A Demon in Silver (War of the Archons)

by R. S. Ford

  Livia smiled, breathing out in relief and raising a hand to her chest.

  ‘I’ll make tea.’

  Ben almost laughed. How Livia loved her tea. But instead he laid a hand on her arm as she reached for the kettle.

  ‘Pack your things. We have to leave. Be quick about it.’

  He moved to the bedroom as fast as he could, breathing heavily. It was all he could do to suppress his panic.

  ‘What are you talking about? You said he wouldn’t tell the tallymen.’

  ‘And I wish I could believe him. But if you’d seen…’

  He wanted to tell her about Cal. About the blankness in his eyes and how he looked as though he was walking in a dream and the strange words he said. There was no way this would stay a secret for long. And once the word was out…

  ‘If I’d seen what?’ Livia said, still standing in the doorway of Ben’s room.

  ‘Just pack!’ Ben raised his voice. Livia stared at him, shocked at his anger. In all the years he had cared for her Ben had never shouted at her, not even when she’d been up to mischief or sung the same song over and over until it grated on his nerves. But now all that mattered was that they ran as far from this place as they could.

  She stared at him with hurt in her eyes.

  He took a step towards her. ‘Look I—’

  Jake began to bark in their yard outside.

  Whatever Ben had been about to say was forgotten as he stumbled past her to the front door. His hand went to the handle but he paused before turning it. Jake’s barking stopped suddenly.

  Ben glanced back at Livia. She shook her head a little, almost imperceptibly. There was no way out.

  He opened the door.

  Half a dozen tallymen stood in the garden. At the threshold was Randal, hair greasy and slicked back, a smile on his narrow face.

  ‘Hello, Ben,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’

  15

  BEN moved aside and let Randal walk into their kitchen. Livia could only stand and watch in fear as the dark-haired man came inside. Out through the front door she could see more tallymen standing just beyond their front porch, one of them holding Jake in his arms, hand clamped over the dog’s mouth. She wanted to run out and snatch Jake from the tallyman’s arms but her legs wouldn’t move; she knew it would be futile.

  Randal sat in a chair in their kitchen, crossing his legs and reclining back in his seat. Slowly Ben closed the front door.

  ‘Would you like some tea, Randal?’ Ben asked.

  ‘That would be lovely, Ben. Thank you,’ replied Randal with a smile.

  Ben looked at Livia. ‘Would you boil the kettle for us?’

  Livia stared as the old man calmly took the chair next to Randal. They sat in silence while she stepped forward into the kitchen and picked up the kettle. It was full of water and she placed it over the fire that crackled quietly in one corner.

  ‘How’ve you been, Ben?’ Randal asked. ‘How’s the farm?’

  ‘Things are good. Mild winter always makes things easier in the spring. Harvest looks like it’ll be good this year. I wouldn’t mind a pig though. Every farmer should have a pig.’

  Ben was babbling; he always did when he was nervous. It amused Randal, who carried on smiling at the old man. There was a degree of affection in his smile, which Livia took some solace in.

  ‘That’s good news, Ben. So many farms are struggling. The duke will be pleased you’re doing so well.’

  ‘These are difficult times,’ said Ben. ‘We can only do what we can.’ Then as an afterthought, ‘And I’m sure Duke Gothelm wishes only health and happiness for the folk who work his lands.’

  ‘He does,’ said Randal. And though Livia wasn’t looking at him directly she could tell he was still smiling. But the affection had faded away now, and it seemed as though he was deriving some small sadistic pleasure from Ben’s discomfort.

  The water in the kettle began to boil and Livia lifted it from the fire, covering the red-hot handle with a clean towel. She’d bought it from Bardum Market the year before from a trader; white cotton with red silk flowers woven into the fabric.

  Livia filled the teapot with the hot water and placed the lid on to allow it to brew. As it steamed, giving off a warming aroma, she turned back to the two men.

  ‘Is everything all right, Ben?’ said Randal, sitting unmoving in his chair.

  Ben was wringing his hands on the worn table-top, not able to look Randal in the eye.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he replied.

  ‘Only you haven’t asked me why I’m here.’

  Ben looked up. Randal’s smile wavered.

  ‘I reckon you’ll tell me when you’re good and ready.’

  Randal nodded at that. ‘Aye. Reckon I will.’

  Livia was under no illusions – Ben knew exactly why Randal and the tallymen had come. They were here to take her off and hang her from the nearest tree, and there was nothing she or Ben could do about it.

  Fighting to keep her hand steady, Livia reached for the teapot and then filled two cups through a strainer before bringing them to the table.

  ‘Tea,’ she said as she placed them down, her hands shaking.

  One of the cups spilled, and tea dripped off the edge of the table onto Randal’s black trews. In a panic she grabbed the towel and made to dab at his lap. Randal grasped her wrist before she could touch him, a flash of annoyance in his eyes before it was gone. Then he gently took the towel from her grip and cleaned himself off before placing it back on the table.

  Silently, Livia backed away to the window once more as Randal stared at Ben.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Ben asked suddenly.

  Randal raised an eyebrow at that, a brief moment off his guard before his face returned to that haughty expression.

  ‘She’s fine, Ben.’

  ‘I’ve not seen her for so long. Does she know you’re here?’

  Randal inclined his head. ‘No, Ben. I never mentioned it to her.’

  Ben was looking straight at the tallyman now, eyes pleading.

  ‘I remember once, when you were little, me and your mother collected pears from Farmer Gant’s orchard. It was unseasonably hot. You had a rash that year, on your belly, but it went away all on its own. Anyway, we made cider and it was awful, worst I’ve ever tasted.’ Ben smiled at the memory. ‘Your mother, she made more pear pies than I’d ever seen. Bardum Market’s never been so fat on pear pie since. It was a good year. Almost feels like it was yesterday.’

  Randal sat and listened like Ben was his own uncle. When the old man had finished he let out a long sigh that filled Livia with dread.

  ‘I have to take her, Ben,’ he said.

  Livia felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

  Ben nodded. ‘I know you do. And you know I won’t allow it.’

  ‘I know. You’ve always been a stubborn old man. I always liked that about you.’

  Randal’s smile was filled with regret. A moment of sorrow before he moved, quick as a snake, hand coming out of his sleeve almost too fast for her to see.

  The knife was in Ben’s neck before Livia could even think to scream. By the time Randal drew the blade across Ben’s throat Livia’s voice was lost. She could only stare, her hand clamped over her mouth as Randal withdrew the weapon, letting blood gush from the wound.

  Ben’s head lolled back, opening up a yawning red mouth in his neck, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. Randal stepped back calmly, picking up Livia’s towel, her favourite one with the red flowers, and wiping his blade clean with it.

  As Ben died before her, gurgling his last, Randal picked up his cup of tea and drained it.

  Then the door burst open.

  The rest of the tallymen rushed in, grabbing Livia where she stood. She heard the fabric of her dress tear as they dragged her outside. One of them grasped her hair, pulling her along by it, and she heard herself screaming as they threw her to the ground. As she lay there she saw Jake lying on the flowerbed amongst a host of dead pet
als. He wasn’t moving.

  ‘Who’s got the rope?’ said one of the tallymen.

  ‘Fuck the rope. This one we’ll have to burn,’ said another.

  Livia’s panic overcame her fear, the need to survive crushing all else, and she tried to rise to her feet. There was no way she could fight them but she could run. Before she was even able to stand one of them kicked her in her side, another slapping her so hard on the side of her head her ear began to ring. She fell again, sobbing in the mud.

  ‘We’re not to kill her.’ That was Randal, talking as casually as he had with Ben. ‘Duke Gothelm will want to see this one. She’s no mere brewer of potions. The Redfens said she has real power.’

  At his words Livia felt anger boil within her. There was still a ringing in her ear, her face stinging, her side numb from where she’d been kicked. Whatever power she had, whatever had happened to make this nightmare come true, she willed it into being.

  Livia closed her eyes, calling on the foul magic that had afflicted Cal, the magic that had manifested itself in this very garden. With every fibre she summoned her powers to strike down the tallymen and eviscerate them where they stood.

  Nothing happened.

  No angelic voices sang in her ears. No demons on wings of leather came swooping, horned and bloody, to her aid.

  There was just her, and the dirt, and the men who had come to take her.

  As she looked up, tears stinging her eyes, she saw Randal kneeling beside her.

  ‘Try not to be afraid,’ he said. ‘You won’t be harmed. Duke Gothelm has business with you.’

  With that the tallymen grabbed her, one of them binding her hands behind her back.

  As they led her off the only solace she had was Randal’s promise that she would not be harmed. But all she could see when she closed her eyes was that dark vision of old Bett swinging from her tree, and Ben dead in the kitchen they had shared, a yawning wound in his neck.

  16

  HER tears had stopped several miles back along the road, but she still had plenty of reasons to cry. Livia’s shoes had fallen off hours ago and her wrists were raw from the rope. One side of her face throbbed and she could feel her eye starting to swell.

  A vision of Ben’s empty death-stare flashed across her mind’s eye again, and Livia did her best to quell the image before it made her sob. No amount of sobbing would do her any good now. The tallymen would take no heed of it, and if she were to get out of this alive she needed a clear head.

  ‘We need to head north through Ballenheim,’ said one of the men at the front.

  ‘No, you fucking idiot,’ said another, his wispy dark hair doing a shit job of covering the scabby pate beneath. ‘If we go west by the River Clavern we’ll be in Ardenstone in less than three days.’

  Randal stepped forward before either of them could argue anymore. ‘We go north,’ he said. ‘It’s the quicker route.’

  No one questioned him, and the tallymen continued on their way. Randal wasn’t the biggest of them, and he certainly didn’t look the meanest, but he commanded a respect among these men that was undeniable. Livia wanted him dead more than anything in the world.

  She’d never hated anyone in her life, though there were plenty of people to choose from in Bardum Market. But this man – this murderer – made the bile rise in her throat and her stomach knot with rage. Still she remained as helpless as a lamb being dragged along to the sacrifice. If Randal was going to die it would have to wait.

  They dragged her further north as the sun began to slide down toward the horizon. At the back of the group she could hear a couple of tallymen whispering out of Randal’s earshot. They were questioning him, convinced they should have strung Livia up from the nearest tree. Witchcraft was much feared in Canbria, and it seemed these men were more superstitious than most. Luckily for her it was all bluster. Neither of them seemed to have the courage to go against their leader. As much as she hated Randal, Livia was suddenly grateful for the sway he held over his men.

  It eventually got dark – so dark that Livia couldn’t see where she was going, treading on sharp stones on the shadowy ground. By the time they stopped she was gritting her teeth in pain.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said one of the tallymen.

  Livia strained her eyes through the murk, spotting a light from down a shallow drop. The tallymen led her toward it. As they moved down the hill, the smell of a chimney fire reached her nostrils and dread welled up inside her.

  Another homestead. Another innocent farmer at the mercy of the tallymen. What would they do to this poor wretch? Leave another old man sitting in his kitchen with his throat open?

  When they reached the farmhouse Livia realised she needn’t have worried.

  A grey-haired farmer answered his door in the dark, candle in hand. A quick exchange of words and he invited them into his house. Livia felt a well of relief rise up in her as she entered the warm confines, but the feeling was fleeting.

  ‘Siddown,’ said one of the tallymen, after dragging her to the corner of the room.

  She dropped to the floor obediently, watching in silence as the rest of them took up positions around the sparse cottage.

  ‘I don’t have much,’ said the old man. ‘But you’re welcome to whatever—’

  ‘We only have need of shelter.’ Randal spoke with the usual authority. ‘You have nothing to fear, old man.’

  The grey-haired farmer nodded, but his eyes flitted toward where Livia was sitting. It was clear he had doubts about how honest Randal was being. These were tallymen, and if they strung the old man up for the slightest provocation it would hardly be the first time.

  As the evening wore on, Livia’s head began to nod, but she was determined to stay awake. The tallymen surrounded her and she wanted to be ready for what they might do.

  As she sat, one of them quietly began to sing. It was a song of the ancient woodmen; a verse told in a language little used nowadays. It seemed odd – such a sweet tune from a man in such wicked company.

  Though she fought it, Livia couldn’t help but be lulled by the soft song, as though the tallyman were singing a lullaby just for her.

  She was flying on ethereal wings. The rush of the air in her face matched the rush of the blood through her veins. Her senses were keen; she could hear her own heart beating, taste every drop of moisture in the air.

  In the distance was the Blue Tower, rising up towards the clouds. Before it ran a plain of green, dappled with blue and red and yellow. As she banked she could see that the colours made a mosaic, overlaying something beneath.

  With a sweep of her massive wings she halted her flight, descending to the earth amidst the sea of colour.

  It was a battlefield.

  But where there should have been carrion crows feasting on the dead men and horses, there were millions of butterflies, decorating the corpses with a myriad of colours. They were a soft blanket laid over the carnage, wings fluttering in the breeze.

  She could feel herself smiling – no lament for the dead, only awe at the beautiful spectacle. Two of the creatures fluttered before her, dancing with each other in mid-air. When she reached out her hand they came to rest on her palm, one with wings of vivid gold, the other one bright cerulean. She closed her fist, crushing them in her white-knuckled grip, and when she opened it again the insects had turned to shining jewels: one topaz, one sapphire.

  The light from those precious stones darkened as the sky turned from blue to black in an instant. A crack of thunder pealed across the heavens but she did not fear it.

  An arm surged from the ground, red-skinned and thickly muscled. At the same time there was the sound of beating wings as something else swooped down from the sky.

  As one, the myriad butterflies took flight, lifting like a veil from the earth. Before they had risen ten feet they began to disintegrate, flowing off into the ether like pollen on the breeze.

  From the earth climbed a vast being, horns curled from its temples to its jaw, eyes dark, shoulders and
chest like boulders. Dark wings carried another figure to the ground, impossibly thin but beautiful, hair shining gold, feathers across her back trailing into a multicoloured tail.

  Both these beings greeted her with a name she couldn’t quite hear. She returned the greeting, but the names she uttered were lost as soon as they had passed her lips.

  ‘It is time?’ said the horned monstrosity.

  ‘Shall we, sister?’ asked the winged beauty.

  She did not answer, but spread her own wings and took to the air. The Blue Tower seemed impossibly far, but still she knew she would reach it with ease.

  At the top of the tower was a marble pagoda, open to the elements. The winged woman and the beast were already awaiting her as she reached the summit and swept down to the marble tiles with the most delicate touch.

  In the centre of the floor stood a thin podium of steel; sat atop was a giant crystal. She could see it was cracked, but still contained a thick mist, like the storm writhing overhead was mirrored within the crystal.

  ‘They are calling to us,’ said the beast.

  ‘Calling to all of us,’ said the woman.

  Deep within the crystal it was clear there was something to fear.

  ‘But it has been so long,’ she said. ‘And it is still broken. How will we? How can we?’

  The woman smiled as the beast placed his hand upon the crystal. Above them, the clouds began to open; unleashing rain at first, then hail, crashing upon the roof of the Blue Tower, shaking it to its core.

  The woman placed her hand upon that of the beast. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she whispered.

  But there was so much to fear… and perhaps gain.

  She stepped forward, gently placing her own hand upon the crystal, feeling the cracks and imperfections in its surface.

  No sooner had she touched it than something gripped her insides. Pulling at her soul. Dragging her down. Ever down…

  She woke not with a start but a simple opening of her eyes. The singing had stopped. From the wan, pre-dawn light she could see the outlines of the tallymen as they slept. One snored gently in the dark. Another murmured quietly.