by Tom Lloyd
‘No problem, Sire,’ Doranei mumbled, unable to meet the king’s piercing ice-blue gaze for long.
‘Excellent news. In which case there’s no need to trouble the healers, is there? Given there’s not been a problem, no one can have been hurt.’
Doranei touched a finger to the right-hand side of his head. He winced as his fingers came away bloody. ‘No, Sire,’ he said, ‘no need to trouble them.’
‘No, Sire,’ Veil added in a muffled voice, ‘all good here.’
‘If I may, your Majesty?’ Dashain broke in. ‘I appear to have a discipline problem with my men.’
‘Of course.’ Emin waved graciously. ‘It is your prerogative.’
‘Thank you.’ She glared at the two Brothers. ‘Now, who started it?’
There was a pause, then both men said, ‘I did,’ in the same breath.
‘Good. Consider it at an end. Kiss and make up.’
Another pause in which the pair inspected the ground at their feet before mumbling apologies.
Dashain growled, ‘Did I not make myself clear? Did I fucking stutter? Do I look like I was joking? Bloody well kiss and make up, or I’ll flog the pair of you.’
There was silence, quickly broken by a cough of laughter from Isak. Doranei stared at the daemon-scarred man for a heartbeat, then back at Dashain. A few carefully muted sniggers came from the column of soldiers which had ground to a halt to watch the fight.
Doranei blinked, then a growl of annoyance from Veil turned into a laugh and he turned, grabbed Doranei by the tunic and pulled him closer before planting a big kiss on his lips, to the whoops of laughter from the onlooking soldiers.
Veil stepped back with a loud, theatrical smack of the lips and turned to bow to the applauding troopers. ‘Not so bad as I’d expected!’ he declared over the catcalls and lewd shouts. ‘Oh don’t kid yourself, soldier,’ he added, pointing to one of the louder soldiers, ‘you ain’t that pretty.’
‘Aye, well, glad I shaved now,’ Doranei replied, blowing Veil a kiss as he mounted his horse again. ‘Got a reputation to maintain.’
‘If we’ve quite finished, children?’ the king enquired idly, but in a tone of voice that quickly hushed the soldiers. ‘Back to the war, I think.’
‘Aye, Sire,’ Doranei said and gathered the reins of his horse before remounting. ‘Back to the war.’
‘So go back to the part where you and Veil kissed,’ Zhia purred as she dabbed at the cut on Doranei’s head.
‘Think I’ve told that enough already today,’ Doranei replied grumpily. Without meaning to he took a deep breath, inhaling her faint perfume as the vampire stood over him, her clothed belly barely three inches from his lips. ‘You only get it the once.’
‘Now that’s something a girl always likes to hear,’ Zhia sighed, looking down at him and affectionately stroking his cheek. ‘And we’re not even married. How quickly the romance fades.’
‘Aye, well, you didn’t pick the best prospect there: no home of my own, no assets beyond my sword, no prospects beyond a sharp and pointy end the day I’m not quick enough.’
‘You really need to work on your proposals, sweetness.’
‘If we were married and you died, would that mean I’d be free to chase other women?’ Doranei countered. ‘Them’s the rules, after all.’
‘Chase all you like,’ Zhia said, prodding his wound a little harder than strictly necessary, ‘but if you catch them, you’ll find out what they truly mean by “a woman scorned”.’
He snorted. ‘I don’t doubt that.’
‘So was that all I get?’ Zhia persisted, setting down the bloodied cloth and tilting his head so she could look down on the wound. She licked her finger and ran it along the length of the shallow cut and Doranei felt a tingle on his skin as it healed. ‘By way of proposals, I mean.’
‘You truly want to marry me?’ Doranei gasped, failing to conceal the astonishment from his voice.
‘It’s nice to be wanted,’ she said with a coquettish smile.
He winced. ‘Bit of a mismatch, though.’
‘Don’t worry, sweetness. I’d not actually make you marry me.’ Zhia shook her head and her long, lustrous hair fell loose about her shoulders. ‘We are set on too different paths for that. The proposal would do.’
‘Well,’ Doranei said cautiously, ‘might be I could do better’n that, if I really had to.’
‘Trust me; you really would have to do better. I’m a rather unique woman.’
He pursed his lips in thought. ‘I always thought you’d be the one doing the proposing, though. It’s not as if you’ll ever be the little wife on some man’s arm.’
‘I’m old-fashioned, remember? Some traditions I don’t mind.’
Doranei took her hand in his and kissed the back of it delicately. Zhia smiled expectantly down at him, but before he could say anything he felt her tense and the smile become frozen. White trails of light danced inside the dark blue of her eyes, a gust of wind dancing around their close walled tent as she drew deep on the magic in the air.
‘What’s wrong?’
She looked around, her hand slipping out of his. ‘I don’t know. Something.’ In the blink of an eye her sword was in her hand, though there was barely room for a drawn weapon inside the tent. Doranei scrambled for his own sword-belt and hurriedly buckled it on. He was pulling on his pauldrons and helm when he saw Zhia hadn’t yet moved.
He drew his sword and stared at the black, light-pricked surface for a moment. The weapon was older even than Zhia, and incredibly powerful; Doranei had taken it from Aracnan, Death’s bastard son. He found himself checking his palm for darkening skin whenever he sheathed it.
‘Something comes,’ Zhia declared, and stepped outside the tent, Doranei following on her heels.
Half the remaining Brotherhood were still sitting around their supper fires; they looked worriedly at Zhia. Veil made a small gesture, but Doranei shook his head, dismissing the offer: whatever was coming, it clearly wasn’t a normal attack.
The tents were quivering under a strengthening wind. Twenty yards away the king’s standard was stretched out by the wind to display to the whole Land the bee emblem, Death’s own.
Zhia continued to look around, focusing on nothing, while more faces appeared.
Tiniq’s nose rose to a scent on the wind that Doranei couldn’t detect, then he ran to fetch his own weapons. Others stood and started scouting around, but Zhia ignored them all and set off down the path that ran down the centre of the camp.
Doranei kept on in her shadow, his apprehension growing with every step. The wind strengthened and a log on a Kingsguard fire sent a sudden spray of embers dancing across their path. Zhia’s sword was up before Doranei could move, but there was nothing there and she quickly continued on her way.
‘What can you sense?’ he whispered.
‘I’m not sure.’ The tone of her voice made it clear she had no intention of saying any more.
At the edge of the camp a unit of Daken’s Green Scarves were on duty. Their lieutenant, a young man with blue spirals visible behind the cheek-guards of his helm, stepped forward smartly to greet Zhia, but she went straight past him without a word and stopped just behind the picket, staring out into the late evening gloom beyond.
At first Doranei, standing beside her, could see nothing in the darkness. Then he detected movement, and an intake of breath from the sentries behind showed they too had seen it. Zhia raised a hand and they readied their bows.
‘Is that a man?’ Doranei asked quietly as the movement began to resolve itself into a shuffling figure, moving by fits and starts.
‘Once perhaps,’ Zhia said. ‘Now—? Is this one of my brother’s games?’
The figure came closer and Doranei could see its right leg was badly gashed and it was limping. A chainmail shirt hung open at the front, but he could make out little beyond a bloody mess running from chest to groin. A long wisp of hair hung down on one side of its head. The figure was staring emptily at the gr
ound as it trudged on until it was barely a dozen yards away from Zhia.
Then it stopped and looked up, and the sentries started to curse under their breath. Even Doranei took a step back as he looked at the figure’s face.
Its eyes were burning: bright yellow flames leaked like tears from eyeholes that were empty pits of fire. Its jaw hung slack and Doranei could see more fire within there, boiling and rushing up its gullet into its head. It took another step forward and raised its arms almost beseechingly towards Zhia.
That was enough for the sentries. Two fired; one arrow caught it in the arm, the other hit just left of where a man’s heart would be, rocking the figure back on its heels, but it just stared dumbly at the shafts for a moment before struggling forward a few more paces.
A third arrow caught it in the throat, snapping its head back up, and a spray of fire poured down its chest. From its upturned eyes, twin spurts of flame shot a foot up in the air. But it was the wound to its neck that had Doranei captivated: the fire burned bright as it cascaded down the front of the figure, illuminating fat metal staples running all the way down its body.
‘Lords of Ghenna,’ Doranei breathed, ‘what is that?’
‘That,’ Zhia replied slowly, ‘is my brother’s madness.’ She took a step forward and the figure reacted as though shocked by her presence.
Doranei tore his gaze away from it and looked at Zhia, who now had eddies of crimson light flowing off her body and sword and streaming away in all directions as she drew deep on her magic. He could feel the presence of her power on his exposed cheek: the prickling heat of a bonfire and a shock of ice-cold air hitting him together.
‘A Chalebrat,’ Zhia said, ‘a fire elemental – stitched by magery into a corpse.’ She held out her left hand and the whirling magic tightened around her, lighting up the bones of her hand against her skin before the corona of light became too intense for Doranei to watch any more.
She took another step closer and the figure, leaking fire from its various wounds, staggered back, but not quickly enough to avoid Zhia’s sword, which flicked out and sheared through the crude staples holding its front together. The corpse burst apart and collapsed to the ground like a discarded coat while a ten-foot figure of flame unfolded against the night.
Zhia punched forward with an open palm and the Chalebrat was thrown backwards a dozen yards, flames streaming in its wake. The fires of its insubstantial body guttered under the blow.
Doranei readied his sword, but the Chalebrat was making no move to attack; instead, it looked up at the night sky before vanishing, leaving only a trail of light in Doranei’s eyes.
‘Was that another lesson for me?’ Zhia shouted up at the sky.
Doranei followed her gaze and at last he made out the shape of a wyvern, lazily hovering above where the Chalebrat had been. As his eyes adjusted to the loss of light, Vorizh’s pale face became clear against the black clouds above.
‘A distraction!’ Vorizh called with a laugh as a sword entere Zhia’s back. ‘And now I leave you to your loving embrace.’
Doranei held her close and blinked back the tears. He had one arm around her, just below her throat, the dark green embroidery of her dress bunched in his fist. The scent of flowers filled his head as Zhia shuddered, a tiny gasp of air escaping her lungs. His hand shook, unable to let go of the weapon it held. The hilt pressed right against her back, but still he drove it forward as his guts turned to ice. Zhia tilted her head down to stare at the tip of the weapon now protruding from just below her ribs and gave a cough that could have been surprise.
She dropped her sword and Doranei felt her fingers reach up to clutch his hand, her usual strength absent, her hand closing about his like a lover’s might. Doranei closed his eyes and pressed his face against her neck, still holding her tight, and Zhia leaned her own head into his for a moment. Doranei could hear nothing but the rush of blood in his ears and the terrible pounding of his heart.
He felt her legs begin to sag, his grip the only thing holding her up, and gently he lowered her to the ground, sliding his black broadsword out and lying her on her back. She trembled only slightly as he withdrew the weapon and cast it aside. He cupped her face in his hands.
‘I will,’ Zhia whispered. A flicker of pain crossed her eyes, and then she was gone.
Doranei gave a strangled howl as the woman went limp. From nowhere a black mist rose from the ground, stealing up out of the scrubby grass to curl around the edges of her body. Horrified, Doranei fell back; he couldn’t take his eyes off Zhia’s corpse as the mist swarmed up and over her body, licking at Doranei’s discarded sword and his boots until he stumbled back a pace.
‘She will what?’ the Goddess marked lieutenant said in a hushed voice.
Doranei’s stomach lurched. ‘Before . . . this . . .’ he began, choking on his own words, ‘she knew . . .’
He sank to his knees, grief filling his vision. ‘I wanted to ask her a question.’
CHAPTER 31
Ruhen opened his eyes. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Good,’ Ilumene said, ‘I never trusted the bitch, never mind her little gift to you.’
The boy looked at his muscular bodyguard, just returned from his hunt in Narkang lands. Ilumene was dressed for battle, in white-bleached leather armour stiffened with painted steel strips. Beside him, Venn’s normal black was covered with a white cape. His ruined wrist was encased in a bright, milky crystal. He might carry only one sword now, but he had lost none of his Harlequin dexterity, and he carried a Crystal Skull. Venn was far from vulnerable.
‘What about the element of surprise?’
Ilumene shrugged, his grin wolfish. ‘Fine when you’re using it, but some never do. They just hold their surprise in reserve, waiting – always bloody waiting. You’ve been carrying that sword Zhia gave you for months. I know you’ve been wary of revealing that she’d sided with us. Now we know they’ve found out about Aenaris, there’s no reason not to use it.’
Ruhen blinked, and the shadows danced in his eyes. ‘I had best not disappoint you, then,’ he said at last and gestured towards the ornate doors of the Duke’s Chamber. ‘Shall we?’
The fine wall hangings of the lower chamber of the Ruby Tower had been covered by strips of cloth, collected by the white-cloaked devotees of Ruhen from all over Byora. The Knights of the Temples had spread far, and the response had been great. Even those states as yet unscathed by war had heard of the horrors inflicted – the obliteration of Scree and Aroth were all too easy to imagine when daemons roamed the lonely roads and woodlands, providing fertile ground for a message of peace.
The preachers had brought back prayers back from every village, town and city, and Ruhen could smell the power in them, growing drip by drip. Currently that power was out of reach – daemons and Gods alike were shaped as well as sustained by the worship of their followers, while Azaer had refused to become dependent on mortal followers. This was a time of transformation however: the Land would be remade, and he would too.
‘I still don’t like this,’ Ilumene said at last, not moving from where he stood. ‘We’re wasting a lot o’ men.’
‘Learning compassion, Ilumene?’ Venn inquired, a look of sour scorn on his face. ‘I hadn’t thought old dogs of the Brotherhood capable of such tricks.’
Ilumene gave him an unfriendly look. ‘Aye, and I can juggle too. I’d teach you how, but there ain’t much fucking point, is there?’ He turned away from Venn and squatted down to look Ruhen in the face. ‘You gave me command of the armies, remember? Making sure they deliver is my responsibility.’
‘And thus far their job is to be defeated,’ Venn continued. ‘Success isn’t admirable until you’re asked to do something difficult.’
Ilumene ignored him, waiting for Ruhen’s response.
The boy showed no emotion at the squabbling of his underlings. ‘You are concerned we might lose the support of the Devoted?’
‘They ain’t happy about Emin’s armies cutting through ’em, but ba
cking out at this stage ain’t an option, not with the losses they’ve taken. Continuing to take my orders, though – that might be harder if we’ve done nothing but lose ’em men. You provide the Devoted with legitimacy for their expansion, but Telith Vener and Afasin still see you as just a figurehead, one to be used and dropped if it costs them too much. We can disabuse the buggers of that, but it’ll stall us at a time we really don’t need.’
‘Afasin speaks with no voice now his army is broken,’ Ruhen said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. ‘The others know that.’
‘He still speaks within the council and that’s enough.’ Ilumene straightened. ‘The Knight-Cardinal’s yours, body and soul, but he’s the only one of ’em. Lord Gesh too, perhaps, but on military matters his opinion ain’t worth much. If you show your power now, folk might start to ask why we’re retreating away from the Circle City in the first place – and certainly why we’re doing so while sacrificing ten legions or more, whether or not they’re our weakest troops. It’s a half-arsed commitment to battle, a sop to Karkarn’s will that will convince no one and loses too many in the process.’
‘What does my general advise, then?’ Ruhen asked, one hand raised to stop Venn’s objections.
‘Either send most of your forces, or beat the retreat for them all. What else is there? Defeats paint a picture that serves our purposes, I know, and every report of savage sorcery and inhuman combat brings more followers to the cause, but we ain’t following the old plan very closely any more.’
Ruhen nodded slowly. ‘This mortal vestment remains something I wear, and you do well to remind me of mortal concerns. But this defeat would serve us.’
‘So we make it a defeat, but one we’re truly escaping from, rather than leaving in our wake. Provoke a response to truly flee from. We’re at the point where we need to take risks – to show them as a real danger, they actually need to be a real danger to us. We’re leaving the Circle City anyway, but your followers don’t know that. They need to feel there’s no choice before they flee.’