by R. S. Ford
They began their trek through the wastes once more. Josten knew they were heading north from the position of the sun, but if he was honest with himself they could just as easily have been retracing their steps.
It was a monotonous journey, with few landmarks but for the odd blasted tree to show they were making any progress. Josten was starting to think this a fool’s errand until they crested a rise, and he saw a sight that lifted him. The Ebon Sea stretched out, calm and black, towards the distant horizon.
‘Not far,’ was all that Silver offered them as they struck north along the coastline.
‘She’s as talkative as you,’ said Randal.
The last thing Josten felt like doing was proving Randal wrong.
The day wore on, with the sea breeze doing little to stifle the growing heat. Just as Josten began to wonder how much longer they would have to walk the jagged coast, Silver raised a hand in warning. At first Josten thought she was hearing things on the wind; the deserts of the Ramadi were fabled to drive travellers mad. But as dusk began to cool the heat of the day, they heard the unmistakeable sounds of war drifting on the wind.
‘Doesn’t sound good,’ said Randal.
‘No?’ Josten replied. ‘Sounds like we’re nearly there to me.’
As they crested the headland they saw the distant tower of Kessel perched on a cliff like a grim monument to death.
At its feet was an army.
Josten realised the scale of the task ahead. Kessel would have been all but impossible to break into, even without the ravenous horde of warriors assailing it.
‘What the fuck do we do now?’ he said.
‘We could always ask to enlist in their army,’ Randal replied. ‘See if they’d let us join in their little siege.’
Josten was about to tell him what a stupid little bastard he was, when Silver took a step forward.
‘That’s exactly what we are going to do,’ she said.
The two men watched her go, then looked at one another.
‘It was only a joke,’ said Randal.
‘Well, no one’s laughing,’ Josten replied, before stepping forward to follow.
48
LIVIA had heard tales of vast dining halls. The lavish banquets held in the castle of Duke Gothelm were legend, and Livia knew the rumours of their opulence and debauchery. Her imagination had run wild with those stories. So much so that a tiny, sinful part of her had wanted to attend one.
She had never imagined her first experience of such a banquet would be quite like this.
Kessel was a grim place, all brooding dark corridors and hideous statues. Its dining hall was no less ominous, the ceiling disappearing into darkness to make it appear open to a starless night, the long, dark table polished to a black sheen, each chair high-backed and intricately carved. Crimson candles burned in sconces, wax having dripped and congealed to make it appear like the walls were weeping blood.
More candles burned in a dark iron candlestick at the centre of the table, illuminating the dinner set before her. Silver forks and knives were lined up precisely – though why she’d need more than one of each, Livia had no idea. The handle of each piece was made of carved bone in the shape of a writhing demon. Three long-stemmed glasses, each a different shape, stood before her.
Livia took a deep breath. This was far and away the most uncomfortable she’d felt since that bastard Randal had come for her. At least she knew where she stood when she was being kidnapped and marched from one end of the land to the other. What the hell was this?
The only consolation was that she didn’t stink anymore.
Kaleb had scaled the vast chains in the dark. Though she did her best to hate him for not running away with her, she still felt concern for him. She had sighed in relief as the chains had begun to move, grinding and whirring, churning up the sea as they lowered a massive platform from the side of the citadel. At first, she had marvelled at such a magnificent feat of engineering, and as they left the boat and stood on the platform she felt thrilled, as though she were walking on the sea itself. But when the mechanical cogs and chains began to turn once more she had noticed the platform had manacles attached to it. Places where people had been strapped. From the gouges and rents in the dark stone she guessed they had not come to a good end.
When they reached the top, Livia was shown to a small windowless chamber. In a side room had been a hot bath and perfumed soap. It was fit for a duchess, and she had peeled off her filthy clothes and bathed. The heat of the water had lulled her to sleep and when she woke someone had come and taken her mucky rags, replacing them with the dress she now wore, along with a brush for her hair. An offer of dinner had been too much to resist.
The satin gown was soft against her skin and it glowed red in the flickering light. Her hair was still damp but for the first time in weeks it was no longer a tangled mess. Something about this whole thing made her feel a little like a fatted calf before the cull.
Across the table the boy smiled.
‘Hello, Livia. I am the Regent. Lord of the Qeltine Brotherhood, and you are my guest. Wine?’ he asked.
Livia stared across at him, wondering what this creature was. This thing that looked like a boy but spoke like a man.
‘Not for me,’ she replied, trying her best to remain as defiant as she could.
Two figures walked from the dark, skeletally thin and bearing brass jugs. One filled the glass in front of the child. When the second began to pour Livia’s wine she glanced up, unable to subdue a gasp as she saw the mouth in his gaunt face was sewn shut with copper wire.
‘Don’t mind the Silent Sons,’ said the boy. ‘They are quite harmless. Consider them servants, here to do your bidding.’
Livia looked back to her glass and the black liquid within. Quickly she took it and drank, all thoughts of defiance fleeing as she felt the rich, sweet wine coat her tongue and warm her throat. Before she knew it, she had drained her glass. The thrall filled it once more before she had a chance to put it down.
‘Of course, you must be thirsty,’ said the Regent. ‘My apologies. And hungry no doubt?’
More Silent Sons entered the room through some shadowed doorway, heralded by the most delicious aroma Livia had ever smelled. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of how hungry she was, as one of the thralls placed a platter before her. On it were slices of white meat alongside mashed root vegetables, all lathered in a rich gravy.
Livia stared at the platter, then looked to the boy. There was no food for him. Clearly, he didn’t have an appetite.
‘Eat. Please,’ he said.
She grasped one of the forks, ignoring the knives, and skewered a slice of the meat, stuffing it into her mouth. She closed her eyes at the delicious taste, breathing heavily through her nose as she chewed, savouring the warm succulent gravy.
She must have looked a sight, shovelling her food in like a savage, but she was past caring. This place might have been like a sepulchre, and they may well have brought her here to die, but if she found out who ran the kitchens she was determined to give them a huge kiss.
When she’d eaten her fill half the platter was taken away. Livia glanced up to see the boy looking at her with an amused smile. She patted her chest and burped.
‘This must all be very frightening for you,’ the Regent said. ‘And I apologise for what you’ve been through. If I could have spared you any of it I would have.’
‘How thoughtful,’ Livia said, then took a sip of wine, swilling it around her mouth. She realised everything had gone a little fuzzy around the edges. The wine had gone to her head and she placed the glass down as gently as she could.
‘You must be wondering what all this is about.’
Livia stared at the boy across the table. ‘I know exactly what this is about. You’re a religious fanatic and I’m here to be sacrificed to your god like a lamb at solstice.’
The Regent’s smile widened. Then he stood, his chair scraping behind him. He walked around the table to stand beside her.
>
‘Please, come with me,’ he said, holding out his hand.
There was no point in being defiant now. She was trapped in this place and she knew it. Best to play nice until there was a chance for her to make an escape.
Livia ignored the offered hand and stood. The Regent led her from the dark dining room and out into an adjoining hall. It was peppered with carvings on plinths, black onyx dioramas depicting battle scenes and bloody sacrifices.
‘This place, this citadel, is an ancient conduit,’ the boy said, as though he’d explained this a thousand times. ‘Battles have been fought over the location. During the Age of Archons, Sicaria raised beasts from the sea to claim this place.’ He gestured to one of the dioramas depicting a vast sea monster rising to crush an army on the land.
‘In ancient times,’ he continued, ‘it was just a wooden fort, but the warriors of all twelve cults killed and sacrificed to own it. The wooden walls were rebuilt in stone, the fort made into a vast stronghold, all to protect what it held.’ They reached a plinth on which two warriors fought atop a pile of corpses. ‘This place was born from blood. And he who covets its power must bathe in blood to keep it.’
‘That’s all very pleasant,’ Livia said. ‘But what has any of it got to do with me?’
The Regent led her onward toward a dark staircase. He took a burning torch from the wall and led them down.
‘When the Age of Archons was over, the Blood Lords could only commune with their masters from a few chosen places. This is one such place. The last Blood Lord, Korvus the Red, kept it as his home, shunning Kragenskûl for the solitude of Kessel.’
They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked out into a long chamber. In the middle of it stood an altar, shining black in the dimness. At each corner were chains, in its midst were carved gutters, and Livia had no doubt what they were meant to channel. She couldn’t withhold a gasp.
‘It must seem savage to you.’
‘You’re going to offer me up as a sacrifice? You’re going to use my blood to raise your Korvus from the grave?’ Her voice echoed in the small chamber. The boy just stared at her with lifeless eyes.
‘There will be a ritual, yes. And you will be at its centre. It is a great honour. The greatest the Brotherhood can possibly bestow.’
Livia didn’t believe what she was hearing. It was almost as though she had a choice in this.
‘That’s a lovely offer,’ she replied. ‘And as flattered as I am, I’m afraid I’ll have to politely decline.’
The Regent’s childish laugh resonated in the cramped chamber. Livia winced at the sound.
‘You misunderstand me, Livia. Your blood will not resurrect Korvus the Red. He is dead and gone.’
‘Then why the hell am I here?’ she demanded. She was done with this now, and done with these fanatics.
‘I have not brought you here to bring back the Blood Lord. I have brought you here to become the Blood Lord. You will be the new avatar of Qeltine. You have power. A gift not seen for a hundred years. You are the one, of that there is no doubt.’
‘You’re insane,’ she said. ‘I’m no one. I don’t have power.’ Even as she said it, Livia knew that wasn’t true. But she was certainly no one’s Blood Lord.
‘We will see,’ said the boy, his hand tracing a line across the smooth ebony altar. ‘Tomorrow we will perform the rite. Tomorrow we will see how much power you truly have.’
‘And what does this rite involve?’
‘As you said. We will cut out your heart,’ the Regent replied nonchalantly.
Livia felt the walls closing in around her.
Silently she followed the boy as he led her from the sacrificial chamber and back up the stairs. They walked in silence, Livia barely noticing the route as they moved up through the citadel.
‘Sleep well,’ he said to her as they arrived back at her room. ‘Do not look on this as an ending. It is a beginning. A new beginning for us all.’ Livia wanted to spit in his face. ‘Oh, and in case you feel you might want to avoid your destiny and perhaps fling yourself from the window during the night, I have left someone to watch over you.’
Livia saw someone walk from the shadows. It was the long-haired warrior, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His stony face reminded Livia of the figures in the dioramas she had seen in Kessel’s great hall.
‘Think of Dantar as your protector,’ said the Regent. ‘Until tomorrow.’ With that he closed the door.
Livia turned to Dantar. ‘Where is Kaleb?’ she asked.
He said nothing.
Livia took a step closer. ‘Are you going to stand there all night? Because I may need to make water and I don’t think there’s a chamber pot.’
Still no response.
‘Fair enough. I get it, not one for conversation. Which surprises me because I couldn’t shut that little boy up. He’s a smug little shit, isn’t he?’
If Dantar had any opinion on the matter he didn’t express it.
Livia left him standing in the corner as she undressed and lay down in the bed. The pillows were the softest she’d ever felt. As she lay there she stared at the dress, hung limply over a chair. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn.
If she was going to die in the morning, then her one consolation was she’d at least look good as they ripped the heart from her chest.
49
THERE were no sentries at the camp’s perimeter. Josten didn’t know whether that made him feel any better. No sentries meant this army was either confident in its might, or they were an unruly rabble who’d kill intruders as soon as look at them.
That question didn’t seem to bother Silver any. She strode right into the camp, past the fires and the wounded and the sleeping bodies as though she knew exactly where she was going.
Randal was on edge, that much was obvious. The simpering shit didn’t say a word as they walked through the camp, past the demon head banners, and Josten was glad of the silence.
Beyond the camp the huge citadel rose up, illuminated by the trebuchet fire and flaming arrows that battered its walls. If Livia was inside, Josten was determined he would find her. How they would escape was quite another matter, but he guessed he’d have to figure that one out when he got there. Living out tonight was a more pressing problem.
The three of them managed to reach the centre of the camp before they started to receive attention. Several injured warriors glared at them as they walked past, and Josten did his best to look like he belonged.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Josten said, as some of the wounded warriors began to limp after them, murmuring in disquiet.
‘Trust me,’ said Silver.
What other choice did he have? If all else failed there was a blade at his side, and he knew he could still run like fuck if the need arose.
It was with a little relief they reached the central tent. Josten had been in enough army camps to recognise a command post when he saw one, although this was the grimmest he’d ever encountered. Dark pennants flew from it, bearing an ancient Ramadi sigil, surrounded by skulls and feathers. The hide covering of the tent looked suspiciously like tanned human skin.
Unperturbed, Silver walked straight up to the scary-looking sentry guarding the entrance.
‘Where are you going?’ asked the huge warrior, his accent thick as his neck.
‘I seek audience with your leader,’ Silver said. She looked tiny next to the guard, but she faced him down, not showing any sign of fear.
The warrior’s face creased into a grin. ‘How about I give you an audience with my cock,’ he said, reaching for his blade. Josten reached for his own, but Silver was quicker. Her sword was drawn and at the warrior’s throat before he could even grasp his weapon’s handle.
She pushed the brute back through the flap of the tent and he duly backed away, hands up, eyes crossed staring at the blade to his neck. Josten drew his sword and followed them inside, knowing this might be the end. Behind he could hear Randal quietly whisper
ing the word ‘fuck’ to himself over and over.
Inside there were three men in intricate bone armour, hulking over a table. Josten had lost count of the times he’d seen this scene – armoured men standing around maps planning the deaths of other armoured men. He’d never made quite such a dramatic entrance before though.
As they saw Silver leading the sentry with a blade to his throat, the men took a step back.
‘Who is in charge here?’ Silver asked.
The warrior wearing the most ornate armour, his dark hair tied in a topknot about his white-painted face, addressed her.
‘I am Kraden. Known as the Fist. High Lord of the Legion of Wraak. Have you come here to kill me?’ The notion seemed to amuse him. ‘You should know, it won’t be easy.’
Josten had just about had enough of being led through this by the nose. ‘We’ve come to join you,’ he said. ‘To offer our swords and help you take the citadel.’
Kraden looked at them. Then the huge warlord burst out laughing.
‘Offer your swords?’ he bellowed. ‘You tiny whelps? I have warriors aplenty. Men willing to die for me so that Kessel will fall. What could you possibly offer?’
Josten felt panicked at Kraden’s reaction and not a little stupid. ‘You’re turning down willing swords?’
‘If you are lucky I might let one of you clean the gore from my armour when I have crushed this citadel and executed every man that stands against me,’ said Kraden. ‘For now I have enough swords.’
Silver’s blade flashed and the sentry she had been holding hostage fell. Josten moved out of her way as she stepped towards the warlord, her weapon cutting the air twice more. The two warriors that flanked Kraden fell clutching their throats.
There was silence in the tent. Kraden wasn’t laughing anymore.
‘Now you have three fewer,’ she said to him. Her blade was poised at his neck, her jaw fixed.
The grin that had temporarily fallen from the warlord’s mouth slowly returned. His chest quivered as he bellowed with laughter once more.
‘I like you,’ he said to Silver. ‘You can fight. And you don’t fear death. I value that more than anything.’