by Tom Lloyd
‘Pledge myself to a daemon?’ Vesna whispered, his arm still outstretched. ‘What would she think of me then?’
He whipped the sword out and stepped smartly aside as daemonic ichor spurted from the wound. The daemon staggered, drunkenly trying to raise its weapons, but Vesna spun and struck off its head with one great blow. A distant shriek of rage echoed across the moor and he sensed the daemon vanish on the breeze. He didn’t wait, but turned to Moorview Castle as screams cut through the night.
Isak was on his feet before Mihn had entered the castle grounds. Legana recoiled in alarm as Eolis blazed with light right in front of her face, but her rasp of shock was drowned out by Isak’s own anguished howl.
That was enough for King Emin and the assembled company – before Mihn’s cries had echoed around the castle walls they were up and armed, watching for whatever had set Isak off. The air became hot and heavy around them, and a dry, dead taste coated the back of their throats as they looked frantically around.
Doranei saw Legana reel and frantically pulled at his boots. Veil saw him and nodded understanding, dropping his axe to draw a dagger and slice through his own laces. A smile crossed his face as his bare feet touched the grass and he reached for his axe again. Doranei watched in wonder as Veil receded into the gloom as the magic of his tattoos activated. Then he did the same, and felt the intoxicating sensation rush over his body as the darkness drew in to envelop him in shadows.
All around others were following suit, fading like candles extinguished by a sudden gust of wind until Isak, Hulf and Legana were the only ones illuminated by the firelight.
Mihn reached Isak’s side. He put a hand on the white-eye’s arm, and as he spoke, the single word, daemons, sent a chill through them all.
Isak, realising they would be there for him and Mihn, shrank inwards before catching himself and shaking his head violently. His abused lips twitched as he mentally steeled himself. He shrugged off his cloak and straightened his damaged body as best he could, holding Eolis with more purpose than he’d managed before the battle of Moorview. His pale skin shone bright under the light of Kasi, the lesser moon, highlighting the thick shaded lines of scarring that covered his bare chest, as though the man he’d been named after mocked what he had become.
Doranei looked over at Daken and saw the white-eye had thrown off his blankets to expose his own tattooed feet, but he was struggling to rise. ‘Veil, help Daken,’ he ordered, and drew his sword.
The clatter of hooves or something similar came from the lower gate, and as everyone turned to the sound, Doranei forced his way to the king’s side. For a moment everyone was still, listening intently for whatever was coming, then a man’s death-cry broke the air and the Brotherhood all rushed to defend their king while the Ghosts and Kingsguard manning the walls descended on the attackers.
Dark shapes poured through the gate and Isak felt another surge of fear drain his body of strength. Deliberately he bit down hard on his own lip and felt one jagged tooth tear through the flesh like a knife. The pain reached beyond his blind fear of Ghenna’s denizens and found something deeper inside him, something he could use. He leaped forward as the daemons headed straight for them, oblivious of the surrounding soldiers. A shout of fury burst its way out as Isak closed on the lead daemon with inhuman speed and hacked down at its head. The daemon raised a spine-clad arm to defend the blow, but Eolis chopped right through the limb, and the head behind.
Another daemon presented itself for Isak’s blade, and he moved left and struck again, barely registering a flail crashing down where he’d just been standing. Eolis parted the daemon’s outstretched arm with ease, carving arcs of moonlight as it danced almost of its own volition. Moving too fast for the daemons to match, Isak cleaved left and right, hewing a path through the enemy as shadows pounced on them from every side.
One tall, long-limbed daemon reached for him with sickle-claws and Isak ducked under, ignoring their fleeting scrape down his shoulders as he chopped through the daemon’s knee. It toppled with a howl and he slammed his shoulder into its gut to knock it backwards. Hot blood spurted across his shoulders as he battered the daemon to the ground and stamped on it, already seeking the next one to kill, until a sudden rush of wind from above caused him to check and turn.
He slashed upwards wildly as something swooped down. The creature screeched and reeled, but Isak grabbed at its bony legs and hauled the flying daemon from the sky. One leathery wing smashed against the side of Isak’s head, but he refused to let go and cut it again. This time Eolis tore through the wing and the daemon lurched downwards, coming close enough for Isak to hook an arm over it and drag it to the ground. Snarling furiously, he punched and stamped at the flailing nightmare beneath him, tearing the flesh from his knuckles on its scaly hide, until he remembered about the sword in his hand. He reversed Eolis, then stabbed down with it, impaling the daemon and pinning it to the ground as its screams filled the air and drowned out the battle going on around him.
A rush of movement on the left caught his eye. He ripped Eolis from the dying daemon just as something slammed into his side and gleaming teeth closed around his arm as it knocked him down. Though Isak stabbed blindly upwards as he was thrown to the ground, the teeth tightened on his arm and the pain intensified. The daemon’s hot stinking breath washed over him as it scrabbled clawed feet on his belly and released his arm, instead seeking his throat. Isak howled with pain and rage, unable to get his sword around in time as he watched the blood-coated fangs lunge forward—
—as a steel-shod staff lanced out of the night, driven right into the daemon’s open mouth and down its throat. The daemon reared as Mihn put his full weight behind the thrust and managed to drive the creature off Isak, quickly withdrawing the staff before it could bite down again. He stepped closer and swung the other end around, smashing it into one high, bulging eye that burst under the impact and sprayed orange fluid over them.
The daemon shook itself, growling like a hunting dog, but before it could pounce again Hulf threw himself fearlessly at it. The powerful dog grabbed the daemon’s hind leg and dragged it around, hauling the larger creature off-balance as Isak stood. Though blood was pouring from his arm and torso, Isak didn’t appear to notice his injuries as he chopped the daemon in half with one brutal blow and sought the next enemy.
When he found it, Isak hesitated for the first time, the raging fire in his veins dimming as he recognised that one, even in the weak half-light. The lizard-like daemon was scuttling low to the ground, circling around Mihn while trying to keep out of the reach of Eolis. Isak hurled the weapon through the air and it embedded itself deep into the daemon’s scaled tail. The white-eye screamed, as much with fear as hatred, as he ran forward and dived on top of the daemon. It twisted around to meet him, snapping at his face, but Isak caught it under the frill of spines around its neck and forced its head away.
The daemon tried to curl up instinctively, bringing up two pairs of legs to rake Isak and drive him away, but he ignored the assault and grabbed the nearest limb. With a great roar he summoned his unnatural strength and hauled back on its leg, the muscles of his huge shoulders bulging almost to bursting point as he pulled as hard as he could, until at last something gave.
The daemon shrieked in agony as Isak snarled and roared at his victory. Ichor came fountaining up over them both as he ripped the leg clean from its socket.
Lost in blood-lust, Isak tossed the limb aside and reached down, grabbing the next leg and tearing that off the screeching daemon too. It convulsed and went quiet, too weak to scream now, but he didn’t stop, snapping off the next with savage ease. The daemon went limp, dead by now, but Isak continued relentlessly, placed one foot on its scaled torso and tearing the fourth leg from the daemon.
This time Isak realised there was no more gushing ichor, and he registered it was dead. He retrieved Eolis and, soaked in his own blood and the many hues of daemon ichor, he sank to his knees atop the corpse of his erstwhile jailer. The humans were begi
nning to take their toll now, Isak’s furious assault having blunted the onrushing daemons long enough for the tattooed warriors to use their arcane advantage.
As Isak gasped for air, the last two daemons were cut down by a dozen blades and the castle grounds went quiet. He looked down at his arm, only now seeing the terrible damage the daemon’s teeth had done to it. The pain was excruciating, but after Ghenna it felt like nothing to him.
Isak let Eolis fall from his fingers and banished the sensation to the back of his mind. His belly and chest were burning and Isak looked down to see a dozen or more cuts overlaying the scars there. With one finger he traced an unsteady path over them, smearing the blood that ran from his skin. The daemon-script that had been cut into his flesh was obscured in several parts now, overlaid by new and random abuse from daemon-claws. He smiled despite the pain, and let Mihn lift his injured arm with the care of a fussing mother. Somewhere a shout went up for healers, and then was lost in the clamour of voices that became mere jagged sounds to accompany his pain.
Mihn was speaking to him, but Isak couldn’t make out the words. The small man was reaching for something to wrap around the injury, but Isak pushed him away gently and looked inside himself, trying to recall the time when the magic had rushed through his body as easily as breathing.
Reluctantly the energies came to his call and he felt a sense of calm descend as a pale light began to play over his skin. Mihn stepped back in surprise, but Isak continued to smile, even as the brightness and pain intensified. Holding his arm up to inspect it, Isak saw Doranei and King Emin, just past Mihn, both standing with mouths open as the light traced every open wound on his body, wrapping his arm in a garland of light.
The stink of daemons was suddenly overlaid by burning flesh and pain enveloped his entire body, searing through everything, and at last he cried out, briefly, before succumbing. Isak felt the Land lurch underneath him and fall away, and in its place came darkness. There, blessedly, the pain was only a memory lost among many.
CHAPTER 6
Witchfinder Shanatin glanced back at his companions and felt a renewed flush of fear. His hand went to his mouth and without even realising he started to gnaw again at the raw mark on one knuckle. His mind remained entirely on the soldiers behind him. He told himself they were the ones who should be afraid, but it did no good; his own fear only burgeoned. Luerce had reassured him when he gave the fat witchfinder his orders, but now he was alone in the depths of night surrounded by armed fanatics.
No, not alone: never alone in the shadows.
As Shanatin turned back to the deserted street ahead he accidentally scuffed his foot on the cobbles. The sound echoed off the surrounding buildings before he managed to catch his balance again. His heart chilled as he peered timorously behind himself and caught Chaplain Fynner’s thunderous expression; he only just managed to stop himself bursting into a torrent of apologies, which would have enraged the chaplain even more.
Behind the white-haired chaplain were three full squads of troops, two of regular infantry in heavy armour and one of witchfinders. Shanatin wasn’t marching amongst his fellows because he had no spark of ability himself. Those discovered among the rank and file – there were always a few – were transferred to the witchfinders, and the regular troops considered the regiment to be full of misfits and madmen under the command of spies, reporting as they did to the Serian, the Order’s intelligence branch.
The Knights of the Temples would not use magic in battle, but they knew its power full well, and pooled the limited power of its witchfinders to deflect their enemies’ efforts. As they were about to arrest one of their own for being a secret mage, they needed all the defences they could muster.
Fynner caught him up and grabbed Shanatin by the arm. ‘Keep yourself together, man,’ the chaplain hissed. ‘There’s no place for cowards in the Devout Congress – not that it will matter, if your information about Captain Perforren proves inaccurate.’
Fynner was two decades older than Shanatin, but he was more than his match physically. It was clear the priest was comfortable in armour and knew how to use the sword on his hip, while the closest Shanatin had come to battle was the regular beatings he took from anyone who took exception to his face.
‘Sorry, Father,’ Shanatin whispered meekly, and cringed until Fynner let go.
They were marching down a backstreet in the eastern district of Akell, the quarter of the Circle City ruled by the Knights of the Temples. Considering the Devout Congress now dominated Akell there should have been no need for stealth, but their numbers remained few; those who had not been disarmed by the Menin had been conscripted into the invasion of Narkang or lost their weapons when the armoury burned.
‘Just don’t make any more noise,’ Fynner said as he waved over the captain commanding the troops. ‘We’re almost at the meeting point, and we’ve still the best part of an hour to wait. Captain, position your squads out of sight – that warehouse, I think, and have some on the other side of the main road so they can cut off any escape. Remember, hiding his abilities as a mage while being promoted to his position of trust is a capital offence under the Codex of Ordinance. We want to capture Captain Perforren alive for him to face trial, but he’ll be desperate to escape, so use whatever force is necessary. As for Sergeant Timonas, I don’t give a damn about one corrupt witchfinder. Taking him alive for interrogation is preferable, but it’s unlikely he’ll have any useful information for us.’
Shanatin had to stifle a smile at the idea of Sergeant Timonas under questioning. Fortunately the gloom of night hid his reaction and Fynner only paused at the movement, not bothering to waste any more time on him.
‘You’ll stick beside me,’ Fynner ordered. ‘You’ll only get in the way otherwise. If Timonas arrives first I will want you to confirm his identity.’
The witchfinder bobbed his head in acknowledgement and followed Fynner to a dark stone house at the corner of the street. The chaplain produced a key and let himself in, then led Shanatin up to a room on the first floor that smelled of mould and rotten wood. They gingerly settled themselves down on the broken furniture, positioned so they could watch both directions from behind the tattered curtains covering the windows.
Shanatin took care to test a rickety stool before easing himself down onto it. The last thing he needed was to further incur Fynner’s wrath – the chaplain’s plans were going to go sufficiently awry already.
Captain Perforren slipped out of the tavern’s rear door and walked slowly through the yard. It was lit by a single lamp in the window of the back room, barely enough for anything other than to make out the lines of the privy. Perforren checked inside the shed for drinkers relieving themselves, and after confirming it was empty he headed for the gate beyond it, slipping the bolts as silently as he could and making his way into the street outside.
He waited a long while in the shadows for a tail to appear, but after five minutes he concluded there was no one watching him that night. Head down, the collar of his coat turned up, Perforren hurried across the street and turned east. The message had been too short for explanations, and the messenger was as nondescript as the coat he’d handed over, but the man had certainly played the part of a fervent follower of Ruhen to Perforren’s satisfaction.
Drinking companion has urgent information. Meet at small bridge in Yatter. Bring only those trust completely.
At any other time Perforren would have laughed in the man’s face and knocked him down, but times were far from normal. Ruhen’s Children remained a limited presence in Akell, enough to annoy the Devout Congress but not distract their enthusiasm from the violence they inflicted on their own Order. Sergeant Kayel – Ruhen’s bodyguard, who’d visited Perforren and Knight-Cardinal Certinse one night for a drink – had promised them help to take back control of the Order. They had been waiting patiently for weeks now, enduring the insults and iniquities the fanatics of the Devout Congress regularly imposed upon the Order’s secular majority.
It was a h
alf-hour journey to Yatter, a small, poor district in the east of the quarter where foreigners comprised most of the inhabitants. It had fewer inhabitants since the Menin conquest, but night patrols still walked the streets and Perforren was forced several times to hide from soldiers whose allegiance would not be apparent until too late. Eventually he found himself at a stone arch behind which, during the day, a smallholders’ market took place.
It was a secure vantage point from which he could see the bridge he’d been directed towards, but when he arrived the streets on both sides of the river were empty. The bridge was only five yards across, and no taller than waist-high; there was nowhere to hide aside from crouching under the bridge itself. He waited and watched, listening intently for sounds in the street beyond, but aside from the distant, regular tramp of a patrol he heard nothing. Above the building ahead he saw a sliver of Kasi, well on its way to the horizon: that meant midnight was not far off and the darkest part of the night had begun. As though to confirm that thought, a cloud drifted over the greater moon, Alterr, and what little he’d been able to see in the street faded.
‘Seen anyone?’ came a whisper in his ear, and Perforren’s heart jumped into his throat. He was reaching for his sword even as he realised it was Kayel who’d spoken. The big mercenary grinned, hands resting easily on the knives in his belt.
‘No one,’ Perforren said once he’d recovered himself. ‘Unless you were followed, we’re alone.’
‘Good. I’ve got something to show you.’ Kayel indicated the bridge ahead of them and started off, not waiting to make sure Perforren was moving. The captain took one look behind, wondering how Kayel had come through the market so silently, then hurried to catch up. It sounded like his light footsteps were the only ones in the street: Kayel’s moved without sound and Perforren guessed the soles of his boots were covered with something to muffle the noise. For once he wasn’t wearing his long white cape, preferring instead a dark jacket covered with black-painted steel links. In the spirit of stealth he wore a peasant’s cloth cap to shade the pale skin of his face, and Perforren noticed the man was serious enough about secrecy to eschew his usual gaudy, jewel-hilted bastard sword. Instead he wore only his daggers and a plain short sword like any nightwatchman in Yatter might carry.