The Winds of Strife (The War of the Veil Book 1)

by John Donlan

  “You see?” Shuvani turned back to the priestess mockingly. “She knows me. She trusts me. And when the time comes, she will do my bidding and destroy my enemies. She will swoop on the Losarn like a storm! Picture it! While my army scours them away by land, my roc will ravish them from the air. I cannot lose.”

  “When she gets a taste of the freedom she has been denied, she will destroy you!” Thursa’s lips suddenly twisted into a bitter smile. “You have doomed yourself, Shuvani! The Goddess has foreseen it. That is why she has not stopped you. You will bring about your own end!”

  “I think not,” Shuvani said, moving slowly back to the priestess. “I do not need the aid of the Goddess any more. I will forge my own path. I am thankful to her for setting me in the right direction, but now... Now it is my turn. Unfortunately, that means that you will no longer be needed. And I cannot trust that you will keep our relationship a secret.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “I had thought you clever enough to work that out for yourself, Thursa. A shame, but it seems that your Goddess does not care for you enough to warn you when you are in mortal danger.”

  She gave a brief nod and stepped aside. The man who had followed them through the cave suddenly moved forward swiftly, and gave the old priestess a vicious shove. Thursa howled as she was thrust forward. She tripped, stumbled, and then fell face first onto the rock floor.

  “Farewell,” Shuvani said, watching as the great beak of the roc swept down to scoop the screaming priestess up. The massive head tilted back, and the creature’s throat bulged briefly as it swallowed the woman down whole.

  Shuvani turned to begin the trek back the way she had come. She felt better, now that the last loose thread had been plucked away. Nobody would know her dealings with the temple now, and she no longer had need of visiting it. She felt good. Perhaps she would indulge herself back at the house after all.

  As she made her way through the cave once more, she did not notice the still and silent figure observing her from the dark recesses.

  Thirty

  The surgeon straightened from his grim examination with a sigh and a creaking of old bones. Darius, standing close by, watched with concern and worry as the man turned to face him.

  “She will live,” the surgeon said.

  Darius felt relief wash through him and he lowered his head before snapping it upright again. “If that is so, then why does she sleep still? Why has she not awoken?”

  “Her body is healing itself, my lord,” the surgeon said, as though his prognosis should have been self-evident. “The blade that struck her missed anything vital, thankfully, but it will take time for her to recover. She may wake again in a day, or two, or it may take even longer. Her life is in the hands of the Gods now, which is fortunate, for it seems they are not ready for her to leave this world yet.”

  Darius wasn’t so sure he put much faith in the Gods any more. What kind of deity would allow the existence of those things that had attacked the castle and the city? What kind of divine being would let the slaughter of innocents go unchecked? What God would allow this young woman, already so badly treated during her life as a slave, to be cut down like wheat?

  The surgeon left the room, leaving Darius alone with Needra’s unmoving, pale body. He felt wretched every time he looked at her, as though he had failed her. He had sent her back to the castle when she had wanted to ride with him into the swamps. He had thought she would be safe here, inside the ancient walls. But she had almost paid the price for his folly. Like his father, he had not been able to protect those under his watch.

  The door opened a moment later and Torelle stepped in. She moved to his side and touched him lightly on the arm. “I spoke to the surgeon outside,” she said, evenly. Darius could tell she was struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. “He told me she will live.”

  “Yes, she will live. But he was not so certain about when she would awaken.”

  “She is strong,” Torelle told him. “She survived the swamp, she survived a life of slavery and abuse with the Tho’reen. She has survived this. She will awaken, and then, perhaps, you can tell her how you feel.”

  Darius looked at her sharply, angry words rising to the surface. But a second later, the anger faded and his shoulders slumped. He could see no point in arguing with her when she was right. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to himself, because he knew that it was a hopeless cause. “I will not tell her,” he said simply. “What use would it be? Father would never allow us to be together. A Tho’reen, marrying his son? A girl who was a slave? No, father would not even consider it. He wants peace with the empire, but this would be a step too far.”

  “Father will understand, even if he did not approve,” Torelle said gently. “He is a good man. In time, I think he would come to accept your choice. And even if he does not, is that any reason to deny yourself love? You have to live your own life, Darius, and follow your heart. What point is there to life if not to pursue happiness wherever you find it?”

  Darius turned to look at Needra again. He had tried telling himself that the growing feelings he’d experienced were nothing more than infatuation; certainly nothing so grand and inspiring as love. But hearing Torelle say it now, he knew it was true. He had fallen in love with Needra, with a Tho’reen slave, and he had come very close to losing her before he could even tell her how he felt.

  “I need some air,” he said, straightening from the bed and crossing to the door with Torelle at his side.

  “Good. I will have some of the servants tend to her. She will be well cared for. And besides, we need to discuss what happened.”

  They stepped out of the room and moved through the castle until they found themselves outside in the garden. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and this morning, the sky was clear once more. Darius found a seat on an old stone bench in the gardens and looked to the south, where smoke was still rising from one of the burning buildings in the city.

  The damage had not been as extensive as Darius had at first thought. Three structures had been set alight, but one of them had been extinguished before the fire had really taken hold. The other two had fared less well, and would need to be torn down. Darius had already promised the owners that he would provide gold to make that a reality.

  The casualties were worse. Over two dozen of his men had been slaughtered, and two more had been badly injured. They would live, but they would not be able to serve as guards any longer. Most of the dead had come from the castle guard, but one of the garrison soldiers had been unlucky in the battle and had died from a slash to the chest. Darius had made it clear that the dead men would all be interred in a place of honour, reserved for those who had died in service of the duchy.

  He’d had some of the garrison soldiers look into how the creatures had gotten into the castle. One of the servant entrances had been hacked open and the guards slaughtered before they could raise the alarm, it seemed, allowing the enemy to stream inside. As to how they had made it into the city in the first place, without anyone seeing them, nobody knew. The city walls were under constant watch, and the gates had not been breached. It was a puzzle, and one that Darius was starting to think they might never solve.

  “We know now what happened to the delegation in the swamp,” Torelle said. She, too, was looking towards the city, but with a far away expression on her face, as though she was seeing something else entirely.

  “Do we?” Darius could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “Oh, we know of the beasts that committed the deed, but we have no idea what they are, where they came from, or why they did it! We are no closer to understanding the truth than we were before. If anything, we have taken a step back!”

  “Those things… they were not natural,” Torelle said. “I saw… they were filled with mud and dirt and crawling things. What kind of vile magic could bring life like that?”

  “It was not life, it was a mockery of life. And I do not know the answer to your question. Someone who
would profit from a war between the kingdom and the empire, I suppose, and now it seems as though they will get their wish.”

  “We have to get word to father,” Torelle said suddenly. “He needs to know what happened here.”

  Darius stared at her for a moment and then sighed. “What do we tell him? That the slaughter in the swamp was done by flesh covered mounds of mud?”

  “I don’t know!” The exasperation in her voice was clear now, and he could see her mask of calm starting to slip. He understood why. The madness of the night already seemed like a fever dream, and he was not sure he would ever be able to put the image of those nightmarish creatures from his thoughts. “We have to tell him though. He has to know. Perhaps there are some in the capital who will know what those monsters were, and where they came from.”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps it will only make things worse. What will the king choose to believe? That my father was negligent in his duties, or that creatures of dark magic were to blame? If it is true about the troubles in West Reach, then we have to imagine that the king would be made to look a fool if he chose to believe such an outlandish story.”

  Torelle fell silent, pondering. She knew as well as he did that it would take more than this to exonerate their father in the eyes of the royal court. But she was still right. They needed to tell Gadmar what had happened. He could decide what to do with the information.

  He started to rise when Torelle stopped him with a hand on his arm. “What if there are more of those things?” she said, staring up at him. “What if they try again? They risked much to get to Needra; they exposed themselves and their part in what happened in the swamp. Whoever is behind their existence had to know that we would send word to the capital.”

  “Yes, whatever or whoever sent them here would know that, but perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they know, as we do, that the information will not help. Not until we know more of what we are up against. And by Naedorn, I have no idea how we might find the truth now.”

  “They did not come here simply to kill Needra for what she saw in the swamp,” Torelle said. “There was another reason, something we are not seeing. If she were awake...”

  “Yes, if she were awake. And if she could speak, and if she even has any idea of why they were after her!” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His thoughts were a mess, and he was exhausted. After all that had happened, and after his lack of sleep, he was drained of energy, and was finding it hard to concentrate on anything.

  “I need rest,” he said. “We both need rest. But there is so much to do...”

  “I will send word to father.” Torelle got up from the bench and stood beside him for a moment. “The rest can take care of itself. Go and sleep. There is not much to be gained from working yourself into the ground. Perhaps after we are both well rested, things may seem clearer to us.” She seemed even less convinced of that than Darius did himself.

  Darius nodded silently and then grasped his sister by the hand. “I am glad you are with me,” he said. “We will find the truth of what happened here, one way or the other.”

  She smiled at him and then turned and swept out of sight. Darius remained where he was for a moment, then made a sudden decision. He walked with purpose and determination. Sleep would wait, for the moment. He had something else he needed to do.

  * * *

  The shrine to Naedorn was as silent and still as it always was. Though he no longer felt the same calm and peace as he had when younger, it still held a certain comforting presence for Darius. As a boy, after listening to stories from his father about the enigmatic and mysterious God, he had often come to the shrine when he was feeling melancholy or lonely. Despite the statue’s lack of features or defined forms, he had still felt as though he was under the watchful, caring gaze of something powerful and protective. That feeling had faded with time, but the memory of it had not.

  He stopped beside the statue of the God and stared up at the featureless carving for long moments.

  “It has been many years since we spoke last, great lord,” he said softly. “And for that, I ask forgiveness. But now, more than ever, I feel the need for your guidance. Darkness is falling over us all, and I do not know what to do! Strange and terrible creatures have crept out of the shadowed places. War is coming. Death seems to be everywhere. Help me find the truth, lord. I beg of you!”

  He fell silent and the echoes of his words rebounded from wall to wall around the small shrine. The statue seemed to tower over him, impassive, uncaring. When he looked at it now, he saw a stone carving, and little more. Darius shook his head, disgusted with himself. What had he expected? That the God would bless him with some divine truth? That he would be the first man alive to ever hear the voice of Naedorn?

  His voice faded away at last, leaving him in silence once more. He held his breath for a moment, hoping against hope that he would receive some sort of sign. But all was still. All was at peace, as it always was.

  Darius turned away and left the shrine. The Gods cared little for the people of the world. He would have to find the truth on his own.

  Or perhaps, when she awoke to the world once again, he would find it with Needra at his side.

  * * *

  Darius did not sleep well, despite his exhaustion. He had trouble even falling asleep at all, and for almost an hour, he twisted and turned, his sheets getting tangled around his sweating body. His troubled thoughts were to blame, but like a broken tap, he could not find a way to switch them off. Again and again, he saw the stitched, faceless visages of the creatures in his mind’s eye, saw them cutting down his men, saw them hacking at Needra, and at Torelle, and countless others. An endless montage of bloodied faces and mutilated bodies swam across the darkness behind his eyes, mocking him.

  At last, weary beyond compare, he finally drifted into slumber. But nightmares visited his slumber, unwilling to let him rest, even in the refuge of sleep. He did not remember most of them, but one of them seemed so vivid that it remained with him well after waking. In it, he was running in fear through complete darkness, chased through an endless space of utter black by hordes of faceless monstrosities intent on his demise. The only escape seemed to be a small speck of light in the distance. And yet, no matter how much he ran or how hard he pushed himself, that light never seemed to get any closer. It drove him to madness, and in the dream, he had fallen to his knees in horror, covering his face as the monsters that were chasing him rushed forward to hack him to pieces.

  But before the blades could strike, the dream changed, as such things often did. The darkness vanished and he found himself standing in a stone hall with no ceiling. Above, he could see the moon and the stars wheeling across the endless vault of the sky. Ahead of him was a stone plinth. He approached that plinth as though drawn to it, though he could not understand why. A silent siren call in his mind that pulled him inexorably forward.

  But as he drew close to the plinth he recoiled in disgust. Stretched across the stone surface at the top was a patch of frayed, worn skin. He felt revulsion boiling up in him, but the call was as strong as ever, and his feet seemed to carry him forward regardless.

  The skin looked old and dried like leather. It was pinned to the stone by nails that had been driven into each corner with force enough to crack the plinth below. There was something etched into the skin; a tattoo of a symbol that seemed strangely familiar to him. It was the shape of a four pointed star, and across the bottom point was a curving crescent, like a moon turned on its side. He stared at the symbol for what seemed like an eternity, but he could not place it, nor understand what significance it might hold. It began to irritate him, like a buzzing in his ear that would not go away. The irritation grew until he felt as though his head might burst. He clutched at the side of his skull and sunk down to his knees beside the plinth, but the sensation only got stronger and stronger. He screamed and tore at his hair, wanting it to end, wanting to know what the symbol meant if only so that he could find some peace.

  Just as
he thought he could take no more, the air was split with a resounding boom, and suddenly, the sensation in his mind vanished. He could think clearly once more, and now he knew where he had seen the symbol before. It sprang up in his mind, focused and sharp. He tossed his head back and laughed, and then saw that the stars and the moon above were gone. He was staring into that endless blackness from the first dream once more, and again, he could see the white light in the far distance. This time, however, he began to feel as though he could reach it now. Somehow, it was within his grasp. “Thank you,” he whispered into the darkness.

  A voice roared within his brain. “Remember!”

  Darius awoke suddenly, his body wreathed in sweat. He sat up and clutched at his head for a moment, fearing that the voice he had heard would crack his skull like the shell of an egg. But the resounding hammer blow of the voice was fading from his thoughts already. The word it had spoke remained, however, as clear as it had been in the dream: remember.

  Darius recalled the symbol that had been etched into the skin in the dream. He remembered where he had seen it before, though he still had no idea what it meant.

  He got out of bed and slowly began to dress.

  Thirty-One

  Jaran was seated on a high-backed chair in the queen’s audience chamber. Unlike the throne room, this smaller room was used for matters of state. Here, Lysena would meet more privately with nobles, wealthy land owners, generals and others to discuss important issues that affected all of Arrenissia. Today, however, he was alone with the queen. They were both silent, lost in their own thoughts, waiting for the arrival of the old loremaster.

  They had returned to the city two days earlier, all of them shocked by the events in the mountains. The guards that had accompanied them had been sworn to silence and secrecy about what they had witnessed, but Jaran had his doubts that any one of them would be able to hold their tongues for long. He did not expect them to, either. They had seen one of their companions butchered, and then seemingly possessed by an entity that they had not even believed existed before that night. Seeing something like that had a way of changing a man. Jaran knew that first hand. He had begun to see the world in a very different light, ever since he had come to realise that the queen was telling the truth about what had happened to her. It was as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes for the first time, and would never come back again. A part of him desperately wished that it would, so that he could go back to being a soldier again, ignorant of the shadowed world that seemed to hide beyond all things sane and normal. Things had been so clear then, when all he’d had to worry about was war.