by Martin Davey
The other knight had been slow, afraid, perhaps. Not many men in the world of the Keepers got to see actual combat outside of the practice yard. That would change soon enough once the Keepers’ army arrived. Landros stooped to pick up the dagger that had fallen from the stunned knight’s grasp. Stunned or dead? The knight was sliding down the wall, legs collapsing beneath him. Landros didn’t turn from the older knight with the sword in his hand. Full armour and with a sword in his hand against a man in a red coat with a dagger and still the man hesitated. Landros sneered at him and turned to pull the sword from the collapsed knight’s scabbard. He probably was dead, looking at his glazed eyes. Fear must have made him stronger than he thought. He turned, the weight of the sword in his hand making him eager for the fight.
The old knight was already gone.
Landros grimaced in frustration and followed the weed-choked path back around the house. There would be no escape from here, he knew. His only chance at all would be if he could find his men. Or find Dorian and kill him and then die satisfied at least. Old friendships wouldn’t stay his hand again.
Only as he rounded the house did he realize that the world was ablaze, and not with the light of the fires of Yerotan. The surrounding fields were bathed in a gold-silver light that burned the eyes to see. The village still flamed in the distance but it was a small dull thing under the light that approached in the sky. Underneath the light that came to them like some vengeful star fallen from the sky, there was a singing, a chorus of voices deep and clear and they were singing of the glory of the Keepers.
Landros felt his stomach turn cold at the sight. The Keepers were here, and it filled him not with ecstasy or glory. It filled him with terror.
All around him people ran and gathered arms, fell to their knees and prayed, fell to their knees and wept in sheer terror. But more still gathered together, ushering children and those too old or weak to fight inside the house. There were more people than Landros would ever have thought possible, pushing the few children through the doors, strapping weapons to hips, donning helms and pulling on gauntlets.
Landros wanted to laugh as he walked through the commotion, squinting against the brilliant light. He wanted to cry. They thought to battle against the Keepers?
The Kings and Queens and their fantastic armies fell before the wrath of the Keepers, how could these men and women in their black armour, too afraid to face Landros, how could they hope to challenge the gods?
But still the knights in black roared and shouted and waved the old and the young into the house. More warriors were gathering than Landros had ever thought possible, perhaps as many as five hundred fighting men and women shouted and hurried to ready themselves for the battle. One of them had unfurled a banner with a golden orb on a field of green. It sickened Landros to see it and he thought of Dorian’s face when they had found the tortured Guardian next to these orbs painted on the walls.
Landros walked through the commotion. It seemed a large number of men and women lining before the road. Five hundred, maybe more, maybe less. In the books he had seen there had been armies that stretched for miles across, thousands of men strong taking to the fields against the Keepers. They had all fallen in the end.
Landros walked through it all, sword in hand, barging shoulders against hurrying knights, against women with long dark hair wearing armour, swords in their hands. All of them looked afraid, terrified of the light but still they readied themselves for the fight ahead.
Landros should rejoice in the imminent victory of the Keepers, should rejoice that these followers of the darkness would soon fall under the godly light, but as he watched that light slowly descend to the earth, saw the light begin to dim enough to see the shadows of the army beneath it, the crest of the Keepers flying above it, Landros felt nothing but terror. Judgement would be swift and implacable against the followers of the dark.
There. Only as he saw her did Landros realize that she had been the one he was looking for, and not Dorian. She had fallen to her knees before the Keepers, her long skirts spilling about her on the ground, her long dark hair bright in the dying light of the Keepers.
Ysora looked up at him with dark, fearful eyes as he approached and pulled her to her feet with his free hand. Even as he pulled her up, he saw the light in her hair, in her eyes dying and dimming. Not letting go of her, he looked back to the approaching army and saw nothing but the silhouettes of thousands of men black against the burning fires of Yerotan. The Keepers had joined their army. A single giant banner flapped above it, black against the burning orange.
His breath caught as he smelled her hair, bitterbloom and farronwood as he had always known it would be. “We should go.” Only as he spoke did he realize he was still holding her arm above the elbow, holding it gently, more for his own comfort rather than anything else. “This is no fight of ours.” Or, if it was, they should be across the road and the hedges and with the advancing army of the Keepers.
But Ysora wasn’t listening to him, she had her hand on his chest and she was looking over his shoulder as knights and men at arms and women with swords and bows and axes ran about them forming lines and facing the army of the Keepers. It wasn’t these Ysora was watching, though, she still looked over Landros’s shoulder and as he heard the beating of horses’ hooves, Landros turned and saw Laraine and Phailin on giant white horses with flying manes that were so bright they looked almost yellow. They raced to the front of the lines, the brightness of their horses as nothing compared to their armour.
“Don’t be afraid!” shouted Phailin. “Don’t be afraid!” His armour was silver, almost white with interlinking chains allowing him to move easily in his saddle as he looked about his rapidly organizing army. “Don’t be afraid!” He drew a sword as bright as his armour and held it over his head. A slim, ageing man with his carefully combed silver hair hidden inside a helmet of silver with a nose guard the only protection for his face. On top of the helmet was the golden orb Landros had seen painted on the walls of the temple, the golden orb he had seen on the temples in the ancient city the Nameless One had shown him so long ago. “The battle is ours!” Phailin shouted and as his horse wheeled about, Landros saw his white cloak billowing, and painted on it was a blazing sun shining on a solitary black tree.
“For the King!” Laraine rode by his side, her own cloak flying behind her with the same blazing sun and black tree on it. She rode straight-backed, a long staff in one hand with a golden orb on top of it. “For the King and the Queen! For the return of the line of the Black Prince!”
Two unlikelier leaders of war Landros had never imagined. He shook his head, “We need to go now,” he said. He couldn’t help smelling Ysora’s hair as he watched the ragged line of Phailin’s army form between a low wall to the west and a copse of bushes to the east. The army cheered the words of Phailin and Laraine, but it sounded quiet and nervous against the singing of the Keepers’ army.
The sun was rising now, fat and red and heavy in the sky. Only now did Landros see how pitiful the army of Phailin was against the might of the Keepers. The lines facing them were at least twice the length of their own and four ranks deeper. At the front of the army was a figure on a tall black horse, a robed figure no taller than a tall man, dressed in a long shapeless blue robe with an expressionless red mask and a long extravagant green wig. It looked like only one Keeper had come to Yerotan. Keeper Reioshar was here. As soon as he saw the Keeper, the god was lost to sight as more men and women gathered about them, ready to do battle against the glory of the gods. “We have to go,” Landros said again. He hadn’t let go of her arm since he had found her.
“The line of the Black Prince?” Ysora looked at him, her eyes wide and dark in the rising sunlight, her cheekbones high and strong. “They think they can bring the Kings and Queens back to the world?” Ysora shook her head, looked back to the armies facing each other. It was difficult to see the army of the Keepers now, they had descended the slight incline, yellow and red crops trodden flat under their
steel feet. All Landros could see was row upon row of black-clad knights. He looked back to Mashin’s house, tall against the reddening sky and with faces pressed to the window, children and those too old or weak to fight watching the army ready itself. More spilled out of the great double doors, fear making the children excitable, running around the gates, laughing and fighting.
“Who is the Black Prince?” Landros asked, turning back to catch glimpses of white and silver racing before the front of the army, a silver blade here, a billowing cloak there, barely seen through the ranks of black armour and brown leather. Still Phailin and Laraine were shouting, though Landros couldn’t hear the words over the noise of the army.
Ysora looked at him as though surprised at the question, “He was one of the Nameless One’s warlords. He was son of the mightiest King of them all, but wouldn’t take his crown until the Keepers were defeated and gone from the world.” She watched Phailin and Laraine ride back to the centre of the line, Phailin holding his sword and Laraine holding her staff aloft, their horses stepping high and shaking their yellow manes. “The Black Prince was the cruellest of them all,” Ysora said, her hand tightening in Landros’s coat. “He tortured and killed and became dark and twisted inside in his friendship with the Nameless One, obeying his every foul command.” She looked up at Landros as though remembering who he was, doubt and confusion passing across her wide dark eyes. She let go of his coat and stepped away, the breeze blowing in her hair and her hands falling to her sides. She looked like she had in the vision Clerk Lovelin had given him so long ago.
Landros reached out a hand to her, afraid she might turn and flee. “The Keepers will have no mercy on these people, they’ll be slaughtered and if they find us with them, then we’ll be killed like the rest. Come with me.”
“Come with you?” Ysora’s eyes looked sad and tired. Mud had been trodden into the hem of her skirts, and her boots were thick with it. “Where to? Back to Katrinamal and the Clerk? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To take me to the Clerk? Here you say we’ll be slaughtered, but Phailin told me what the Clerk will do if I go to him. He’ll torture me, rip the dreams from my mind and leave me raving with no thoughts to call my own.” She turned away from him, her shoulders narrow and hunched as she pulled the shawl tighter about herself.
Landros cursed himself, why could he never find the right words? Torra would, but he had vanished with the rest of the men. “No,” he finally said. “No, I wouldn’t take you to the Clerk.” He paused again, watching the army of Phailin and Laraine ready themselves, weapons drawn, screaming in fear and excitement as the white horses ran before them, their riders shouting more encouragement to them. Landros’s stomach felt tight with fear. “The Clerk has my,” he swallowed, began again. “The Clerk has a friend of mine. I think if I don’t take you to him, I think he might kill her.” If he hadn’t killed her already. Laraine had said she was already dead. Landros took a deep shuddering breath, “But I still won’t take you to him if you come with me now.”
Ysora looked at him, her hair blowing in the rising wind of the new day, her skirts wrapping about her legs, and she held her shawl tight about her shoulders. An army who wanted the return of the Kings and Queens stood behind her, and she took a breath to answer him.
And Landros shrank against the sudden shrieking sound coming from beyond the army of the Nameless One, an ear-piercing noise that hurt the brain to hear. It was over in a moment, but the memory of the pain lingered. The noise had come from the army of the Keepers, somewhere out there beyond the rows of steel and leather.
“Don’t be afraid!” Laraine shouted somewhere out of sight, her voice strong. “We chose the ground! The power is strong here!” Landros could hear the pounding of the hooves of her horse, could hear Phailin shouting something further away.
Ysora looked at Landros, pulling her shawl even tighter about her thin shoulders, she shook her head, “No,” she said. “My place is here.” She took a couple of steps away, her boots slopping in the mud.
“Here?” Landros wanted to run after her, grab her and drag her away. “They’ll all be killed, slaughtered. Come with me.”
Still Phailin and Laraine shouted and still the army cheered, some looked proud and tall, waving swords and axes in the air, others looked more nervous, leaning to the man next to them, talking and checking weapons.
“My place is here,” Ysora said. “They know of my dreams, they understand them.” She took more steps away, her skirts trailing in the mud trodden by hundreds of steel feet. “If I come with you, the Clerks will find me and steal the dreams from my mind.” She smiled, nervous and beautiful. “You should go, find somewhere safe. Go and find your friend.”
And with that, she was gone, slipping inside the ranks of steel and leather and Landros cursed as he ran after her.
CHAPTER 35
The ground was trodden flat and the air stank of excitement and fear and steel and leather. More than once Ysora nearly tripped over a foot, the butt of a spear, a loose helmet, but still she ran to escape Landros. How sincere he had looked when he said he wouldn’t take her to the Clerk. She ran faster, cursing her skirts wrapping about her legs, cursing herself for the tears so close to spilling down her cheeks.
The Captain with his serious grey eyes and his red coat somewhere behind her and Phailin and Laraine and their talk of Black Princes and Kingly lines somewhere out there beyond the ranks of sweating and stinking men and women. When did her life become a choice between the darkness of the Kings and Queens and the wrath of the Keepers and their Clerks? Couldn’t she just go back to the farm with Godi and live by the Sea? The only time she had truly been happy. So long ago now.
She fell over something cold and hard, landed on her knees skidding in the mud, hands braced before her to slow her fall. All around her were legs and feet, a forest of them, some in black steel, some in leather and some in breeches. Cruel weapons resting in the mud all around her and then that sound again, a screeching, keening sound that pierced the ears and made the legs all around her shift and step backwards. People screamed in pain and fear, and Ysora held her muddied hands against her own ears to try and lessen the pain. As soon as it began it ended and there was a great whump like something tearing through the air.
A woman, Laraine, it sounded like, somewhere beyond the legs and weapons and the mud, screamed something high and loud over the noise of hundreds of men and women standing together. Somewhere not far away, a horse sounded like it was bolting, running this way and that and screaming in terror. The woman shouted again and darkness fell, a shroud of it, heavy and dulling the noise all about her. Ysora screamed as the crush of bodies threatened to overwhelm her, soldiers at the back pushing forward and soldiers at the front staggering back against whatever they had seen. Cold hard cruel steel, armour and sword and shield, pressed against her on all sides as she fought to get back to her feet, pushing against breastplates and grieves and helms to fight for space to breathe.
“Don’t be afraid! The power is strong!” Noise returned as the darkness was gone. Ysora gasped for breath as though breaking foul water, her skin and hair oily and tainted by the darkness that had fallen over them.
“We chose the ground!” More hoofbeats and this time it was Phailin shouting. “The power is strong here!”
All Ysora could see were dark eyes and dark helms and shields, some with golden orbs embossed on them and some with a blazing sun, some with a solitary black tree. She looked this way and that, looked back the way she thought she had come, hoping and dreading that Landros would be following her. No sign of the Captain of the Watch.
Whump. The noise again, followed instantly by the darkness. “No,” Ysora found herself moaning as she pressed through the crush of bodies, the steel cold and damp on her hands. Some soldiers cried out praising the darkness, others wailed against the taint of it, others clutched trinkets in gauntleted hands and whispered prayers to forgotten gods.
The darkness vanished as Ysora looked up at it, a dawn
ing red sun breaking through the shadow and arrows fell limply from the sky to land harmlessly on the army of the Black Prince.
The screeching noise again and this time Ysora fought through it, struggled forward through the lines of men and women. Now she could get a glimpse of silver and white as Phailin and Laraine raced before their army. Ysora pushed against heavy bodies, squeezed between others, more than one tried to grab her or call out to her, but she tore herself away and ignored them all. Only now did she realize she had lost her shawl somewhere back there in the mud and the crush of bodies. She looked back to where it might have fallen, saw Landros elbowing his way through the crowd and her breath caught in her throat. Just for a moment she thought about turning back, letting Landros take her wherever he would. How he had held her arm like that, how he had met her eyes with his own, serious and honest, and told her he wouldn’t take her to the Clerk. But then where would he take her? Where could they go if not back to Katrinamal, if not back to her farm on the cliffs? If not back to Yerotan that was now burning to ashes?
There was nowhere to go.
Whump. Now she had fought her way through the ranks of men, Ysora saw that a line of archers had come to the front of the Keeper’s army. Less than half a mile away now with a winding road between them and hedges and copses of trees sending growing shadows fingering about the battlefield. A thousand arrows darkened the new day.
Ysora didn’t cower or shiver. She watched the arrows of death coming to her very heart. Laraine had stopped her horse, though it still stepped and snorted in excitement, its breath coming in thick clouds in the morning air. Phailin still raced his horse up and down the line of the army, his sword aloft and shouting words of encouragement.
The line of the Black Prince. Ysora couldn’t help but shudder at the thought even as she watched death coming for her. The aim of the archers was true, the arrows reached the apex of their flight, and then the weight of their heads pulled them inexorably to the army beneath, to Ysora watching them with a cold detachment. Death was here and she knew it had been seeking her for longer than she cared to know. Since the band of armoured men had arrived at Yerotan days after she had fled. She closed her eyes and welcomed it. Welcomed the release it would bring. All around her there was the clang of steel, the creak of leather, the screams and determined guttural roars as the men and women about her raised shields against the threat.