The Dusk Watchman ttr-5

by Tom Lloyd

  Lahk bowed his head. I am not my lord. I do not have his strength.

  Memories of Lord Bahl filled his mind. As Lahk had been the bedrock of the Ghosts, the unmovable heart of that entire legion, so Bahl had been for Lahk: his strength and power surpassed the general’s understanding.

  Had I known him, had I fought beside him before that day at the temple, I would have never offered myself so readily. He bore the weight of the nation on his shoulders; he suffered the whispers and lies while he served them all. Without him — without a ruler of his ilk — I am lost. Isak wears greatness like a mantle, but see how that incandescence has burned him. I follow him out of habit as much as loyalty. Truth and justice are just words to me. All I ask for is purpose.

  The lingering note of pain in his limbs began to dim and his head fogged as the drug started to take effect. He spat on the ground, revolted by the bitter taste — in truth, everything about it revolted him, not least the days when he felt the need for it growing further apart from the catalogue of injuries, seen and unseen, he had accumulated.

  He capped the pipe, dismantled it and put it away in the box before slipping his leggings back on again. His movements were slow and ponderous, but that was as he wanted: the smoke drove away the pain and the doubts and allowed a few hours of emptiness in his mind. The lumps were deliberately small, limited by the strength of will some saw as an iron soul. Some things were necessary and therefore they were done. He could make no sense of how others could lie and betray themselves out of doing what they needed to.

  The chill in the room was gone now. As he went about the motions of stowing his armour and boots, unable to let himself sleep while it lay in disorder, he muttered the words of prayer he’d been taught so long ago. He couldn’t pray to Nartis, not since that day he was so gravely scarred, but the words of reverence his father had taught him returned without effort. As a boy, Tiniq had always scowled as he mumbled them at their bedside, trusting in his brother’s strong voice to hide his own reluctance. Now Lahk always pictured Lord Bahl as he spoke the words taught to all Farlan under his breath:

  ‘Give me strength, lord, for all I must do. Give me strength, lord, for the fear I must face. Give me strength, lord-’

  He broke off, suddenly aware there was someone else in the tent. His battle-instincts had been dulled, but even as he realised they were there, he felt no panic. It was simply awareness, not fear. The long-knife entered his back cleanly: a quick, professional strike that pierced his great heart and sent the general rigid. He tried to turn, but the person had a firm grip on his arm. As Lahk moved, the knife twisted in the wound and the sharp blossom of agony spread around his ribcage, flowering hot over his skin though the blade was as cold as ice.

  He felt his heart stutter, then a flicker of fear as he realised he was dead, but that faded almost immediately. Lahk remained standing even as the knife was removed and driven in again. The first blow had killed him; Lahk knew that with utter certainty, and his life’s blood spilled from his back, but he had seen too much death to fear it now. Battle had been his life, not his pleasure; he had no dreams of glory to follow, no heroic death to seek. He was beyond pain.

  Lahk stared at the faded tent cloth, and at last his immovability ended. His killer eased him forward, just a step, to reach the bed and then down he went — sprawled across it, his face perched on the edge looking at the tent wall just a foot away. The light dimmed, the tent grew dark around him and Lahk found himself sinking into darkness. But the darkness was not empty, he felt power there — strength beyond mortal bounds. Something waited patiently for him, and Lahk would face it without regrets.

  I come, my lord. I come to serve you once more.

  ‘Give me strength, lord,’ his killer finished, ‘for the man I must be.’ He withdrew the knife and wiped it on the bed. Once the weapon was sheathed he stood for a while looking down at the body.

  ‘I’m sorry. You deserved better,’ the killer whispered.

  He collected the Crystal Skull from Lahk’s armour and held it up to the weak light for a moment. The shadows in the room swarmed and danced around him, swirling up to meet him even before the killer bent to blow out the candle. Then he left, wreathed in shadow, as unseen by the guards as when he had entered.

  Isak sat, unmoving, as Suzerain Torl spilled the news, tears shining wetly in the ageing warrior’s eyes, his grey and lined face crumpled by grief.

  ‘Dead?’ he asked dumbly.

  ‘Found by his guards this morning,’ Torl choked. ‘Stabbed in the night, his Crystal Skull taken.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They claim they don’t know. They swear no one entered or left all night.’ Torl’s face hardened. ‘Shinir will find the truth of it, but I’ve known Lahk’s hurscals for years…’ His voice tailed off. He looked shaken to his core. Even after all the death and battle he had seen, for his implacable friend to be murdered without putting up a fight tore at the man’s heart.

  ‘It must be done — it’s better Shinir questions them than Tiniq getting his hands on them. Speaking of Tiniq, has he been told?’

  A strangled howl answered his question, and Isak rose and saw the hooded figure of Tiniq, staggering down the pathway between the Palace Guard’s tents. He had a messenger by the throat and was dragging the man in his wake, apparently unaware he still had the man in his grip.

  ‘Tiniq!’ Isak shouted, and the ranger stopped dead, hesitating for a moment before swinging around to face his lord. Isak and Torl headed out past their guards to meet him. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed with grief.

  ‘Let him go, Tiniq,’ Torl ordered. ‘He’s not the one to blame.’

  The ranger looked down to find the young messenger in his hand still. The man hung from Tiniq’s grip, his knees dragging on the ground, both hands wrapped fruitlessly around the man’s fist. With an effort, the shaking ranger released him and the messenger flopped onto his back, gasping for air.

  ‘Go with him, Torl,’ Isak said. ‘Lahk was your friend; you should help prepare his body.’

  ‘Prepare his body?’ Tiniq echoed hoarsely.

  ‘Funeral rites — he was our greatest general, and we will honour him as such.’

  Tiniq shook his head. ‘We wrap the body and bring him with us.’

  ‘Bring him?’ Suzerain Torl said, horrified. ‘Damn it, man, he was your brother!’

  Tiniq advanced on the suzerain, for a moment looking like he was going to attack him, then he started fighting for control. ‘He was my brother, yes,’ he said, ‘and we will honour him — he wouldn’t care about a eulogy or memorial. We honour him by following the example he set.’ He looked around wildly at the soldiers drawing closer, hearing the whispers already running through the crowds. ‘You hear me?’ he shouted, ‘you want to honour my brother, you’ll bloody march for him! You think he’d want to lose hours of daylight when there’s an enemy to catch? You think he’ll give a shit about pretty words being spoken over him? There’s the job at hand, nothing more, and your job is to catch and kill the enemy. If you want to honour him, you’ll give him fifty miles this day to make up the ground we’ve lost!’

  He voice wavered. With one final glare at Torl and Isak, Tiniq started off again towards his brother’s command tent.

  ‘You heard him,’ Isak said quietly. ‘We march for General Lahk; we’ll honour him tonight. Go and make sure he doesn’t kill anyone, Torl. I’ll get them ready to march; no man’ll need telling twice today.’

  ‘The final test?’ Ilumene asked, hurrying forward.

  Ruhen turned and smiled. ‘The final test,’ the child in white confirmed as Ilumene joined him. He still towered over the boy, though Ruhen was taller than natural for his years. His composed stillness or smooth, restrained purpose set him apart from normal children — that and the shadows in his remaining eye.

  ‘It all went as you intended?’

  ‘All involved passed the test,’ Ruhen replied, ‘and that is all I ever plan for.’

  Ilumene n
odded in approval. ‘At least some things about that damn white-eye are predictable.’

  ‘You think him incapable of restraining himself?’

  ‘All the time? No, but you catch that boy off-guard and his first reaction’ll be to call the storm inside. Don’t give a man time to think and he’ll act on instinct — that’s when you know his true heart, and it tells you he doesn’t suspect our agent.’

  Ruhen pursed his lips. ‘Let us not make too many assumptions; they have surprised us in the past.’

  ‘Aye, well, they’re running out of cards to play. Once our agent performs his task, they’ll be left reeling and unable to stop us.’

  ‘And then the game will be ours,’ Ruhen finished, savouring the words on his tongue with the ghost of a smile. ‘But until then, it remains at risk.’

  It was morning and the Devoted army was ready to march again. Seeded through their ranks were ragged figures in greys and whites, the wild-eyed, exhausted and half-starved preachers and followers who called themselves Ruhen’s Children. Some knelt and muttered prayers, watched by Chetse farmhands and villagers. They all faced Ruhen as they droned devotionals of Venn’s and Luerce’s devising, or keened wordlessly, arms linked with their fellow devout, or gripping the shoulders of the person in front.

  ‘It is a lesson for us both,’ Ruhen said after a while, gesturing to the masses around them.

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In the unexpected. Look at these soldiers, professional, obedient, but unremarkable in many ways. They have no proud pedigree, no great nation to inspire their pride, nothing more than a basic level of devotion and the regimen of training.’

  Ilumene followed Ruhen’s gaze. ‘Unexpected, aye,’ he commented as he watched the white clad worshippers slowly clump together.

  They had no tents or supplies with them — they were beggars, the mad and the lost, who either had nothing, or had not understood what they might need on their journey. All the way through the central states they had been in lands sworn to Ruhen and the Knights of the Temples, and the local preachers at every village and town had provided basic provisions. The followers who had accompanied them from the Circle City hadn’t fallen away as some had expected; instead, they had swelled in number, and for every one who found the going too hard, or who fell to sickness, a dozen more joined the cause, driven by a consuming zeal.

  Advance scouts had negotiated supplies for the army once they’d entered Chetse lands, but the haphazard organisation of Ruhen’s Children fell away. Ilumene had predicted a vicious but necessary culling as only the strongest among them survived, but something entirely different had happened, and now the man and boy watched in silent wonder as men, women and children crawled from the tents of the Devoted, ready to resume their march.

  Without orders, the men of the army had taken them in, sheltering and feeding them without complaint. There was enough to go around, they estimated, but it was the care and effort expended that surprised all who saw it.

  ‘I underestimated them,’ Ruhen said. ‘I had not thought soldiers would embrace my message too.’

  Ilumene laughed softly. ‘They didn’t, not really,’ he said when Ruhen turned enquiringly towards him. ‘It’s not that you underestimated them, you just don’t know ’em.’

  ‘I have watched humans for long enough, I think,’ Ruhen replied coldly.

  ‘Watched, yes, but you ain’t one.’ Ilumene prodded the boy on his thin shoulder, ignoring the dark look he received.

  ‘This bag o’ bones you’re wearing,’ Ilumene said, grinning, ‘this doesn’t tell you what it’s like to be human. Those scar-hearted troops of the Devoted haven’t embraced your message, not so much as you think. They’re simple men; all soldiers are when they’re on the march. The Devoted’s weakness has always been its disparate roots: competing cultures and peoples, all wearing the Runesword. It’s always much harder to get strangers to fight side-by-side for a cause that matters to neither. This army doesn’t understand its purpose here, so it’s made one up.’

  ‘They embrace the spirit of the message without paying attention to the words?’ Ruhen said hesitantly.

  Ilumene nodded. ‘This ain’t devotion or fanaticism, it’s human ity, grubby and uneasy maybe, but it’s naked humanity for all the Land to see. They see the weak and broken and they care for ’em. They see others driven by devotion and they honour them. They hear talk about protecting the innocent — and sure, it seeps into some, but it’s really two more basic instincts converging. Soldiers are always looking for a cause. It takes a heartless man to watch some poor fool to die at the side of the road.’

  ‘They have made frailty their banner,’ Ruhen mused. ‘That it matches my message of innocence is mere confirmation in their hearts, a justification for what they all feel is right.’

  ‘And now we’ve got an army,’ Ilumene added. ‘Your followers are the common thread for all these troops, some of whom faced each other on the battlefield last year. They’re bound together now, and they’ll fight together because they’re all fighting for the same thing. The Knight-Cardinal knows he’s just a figurehead; his soul’s bound to you and that’s shackled him as surely as a pet dog. Soon the rest’ll realise just how empty their authority is too, and on that day, any of ’em with a backbone left will most likely be cut down by his own men.’ He shrugged. ‘If not, I’ll do it myself.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Under an evening moon the men of the Ghosts assembled around a small rise, on top of which stood a broken standing stone which had been struck by a lightning bolt and split open to reveal a white fissure down its centre, following the path of the strike. Vesna had deemed this small shrine to Nartis an appropriate place for the general’s funeral.

  The Ghosts formed up around the hillock in division blocks, five hundred men apiece, standing silently, even as the sun went down and a cold wind picked up. The officers prayed around the stone as the body was prepared. Isak stood back, leaving the preparation to those who wore the black and white.

  Tiniq stood alongside him, his hood low over his face, and he said nothing as they watched the ceremonies. Legion Chaplain Cerrat, the young man appointed in Lord Bahl’s last degree, led the observances with Suzerains Torl and Saroc at his side, while Vesna, Swordmaster Pettir and Sir Cerse, Colonel of the Palace Guard, knelt opposite them. Stretched out on the flat strip of grass before the shrine-stone was the linen-wrapped body of General Lahk. Only the face was visible. His eyes were closed and his skin drained of colour. His hands had been set around the longsword he’d carried for years, its plain pommel and notched blade catching the last of the daylight. Once they had cremated his body, the fire-scorched sword would be thrown into the first lake they could find. Farlan legend said that a warrior’s weapon would follow its master into the afterlife, to be in his hand on the slopes of Ghain.

  Carel appeared at Isak’s side, wearing a Palace Guard tabard. His expression was grim.

  The sight sent a cold shiver down Isak’s spine for a reason he couldn’t quite place. ‘I forgot you’d said were in the Ghosts,’ he said softly. ‘Uniform suits you, old man.’

  Carel turned and looked Isak up and down. The white-eye had no such thing to wear; even the dragon-emblazoned uniform of personal guards was lost to him.

  Carel shifted uncomfortably. ‘Can’t say I ever thought I’d wear it again, not until the day I was the one wrapped up in linen.’

  ‘You kept it for your own funeral?’

  Carel frowned at him. ‘Gods, makes my head hurt to think you’ve forgotten that! Can’t remember the times you asked me to show it to you — the uniform you’d one day serve in, and most likely die in, being a white-eye. I looked damn good — the ladies of Tirah appreciated it, I can tell you.’

  ‘But I never did,’ Isak said, a little uncertainly.

  ‘No,’ Carel confirmed, ‘the Gods had a different plan for you. You got your own uniform.’

  Isak nodded and returned his attention to the shrine ahead. ‘We’ll gath
er his ashes and take them home?’

  ‘It’s what he’d have wanted,’ Tiniq broke in from Isak’s other side. ‘Eternity with his comrades was always his wish. Me, I’d want to be set free on the winds, but we always were different.’

  Carel grunted in response. ‘Not sure I give a damn,’ he said eventually. ‘As long as a cup’s raised in my memory, I’ll be happy. Don’t reckon I’ll be there to care, after all, but I’d like to be remembered well. Isak?’

  The white-eye flinched. ‘Just as long as it’s not like last time,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘Aye,’ Carel said, putting a hand on Isak’s arm. ‘Sorry, lad, didn’t think there.’

  Isak lifted his hands up so his long sleeves fell back and revealed the bent and scarred fingers. ‘The memory’s always there, whether you bring it up or not. As for what happens after, I don’t care — it’s the way I die that interests me.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a plan,’ Carel said suspiciously.

  ‘More peaceful than last time, that’s all I’m asking. General Daken’s taken his cavalry on ahead. He’s forced a few skirmishes with their rearguard, but that’s all; their pace is fast enough that we can’t catch them, and the bastards aren’t interested in fighting.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘That this is building to one last battle. Daken’s snarling like a frustrated dog, so I hear.’ He flexed the black fingers of his right hand. ‘When they get to where they’re going, they’ll give us the battle we want and not before. We’re not far off matched, so how far I’m prepared to go might swing it for us.’

  ‘You’re going to sacrifice yourself?’ Carel said in horror. ‘You can’t!’

  Isak pursed his uneven lips. ‘I’m not saying that, just that it might get desperate. I don’t know what I’d do — I don’t know what I’m able to do, but there’s more power in this sword than in any Crystal Skull. If I use it to win a battle, I doubt there’ll even be anything left to cremate.’ He sniffed. ‘I never much liked prayers or temple anyway, so maybe it’s fitting I dodge one last boring service.’