by Matthew Ward
Setting her back to Noktza, Rosa peered east, towards the hidden Ravonn. Beacons would have glowed orange, even through the mist. Maybe Tsemmin was right. A warm day, a cold night and nerves on edge. But it was a poor soldier who never trusted her instincts.
“Call out the guard. Get blades on these walls.”
Noktza nodded. “Thank you, commander. I concur.”
Tsemmin frowned. “I must object, my lord. To rouse a regiment over fancy…”
“They’re soldiers, major, and accustomed to a superior’s whimsy.” Noktza waved at the nearest herald. The girl bobbed her head and scurried away towards the gatehouse’s bell tower. “If it’s nothing, we’ll call it a drill. If it’s not? Well, we’ll have more to worry about than Commander Davakah’s beauty sleep, won’t we?”
Rosa hid a vicious grin. As she did so, her eye fell on dark shapes closing from the barbican. Five figures. Four in a loose square, advancing with the marcher’s gait of common soldiers. The fifth walked at their centre, the mist stealing all clues to identity.
A scuffle of feet on stone presaged the arrival of a flush-faced herald.
“My lord, there’s a man at the gate.” The boy clasped his fist in salute. “Claims urgent tidings from Tregard. Captain Vorrin sent him through, under escort.”
Rosa glanced back at the barbican approach, though interplay of height and distance now obscured the group beneath the walls. “Urgent news” could have meant anything. Communication from the Hadari capital was almost unheard of, but then so much Hadari behaviour of late defied usual pattern. One of the Council’s spies? A defector? A fugitive? One of Lord Krain’s entourage?
“Did he now?” Noktza raised his voice. “Major Tsemmin, the battlements are yours. Commander Orova, would you be so good as to join me? And perhaps round up a handful of knights, in case of nastiness?”
“Gladly, my lord,” said Rosa.
With a last glance out into the mists, she made for the stairs.
The mist muffled Ahrad’s bells, but couldn’t disguise them entirely. Devren rose in his stirrups, vainly peering into the murk for some clue of what had come to pass.
“They know we’re here,” he said. “It must be now, my Emperor, or not at all.”
Kai glanced at Elspeth. The daughter of the moon shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Trust my mother. Wait for the sign.”
Devren shot a pleading look. “My Emperor…”
Kai waved a hand. “Have faith, old friend.”
Devren lapsed into silence. Kai gripped the pommel of his sword and stared off into the mists, praying the Goddess had not erred.
Rosa and Noktza met guard and escort beyond the twin gates. Three armoured and wolf-surcoated Knights Sartorov of the ready garrison stood at their backs. Above and behind, bells chimed out. Ramparts shook to the scuffle of feet on stone. The outermost gate stood ajar. The innermost was barred shut at Noktza’s command, the intricate mechanism of cogs and gears driving steel bolts deep into the foundations.
The messenger, if such he truly was, stood in the middle of the drawbridge, his guards a little behind. A man of unimpressive height and average build, he was clad in a green cloak and studded leather armour of unfamiliar type. That alone would seem to have placed him as denizen of lands far to the south and east, but for fair skin and dirty blond hair which spoke to Tressian descent.
“You are the master of this fortress?” His voice was deep, the words sharp-edged.
Noktza ignored him. “Was he armed?”
“No, sir,” said the sergeant of the escort. “He had only this.”
Another guard stepped forward with a silver box. Measuring roughly a foot in each dimension, its sculpted curlicues and whorls dizzied the eye.
Noktza shifted his gaze to the prisoner. “Who are you? What is this?”
“I am a bearer of tidings from the Emperor Kai Saran; from Queen Ashana of Evermoon and Eventide. That is accompaniment to those tidings.”
Noktza’s cheek twitched. His eyes didn’t leave the messenger. “Rosa?”
She approached the box. The hasp was simple enough, without artifice or obvious trap. She unfastened it and creaked back the lid.
A severed head lay on emerald silk, eyes closed peaceably in stark contrast to the violence of the death.
She knew the face, with its neat, grey beard. Its eyes had shone with prospect and possibility but weeks ago, before setting out on what she’d considered a fool’s errand. So much for dreams of peace.
She glanced away, a muscle twitching in her throat. “It’s Lord Krain.”
Noktza’s sword cleared its scabbard. Knights pressed forward.
“And the message?” Noktza snarled. “Answer swiftly, for a box of your own beckons.”
The man snorted, his reply gaining in pace and volume until the words rippled like thunder. “It is simply this: that there can be no peace for those who kneel to the Dark.”
He held aloft his hand, and what had before been empty now held a starlight spear. The form of man bled away, and a dark knight stood tall, inky black cloak billowing behind. Green eyes blazed beneath an antlered helm. He strode into the knot of blades, growing in stature until his antlers brushed the archway keystone.
“Demon!” howled Noktza. “Bring it down!”
The spear flashed out. The castellan collapsed in a pool of his own blood. A Sartorov vanished over the side of the drawbridge and into the moat’s murky waters. Another crunched against the gatehouse wall. The third struck the outer gate’s timbers with a sickening thud and collapsed into the roadway.
Rosa drew her sword. “With me! With me!”
One of the demon’s erstwhile guards dropped to his knees, hands clasped in prayer. The others charged with her, screaming to dull their fear.
The demon turned. The spearhead arced out.
Rosa’s world rushed red. Wet, meaty thuds echoed beneath the arch. Those screams that didn’t fade entirely turned mewling. When sight returned, she lay among the dead and dying, sucking for breath that wouldn’t come, bones grating in her arm.
“Close the gate.”
Her words were little more than a gasp, speckled by rush and pop as ribs reknit.
The demon bore down on the outer gate.
Rosa hauled herself up onto her good elbow. She strove to ignore Noktza’s accusing, sightless stare and the whimpers of the dying.
“Close the damn gate!”
Her second shout was louder, driven by a whooping gasp from healing lungs. The rattle of chainways joined to the commotion of the reveille bells. The outer gate creaked inwards.
Gears bit. Bolts locked into place. The way was closed.
The demon halted, stymied by the gate.
Sensation returned to Rosa’s left hand as bones scraped back into place. She clambered to her feet and flexed her fingers. A voice at the back of her head told her to run, to beg forgiveness – anything but rouse the demon’s ire or draw its notice.
But it was a champion’s duty to stand.
Rosa’s left hand snagged Noktza’s broadsword. Heavier than hers. A butcher’s blade. But that was good. Heavy was good. Anger was better. She let it rise, fire filling veins that felt so little. Better the demon was trapped outside the walls, and she with it, than both inside.
Unaware of her approach, the demon took his spear in both hands and raised it aloft.
“The declaration has been made!” he bellowed. “Honour is satisfied! Let there be war between the Republic of Lies and the Silver Kingdom!”
The spear slammed down with a hollow boom and a flash of searing white light. The ground shook, and the walls of Ahrad screamed.
Ten
The screech of dying stone reached Melanna a heartbeat before the mists boiled apart. Stalwart of untold decades, Ahrad’s outer wall did not yield easily, but yield it did, the stones of its gatehouse – and much of the adjoining wall – hurled upwards and outward. As the mists rushed back in, masonry and the dark specks of bo
dies plummeted from the skies to dam the moat.
And there, where the gatehouse had once stood, a vast, antlered figure brandished a starlight spear to the sky.
A clarion sounded on the hillside to challenge the watch-bells’ chimes. The hillside shook to the thunder of hoofbeats and drums, the owl banner and her father’s moonsilver crown at the fore.
Without her.
Melanna fought the urge to seek her steed among the reeds. Her father would triumph. The way was clear. Near half the eastern wall had toppled with the Huntsman’s strike. Ragged wounds gaped in the towers. What had once been a broad moat was now an uneven causeway of wreckage, strewn with corpses. The outer bailey would fall, and then…
And then…
Melanna stared at the Huntsman, already stalking away up the bailey’s rise, bathed in light that somehow seemed… wrong. What should have been pure silver bore a reddish tint. She gazed up at the moon and saw that its majesty had darkened.
“Ashana?”
She turned. The Goddess stood motionless beside the statue of her former self, eyes closed and hands clasped in imitation of devout prayer.
Melanna drew closer. The Goddess’ pale skin was lined, her flaxen hair shot through with grey. Melanna gazed again at the slighted moon and wondered at the price of victory.
“Ashanael Brigantim!”
Kai Saran held the Goddess’ sword aloft so that all might see its flames, and rowelled his steed to the charge. Quarrels hissed from the north as the outer barbican’s marooned garrison shook off their horror. One tugged at his cloak. Another skittered across his armoured shoulder.
Melanna would never forgive him for riding into battle without a helm, but in that moment, with the cold air stinging his cheeks and his blood rising to the thrill of battle, he didn’t care. How long since he’d felt thus? Years? Decades? Young again. Invincible. Unstoppable. With each galloping stride, the burden of years sloughed further off, swept away by the promise of the drums.
His steed balked at the mass of part-submerged masonry that had been Ahrad’s moat. Kai drove on into the clouds of stinging dust. The Goddess had promised triumph, and so triumph there would be. A lurch, a shudder. A scrape of hoof on stone. Then the ground was firm underfoot once more. His horse strained to the gallop through shattered ballistae, ruined kraikons and the mangled bodies of the garrison.
A thin line of king’s blue shields waited on the rubble crest. Two-score men and women clad in the overlapping, segmented steel plate that was the pride of the Tressian forges; pale, horrified faces all but hidden by close-set helms.
Kai allowed a moment’s admiration. Few stood long before the golden thunderbolt of his Immortals. To do so now, and in such paucity of number? In the face of divine wrath and disaster? Remarkable. Worthy of the highest praise.
“Ashanael Brigantim!”
Shields buckled as his steed crashed home. Kai struck aside a halberd’s blade and leaned low to split the fellow’s helm. Devren struck to his right. The warleader’s long spear cheated a shield’s steel rim to find flesh behind. Then came the screams of men and horses, the killing weight and the press of bodies. The hot stink of death and fear that clogged the throat and roused the senses.
A sword grazed the scales at Kai’s waist. Another clanged off his golden shield. He sent fire to take the attacker’s throat. Then the pitiful shield wall was broken, panicked cries drowning out the moans of the dying. There was only the open ground of the bailey and fleeing foes.
“Ashanael Brigantim!” Kai bellowed at the top of his lungs, and wondered if the Goddess saw his deeds.
“Saran Amhyrador!” Devren shouted the wild rejoinder, claiming victory not for the Goddess, but his Emperor. A thousand voices took up the cry.
“Saran Amhyrador!”
To north and south, the bailey was full of proud gold and fleeing king’s blue. To the west, a new line of shields formed before the Huntsman’s advance.
Elspeth rode past, musical laughter wild behind. With dancer’s grace, she slipped from side-saddle to one hand about the saddle’s horn and a foot in a stirrup. A fleeing woman fell to the dagger’s kiss. Then the daughter of the moon was atop her steed once more, away in search of fresh victims.
“Saran Amhyrador!”
The bellowed salute rippled beneath the open sky, and a moon whose silver face bled crimson.
And Kai Saran, to whom the Goddess had promised a victory no other had won, spurred anew.
Sevaka staggered onto the Zephyr’s deck, sleep scattered by the onslaught of watch-bells, drums and the clash of battle. The mist that worried Rosa so had gone, replaced by swirling dust.
The inner harbour was a streaming mass of bodies. Soldiers ran for the walls, some still pulling on armour. Families and servants milled about, lost to panic and confusion. Haggard, exhausted expressions matched Sevaka’s own sleep-deprived mood.
Alith met her at the gunwale, face taut in an attempt to conceal fear. Sixteen summers old, or so she’d said to escape Dregmeet. The claim had never looked more a lie.
“Captain? What’s happening?”
“What’s happening?” said Sevaka, incredulous. “The war has found us.”
She fought pirates, not the Empire’s golden legions; aboard ship, the contest of arrow and ballistae. The brawl of boarding action. Blessed Endala, but she’d no place on solid ground and serried ranks. She belonged to the sea.
Alith knotted her fingers in the Sign of the Sun. “Maybe it’s Last Night.”
Last Night. The Reckoning of the Gods. One final bloody conflict to split the world before Lumestra raised the faithful into the light of Third Dawn. “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s just the shadowthorns come to die on the walls. This is Ahrad, the Eskagard. There’s no safer place in the Republic.”
She hoped Alith’s inexperience blinded her to all that was wrong with the assertion. The blood moon was only part. The stone dust on the air. The screams and clamour of swords closer than they should have been. The milling dockside that spoke to failing leadership. Where was Noktza? Where was Rosa?
“Wake the others.” Sevaka started towards the gangplank. “I’ll be back soon.”
The girl hurried away just as the sky lit to flame.
The darkness was a vice about Rosa’s body. Each breath drew down bitter dust. Each sonorous heartbeat pounded like a funeral drum. And beyond the darkness, muffled sounds she knew so well. The strike and the parry. The wet rip of torn flesh. Hoarse bellows of fear and command. The thunder of hooves.
She pressed down outspread palms. Stone scraped on stone. Her back strained. Shoulders screamed. Something rumbled above her head. The vice tightened, crushing her down. She snarled, and regretted it at once, for what little air lingered in the darkness pricked a thousand needles at her lungs.
Memory rushed back. The demon. The falling gatehouse. She was trapped beneath the rubble. Helpless while the Hadari brought death to Ahrad.
Anger returned. The anger she’d known all her life, but which had never been worse than in the months since her “death”. The anger she fought to control lest it bring her to ruin.
Not this time.
Fury galvanised strength. The Raven had named her true. She wasn’t ephemeral any longer. She was different. Stronger.
Rosa braced anew, and heaved. Again, the scrape of stone on stone. Again the feeling of the darkness pressing close. Again the impossible pressure across her spine and shoulders. Limbs that ordinarily felt so little trembled and screamed. She ignored them.
Degree by degree, she forced elbows straight. Weight shifted. Rubble clattered away. Fresh air filled starving lungs. Light bled through, and darkness fled. The sounds of battle reached murderous crescendo. With a ragged, wordless scream and masonry spilling from her shoulders, Rosa staggered into nightmare.
The curtain wall fallen, and the gatehouse gone. Ladders against the barbican’s walls. The outer bailey overrun by shadowthorns and the garrison’s bloodied dead. Silver women striding beneath
a crimson moon. The sky screaming with fire as catapults rained death behind the middle and inner walls. Scattered knots of blue shields and hawk-banners shuddered. Golden light sparked as war hammers cracked a kraikon’s outer shell and left the brute inert.
Of the demon, she saw nothing. But beyond the moat, a second wave of Hadari gathered – Immortals advancing in lockstep with tower shields held high.
“Saran Amhyrador!”
A cataphract closed at the gallop, sword flashing down. Rosa flung herself aside, the wind of his passage tugging at her tattered uniform. She cast around for a weapon as he wheeled about. Her sword was lost beneath the rubble. Noktza’s too.
She scooped up a hunk of masonry and hurled it overarm at the cataphract. Stone crunched against scale. The shadowthorn twisted in the saddle, his charge awry.
Rosa leapt. Her shoulder thumped into his waist. They fell, she atop and he below. The impact of the ground scattered the sword from his hand.
Rosa’s first punch buckled the metal of his helm and split her knuckles. Her second struck him cold. Those that followed, born of frustration and failure and fuelled by ragged breath, hammered home until her fist was slick with blood.
She lurched upright, gasping for breath, eyes darting between her bunched fist and the mangled corpse. The first time she’d killed that way, she’d been overcome by horror. Now she yearned for more. She stooped to claim the cataphract’s tasselled sword and golden shield, expecting to see the Raven laughing at her. But of Otherworld’s master, Rosa saw no sign.
Trumpets sounded. Hadari shields advanced across the stone-clogged moat. Hundreds. Thousands. More than enough to sweep aside the outer bailey’s lingering resistance. An army out of myth, with a demon for its herald and treachery as its clarion.
Rosa cast her gaze to the nearest knot of Tressian soldiers: a thin score trapped against a tower’s jagged stump as golden infantry hacked and hammered at failing shields. Doomed. Fleeting. Like all ephemerals. But the Raven had been right. She wasn’t like them.