassin who had taken Ed’s life.
He stared at the glowing blade in his hand, disgusted. ‘I never had a choice, did I?’ he muttered. ‘This was the path laid out for me. All because of a stupid weapon.’ He was ha
lf tempted to toss Magebane in a bush and ride off without a backward glance. It would be practically impossible to find the dagger again if he did. Tarbonne was a lush and verdant country, even in winter. He rode past gently rolling hills covered in naked trees, gurgling streams and pastures of many shades of green that formed a pretty tapestry.
Cole glared at Magebane again. The truth was that he would be nothing without his birthright. Without the enchanted dagger that his father, Illarius Cole, had bequeathed to him with his dying breath.
Magebane is who I am, he realized with despair. Everything I am.
The terrible curse he carried meant that he would waste away and eventually perish unless he killed with the dagger, and killed often. The vitality he had stolen from the Unborn on the roof of the Tower of Stars had faded. Already his skin was pale and his hair flecked with grey. If he didn’t feed the divine hunger soon, it would feed on him.
Why am I even doing this? The only thing of any value in his life was Sasha. The day he finally summoned the courage to tell her how he truly felt would be the day all his hopes and dreams were forever shattered.
She’s smarter than you. More attractive than you. She doesn’t have a hopeless addiction that will eventually destroy her.
Sasha had always been the better of them, that was the truth. There was no chance she’d want anything to do with a whore-spawned killer; she deserved better.
He felt the lightest of touches and twisted his head slightly to see Midnight pawing playfully at his neck. The little black kitten was nestled comfortably inside the backpack thrown over his shoulder. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a tiny piece of fish he’d pilfered from the ship just before disembarking. He had no idea how to look after a kitten, but he’d made a promise to Ed to keep her safe and that was that.
His arse began to ache and he wondered how much farther it was to Carhein. Tarbonne’s capital was one of the oldest cities north of the Sun Lands. Reportedly neither as large as Dorminia nor as secretive as Thelassa, it had once been known as the Jewel of the Nine Kingdoms before the Godswar had changed the face of the region. Though it was apparently now only a shadow of its former glory, Carhein was nonetheless celebrated as a centre of art, culture and commerce.