The ragged man tr-4

by Tom Lloyd

General Gaur saw the danger and tried to buy Styrax time, throwing his huge axe so the dragon had to dodge instead of readying itself for the killing blow. The beast warrior hurled himself aside to avoid the dragon's lashing tail that crashed down a moment later.

  Ilumene blinked. Styrax was up again, rising higher than any normal man could and hacking at the dragon's neck. Through a mist of blood and magic Styrax struck again, then cut upwards with a reverse-blow. The injury didn't seem to slow the dragon, but this time its attempt to gore Styrax was parried and he caught it a glancing blow on the jaw before it pulled back.

  Shapes appeared around Styrax's head, too fast for Ilumene to make out before they exploded in white sparks. In response Styrax cut a circle in the air, a trail of golden light spinning and coalescing in its wake. The dragon lashed down, gripping the ring with its claws to rip it away. Somehow it held long enough for Styrax to duck underneath and cut upwards at the dragon's stunted dew-claw.

  The dragon jerked back immediately, forelimb curling protectively inwards, and Styrax moved closer, sword swinging across his body to fend off its other set of claws. It lunged down at him again with its horns, only to be smashed aside with a sudden flare of magic that opened up its defences. Styrax immediately hacked deep into its massive jaw, putting his full weight into the blow.

  The beast reeled and as it pulled back Styrax swung up in another long loop. A golden arc appeared above the dragon's head, yanking it down as he tugged at the air with his left hand. The head came back into range and Styrax roared with triumph as he hacked into its throat with all his unnatural strength.

  Not trusting that to be the killing blow he struck again and again while the golden tether held it, but still somehow the beast strained and burst through the restraint. Styrax grabbed a handful of empty air and pulled himself higher off the ground to chop again at the dragon's long neck. He was forced to twist in midair and barely avoided the lunging jaws.

  He grabbed the dragon's horns for leverage and somehow hauled himself up so he could slam Kobra's double-tip into its throat, thrusting up with the huge broadsword as he dragged down on the horn. Surrounded by a glittering corona of magic Styrax forced the head down below his body and hacked into the wound as hard as he could.

  Dragon head and white-eye fell to the ground together. Styrax was up in a flash to cut again at the beast, but Ilumene could see it was unnecessary. The dragon's huge body convulsed and spasmed briefly, then slumped still.

  It was dead, but Styrax didn't stop, slashing at the corpse with all the fury of an enraged white-eye, with all the passion of a man grieving. When finally he realised it was over the beast's head was attached only by a few sinews. He let his sword fall from his hands, forgotten, and slumped to his knees. The echoes faded and a sudden silence fell over the scene.

  Ilumene looked around. Even the Jesters looked stunned by the battle they had witnessed. It had been mere moments since Styrax had leaped into the battle. Neither of the surviving Demi-Gods had managed to take a step closer. Their sword-tips rested on the grass. The dispassionate Ilumene had to remind himself to breathe again as he stared at the figure in black armour.

  Styrax knelt with his head bowed, a foot away from a horn almost as long as his own body, staring at the corpse but not making a sound. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet and retrieved his sword, wiping it and sheathing the weapon before he turned his back on them all.

  And you thought to fight him, Lord Isak? Ilumene thought with wonder and scorn. As a pawn of Azaer's machinations you were a fool. As a boy trying to choose his own destiny, you were even worse. It's a shame you were so keen to run towards your own death. I'd have enjoyed that moment when you realised you never stood a chance against us.

  CHAPTER 10

  For once King Emin slept late, only waking mid-morning at the hysterical chatter of a blackbird somewhere close to his bedroom window. Camatayl Castle was quiet despite the hour. He got out of bed and pulled on the nearest clothes before pushing open the shutters to look out of the window.

  The fields beyond were largely empty, just a few dozen shaggy goats and a herder perched on a drystone wall. The tower walls were so thick that he had to lean right out before he could see the nearest of Kamfer's Ford's buildings. A gust of cold air chased him back inside the room and he pulled the shutter with him. He'd need another layer before he headed outside.

  In the next room he found Sir Creyl, Commander of the Brotherhood, and one of their newer recruits, Kap Daratin. Sir Creyl, a former gangster, sat in the furthest corner so he could watch both entrances to the room. Despite there not being enough room at the small table, Daratin was trying to do the same, his bowl of rice porridge perched on the corner of the table. The room itself was plain, whitewashed plaster adorned only by a trio of tiny gold-inlaid icons and a simple woven rug on the floor.

  The young man flinched when King Emin entered, new enough as a King's Man to have to fight the urge to stand when his monarch entered the room. He came a hair's breadth from tipping the whole bowl into his lap, but like all members of the Brotherhood he had lightning reactions.

  'Your Majesty,' the two men said together, with Daratin continuing, 'Shall I fetch you some breakfast?'

  Emin nodded. There were servants in the tower, but this wasn't an official trip. Away from the eyes of polite society the Brotherhood usually waited on him; it avoided the requirements of ceremony and protocol. When Daratin had left King Emin took his seat at the table. Sir Creyl gestured towards a clay bottle but Emin shook his head.

  'Even watered down I've never had a taste for beer at breakfast.'

  Sir Creyl smiled, his ice-blue eyes sparkling. 'It's so weak you can hardly call it beer; best way to start a day.'

  'I think I'll start with red tea, thank you. My head feels heavy enough this morning without help.'

  'That's not like you; you're usually insufferable from dawn onwards. Why do you think I drink?'

  Emin ignored the quip. 'I know, but I don't even feel like I slept. Must have though, I remember dreaming of my son as a toddler, trying to run from a Menin Army.'

  'Ah, a new father's fears; I remember them well!' Creyl laughed. 'Why do you think I started drinking?'

  'It's guilt at leaving so soon. Once things are set up here maybe I'll be able to return to Narkang for a while.'

  'Once that old bastard Aladorn is signed on, you'll be well covered here,' Sir Creyl declared. 'He won't refuse you, no matter how old he's got.'

  Emin pictured the man who'd helped mastermind his conquest of the kingdom, twenty years previously. General Dall Aladorn had been a cantankerous and belligerent drunk of fifty summers then. Sir Creyl was right that he'd be keen to prove he still had what it took to win a war. Emin's only concern was that the general had pickled his brain out of sheer boredom; he wanted to see the man himself before asking him to prepare for invasion.

  'We'll find out when he gets here,' Emin said eventually. 'For the moment, could you give me a moment's peace? Perhaps go and see to our guests' needs?'

  Sir Creyl left without a word, recognising the order easily enough. When Daratin returned with a stack of honeyed flat-breads he set the plate on the table and exited quickly himself. Emin picked at the food, his appetite pretty nonexistent. He was just about to give up and ring for his tea when there was a knock at the door.

  'What now?' he sighed before calling for the person to enter.

  He frowned, not immediately recognising the woman in the long dress with a green scarf half-covering her face. When he did he almost fell off his chair as he scrambled up, reaching for a sword he'd forgotten to buckle to his hip.

  'Oh, that's not very friendly,' said the young woman, pointing a slender finger at him and making a sharp downward motion. 'Sit.'

  Emin felt an irresistible weight appear on his shoulders and drive him back down into his seat. She stepped forward and gave him a fond smile, one he recognised all too well.

  'This can't be,' he muttered. 'It's impossible! What sort
of trick is this?'

  'Aren't you pleased to see me?' she asked, shutting the door behind her and walking to the centre of the room. Her dress was elegant but old-fashioned, twenty years out of date. She was no more than twenty-five summers old, with bright yellow eyes and auburn hair hanging in a plait over her left shoulder.

  'If you really were my sister,' Emin growled with mounting anger, 'then yes, I would be delighted. But she's dead. If you're looking to make an enemy of me you're going about it in the right way.'

  The woman sat at the table, still smiling. 'You have a life-size painting of her in your throne room and one of the finest buildings in Narkang bears her name, yet you're not glad to see her in all her beauty before you. You humans are fickle.'

  Emin didn't reply. His mind was racing, frantically trying to work out who or what would be so casually callous as to wear Gennay's face. After a moment he realised the impersonation was not perfect; Gennay Thonal's eyes had been a glittering ice-blue, like her younger brother's.

  It's a God, it must be – and if my guess is right, one not usually clothed in female flesh.

  'Another wager won,' Emin said grimly. 'Morghien told me I was being arrogant when I suggested one of you would make me an offer.'

  'But did you expect me?' asked the yellow-eyed God, unperturbed that its guessing game was already over.

  'The list of suspects wasn't long. Few of the Pantheon would deign to visit me nowadays.' Emin took a breath to regain his composure. 'If you want a Mortal-Aspect, your best bet is the man who was here a few nights past.'

  'Daken?' she said, laughing. 'Oh please; the man is useful for getting rid of inconveniences, but you insult me by suggesting it.' She tilted her head in thought. 'At any rate the man bears something of a grudge. I don't believe he's suitably grateful for the gifts bestowed upon him.'

  Emin gaped. 'He's aligned to your Trickster Aspect, Larat! I can't believe Litania has an agreeable influence on anyone's life, but to be her plaything…?'

  The God of Magic and Manipulation shrugged. 'He thrives, what more does a white-eye wish for? It smacks of ingratitude. Nevertheless, to link myself to that oaf? I would prefer a Mortal-Aspect to complement my intellect, not muddy the waters.'

  'He's no fool,' Emin countered, 'and if you think to win me by flattering my intelligence – '

  Larat raised a hand to cut him off. 'Your intelligence is what it is; your ego equally so. Concerning Mortal-Aspects, let us say I remain unconvinced. A bold move, perhaps, but as I see it, one yet to bear fruit.'

  'Then why are you here?' asked Emin, mystified. 'Your Lord has made His feelings towards me most clear. You could find few breakfast companions more out of favour with Lord Death. I am barred from His temples; I will not receive any aid from Him or His followers…'

  'How you must be weeping into your pillow,' Larat broke in. 'Are your feelings stung? Let me offer this salve; Death is lord of us all and as we are assailed, so He bears the brunt of it. He has lost many followers and Aspects – one of whom has bloomed in the meantime – so do not imagine you are so special in His treatment of you.'

  'Why are you here?' Emin repeated. He didn't really expect a straight answer – that was not in Larat's nature – but he'd had an uneasy night and his patience was worn thin.

  'Can I not enjoy the company of mortals? As you can imagine, Lord Tsatach's sense of humour is somewhat limited. After a few centuries one has heard them all.'

  Despite his ill temper Emin pictured the few Chetse he'd known in his life and almost smiled at the image. Then he caught himself and realised it was the God's attempt to manipulate his mood. He dug his thumbnail into his finger as hard as he could, something Morghien had taught him. Pain sharpened the mind, just as the glamour of the Gods dulled it.

  'Might I suggest you pay your social calls on someone with a little less to do? I have guests I must speak to.'

  'Ah yes, the intriguing Legana, that shadow of herself. One of many interesting new flavours to this Land. Still, when things get desperate and down to the bone I find it is ancient methods that serve us best.'

  Emin's eyes narrowed, sensing the significance of what he was being told, without understanding it. 'The ancient isn't really my domain; I leave that to others.'

  The God wearing his sister's face smiled indulgently. 'Time you paid it a little more attention. This kingdom of yours isn't what we planned for humanity, but some of us appreciate that change comes to all things. Mild impieties and direct threats to the greatest of Gods aside, it stands as a better future for the Land than others.'

  'Please, enough of the flattery,' Emin said. 'My queen would be upset if I started getting a high opinion of myself.'

  'I can remind you of your inadequacies easily enough,' Larat said, 'but I see no profit in doing so at present.'

  Larat leaned forward and put one elbow on the table, resting her chin on one hand with a fluid motion that no mortal beyond a Harlequin could achieve.

  Emin recognised the pose, from the painting of Gennay, but the gesture only hardened his resolve.

  'The Farlan are in chaos,' Larat continued, 'something that will only increase in the years to come. Lord Styrax is building himself an empire and collecting artefacts powerful enough to kill Gods. It is only a matter of time before he crosses your borders.'

  'That I know. I'm already making preparations.'

  'But have you yet realised why he is collecting these artefacts?'

  'I don't know enough about them to deduce that.'

  Larat's young face was now stern and serious. 'The Skulls are objects from the dawn of time. Aryn Bwr found them and reforged them to their present form, but they are far older, and the last king's changes were not extensive, however ingenious.'

  'But what is their significance? Did Aryn Bwr upset the balance of the Land by reforging them?'

  'In unison there is very little they cannot do. It is no coincidence that they number twelve.'

  'Twelve?' Emin hesitated. 'The Upper Circle of the Pantheon? That little detail has been omitted from every scripture I've ever read. And does it go further than that? Are you aligned to a specific Skull, bound to it, even?'

  'The bearer of each is permitted to ask a question of the one aligned to it. Some knowledge should not be shared – the very act would upset the balance of the Land.'

  'I don't understand what you are telling me, what you're asking of me.'

  'There are forces in this Land that would like the balance to be upset, things to come undone.'

  'Who? The Vukotic family?'

  'Among others. What I am telling you is to survive – to keep the Land a place where the Gods are still welcome. It is the natural order of things; without it you will find this world far less of a paradise than it is at present.

  'Lord Styrax was a mistake of ours – when Aryn Bwr's soul did not find its way to Ghenna we knew he had prepared some sort of contingency plan.'

  'If you're so concerned,' Emin broke in, 'why not take a stand? Damned by Death or not, I'm not as powerful as a God of the Upper Circle. And somehow I suspect you're not here to announce the Gods will march with me against Lord Styrax.'

  Emin felt the room grow cold as Larat stiffened in her seat. 'We have learned that lesson already.'

  'To let others do the killing for you?'

  'To not allow others to murder the divine,' Larat said, a warning look in her eyes. 'One of our kin has already died in this war; we do not intend others to run that risk.'

  'You would run such risks to avoid even one of your kin dying? This is a war you could win – if you were willing to accept losses.'

  'Losses are unacceptable,' Larat snapped, 'as are too many of the Upper Circle being weakened. None of our own will ally against the Upper Circle, but do not think we are so united that the victors in any war wouldn't risk being turned on by their own kind. The majority rule of the Upper Circle prevents lesser Gods falling like jackals upon each other, but with losses – or more weakened, as Ilit was at the Last Battl
e – a new war might be sparked.'

  Emin was silent a while as he tried to digest what Larat had told him. These were truths unacknowledged in the mortal Land. Just as kings kept secrets from their own people, some things even a king should not know too much about. The fact that a God was sharing secrets was a worrying development.

  The king nodded, having to clear his throat before he could speak. 'I understand – it is safer to use mortals than to walk the Land and become a target for your own kind – and daemons too, perhaps?'

  So completely was his last comment ignored that Emin guessed he had scored a hit.

  'Kastan Styrax was intended to be the Saviour of the tribes of man, the leader to defeat Aryn Bwr when he returned. Our mistake was to make the man too powerful, too skilled, and he turned against us.' For a moment Larat's expression fell blank, further reminding Emin that the God only wore his sister's image. Gennay had been an animated, passionate girl. Her face had never been so blank until death.

  'Aryn Bwr was only defeated when we forced a decisive confrontation; until then he had avoided large-scale battle because he knew Death and Karkarn in particular were too powerful for him. Follow his example; history's lessons should be learned well.'

  Larat stood. 'And now it is time for you to wake up,' the God said with a snap of the fingers.

  Emin's head jerked up from the table. He looked around, bleary-eyed and dizzy, his senses trying to resolve the conflict as he moved into a position he thought he was already occupying. He was at the small table where Daratin's porridge was still cooling, a waxy film on its surface. He pushed himself to his feet, groaning at a building ache in his head. It felt like he had a hangover as bad as any he remembered, a crown of thorns within his skull that scratched and scraped.

  'Damn Gods,' he muttered, heading for his bedroom to find appropriate clothes for the rest of the castle, 'like frisky old spinsters. The more you run from them, the more interested they are in you.'

  She waited all day, barely moving from her concealed hollow, while the Elves fussed and prepared at the stream below. Unused to feelings of any kind, the Wither Queen found time to savour what ran through her now: a strange sense of anticipation and excitement, coupled with an innate apprehension.