And what will come when Servitor Gareth finds more? I cannot shield them from Amos; I have only invited what I wanted to avoid.
“I cannot do Father’s work if you flaunt the precepts,” Jophiel declared.
“You are boorish, Jophiel. What makes you think I care a whit for our father? He is a piece upon the board, I will admit. A rather unruly piece to move, and not one to be moved directly. Yet he will move to my whims, of that I assure you. I am here, am I not?”
My brother is a servant no longer. He plays a game that he cannot understand. Is that what the vision portended? Was that the result of Amos’ play?
“What do you want of me?” Jophiel asked, fearing the answer.
“Oh, I am so very glad that you asked.”
Lord Luc crashed through the benches, lifting Jophiel up by the throat, thrusting him against the near wall. Trying to speak, his words were muffled. The man’s fingers pressed hard against bone.
Amos was laughing. “You must be wondering why some islander can do this to you—in your sanctuary no less—your precious Artifact just below us? I did not come ‘ere alone, nor did he.”
Jophiel looked aside and saw a bursting blue glow from Amos’ robes, and whence he pulled it out, it was blindingly bright.
An Animus Stone, but how?
Then another light suffused Lord Luc.
“More have been awakened since you decided to leave this awful, arid place,” Amos explained. “You have not forgotten who I was, I trust? I can still siphon the power from these, and with the other vestige in hand, render your treasure all but worthless. It led me to Luc. He has such a fascinating history.
“You see, it all happened when he was a boy. The middle island, before the formative years of the Southern Nations. Damian Dannars heard rumours of hidden relics of great power. I may have placed the thought in his mind. He searched and searched. It was uncovered near Lakarn.
“It was just like Serenity. Corpses piled up, contorted in fright. Just as our people once died, before you and our brothers betrayed me to our father.”
The treachery is yours, Amos.
“I think my brother has aught to say. Loose your grip Lord Luc. Let him speak.”
Lord Luc’s fingers relaxed, and Jophiel repeated his thought. “The treachery is yours, Amos.”
“I rather do not care a whit for what he has to say, now that I have heard it, Lord Luc,” Amos remarked, and the monster tightened his grip. “Serenity came after. Lakarn first.
“The soon to be overlord sent some men to search. They found a stone. It was buried in the water. Oh, the screams and torment when it was unearthed. Mountains of corpses piled one on top of each other, all but for a scared boy.
“These precarious, foolish mortals, they did not know what they had found. The stone had chosen a hardened warrior. It did more than that, so much more. You see, dear brother, Sariel has grown tired of this pointless battle. He will see that it ends differently, as He warps and changes the heirs to the earth.
“So, it was that an islander became a proselyte. The second. Lord Kaldred has taken care of the first. Now the third, one of your own, that shall suffice.” The grin on Amos’ face was so sadistic, so cruel and wanton. “You will lead me to him.”
What have I done?
“My wretched brother must speak now, and I hope he understands affairs.”
Lord Luc salivated, before throwing Jophiel across the room. Dust and stone fell all around him, and he put hands to his throat, coughing; his body was wracked in pain.
They walked towards him. The blue glow taking his brother; a brown hue suffusing the islander.
I cannot fight them. I can only defy them.
His Throat still chafed and raw, his words were weak. “I serve our father. It is why I was sent here. The Order serves the realm. Guides it. Whatever you do to me, I will not serve you or your dark god.”
Lord Luc kicked him in the ribs, and Jophiel felt his bones cracking. Such wretched pain he never felt before; his mind blanked, the anguish was overwhelming.
Amos knelt, placing an open palm beneath Jophiel’s chin. “Do you recall what I asked you millennia ago, in the heart of Old Mazain?”
Jophiel remembered—he would never forget. The betrayal that would be theirs, instead of his brother’s. “You asked me to betray our father. I would not do it. Nor shall I do so now.”
“You turned me aside, yes. Thought I could do all this on my own, be the one who could see Sariel’s will done. I could not, not then, and not now. I understand affairs much more now, see what I could not fathom before. I will not let Sariel down, not again.”
“And I turn you aside—again.”
“You would, Jophiel. You have not changed. A pity I must force change upon you.”
The monsters burst into a seething mass of shadow; and the tendrils Darkness suffused the hall. Jophiel felt it creep up his body, and through his eyes and mouth. It twisted his flesh, searing his mind and soul. The Light, ever so fleeting, slowly became no more than a dull inflection.
Reuven…stop…him…
Chapter Thirteen
The Northlands
Johnathan did not feel the cold wind howl across the plains south of Jakon.
He stood before a long line of knights, men-at-arms, pike, and outriders. Further behind archers were mounted on horses, others hidden amid the forests closer to the shore. There were siege weapons and warriors behind hills, cloaked and unseen.
We shall crush the Isilians as we have for weeks.
To the west, Johnathan saw Ser Geoffrey Rhuart’s slender frame observing the field below. Johnathan could not guess what went through the knight-captain’s mind, but he thought it mirrored his: the Isilians were too few, they hold the lower ground, and the fortifications will not hold. It was simply a matter of how much blood was shed.
To the east was Ser Kevan Jarn, splendid and proud in his gilded plate. A long, winding horn was in his hand. His eyes looked past the plains and the port town, west towards the forest, where Ser Elin was hidden.
It will not be long now.
Johnathan loosed the blade in his scabbard. The port town must nearly be empty: the plain was naught but men in women in black plate and leather armour. Black that would turn to crimson.
Rafael, boy, it need not be this way.
The horn blistered through the air, and he ordered his line forward.
A shout came from the plains below, and the Isilian line charged in reply. Johnathan picked up his pace; he shouted with sword out, and lost himself in the rush of battle.
Sentinels charged at the fore, flanked by men and women in blackened mail; they wielded swords, halberds, and long two handed axes. There were no pike, archers, or cavalry, but they may still be in the walls of Jakon, far but distinct across the plain.
He felt no fear or trepidation. He crashed into the heart of the Isilian line: it was a sea of steel, blood, and mud.
He clashed with a tall sentinel at the fore; and the song of steel echoed across the plain. The man swung savagely with both hands, but Johnathan parried and deflected the blows, skirting on the wet, damp ground. He leaned low to the ground, pivoted, and feigned an attack at the man’s legs, and his foe swung savagely. Johnathan quickly swept at his foe’s legs, before finding a gap in his plate.
Two other swordsmen in studded leather were on Johnathan. The foe on his left grazed his plate, while he cut the other near the hilt, causing the blade to crash to the ground; then, in one smooth stroke, he slashed the man’s life blood away. The other gaped in disbelief, fleeing. Johnathan did not give chase.
Countless others came at him; some by themselves, others in bunches. Few matched his reach or patience, though he took a few cuts and his wrist ached, but the dead lay at feet, ever rising.
These are no sentinels. They are not even men. Unbloodied boys who should not have left their homes.
He whipped his head around and saw that the Isilian line was collapsing, pushing into the centre col
umn. Not knowing if it was madness or desperation, he called to his assembled knights, bunched together, and met them. His own men wielded halberds, tossed throwing spears, cutting down the men and women at the fore. He pivoted more than moved, hewing down the unscathed, and those who limbered with blood drenching behind them.
Mounds of the dead stood before him, and the Isilians still lumbered forward, pushing the piles, climbing over them. His own men and women pushed forward, spearing and skewering those adorned in studded leather and mail. He waited for more to come, but none rose over the mounds.
Then there were three horn blasts, paced a second apart.
They flee.
He ordered the column forward, and climbed over the mounds. He saw the remnants flee to the walls of Jakon, but to the west and east were Ser Geoffrey’s and Ser Kevan’s column, and he knew they would not reach the walls before the Isilians.
But then the fortified walls began to crack.
Catapults and scorpions emerged from the forests to the west and east. Boulders and projectiles crashed through brick and mortar; the broken stone rained down like an avalanche.
The battle turned to chaos quickly, and the Isilians were in a panicked frenzy.
A score of Isilians charged forth, desperate and foolhardy. Johnathan parried blows and pushed his weight towards the foes, cutting them down. Withdrawing his steel, he watched as the panicked and desperate Isilians hit the columns they thought weakest, but only death found them.
“Forth!” Johnathan shouted. “Push them to the wall. Let none escape!”
He cut down on the legs of fleeing men and women, others sprawled towards him, confused by tightening vice from the east and west. They soaked the ground, and their blood became sprawling rivers.
He leapt over the bodies and splashed through the crimson puddles. He called out as the lines pressed in, and the walls of Jakon seemed to rise until it near blocked out the sun.
The end was at hand.
He kept hacking and hewing as blood splashed upon his armour, and the screams of terror resonated more and more. Blackened mounds rose before crystalline reflections.
Another bloody disgrace.
Johnathan sent scores of men and women into the port town to root out what was left. He knelt before the broken gate, and turned over the bodies of the slain, removing their helms.
None of them have come of age. What madness possessed you, Rafael?
He cleaned his sword on the brown and black fabrics of the fallen boys, and saw Ser Geoffrey Rhatin and Ser Kevan Jarn approach.
“They fall too easily,” Ser Geoffrey remarked, while looking from side to side. “These not like what we fought before. It should not have ended this way.”
“They are boys, Ser Geoffrey,” Johnathan replied, feeling morose and downcast. “The men died in the fires of Zelen; the rest safeguard their imperator. We will drink to the memory of our fallen—and theirs. They were too young. Far too young.
“Who shall offer the coin?” Ser Kevan asked. “Our friend seldom pays for himself, Lord Protector. Even if this war should end on the morrow, you would wait long for it.”
“Your memory is slipping already,” Ser Geoffrey shot back. “I paid—”
“When a woman is in the company,” Ser Kevan interrupted. “Who was the last one? Alice? Or was it Kendra? A new girl with the turning of the moon, it seems.”
Johnathan allowed himself a smile, but it did not last.
“Lord Protector! To the north.”
The voice was that of a messenger, and Johnathan looked to the waters beyond the town. Sails unfurled just beyond the harbour, and a score of war galleys put out, some far from the coast, while others were just leaving it. “Report to Ser Elin, I will attend him presently.”
“Lord Protector, but the—”
“You have your orders.”
The messenger tucked tail and scurried off.
“Lord Protector,” Ser Kevan began, all mirth and joy gone. “I will see to the dead. Doubtless Ser Elin will have need of you at the port authority, if it still stands.”
“Yes,” Johnathan mused. “Meanstwhile, gather the men and women. Our scouts reported there are still smaller forts and towers that the Isilians constructed. We need to know if there is another stronghold before Falen.”
“At once, Lord Protector.”
Ser Geoffrey followed at Johnathan’s heel, and he saw that the iron portcullis was raised. Some of the men-at-arms were huddled together in talk on the other side.
The port town of Jakon was familiar, though it was years since his last visit, in the days before the Trechtian invasion. Stone houses that once were busy with life and shouts were huddled together off the main causeway, silent, but for the creaking wind. The road opened to the immense harbour on the northern side. There was not a vessel docked, but the port would moor merchant vessels, trading cogs, and a score of great dromonds if need pressed.
He walked the causeway, and his eyes searched up and down for the dead that he feared to find. Instead it simply looked deserted: glass windows were shattered, grass was trampled upon, and flowers were dried up.
They knew of our coming for weeks, if not more. Rafael had them ready, little that it helped.
Johnathan caught a glimpse of Ser Geoffrey. He gripped hard upon the hilt of his blade, and discontent dwelled in his eyes. “You are not at all pleased with Ser Elin?”
“It is not my place to question the knight-commander.” Ser Geoffrey looked back with worn, strained eyes. “Howsoever, look at this town, Lord Protector. There is nary a sound of children’s play, the labour of men and women, market stalls, trading posts, or sailors and deck hands. They may not be piled up in the square as we found them before, but they are just as dead. The imperator may have given the order, but it is their lord commander who carried them out. He should be strung up, and not allowed to flee!”
The words perturbed Johnathan, though there was more truth to it than he dared allow. The Northlands was dead, no, butchered. Some of the dead were buried, others were piled in mounds, or shoved off cliffs into the ocean. None of the knight-captains had forgot the lord commander’s words: ‘Your cities will burn as the Northlands has.’ The unspoken words of Ser Geoffrey seemed to say Ser Elin has forgot.
Johnathan knew those words were false. He kept the knights away from Serenity when they came upon it two weeks past. Ser Elin Durand was so weakened and distraught. He balled his fists and screamed out. He turned over every corpse, staring into their faces, desperately looking for Alicia, Timothy, and Joshua. The search extended to Sebastien’s house of healing, in the market square, in the woods, and where the Faith kept watch. There was no sign, but many of the dead were rotted, faces unrecognizable.
Johnathan came upon his old friend in the forest, sitting in front of an old oak tree, weeping. “We must go. Naught remains to us here.”
“Why?” Before Johnathan could answer, his broken friend pressed on. “Why this place? Was it for me? I still do not know why I was unharmed and all others are dead. It was a murky dream; the haze I still cannot see through. Was it aught else? What treasures did they hide? What? Why Johnathan? Why?”
Johnathan knew the answer, but could not share it. Not by pact, but of understanding. It gnawed at him terribly, to lie at his friend’s need. “Lord Commander Rafael Azail will know.”
The knight raised his eyes, and there was a flame in them that dulled in an instant. “I will ask him when no roads are left. When strength has fled from his body. I will ask why my sons are dead. Why my love is dead.”
“There is more at stake than your sons. We must know what has become of the imperium. What breeds such madness in the imperator.”
“My sons are dead. My love is dead. The price must be paid.”
No, he has not forgotten.
“He has his reasons, Ser Geoffrey,” Johnathan said after some time. “He has brought us to vengeance. We must trust in him.”
Ser Geoffrey nodded absently, and look
ed to the sea beyond.
The sea breeze filled Johnathan’s nostrils as he stepped onto the pier. The wooden planks shifted and rattled. He saw was a long, low roofed building to east. Lady Deborah Teran stood without, and she raised her visor at his approach. “Ser Elin awaits you within, Lord Protector.”
Johnathan nodded and turned to Ser Geoffrey. “Stand guard with Lady Deborah. See to those scouting missives. I will have us know what stands before us.”
Inside the building was dark, lit only by lantern lights at the far end of the chamber. There were sounds of cries, still against the gloom: and a cold, shrill voice feigning ignorance. As he neared the back of the room, he saw Lord Gareth Polin leaning lazily against the far wall, arms crossed. A scrawny, dark haired man sat with his head down upon a desk, muttering inaudibly. Ser Elin stood upon the other side. His gauntleted fingers gripped the wood.
“Lord Commander Rafael Azail left you here?” he demanded. “Why would he do that?”
“I do not know,” came the muffled sound, but when Ser Elin hammered the desk, the man trembled and stammered. “I-I do not k-know. I did all that he asked for. Told him all my secrets. Then killed everyone I knew, yes. I am Dalian, like you. Please do not hurt me. Please.”
“Answer the questions, and we will have no cause to,” Lord Gareth declared from the shadows. Johnathan did not know why the lord steward was here.
“I do not know—”
“Your name? Where were you born? Why are you here?” Ser Elin demanded. “Where is Lord Commander Rafael Azail?!”
“I-I-I,” the man stammered. “Daskin, my name is Daskin. I was born in the north. My affairs took me to Talin. I was a secret monger. Traded coin for knowledge. I had many dealings with the Voice and your knights, though I did not know them. The Isilians took the town and asked about my dealings with a particular treasure. Did not know much about it. Told him it went north. That is all I know.”
“You know more than you let on,” Johnathan declared. Lord Gareth raised his eyes, and Ser Elin turned. “I know this man. I can attest to some of what he has said, though the knights have not had dealings with him for some time. Not since he tried to cheat us.”
Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1) Page 14