“Just a boy.”
“A boy no longer,” Sebastien said dismissively. “He is now at the beck and call of Lord Kaldred. The same dismissive tyrant who would burn a country down in a lust for power.”
“Lord Kaldred is that presence?”
Sebastien’s hand fell to the pocket that held the stone. “When I first took the stone from the islander, I was overwhelmed with a desire to make for Isil. I took steps toward it, but I denied the thought and turned south. I have seen this power unfold before my eyes, and now I wield it, but only to ward it. I will not let Lord Kaldred possess it. Nor do I think would you.”
The enemy was behind us, not ahead. I counselled loyalty, and where does this lead us now? “It does not matter what I would do. Ser Elin will lay this land to ruin, and Lord Kaldred with it.”
“I am but a healer who knows little of these, beyond what It has told me. Yet you saw the power I now possess. What would Lord Kaldred do when Ser Elin is upon his doorstep?”
Ruin. Death. Destruction. “I must see my fate with my brethren.”
“Ashleigh.” A warm, slithering sensation shot through her body. “I cannot let you return. You will not perish needlessly.”
“My duty is to the imperium and to—”
“Your love.”
It struck a chord. There was much that Ashleigh was prepared to sacrifice, but to leave Rafael to that fate was unfathomable. “I must return.”
“We will journey south, and you will arrange a voyage to Lanan for us. We have much to discuss with the overlord.”
“I will not—”
A red light began to glow from Sebastien’s breast. She stared at it, and knew what would come if she turned north.
Do not fall, my love.
“South, then.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Wasteland
Elin crested the rise and looked toward Isil.
The city looked bleak and desolate. Mount Cimmerii towered over it like a great shadow: its outstretched arms swallowing the buildings in a swarming embrace. Far up the slope was a wide keep with sprawling towers; the tips stretching out like an embedded crystal against plainer, rougher rock. He knew that to be the Cimmerii’s Hold.
Yet it seemed more a fortress than a city. The walls rose high from the deepening valley, stretching to the widening reaches of the black mountain. Archers armed with crossbows stood at every opening. Towers with endless slit windows were cut near every thirty feet. Long arms of trebuchets stretched out between the sentinels.
Elin was hard pressed to imagine a more defendable stronghold. There were no trees or plants on the barren plain, and the valley dropped straight down, before leveling off towards the gate. Every man and woman that he would send to those walls would have no shield against those above, and the defenders below would push them into slaughter.
He did not think it was vain hopelessness; there would be a way, even if it was not apparent. Scouts and outriders returned earlier in the day. Ser Johnathan Falenir saw to them; he would present their findings, and a weakness would be found.
No fortress is impregnable, nor is a foe too great.
Elin left the crest of the hill, and walked towards the long line of encampments. Knights, archers, pike, men-at-arms, cavalry, mounted archers, and foot soldiers all intermingled around the roaring cook fires. Much of the talk concerned hearth and home, vengeance for their fallen brothers and sisters of the Northlands, the blessed Light of Mother God, and tearing down the walls of the imperium—that most of all.
He felt like there was more promise and high spirits than three years past. He was glad for that; for unless some scout or errand rider saw aught that was hidden from his sight, most of those gathered at the camp fires would not return home. It could be done, he knew, but at such a great cost.
A cost he paid e’er since arriving.
The Black Guard had waited along the coast. Elin had lost a handful of ships, but there were more victories than defeats as he pushed inwards. The enemy commander was not Lord Commander Rafael Azail, but a massive figure all in black, wielding a two-handed claymore that no man should have the strength to wield.
“Black Wrath,” Ser Johnathan had told Elin on the eve of their first victory. “The man was once an islander, though he has been in Imperator Argath Diomedes service for many years. Age has not stripped him of his strength. Ere we stand before the Mountain, he will stand before us. The man has never fallen.”
“Will he join the battle?”
“Not unless the imperator commands it, and I doubt much that he will,” Ser Johnathan replied. “He wanted us to see him; to let us know that it not the walls that stand between us and the Mountain, but him.”
“And he will not face us lest the walls crumble all around him.”
“Whence all his forces are spent, he will draw his steel and bar our passage. We will not reach the Mountain lest he dies, and he will take many of us in the attempt.”
Elin knew that a siege would be a death knell, and grant the Faceless Shadow time to flee in the endless mountains north of the city. The hammer would have to fall, and it could not be overlong.
He arrived at last to the command tent: it was wide and white, with a silver pennant drifting in the dry, hot wind. “You have a guest, Knight-Commander,” one of the knights declared, while the other pulled open the tent flap.
Whoever it is will have to wait.
Ser Johnathan sat in the middle of the tent, re-arranging the lines and encampments on a stretched map. Most were still gathered outside the south and east gates, with roving bands towards the north. He made a few subtle changes, though he marked vulnerabilities along the walls, few however nearer to the gates.
Off in the corner the knight-captains huddled together and spoke softly. Ser Geoffrey Rhuart seemed to hold their attention, Ser Kevan Jarn bowed his head down deep in thought, and Lady Deborah Teran scowled. All three were knights that Elin served with three years past, and he would want to hear their counsel, disgruntled as it may be.
Lord Gareth Polin approached from the opposite corner, and a portly, balding priest in white was with him, cradling a large black book protectively. “Knight-Commander,” the lord steward said quietly. “This is Father Stephen Francis. He joined us in Falen two days before we departed. His intent came late to my attention, or I would have arranged for this audience sooner.”
Elin was annoyed by Lord Gareth’s constant presence in war councils. The lord steward was only there on account of Ser Johnathan’s insistence that the Faith must have some small voice. Elin tolerated the lord steward, but no further. “Father. We are at but the end of our campaign. If but a few days more and I shall have more time than I do at present.”
“It will not take long,” Father Stephen replied. “I bring word from Counsel El Lucourt, and my own, as it please you.”
It did not please Elin. He thought there was more to the elderly priest than meets the eye; the slow and subtle movements seemed more than the tenants of age, but what, he could not quite put a finger on. “If it is but brief.”
“I will be succinct,” the priest replied. “O’er the years, Counsel El has sent many men and women throughout our realm to discover truths concerning Gabriel. Many within the White Walls see the Light in all its purity, but there are those who have not seen what is so clear to us, and we must guide them rightly. I was one such chosen for the task. Ten years come and gone and I have been west of Trank, across the swath of islands, and through the wastelands, though admittedly the south more than aught else. I have seen many of Mother God’s children, arrogant and humble, the wealthy and poor. Few enough I have brought into the Light, and no more truth did I discover than what we have read in our holy book.
“My journey ended not long ago. I returned to Dale shamed and unworthy. Counsel El forgave my failings, and rather praised my work at bringing the Light to the poor souls who lost their way. Yet I wanted to do more, and when he asked me to journey north to bring counsel and word
s to you, I could not refuse.”
“What does he have to say?” Elin asked, unamused at the length and breadth of the priest’s story.
“To remind you that if we sin, it is because Mother God wants us to sin. We learn and grow, Knight-Commander, to better serve Her will. Some of us do so in the Light, others in darkness.” Father Stephen’s eyes drooped. “I do not understand his meaning, but I trust the counsel.”
Elin never exchanged words with the elderly counsel, but the stern and judgmental glares from the priest would never leave his memory. There was naught but hate and disregard; and Elin knew that if men broke past the guard and spilled his blood upon the floor, the old priest would herald it as the divine will of Mother God.
The same divine will that commanded him to sin—if it meant the ruin of the imperium.
The priesthood has not changed. What is tolerable is of their own invention. “I shall take his words to heart,” Elin replied, inclining his head, and giving the priest no inclination to his thoughts. “If there is aught else—”
“You will want to hear what he discovered,” Lord Gareth interrupted. “It concerns our strategy.”
Elin shot a glare at Lord Gareth, though he did not back down. The man often insisted on vain searches for relics that Lord Commander Rafael Azail claimed mastered the imperium. It was nonsense to Elin, and the lord steward should have known better.
“These are matters of war, Lord Gareth,” Elin near shouted. The attendant knights watched him now. “The Faith would have beggared its subjects to nothingness if their decisions held sway. I am not chasing ruins, relics, fairy tales, or ancient writing. Our foes stand upon the walls, armed, and—”
“There are paths through Mount Cimmerii,” Father Stephen declared sullenly. “Or so the people do profess.”
“You learned this—how?” Ser Johnathan asked, raising his head from the map. “We saw no tunnels on our journey south. Whatever you heard, they are no more than wives’ tales.”
“No, Lord Protector,” the priest said soothingly, walking towards the table. “We are frail, scared creatures. All of us. Mother God gives us strength and courage, but this land holds no such beliefs.” Father Stephen shook his head solemnly. “I spoke to men and women who were taken to the black mountain. Their eyes held not a lie. They spoke of a darkness and shadow that thundered in their minds, that bred nightmares in their sleep. There were some I gave strength to, though most were beyond my aid. The Lord of Death holds sway in this land. At wars end, I would expunge His influence.”
As the priest’s words dragged on, Elin felt a cold and chilled presence, like a snake slithering, unseen to the eye. The knight-captains argued, but their voices were muffled. The air seemed to shimmer, and Altier coalesced, wreathed in shadows, but vivid. Garbed in sable from head to foot, the pale face looked out, pointing and grinning. Elin reached for his sword, and Altier simply laughed.
You cannot slay a shade. Altier said, his voice echoing in Elin’s skull.
“Begone, daemon!”
As you wish away your children?
“They are beyond you. Beyond you, curse you! Beyond you!”
They are mine. You could never protect them. I have always protected what you were too weak to ward. Your wife and your children. Soon your sister will long for my embrace, whence you are splayed upon the wasteland. Just like Lucretia, all that was shall fade, and strength endures.
“Your blood will soak the ground, daemon!” Elin screamed and unsheathed Judgment. He swung at Altier; the shadow laughing and mocking.
“Knight-Commander!”
Ser Geoffrey’s blade was out, matching Elin’s own. Looking aside, Father Stephen was on the floor, hands up, cowering.
“He is not our enemy,” Ser Geoffrey implored.
I almost cut him down. Ashamed, Elin sheathed his blade. “We will speak anon, Father.”
“Knight-Commander, we should—”
“Get out!” Elin screamed, cutting off Lord Gareth. “Now!”
One by one they left the command tent wordlessly. He heard a faint muttering at the edge of hearing. That did not matter—none of it did.
My sister… You are just a lie crafted from my own nightmares…
He leaned over the stretched-out map and saw the marks of weakened stone towards the outer ways. The gates were reinforced in recent days, and murder holes erected in the walkways that stretched out above them; and crates and barrels were stacked up along the ramparts.
He traced a finger along the valley, and saw that there were no dikes, but deep cut trenches at the deepest points.
They will be wide as chasms or I am a fool.
He knocked over three quarters of his own lines, and looked at what remained.
That is what I must sacrifice.
Across the table, beyond the tip of Mount Cimmerii, Altier coalesced again.
You are not prepared to sacrifice, Altier’s voice grated. You never could then. You will not now.
“Get out.”
Or you shall do what? Will you draw Judgment again? An ill-named blade. You cannot cut through me; nor can I be waylaid. We are drawn to each other Elin, our fates entwined. Would you give your sister o’er to Sariel?
“Do not speak of her!”
Such passion for a woman you do not know, and never will. The path the priest laid out is the way. You know it more than anyone else. You chased me down it before.
The nightmare came to Elin not only in the dungeons of Dale, but every night thereafter. It was the same dark cavern. The same darkness. The same shades of Alicia and Joshua. The same twisted pain whence they chose Altier.
“I would not meet with you in those depths.”
And how many would die but not for your pride, Elin? We have called out to you. They were ripples that turned into waves. Zelen burnt. Serenity burnt. The Northlands burnt. Must you leave the Faith a weathered husk before you come to us? None can resist the Dream forever, not even you.
Elin felt the hot, dry air of the wasteland again. Altier was gone. Elin moved to the other end of the table where the man had stood, and there was naught.
He is just the nightmare. He is not real. His words are false.
“Ser Rickard,” Elin called out, and the knight poked his head in. “Send for the lord protector.”
The knight nodded his head and let the flap drop. Elin picked up a single piece from the map, and put it on the southern arm of Mount Cimmerii.
The words of Altier are false, but if the Isilians spoke it true, certain sacrifices may not have to be made.
“Elin,” Ser Johnathan said, entering the command tent. “You sent for me?”
“I did. I assume the father told you where the entrances to Mount Cimmerii are.”
“Yes,” Ser Johnathan replied striding towards the map, though he froze staring at the piece Elin moved. “It seems you know of it too.”
“A lucky guess.”
“You intend to take the father for his word?”
Elin picked up the little wooden piece. It was a horse on two legs, akin to the knight piece in chess. He thought it such a small thing, but so meaningful. Fingering it, he said, “We have sacrificed much in these years, old friend. The nobles of the old kingdom crossed the sea, swords outstretched, burning as they went. If one could e’er believe the words of the Cleaver Prince, they were looking for something, but what, we never quite understood. Whatever treasure may be hidden, naught is worth the cost.
“Then the Isilians come to our shores. My old friend had more honour than any of us. How often did he plead with us to leave Zelen alone? We forced his hand, I see that now. Yet he still came to our lands, sword raised, looking for artifacts of yore. What makes him so different from Prince Adreyu? What is an Isilian, a Trechtian, but a blood thirsty monster seeking power?”
Elin turned and flung the knight piece at Ser Johnathan. It bounded off his armour and onto the ground. “Chivalry, knighthood, it is dead. No more than a forgotten, senseless dream. We are b
lessed under the Light, but who among us embraces Mother God? We are heathens in plate. Not for choice. It is these campaigns that shape us. The revelation that men and women in power become what they hate.
“We must stop the cycle, my friend. It ends here. I do not believe the father or the counsel he obediently serves. Nay, but there are those who are manipulating us from the shadows who want us to be strong. I will not play to their hands though, not anymore. We will walk the path, bring the Mountain down, and tear the realm down with it. Priestesses, imperators, kings—they no longer hold sway. My children are dead, but for the children who still live, I would sacrifice for them. And I will.”
“You would turn on the Faith?” Ser Johnathan asked.
“If I could, old friend, I would walk into the Chamber of Judgment and spear Lutessa through her dark heart.”
Ser Johnathan did not stir. He was plain faced and stoic.
“The knight-captains may join you in this,” Ser Johnathan admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “But many of those men and women are loyal to the Faith. Mother God is all that keeps them going.”
“Put them in the vanguard,” Elin said sharply. “When I return to the White Walls, I will have no one who is not of our mind.”
“There are many—”
“The vanguard, Lord Protector!” Elin replied heatedly. He knew it was necessary and those sworn to him must obey. “I like this little more than you do, but it must be done. There remain enough swords, spear, and bow loyal to us. What was it you said in the Chamber of Judgment? ‘You may sit here, in the safety of the White Walls—walls that we defend with our lives—and mock him. But those who fought. They do not. They long for his sword, and for his company. Call those knights. Those archers. The pike. The horse riders. Call them all, let them sit as you do. Then this chamber would earn its hallowed name.’
“I call them, I call them all! The zealots will burn with the Isilians. The rest will join our swords as we purge the disease from Dalia. Then the Island Nations, and then Trecht.”
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