by A. J. Smith
Outside, both men blinked in discomfort as the blazing sun assaulted them. They’d been in a dark, cold cave, with fetid green light the only illumination. Now the heat and light returned, dizzyingly. They moved away from the top of the stone staircase just as rock and dust erupted outwards. The jagged archway that marked the route downwards collapsed in on itself, leaving barely a crack to indicate it had ever been there. The matron mother was forever entombed beneath the mountains.
Ahead, through dust and shimmering air, Dalian could see the ruined settlement of Oron Kaa. Half the bulbous buildings were crushed, or had toppled over. Against every surface, twisted in dense web, were motionless insects, and on the far side of the central square, hundreds of human bodies were sprawled on the ground. Ruth had torn the place apart, and the death of the matron mother had robbed it of much power. It felt like a battlefield, with a curious silence hanging over a conflict that few men could imagine. The rampaging Kirin, the faceless acolytes, the maddening insects, the immense Gorlan – a conflict of time and power, as much as death. But now, just the curious silence.
‘Survivors,’ said Randall, striding away from the cave-in.
A handful of figures, heads bowed, wandered among fallen sailors and between destroyed buildings. Their arms and legs appeared heavy, as if they struggled to walk. At first, Dalian thought they were wounded or perhaps hampered by the heavy webbing, but as bodies began to move and sit up, he knew some other device was at work. Those standing knelt to help their fellows, until dozens more heavy-limbed Kirin stood in the ruins of Oron Kaa. Each had had a Builder force its way into their mouth; they now stood and looked with fearful eyes.
He turned sharply in response to a sound, and saw a Builder plummet to the irregular cobbled ground. Then another, until all the remaining insects fluttered their last and twitched downwards. It was strange to stand among the dying creatures, tumbling off buildings and flopping limply around them.
‘Why do they fall?’ he asked Randall. ‘And why do the Kirin rise?’
The young squire was smiling. He spared a glance at the dying insects, but his eyes were focused on the Kirin, most of whom were now standing. ‘Ruth’s freed them,’ he replied. ‘The Kirin and the Builders. The matron mother kept the insects enslaved and I think they are glad to finally die. They weren’t wicked by nature; they were used, like the Dokkalfar, like the young enchantresses, like the Karesians. Imagine being a slave for thousands of years – you’d gladly embrace the beyond.’
‘You sound happy for them.’
Randall nodded as a group of Kirin approached through the ruined buildings. They looked tired, skin slick with sweat and limbs shaking. The man in the lead was taller than the rest, with a leather waistcoat covering his muscular torso. Randall gasped and took two large strides forward to meet the tall Kirin sailor.
‘Captain Vekerian!’ said the young man. ‘Do you know me?’
‘I do, great father,’ he replied, an echoing hum sounding in the depths of his throat. He looked human, but there was an alien glaze across his eyes and a twitchy unease in his movements. ‘Vekerian? Is that my name?’
Randall looked at him closely. ‘It was, when you were just a man.’ The other Kirin assembled behind their captain, each sailor displaying the same awkward movements and faraway stare. ‘You are now part man, part Builder. An alliance has been struck in your flesh and a newly freed creature nourishes you.’ The young man of Ro put his hand on Vekerian’s shoulder and smiled. ‘You can call yourself whatever you like. You’re free. That goes for all of you.’
Dalian could feel the growing spark of power in the young man. Since Ruth departed, her strength had spread to every inch of Randall’s body. It might take years for him to fully understand his might, but he’d taken a large first step towards true power – and everyone who saw him knew it.
The fifty Kirin were gradually joined by dozens more figures. The inhabitants of Oron Kaa, newly freed by the death of the Queen in Red, looked at the burning sky as if they’d never seen it before. They walked on legs that seemed to confuse them and exchanged interested looks with their fellows. Dalian wondered if this was a new kind of life.
‘Will you protect us, great father?’ asked the creature that had been Vekerian.
Randall blushed, glancing over his shoulder as if looking for Utha or Ruth and some words of encouragement. All he saw was the Thief Taker. With a hard stare at the floor, the young man appeared to realize he was alone, with no-one remaining to hold his hand. ‘I’ll try,’ he replied.
‘Randall, can I talk to you?’ asked Dalian. ‘We are not finished.’
Vekerian and the other Kirin glared at him, as if offended by his manner. They looked to the young man of Ro, who smiled awkwardly back at them. Dalian doubted that such mighty power had ever been contained in so meek a form. The new creatures looked to him as their master, their protector. They didn’t question his manner or what he looked like, and Dalian had no doubt that they’d kill for him if he wished it. Luckily, Randall of Darkwald was a rather nice young man and he waved them back.
‘I have few answers, if that’s what you were hoping for,’ said Randall, leading the Thief Taker away from the increasing mob of confused people. ‘I know things I shouldn’t know... I can do things I shouldn’t be able to do. The rock of the cavern – it just obeyed my command.’
‘I believe Ruth told you not to be afraid of your power. That is good advice, young man. But your journey is not my journey, and it is not what we need to talk about.’
Randall chuckled to himself, his intelligent eyes, sharp jawline and thin beard making him look far older than he was. He ran a hand down his face and yawned, turning to look out to sea. ‘My journey,’ he said, knowingly. ‘It started in a tavern in Ro Tiris and ended at the edge of the world.’
‘Ended?’ queried Dalian. ‘This is not the end for you. Oron Kaa is now yours; you will be its guardian. Ideally you would be a devotee of Jaa, but other than that you are the perfect ally.’
‘I don’t think I care much for the gods,’ replied Randall. ‘But I can accept what you say about Oron Kaa. I promised these people I would protect them – and I think I can.’ He narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Ruth tore this place down, but there is plenty of rock, and trees to the east. We can rebuild, and guard the tear.’
Dalian smiled at him.
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ continued the Gorlan father. ‘You know devotees of Shub-Nillurath will be drawn to the tear. They’ll try to unearth it and let his power flow. We’ve corked the Footstep of the Forest Giant, but we’ve not destroyed it.’
They faced each other, two beings of power establishing that they were not enemies. Dalian did not wish to challenge the powerful young man. At the very least he deserved time to process the loss of his friends and the surging power in his body. At the edge of the world, Dalian was prepared to ally with the Gorlan father and the new creatures that now looked to him for guidance.
‘I think we have an understanding,’ said the Thief Taker.
‘There’s a ship at dock,’ replied Randall. ‘It can get you back to civilization. If that is your destination.’
‘I plan to meet with my son in Kessia. We are due a quiet drink of desert nectar, and we must rebuild the faith of the Fire Giant. As we endure, so does Jaa.’
The young man of Ro scanned the ruined city and the low coastline. There was confidence and resignation in his eyes, and a hundred stories of things he could or should have done differently. Eventually he smiled. ‘I imagine I’ll be here a long time. And I imagine you and I will meet again.’
CHAPTER 23
GWENDOLYN OF HUNTER’S CROSS IN THE DUCHY OF WEIR
SOMEWHERE, IN A bright corner of her mind, Gwen thought of another life, a life now lost to her. She was in Ro Haran, relaxing in a small sitting room next to her husband. An open window, framed by billowing red curtains, revealed a crisp blue sky and a dark ocean. Things were peaceful and neither of them wo
re armour or held swords. Their hands were soft and the wounds of war were long healed. It was strange that her mind retreated to this kind of peace. A simple kind of peace, with no demands or thoughts of the past. Perhaps her mind was a gentler place than she had thought.
Slowly, the soft skin of her hands became rough, and the leather of her sword hilts replaced the soft touch of her husband. The relaxing feel of a cushioned sofa merged slowly into the feel of the harsh canvas of her saddle. In increments, her fantasy shattered and she was again on the crowded fields of Weir, staring with uncontrollable terror at the swarm of rippling black tentacles that swept towards them. They moved like a relentless wave of black water, with texture coming as breaks in the rippling surface, rising as a swell and falling back to the flowing mass. Every so often, in an insane moment of clarity, she saw a creature appear in the wave of black. It was the same as the thing in the catacombs of Ro Haran; the thing that had killed four men and taken a dozen more to kill it. There were hundreds of them, or maybe thousands.
She just looked, not thinking to shout or flee. She didn’t even know how long she’d been looking, just that she couldn’t turn away or conjure any words of alarm. She was next to Xander and Daganay, mounted at the front of their lines. Thousands of warriors stood like swaying blades of grass either side of her, similarly rapt by the spectacle of horror before them. The Hounds, despite their numbers, were now merely a slight distraction, nothing more than a background to the black wave that approached.
Silence was everywhere. No-one could summon the gumption to shout or even speak. Forty thousand warriors – men who had killed their way south through endless Hounds – were suddenly turned into frozen statues. None of them looked towards Ro Weir; none of them cared about Tor Funweir or their struggle for freedom. The Twisted Tree had revealed itself and it was more than their minds could take. The battle would not be decided by swords or sorcery; it would be decided by thrashing tentacles.
The first of them to summon enough strength to speak was Daganay. The Blue cleric wheeled his horse, blocking her view of the rising swell of Dark Young. He shook his head vigorously and rubbed his eyes. He’d turned away but could still not speak in more than a whisper. ‘Run,’ he murmured. ‘We need to run.’
His strength of mind was only marginally stronger than Gwen’s, and she managed to speak just after him. ‘Xander, we can’t win,’ she stated, grabbing her husband’s shoulder and turning his face towards her.
Tyr Sigurd and his forest-dwellers, assembled behind them, had dropped to their knees and all had looks of unimaginable horror on their grey faces. ‘The priest and the altar, the priest and the altar, the priest and the altar,’ they chanted together.
The Dark Young approached the left flank, where Brennan’s cavalry waited. The horses regained their senses before the riders did, and the armoured mounts began to whinny and buck; held firm by their riders, they were unable to turn away, and shuffled backwards in an ungainly attempt to flee. The forest-dwellers continued to chant, their sonorous voices the only sound she could hear.
Xander just looked at her. A tear appeared in his eye and his expression turned to one of extreme sadness. Not anger; not even fear. She saw the complete loss of hope creep across his face. From the moment they’d retaken Haran, they’d been pushed, kicked, battered, blown up – but they hadn’t broken. It was before the walls of Weir that the armies of Ro would break, before a sword had even been swung. No commands or redeployment would allow them to hold their ground, and it was this loss of hope that crushed Xander’s spirit. All he could muster were the words ‘Stay alive, my love.’
Everything was now in slow motion. The tide of black was taking its time to reach them, rolling from the eastern side of the city directly towards their left flank. Some men were backing away, some horses had thrown their riders, some commanders tried to shout or scream, but the bulk of the army remained more or less as it had before the Young appeared. An enemy that removed your ability to run was powerful indeed.
‘Knights of the Dawn!’ roared Lord Markos of Rayne from the right flank. ‘We die this day!’
A horn was blown from the far side of their lines and the sound of armoured horses suddenly filled the air. Gwen couldn’t see them through the sea of terrified soldiers, but the high pennant of a white dove slowly emerged, bobbing on the wind as it moved across her field of vision. Some men looked, but most were rooted to the spot as a wedge of armoured knights charged across the open fields before their lines. The paladins’ chargers wore blinkers, now closed across their eyes, and were being driven forward by the strong thighs and skill of their riders. The knights themselves appeared calm and at peace, with no hint of fear or doubt crossing their pious faces.
With Markos in the lead, they hunkered down, shields locked forward and lances lowered. On the open fields between the two armies they accelerated into a sprint, covering the ground in a blur of strength and steel.
Daganay shouted, ‘Markos! For the One!’
The paladin saluted his brother cleric by unsheathing his huge greatsword and rising high in his stirrups.
The tide of black slowed, showing for the first time an awareness of the company of horsemen bearing down on them. The swarming mass of Dark Young flowed like a flock of birds, away from Brennan’s cavalry and towards the White Knights. There was no cheering or shouts of encouragement, just thousands of faces watching impassively as a sea of black met a sea of white.
The clash was thunderous. A thousand steel-tipped lances, moving in a wedge, cut a sudden hole in the black wave. The sheer weight of the charge displaced dozens of Dark Young, sending them backwards in a blur of tentacles and shrill wailing. The wedge kept moving, digging into the tide like a knife into flesh, until their momentum was halted.
Markos was still visible, standing high enough in his stirrups to be seen through the melee of tentacles, gaping maws and rampant paladins. With supreme horsemanship, he kept control of his warhorse while hacking at black flesh with his two-handed sword.
From their lines, enough sense had returned that an order to fall back had been relayed, but it happened only slowly, with no-one wanting to turn from the eldritch spectacle before them. The paladins’ charge was a thing stories would be told of, but the reality could not be ignored: they were being overwhelmed. The white tabards were now all but invisible within the swarming sea of black. Each Dark Young took a dozen cuts or more to bring down, whereas the knights could be felled with a flailing tentacle or a reaching maw. Horses were battered to the grass, men were thrown around like crushed rag-dolls and, within moments, only a small cluster of mounted knights remained. Five thousand of the toughest fighters Gwen had ever seen were being eaten up by a frenzied wave of death, the surface of which their charge had barely scratched.
She looked at Xander, then Daganay. All three wanted so much to have the right words or a sudden moment of clarity, but with their flickering eyes and pursed mouths all they could convey was sadness. The paladins had bought them time, but everything was so strange and muddled that no-one could think clearly.
‘Not today,’ said Gwen. ‘We’re not going to die today.’
‘Who can fight that?’ growled Xander, his sword hand flexing against Peacekeeper’s hilt.
‘We need to run,’ offered Daganay, nodding as if his mind had hardened just a little. ‘Full retreat!’ he shouted, directing his words towards all the warriors of Ro within earshot.
The command was relayed and the withdrawal gained some momentum. The army, even the kneeling Dokkalfar, pulled their eyes from the dying paladins and broke into a jog, fleeing north. Those on horses had a harder time, but gradually the army moved backwards. There were no Hounds anywhere close and the withdrawal was quieter than any other she’d been a part of, with just the wailing of the trees and the death-rattles of the paladins providing any noise.
‘Look,’ said Daganay, gesturing towards the edge of the bubbling black tide.
She saw Lord Markos, still alive, stan
ding on the flank of his dead horse. All around him the body parts of his company were being flung left and right as a feeding frenzy ensued among the Dark Young. It was as if a thousand sharks attacked a handful of helpless swimmers. At first they ignored the last paladin, too busy eating horses and men to consider him relevant. But he quickly reminded them that a Knight of the Dawn was not to be ignored, by jumping from his horse and charging the mass of tentacles. He swung from a high guard, hacking downwards in a frenzy.
‘Run, my lord, run,’ she muttered, searching the field of battle for a way the White Knight could withdraw.
Markos advanced a few broad paces but was swept up in the black wave, pulled into the air, then smashed into the ground, before his constituent parts were torn from his chest by a dozen feeding Young. The creatures swarmed into strange circles and bubbled outwards like a bizarre water spout, grabbing any chunk of flesh as yet unconsumed. It was only a matter of time until they would finish their meal and turn back to the army of Ro.
‘Run!’ shouted Major Brennan from the left flank. He was now on foot, chasing a fleeing horse.
Other men echoed his shout, pulling their fellows away from the battlefield to join the mass of running warriors.
‘The hills of Narland,’ shouted Xander. ‘Make for the hills of Narland!’
Order had vanished and the retreating army became a mob of horses, men, steel and shouting. Gwen stayed close to Xander, with Daganay and Sergeant Ashwyn behind them. Their horses were startled, but eager to be facing the other way, and needed little encouragement to run.