by Martin Davey
The fight was won and Landros didn’t want to know what terrible magic the Nameless One had wrought. Had Landros once thought himself able to challenge the creature? He looked at the young man, slender and not quite as tall as Landros, this was one who could best a Keeper in battle? This was one who could bring a god to his knees? Laraine and Phailin had dismounted, leading their great white horses by the reins, silence over the battlefield. Everybody dead, it seemed. A warm wind caressed the bodies, stroking cheeks and hair with a gentle, sorrowful farewell.
The agony seemed to have left Keeper Reioshar, he raised his head, met his conqueror’s eyes. Black holes in the mask meeting the black eyes of the Nameless One. They seemed brighter now in his pale, serious face. He had won. The line of the Black Prince had won. But where was the victory when everybody was dead? Where was the victory when Ysora was dead? Where was the victory when a god who had served the world of man for three thousand years fell to his knees before an agent of death?
Phailin and Laraine left their horses and joined the Nameless One, one on either side of him, looking down at the kneeling Keeper. They said nothing. They looked grey. Grey of face and grey of hair. And still they said nothing.
The Nameless One, his black hair whipping about his cheeks, his mouth set in a thin line pulled his hood up, hiding his face in shadow.
No, thought Landros. He might even have screamed it aloud. “No!” But there was only the dead around him to hear his cries. In the distance a god’s head flew through the air, the mask still covering his face and the green wig wrapping about it as it flew, blood pouring from the neck.
“No!” Now Landros did scream long and loud. The Keeper was dead. Keeper Reioshar was dead.
And the Nameless One, King Phailin and Queen Laraine looked from the fallen god and across the field of the dead to Landros alone and surrounded by nothing but the fallen.
CHAPTER 38
It was a pitiful crowning ceremony. Laraine and Phailin sat in two chairs outside the farmhouse, backs straight and faces grey and serious as they each accepted their crowns, golden and sharp. The chairs had been accosted from Farmer Mashin’s kitchen, the fabric faded and worn and smelling of old glories, much like the King and the Queen. The brother and sister had found new cloaks to wrap about themselves, each one bearing the blazing sun looming over the black tree with a golden orb on the breast. Phailin held a sword in his hand and Laraine a staff of simple wood. They looked uncomfortable in their crowns, stiff-backed and afraid to move lest the crowns fall to the ground.
The small following, mainly women and children and those too old or weak to fight were as quiet and serious as their new King and Queen. Feet shifted and eyes strayed nervously to the head on the spear to Laraine’s left. The spear was ten feet tall and the blood of the Keeper was thick and slow as it oozed down the shaft. The Keeper’s mask was still in place and the green wig rippled in the breeze which sighed over the ceremony, regretting the folly of man.
Torra, Wes and Pascal now to added to his mother and Feren and Clerk Lovelin. Had the Nameless One murdered everybody he knew? Landros’s hand shook, the grip on his arm tight and strong. “Your time will come, Kneeler. Wait your turn and death will come soon enough.” A big knight on either side of him, holding his arms tight by his side, their eyes bright as they watched the ceremony. How had these two knights survived the battle? Probably hiding under the bodies of the fallen, or fleeing before the battle had truly begun, before the Nameless One had laid waste to all about him.
At a gesture from Phailin, a man in black armour with a huge dent in the back stepped forward and knelt before the King and the Queen, their faces as grey as their hair. Neither of them had smiled since the battle, not even when they accepted their crowns. “Does anybody challenge the right of these, the most glorious true borns of the line of the Black Prince, challenge their right to rule Salafar?” the man with the bald head and the green robe had asked, holding the crowns aloft in each hand. The grips on Landros’s arms had been tighter then, but he hadn’t struggled. The King and the Queen could shower themselves in all the titles they wanted. Where was the victory when all were dead? Where was the victory when Ysora was dead?
The knight with the black armour knelt before his King and Queen, one hand on the ground, one hand on his knee. Laraine rose this time, her body long and slender in her cloak of white. Her back straight, careful not to let the crown fall. “Padric Jerun,” she said, her voice as quiet and serious as the ceremony. “You fought for truth and justice and freedom when others have chosen to kneel and to let their kind be slaves and to live in ignorance and darkness. Our victory is a great one,” Landros couldn’t help looking back over the wind wisping over the pitiful handful of people, eyes dark and serious and cloaks and dresses and rustling in the wind. “But the war is only beginning. Too long we have hidden in the shadows, now we step into the light, step into the world that was stolen from us and reclaim what is ours.” The head of the god seemed to turn on its spear in the wind, the black holes in the mask looking out across the crowd, marking names and faces and remembering them all. “We have spoken, King Phailin and I, and we will need men such as you in the war to come. You will be rewarded and you will let men and women know that King Phailin and Queen Laraine reward their friends and have only vengeance and hatred in their hearts for those who enslave our kind.” She took the sword from Phailin, seeming to struggle with the weight of it, and touched Padric once on each shoulder with the flat of the blade. “Now rise, sir Padric of Osrir, and continue this war of ours until all our kind are free of the taint of the evil from the skies.” The green wig rustled in the wind above them as Padric Jerun rose to his feet, stiff and awkward in his armour, his face serious and his short black hair bright with sweat.
Landros wanted to laugh, long and loud and high, at the nature of it all. He wanted to laugh at the pitiful thrones, he wanted to laugh at the two aged, serious people with their gold crowns which seemed to mock their wearers, he wanted to laugh at the pitiful crowd before the thrones, young and old and weak, even the knights who had survived were the cowards who had fled or hidden; the brave few who had joined their King and Queen for the last stand against the Keeper had all fallen before his green blade. None of those knights would be rewarded with empty titles and lands that didn’t even exist anymore. Landros wanted to cry. So many dead for what? So these two old fools could pretend to be King and Queen for a moment in time before the Keepers came with their thousands to put an end to their games?
Laraine remained standing before her throne, her staff resting along her forearm, her white cloak blowing about her as she watched Sir Padric walk away. She waved a hand through the air, “Bring him.” And she folded her cloak around her body before sitting on her throne once more.
The two knights dragged Landros forward through the front ranks of the crowd, women and children parting to let them through. The grass here was dry and parched, brown as though the Nameless One had stolen the life from it. Landros managed to look back at Mashin’s house as he was dragged through the crowd, someone had placed flags atop the house, the blazing sun and the black tree, another bearing the golden orb. The knights holding him were frightened, he could tell by how they kicked his feet from under him, how they kept hold of his arms and pressed his shoulders down before the King and the Queen. Landros didn’t fight them, they were too many, and where would the victory be when all were dead? He kept his head bowed low, not wanting to look at the agents of so much death and despair, the grey King and the grey Queen. He looked at the parched grass. Even here blood soaked into the ground.
The grey King and the grey Queen said nothing for a long time as Landros knelt before them, his arms still held in the steel fists of his captors. The wind whistled over the silent remnants of the army, whipped the pitiful flags on the farmhouse. Finally it was Phailin who spoke, “So you have come to join us in our fight?” His words, like his eyes were watchful, cautious. A man who had spent his life in shadows, lurking a
nd watchful and weaving his schemes and his deceptions.
Landros hadn’t wanted to look at them, but now he couldn’t help but raise his head. He did his best to avoid looking at the head of the god. “Join you? Is this how those who wish to join your cause come to you? As captives and prisoners?” He thought of his men, bound and captive around the Nameless One, “They have chosen this” the Nameless One had said.
A smile at that from King Phailin as he glanced to his sister and Queen. No response from the woman, as though they had both agreed that Phailin should be the one to deal with the Kneeler. He looked back to Landros, looking down his long thin nose at him. “I had rather thought you had little choice, Captain.” The Keeper’s green wig fluttered in the wind atop its spear. “The Watch is no more, the Clerk has murdered your young woman, stripping her memories from her mind before she died raving and chewing on her tongue.”
Elian. Landros tried to rise at that, struggling and fighting against his captors, got halfway to his feet before he was forced back down, a blow to the ear sending blackness sheeting across his vision. “She isn’t dead. He was waiting for me to return with Ysora.” Landros almost growled the words, hatred seething with every word.
Phailin nodded. “We can let you have your revenge on Clerk Killian, Landros. We can give you your home back, give your Watch back to you. Clerk Killian would have you abandon the Watch, abandon the Sea. He is a dangerous man who knows not what he does.”
Laraine leaned forward in her throne, her long grey face anxious. “How does that sound to you, Landros? Our war will be a long one. We will have need of men such as yourself.”
Landros couldn’t help sneering. “Your war will be a short one when the Keepers learn of this.” He looked around at the men, women and children arrayed behind him, at the pitiful flags atop the farmhouse. “The Keepers will crush you all and I only wish I could be alive to see it and glory in their victory.”
Laraine nodded, her thin lips pursing and her hands white as she clutched the arms of her throne. Her brother nodded too, smiling, though there was no humour in it. “Plans are afoot, Landros. You think that our parents and grandparents and those that came before them hid in shadows and plotted and schemed and planned for the return of the Kings and Queens only for my sister and I to throw it away in one futile victory?” He looked old and tired, did the self declared King of Larasfar. “Never underestimate the power of victory, Captain. Let that be our first lesson to you in the art of war. Victory breeds victory breeds victory.” Finally Phailin leaned back in his throne, waving a lazy hand over the shattered remnants of his pitiful army. “You see an army reduced to nothing, an army likely to break if the wind should strengthen. Others will see a fallen god of the skies, will see that the mighty Keepers can be beaten in battle, others will see the return of the Black Tree and the Blazing Sun, the mark of the golden orb, sigils that they cannot remember, but ones that will sing to them in their very hearts. Others will hear of old gods walking the world once more and will glory in their songs.”
“You think the world will revel in the death of its god?” Landros laughed, low and bitter, and grimaced as his arm was twisted tighter behind his back.
“Such loyalty.” Phailin shook his head and smiled at his sister. She smiled back at him. “We love you, Landros. Love your honour and your loyalty. This is why we give you this second chance. My sister and I have seen what the Keepers have done to you, stripped your mother’s memories from her mind and left her raving alone in her chair. Killed your friend Feren because he dared join the Watch without having had the Dream. Slain the woman you love, searching for her memories of your dream on the hillside. How could Elian have had memories of your dream?” Phailin shook his head, “And still you give them your love and your loyalty. That is why your King and Queen love you, Landros, why we give you this one last chance to join our cause, to join the line of the Black Prince in our war against the tyranny from the skies.”
Landros struggled against his captors again, but these men were stronger and more careful than those before the battle. Instead he remained on his knees before the King and Queen and their silent agent of death, he could only pray to the Keepers that his hatred showed through his eyes. “My mother? Why would the Keepers steal her memories? You lie like your Master.”
“You argue and yet you know it to be truth. This is how the Keepers conquered the world of man. We fought and then we knelt and we accepted their lies for truth and called those who would fight against them liars and betrayers.” Phailin leaned back in his throne and reached out and took Laraine’s hand. “But enough of this, my sister grows weary and must retire to her quarters.” His hand looked tight on hers. “We need Katrinamal, Captain. We need the Sea. We will give you the men to do this. To wreak vengeance on the Clerk who killed your love, on the gods who tortured your mother. All you have to do is kneel before your King and Queen.”
Landros could only look at the head of the god on its spear, green wig fluttering and looking somehow pathetic in the wind. The Keeper had come to save his children and found only death.
“Think of Ysora, Captain.” It was the Queen who spoke now, leaning forward in her throne, her eyes dark with makeup, her hair and face as grey as her brother’s. “She will be going to spread the word of the old gods, her dreams are stronger near the Sea. You can be the one to lead her there, to protect her. A chance for you to atone for your failures, Captain. Think of it. The chance to avenge Elian and the chance to protect Ysora as she spreads the word. The chance to atone for your sins.” Still she held the hand of her brother, even as she leaned forward in her throne.
“Ysora...” Landros blinked, remembered thick dark hair in his hands, a smooth pale profile, an arm stretched above her head. He tried to look up, tried to stand, but felt his arms twisted, his head pushed back down near the thick wet smell of the earth. “Ysora is dead,” he said, trying not to choke on the words as a hard fist tightened about the back of his neck. “I saw her. I...” The hand pushed harder on his neck, his nose almost touching the damp grass now. “I wasn’t fast enough. I found him in the end but I was too late.”
a long silence. A silence with the wind howling and the flags atop Mashin’s house whipping in the wind.
“Let him rise,” the King said.
Hands released from his neck and from his arms, but still it was a moment before Landros could pull his face from the earth. He could feel its cool wetness on his nose, on his cheek. Could smell the truth of it, the simple honesty of it. Hands grasped the collar of his red coat and hauled him to his feet.
He was reluctant to raise his eyes, but when he did, it was only with dull acceptance that he saw her standing there between the thrones of the King and Queen, looking at him from dark eyes.
Ysora was still wearing her muddied skirts and her hair was still dirtied from when she had been lying in the battlefield, but she now wore a white shirt open at the collar. Landros could see a bulge under the shirt at her hip where a bandage had been placed to cover the wound. He looked at Ysora, tried to find some kind of sign there, some kind of recognition, some kind of help. But there was none. Why would there be? He had hardly known her and all he had done was fail her.
The King and Queen were both leaning forward in their thrones like excited grey children. “Think of it, Landros,” King Phailin said. “Vengeance on Clerk Killian can be yours. Katrinamal can be yours.” He rested a hand on Ysora’s arm as though she were a cherished toy, “Ysora can be yours.” He smiled, his eyes always watchful and grey. A man who had spent his life hiding from the Keeper’s spies, a man who had spent his life scheming and plotting and manipulating those around him. A man who had thrown the die of three thousand years of plans. “You do this, Landros, and perhaps one day we will tell you what it was the Keepers stripped from your mother’s mind. Why they had her killed when her sanity returned. Why our own champion sought you out.” No sympathy in the voice, only a gleeful certainty.
Landros said nothing. He l
ooked at Ysora, her dark hair blowing in the wind, her skirts rippling about her legs. He looked behind him at the men arrayed there before their King and Queen. Somewhere a baby was crying and children were playing, their laughter high and shrill; and there was Dorian, his grey hair wild and his shirt open and an ugly bruise marring his cheek. Landros bit his lip at the sudden disappointment welling within him that his old Captain had survived the battle.
“You will have the men, Captain,” Laraine said, her hands white and tight on the arms of her throne. “The rising has begun, but we need Katrinamal. We need the Sea. We understand the need for vengeance, Captain.” Her voice had become soft, sympathetic; something that didn’t come easy to the tall, severe woman. “We understand what it is to have our history stolen from us.” She rose from her throne, tall and grey even in her white cloak fluttering in the wind. Phailin followed her lead and rose, King and Queen standing either side of the silent Ysora.
“Kneel, Landros,” the King said. “And have your vengeance as we all shall have vengeance on the Keepers and the Kneelers.”
Landros didn’t look at the King or the Queen. He looked at Ysora and saw her dark hair flying in the wind. He remembered the feel of the hair in his hand, remembered the feeling in his heart when he had failed her once more and found her dead on the field. She looked paler than he remembered, which made her hair look darker.
“She will be going to Katrinamal with or without you, Captain.” Laraine smiled, though her eyes were clouded and cautious as she looked at Landros. “Take her there, Captain. Take her where she needs to be, near the Sea at the end of the world where her dreams are strongest. Take her to her home and protect her from those that would steal her memories and steal her mind. Take her there and put your own Elian to rest. We will give you everything you need, Captain. All you have to do is kneel before your King and Queen.”