A Demon in Silver (War of the Archons)

by R. S. Ford

  His breathing was fast and hot as he pulled his little brother up the hill. A quick look over his shoulder and he could see the bandits coming after them. He had lost sight of his father, but surely he must—

  The ground gave way underfoot. Darrick yelped, pain lashing through his ankle. He fell on his face, knees and elbows, taking the brunt as Fenn came down with him. His little brother was on his feet quick, pulling Darrick up. Darrick tried to stand, tried to put weight on the twisted ankle but it was no good. He would only slow Fenn down.

  ‘Go,’ he said, staring into Fenn’s tear-streaked face. ‘Go now.’ He tried to instil the same command his father had.

  Fenn shook his head.

  ‘Now!’ Darrick screamed, slapping Fenn across his cheek.

  The little boy stumbled back. Darrick felt something break in his heart as his little brother turned and ran towards the shallow river.

  Hands grasped at his throat, the thick fingers tightening. Raiders ran past him, chasing little Fenn, and there was nothing he could do as a fog began to close around his eyes…

  Silver’s hand was shaking. She trembled as the cool of evening began to envelop her.

  Fenn.

  She looked over toward the river, staggering to her feet, stifling the sob in her throat.

  Just let him be alive. Let them at least have spared Fenn. Her boy.

  She could hear the tinkling of the river. The waterwheel had been smashed. Bloodstains where they had wounded the mule, a trail leading away.

  His body lay face down in the river, shirt and trews sodden. She rushed into the water, feeling it chill her to her thighs. Fenn’s body was so small and weighed almost nothing as she picked him up, holding him tight as she staggered back onto the bank and fell to her knees. With one trembling hand she pushed his sodden hair back from his face. His eyes were half closed as though he were pretending to sleep but couldn’t quite manage the ruse.

  Perhaps his death had been quick. Perhaps despite their savagery the bandits had granted that one small mercy to a little boy. Silver’s hand shook as she pressed her fingers to his cheek…

  His father was gone. His brother was gone. Fenn ran. Ran towards the river. Ran as fast as he could. He was quick, had always been quick. Almost as quick as Darrick—

  A hand grabbed his arm as he reached the bank of the river. It raised him into the air, and his shoulder screamed in agony. He would not show them fear. His father would not have wanted that.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the mule. Saw the bandits fall on him, cutting him free of the axle, cutting his belly, slapping his rump with their bronze blades and watching him run with guts hanging out.

  The bandit dragged Fenn into the river. He could hear laughing; first one man, then more. They spoke, but as his head was rammed beneath the surface of the water he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  Fingers were curled tight in his hair. As much as he fought there was nothing he could do. Once he was pulled up for just long enough to gasp a breath of air before being plunged back under. He could still hear the laughing, even under the surface.

  The water tasted filthy in his mouth. He tried not to swallow but couldn’t help it. They weren’t going to let him up this time. There was nothing he could do. Fenn stopped fighting…

  She screamed. Cursing at the sky as she squeezed the body of a drowned little boy to her breast. She screamed until her cries turned to whimpers in her throat.

  When the sun had dropped below the horizon and the chill of night stoked her she finally placed the body of Fenn Longfeather on the ground.

  She should have buried them. But burying them would not quell the fire in her chest. Would not scratch the itch in her palms. Would not give her the blood she yearned to taste.

  Jaws ripped at pure white flesh. A crimson gout as sinew tore. The taste of triumph. Screams of victory drowned out by the pumping of blood in the ears. And still the feel of the spear in her palm, still the need for more slaughter. It was never enough. Could never be enough. An unceasing need.

  Silver looked eastward into the dark. She could see no tracks but still she knew that was where they had gone. Even had there been no stars she could still have found their trail.

  In the dead of night she followed.

  25

  TALBAT struggled over the ridge, bringing up the rear as usual. He was by far the youngest of their band, but since he had to carry the cooking pot, the bedrolls, the spare weapons and what loot the other lads had given him, it was always going to have been a struggle. This was what you got if you were the newest member of the gang. He could only hope there’d be new meat soon and he could pass on some of his quite considerable load.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ shouted Jerral. He glanced back with a grin before taking another bite from one of the heads of corn he’d been demolishing for the past half-mile.

  Talbat didn’t have the breath to answer and just gave him a wave of acknowledgment.

  How had it come to this? How had he fallen in with a band of brigands?

  Talbat knew full well how he’d fallen in with them. His sticky fingers were how he’d fallen in with them. The choice of fleeing the town, or to stay and face losing a hand for thieving. With nowhere to go and no friends he’d been forced to make new acquaintances. Before long Talbat had found himself part of Kai Farrand’s band of brothers. And what a bunch they were. He couldn’t have picked a meaner pack of bloodthirsty cunts if he’d tried. But Talbat hadn’t really had much choice. It was either fall in with this rabble or starve. And there was no way Talbat was about to let that happen – no matter how many villages and farms he had to ransack.

  It had all been going so well. They’d made a camp at the foot of the Crooked Jaw, and had set up half a dozen ambush points along the trade pass through the mountains. Things were good. Back then, they didn’t resort to killing unless it was completely necessary. That had all changed after the warlord had risen in the east. The Iron Tusk, they called him. Come out of nowhere, attracting men to his cause from every shadow and cranny from the southern edge of the Ramadi to the northern tip of the Suderfeld. Hard and fearsome men for the most count, and the smaller bands of brigands had been forced to join or die.

  Not so for Kai Farrand, their eponymous leader.

  ‘Fuck this warlord,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll make our own way.’

  An inspiring, if somewhat short, speech. All one hundred of his men had followed him. Talbat had gone along with them. So they’d made their way west, coming out through the desert, raiding as they went. And with every farmhouse sacked and village burned they’d become more vicious, more desperate. Murdering and raping and burning like they’d been born to it. Talbat had watched with growing dismay, wishing he’d taken up some simpler career, wishing he’d not been so keen on thieving, but he guessed this was his lot now and he’d best get used to it. There was nowhere else for him to go and no other trade he knew but theft.

  Their band was small. Kai had split his men into groups, sent them raiding all over the place. ‘Keep the militia guessing,’ he’d said, and so far it had worked. Talbat was part of Jerral’s crew, seven of them at the start but now they were down to six. Trust Talbat to end up alongside the five maddest bastards in the whole of Kai Farrand’s band.

  Howel had been the meanest. He was a proper savage; all bearded and ragged. Even Talbat had known he’d end up dead sooner than later. When he’d run across that field ahead of the rest of them, and the farmer had stuck him with his scythe, none of them were surprised. Talbat wasn’t going to shed any tears over him.

  The rest of the lads clearly thought more of Howel than Talbat did. They’d chased down that farmer like he was prey, tearing across the field. Jerral had been the one at their head, knife in hand, moving faster than any of them despite his size. He’d stuck the farmer deep and quick before he had a chance to fight back. Then things had gotten crazy.

  Talbat had ransacked farms before. He’d seen innocent men and women killed,
but this time his group were like men possessed, taking delight in hunting down the children. As Rey and Yedrig ran up that hill after the young boys, whooping and cawing like animals, it was all Talbat could do not to be sick. He followed them just the same, chased them up onto the ridge and witnessed what happened.

  Yedrig had been the one to catch the first lad. The poor little fucker had hurt himself and was lying on the ground. The other one, the younger one, ran like a desert rabbit even though there wasn’t anywhere to go. Yedrig grabbed the fallen boy round the neck and squeezed so tight his own eyes bulged and his tongue stuck out almost as much as the boy’s, like he was mimicking the lad’s final death stare.

  The rest of the crew ignored him. All four of them were chasing the little boy.

  Talbat had played his part, but he hadn’t been the one to catch the boy in the river. It was Munro who’d held that lad under the water as the rest of them laughed. He’d been the one to let him up once for a gulp of air before pushing him back under till he stopped squirming. And they’d all carried on laughing as Talbat stood in the midst of them, wondering how in the hell it had come to this. Knowing he was just as guilty as the rest for what had happened here.

  No point thinking on it now though. What was done was done. Before long they’d be back at Kai Farrand’s encampment and have to explain to him why their loot could be carried by one young lad. Talbat could only hope there’d be no repercussions – especially repercussions focused on the lad carrying the loot.

  As the day waned, Jerral ordered them to stop and make camp. They were in a tight ridge that would hopefully mask the light from any fire they built. The last thing they needed was the local militia finding them.

  Jerral ordered Munro to go and hunt them some scrub rabbit while the rest lounged around, carrying out their usual camp rituals. Yedrig pulled off his boots, picking at his feet with a knife like he was whittling something from wood. Whatever it was Yedrig was trying to dislodge must have been long gone or in there for good, but still he picked away. Talbat couldn’t stand to watch him for long.

  Rey lay on his back, hands crossed over his stomach, snoring as usual. If he wasn’t walking, fighting or shitting, Rey tended to be asleep.

  Barton lurked at the edge of the camp, hand not far from his axe. He stared into the dark like something was going to come crawling out of it. Talbat was glad of Barton being constantly on the watch; one of them had to stay vigilant.

  As the night drew in and the fire sputtered with nothing to keep it fed, Jerral started to get pensive.

  ‘Where the fuck is that wanker Munro?’ he said to himself as much as the rest of them.

  No one had an answer anyway. Talbat just stared into the fire, his belly growling in hunger.

  ‘You. Go have a look for him,’ Jerral said.

  It took a moment for Talbat to realise their leader was talking to him.

  ‘Me?’ Talbat replied.

  Jerral looked at him as if to say, yes of course you. Talbat didn’t think it wise to argue.

  He stood, looking out into the dark desert, wondering which way to start walking. It was pitch black out there and he’d most likely get lost. And then what? Wander the desert alone in the dark? The thought of it filled him with such dread he suddenly needed to be sick.

  Before he could take a step, something came flying out of the dark. It bounced once in the midst of the camp, rolling near to the fire before coming to a stop.

  Yedrig shouted when he saw what it was, scrabbling backwards, looking stupid with just the one boot on. The object glaring at them was Munro’s severed head.

  ‘Fuck!’ shouted Jerral, ripping the knife from the sheath at his side and turning to stare out into the dark.

  Barton had his axe in hand, facing the other way in case they were surrounded. Yedrig gave Rey a kick and he woke with a start. On seeing the other lads standing defensively, then noticing Munro’s head next to the fire, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed his blade.

  ‘Who’s out there?’ Talbat asked, suddenly wishing he had a weapon to hand, but his knife was on the other side of the fire.

  ‘How the fuck should I know,’ growled Jerral, as though reminding Talbat what a stupid question that was.

  ‘Could be militia,’ said Rey.

  ‘Where the fuck’s Barton?’ said Yedrig, tottering on his one boot.

  They all turned. Where Barton had been standing at their rear, axe in hand, there was no one.

  A sound issued out from the dark. A growl, the sound of rending, and what might have been a muffled scream. Something sprayed out from the black, hitting Talbat in the face. At first he panicked, reeling back and lifting a hand to his cheek. Moisture. Had he been wounded?

  Something dripped into his lips and he tasted blood. Not his. The thought made him want to be sick again.

  ‘Show yourselves,’ Jerral shouted at the dark.

  A woman walked into the camp, shirt covered in blood. In one hand she held Barton’s axe, blood dripping from it, all shiny and fresh.

  Talbat took a step back from her but Rey wasn’t so shy. He screamed, its echo filling the little canyon as he raised his blade high. The woman moved so fast Talbat could barely see her, stepping to the side of Rey’s sweeping blade and then swiping his head right off his shoulders. She didn’t pause, sending the axe spinning through the air where it ended up buried in Yedrig’s chest up to the stock. He stared down at it for a second before pitching back. Talbat looked down at him, axe stuck in him, one foot still bootless.

  Jerral moved forward slowly, that knife held out at the ready. The woman just waited, the fire flickering, lighting up her face beneath that blonde hair and making her look like a wraith.

  ‘Come on then, you fucking bitch,’ Jerral snarled running forward, drawing the knife back to strike.

  She moved at the last instant, stepping aside and grabbing Jerral’s arm, faster than anything Talbat had ever seen. Her other hand grasped his throat and he made a choking sound before she pulled him off his feet, snapping the arm that held the knife over her knee.

  Jerral screamed and Talbat almost covered his ears at the awful sound. When the woman picked up Jerral’s knife and plunged it into his eye, Talbat was almost relieved at the sudden silence that fell on the little canyon.

  Talbat took in a couple of breaths, realising his hands were shaking. During all that violence he hadn’t moved an inch to help. Hadn’t even had the guts to make a run for it.

  The woman stood, letting Jerral’s body fall to the dust. Talbat felt his hands shake even more as she stared at him over the fire.

  ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it,’ he said. Talbat had no idea exactly what it was she thought they’d done, but there was plenty to choose from.

  She walked forward, right through the fire, flames licking at her legs. Her trews smouldered but she didn’t seem to notice the heat as she came.

  ‘Please don’t kill me,’ Talbat said, backing away, but the wall of the canyon was right behind him. He should have run when he had the chance.

  She stopped in front of him and for the first time he saw her eyes. Two black oily pits. As she spoke in a language he didn’t recognise he felt the words squirm into his ears and heard himself mumble pleas for mercy.

  Whoever she was, whatever she was, she couldn’t hear him…

  * * *

  The disparate folk of the Suderfeld kingdoms worship a pantheon steeped in fable. Though the names and archetypes might vary from nation to nation, and even county to county, there is a constant theme to Suderfeld’s twelve gods.

  At opposite ends of the pantheon sit Aethel, the stallion, and Waernoth, the dragon or great wyrm. These two, more than the others, seem to be locked in a constant struggle within the various myths surrounding the Suderfeld gods. Both vie for supremacy, seeming bent on anointing themselves as father or leader to the others.

  At varying times Osred, the knight, is seen to be allied to Aethel, in one legend riding him into battle against Wa
ernoth. But in others he is also allied to the dragon, often relying on him as a faithful mount (see The Tale of Osred and the Boggart King).

  Also at odds are the hag, Juthwara, and Maerwynn, the healer. Oftentimes in legend they stand opposed to one another as Juthwara tempts innocent souls into one trap or another, appearing as both hag and temptress, while Maerwynn is sent to the victim’s rescue. Again, contradictory tales arise that pitch these goddesses against a common enemy, and united they are a formidable couple.

  Closely linked with Maerwynn is Cwen the maiden, and in many areas these two are one and the same. The Tale of Holst the Fisherman sees the love-struck angler come into contact with a goddess who bears the name Maerwynn or Cwen, depending on the region in which it is told.

  The final common juxtaposition is Elwyn the seer and Urien the trickster. In legend it is Urien who is sent to tempt mortal men into sinful and lascivious acts, with Elwyn always giving such victims wise council to put them back on the straight road.

  The rest of the pantheon is made up of nature gods, represented by animals, though in some tales they manifest in human form. Vadir the wolf, Frith the songbird, Tancred the bear and Kenelm the raven are worshipped to varying degrees throughout Suderfeld, mostly appearing as avatars of both war and peace, depending on the area and its religious traditions.

  – Introduction to the Pantheon of Suderfeld, Friar Mollen Rand,

  Year 34 after the Fall

  * * *

  26

  LIVIA had never dreamed of travelling so far north. Her life had been the farm, had been Ben. All she had hoped for was to marry and live out her days raising a family, like everyone else. She could never have imagined this: what the tallymen would do, seeing her uncle murdered before her eyes, being beaten and dragged off to some unknown fate at the behest of Duke Gothelm.

  But here she was.

  The way had been hard and her clothes were muddied and torn from the journey. Still she gave no complaint, despite her travelling companions. ‘Rescuers’ wasn’t an appropriate word for them. They had taken her with the intention of selling her to Gothelm themselves, and she gave thanks to whatever gods might still watch over her that Mullen and Josten had been betrayed. Not that it was likely any gods were watching. It was clear she was cursed.