Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  Many of the soldiers had not managed to arm themselves—weapons and armour were carried in wagons for ease of walking in desert conditions—and so sued for mercy on their knees. Others knew more about their adversaries and could guess what was in store for them; they fought on, but they were few and soon overwhelmed. The camp followers stood in a daze and watched the Marasmians advance, not understanding the depth of hatred that would soon burst over them, but sensing that their time had come.

  The day ended as a blood-red sun sank behind evening cloud, sending rays of red-gold light across the desert towards the former valley of the Marasmos River. The few hundred survivors of the Emperor’s great expedition set themselves watchfires on the fatherback bluffs, but the flames could not keep the chill from their hearts as they listened to the screams of the tortured, the raped and the torn. They were forced to endure the travails of their countrymen, on whom the full revenge for the destruction of Marasmos all those years ago was exacted. Taunts and shouts from the victors, along with descriptions of what they were doing to their captives, echoed across the valley. Duon wept, heartbroken at what he had done. Beside him, Dryman watched and listened with an impassive face.

  Lenares could hear only two voices. Of course, she knew she could not really hear them, but they haunted her mind anyway. There, in the dark heart of her imagination, Rouza and Palain huddled together as around them the cosmographers were taken, one by one, cruelly tortured and fed to the flames. Nehane, Vinaru, Lyanal, Pettera, Arazma. The two girls, aware of the particular shape the warriors’ vengeance would take upon them, begged and cried until rough hands pulled them apart and took them to separate places where the shadows descended on them and destroyed their worlds. Eventually, as dawn drew near, they were carried to the fire, broken and bleeding, and cast upon it to shriek their last minutes away.

  Slow tears leaked down Lenares’ cheeks. She had wanted to hurt them, they deserved it, but this…No one deserved this. What made it unbearable was the knowledge that the reality would be worse than her imagination. Much worse. And had the cosmographers accepted her, she would be suffering along with them.

  No one slept that night, either in the valley of the damned or on the cliff-top above, save the silent dead.

  INTERLUDE

  The bright images of battle burn hot into Husk’s mind, flickering through the spike set in the captain’s brain. Anonymous faces snarling, grimacing, shouting. Bodies running, falling, tumbling. Blood underfoot, blood smeared across his captain’s vision, dripping from his forehead, a shallow cut from a stray thrown knife. Heavy breathing as Duon leans on his sword for a brief moment. Husk sends further power through the spike, strengthening his host’s tired muscles, allowing him to think clearly. Clear thinking is not a luxury Husk can afford.

  Husk’s carefully engineered plans are in danger of destruction. His manipulations have drawn the attention of some unholy power, which appears to be trying to bend his tools to its own use. Someone is working against him, he is sure of it now. Attacks against all three of his tools at the same time cannot be coincidence. Someone with an immensity of magic at their command, more than Husk can imagine, let alone encompass. Yet lacking in intelligence and finesse, trying to achieve their as-yet-unclear goals with brute force.

  His protection is holding. He will protect his captain, his priest and his angel by any means he can. If only he could have a moment free from this constant struggle; a period of calm to reflect on what is happening, to plan a new strategy, to somehow take the offensive instead of constantly reacting to events.

  He sighs, a wheeze of hot, tortured air released into the cold air of the corridor. Husk has moved perhaps twenty paces in the last week, his slug-like body propelled forward in a wriggling motion that leaves skin, gristle and hair behind. His goal, the Tower of Farsight, is the highest place in Andratan castle and, at his present rate of progress, months away. He must move more rapidly, yet while his spikes are being assaulted, he cannot move at all.

  A critical moment approaches. The captain has survived the worst of the battle: while a stray spear or sword could still kill him, the risk has decreased. His angel lives yet, though she is under siege. He can spare her no power. Hold on, sweet one! Husk turns his attention to the priest. His need is paramount. With an effort that sets himself back months, Husk overlays his adamant will on the weak-minded priest. Feeds him images, words, instructions, strength.

  The fool resists. Has an abhorrence of such forceful possession. Fights against it with a manic energy.

  Let go! Husk screams in white-throated agony as the depth of the struggle burns him. The priest has a will after all, and it is a strong one. It takes precious seconds to suppress.

  The priest surrenders to Husk’s will, takes up a sword and runs, the power of a master magician impelling him. Cries out the consort’s name.

  Too late, too late, Husk croons in misery.

  Too late.

  QUEEN

  CHAPTER 16

  THE CAGE

  THE LORD OF FEAR NARROWED his eyes to slits. The woman made no move to defend herself, though she held within her an unguessable depth of power. He remained alert for any deception: she had, after all, been the consort of the Undying Man, and might be capable of anything. What his master had done for her had been the talk of the Bhrudwan army. The Lords of Fear had been able to sense the gift he had given her, but he had never told them the reason why it had been given. Galling, when every Maghdi Dasht longed to possess the gift for themselves. Yet, for all this, the only thing he could sense from her now was her fear.

  Does she not know what she has? Bah, she does not deserve to retain it.

  ‘I need only a small amount of your blood,’ he hissed. ‘But because I will brook no rival, you must die. To complete your death I must drain you. Do not struggle, or I will make your dying rich with agony.’

  ‘Please,’ she croaked, holding a hand out in front of her. ‘Please!’ Her screams sent a shiver through the Lord of Fear, feeding him.

  Her eyes flickered, as if she listened to an inner voice, then rolled back in her head. She crumpled.

  The Maghdi Dasht knelt beside her, lifted her chin and went to work with his knife.

  Shouting from outside, a man bellowing his pain. The Maghdi Dasht turned, distracted in the act of lifting a pewter chalice to his lips. He put the cup, brimming with thick red liquid, down on the table.

  The two fools he called sons would receive severe punishment for jeopardising the success of the ritual. ‘I told you both, no noise!’ he growled, moving towards the door.

  His eyes widened, then he pitched backwards with an animal cry, narrowly missing the table and landing with a thump on the wooden floor. A sword stood out from his chest. A wild figure, hair giving off smoke, had come through the doorway in a rush.

  ‘Stella! Are you all right? Has he—’

  The figure shrieked at what he saw.

  The Maghdi Dasht dragged himself to his feet. One hand reached down and pulled out the sword. His mouth opened to emit a guttural cry of rage, and bright red blood gushed out, spattering the feet of the man who had struck him. The wounded magician slumped to his knees.

  A second wild-eyed man burst into the room. ‘Conal, have you found her?’ he said, out of breath.

  He, too, cried out when he saw what had been done to the woman.

  In his extremity the Lord of Fear reached deep within himself, searching, summoning, drawing—not enough power—and was forced to reach outwards. Two strong men should suffice. Healing; then the chalice and immortality.

  He drew from the first man, the one who had run him through with his blade. Shockingly, he encountered a deep well of raw magic. He immediately tried to withdraw, but the white presence in the man’s head leaped forward eagerly and seized him.

  And began to drink him dry.

  Whichever direction Robal looked, horrors presented themselves to his shocked mind. The priest moaned, the lorn cry of a man who sounded as though
he was in the throes of losing everything. Just beyond him the figure whom the priest had stabbed was…wasdrying out, skin flaking away, eyes popping, blood turning to a crimson powder. The transformation was accompanied by dreadful cracking sounds, like dry timber being broken over someone’s knee.

  And the worst sight of all…The guardsman’s heart was not large enough to encompass what had been done to her. He closed his eyes, retched and forced himself to look. Nothing he had ever done was as difficult as opening his eyes again.

  Her throat had been cut. Her wrists slashed. She hung from a butcher’s hook embedded in a roof beam. Blood still dripped from her wounds, pooling on the wooden floor. Her chest had stilled; she was not breathing. Her empty eyes stared at him without expression.

  Stella was dead.

  And at that moment, Most High forgive him, all he could think about was his own failure. His whole life lived under an illusion. His father and grandfather had stuffed his young head full of tales of what he might do for Faltha: golden summer stories of war and renown, of service and reward. None of them had involved leading the Falthan queen to her death.

  The golden summer had just ended. He would walk out of this cabin into a bleak winter.

  His eye alighted on the small table and the chalice resting upon it. Oh. Her blood. Drained and prepared, ready to drink. As though it is the key ingredient in some ritual. He took a step back, appalled. Her blood, is it magical? What does it confer on the one who drinks it? Something dark and selfish rose up in his breast with the realisation. Long life. The reason she appeared so young when she should be in the twilight of her years.

  Immortal.

  The chance opened to him like a reluctant flower. Something good could come of this tragedy after all. With her blood he could make things right, could devote lifetimes to ridding Faltha of the priests, could lead an army eastwards and defeat the Destroyer, could…I could make something of myself after all, Granda; you’d be proud of me.

  Whimpering sounds came from somewhere in the cabin. He ignored them.

  Visions boiled up in his head. Bold Robal Anders taking wound after wound in battle, slaying Lords of Fear with his two-handed blade. Robal the Wise, beloved counsellor, offering subtle correction to a grateful Council of Faltha. King Robal the Eternal at the head of a numberless army, calling defiance against Andratan. All possible—no, inevitable—if he were to take a sip. A life without limits.

  He stepped over the desiccated remains of the magician and drew close to the table. His hand hung by his side a moment, wavered, and then reached towards the chalice.

  ‘Don’t drink it, Robal,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Robal Anders’ spine turned to ice at the words; at his recognition of the voice that spoke them and the infinite weariness behind them. He did not want to, could not make himself, turn and face the speaker, so frightened was he at what he might see.

  Even at this moment his hand continued until it had grasped the chalice’s slim stem. But now the visions in his head were edged with blood, offering an eternity of dealing in death and darkness. Dark armies, darker dungeons. Robal Anders, the new Undying Man. A second Destroyer.

  He put the chalice down, careful not to spill a drop, then turned to face her.

  ‘I would not curse my worst enemy with such a fate,’ Stella said. She drew a shuddering breath. ‘And you are not my worst enemy.’

  She still hung from the beam, the meat hook buried in her back. Her feet dangled some distance above the floor. Her sallow face was new-lined with the marks of pain. The scar on her neck grew less visible even as he watched. A last drop of blood fell from her wrists, then they, too, began to heal.

  Directly below her feet the priest knelt, his forehead pressed to the floor in what looked like worship.

  ‘Robal,’ she said, licking her pale lips with an even paler tongue, ‘bring me the chalice.’

  Taking the chalice, cupping its bowl in his two hands, then reaching up and placing it against her cold lips, turned him inside out. Blatant confirmation that this woman whom he admired was uncanny, sustained by something intrinsically evil. Her courage, warmth and humanity, all the virtues that had earned his respect, were underlain by this darkness and pain. He watched the liquid disappear as she drank. He watched the expression of loathing on her face.

  He placed the empty chalice, now no more than a pretty object, on the table, then took her in his arms and lifted her away from the cruel barb.

  ‘I cannot stand,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘I will lay you down on the pallet here,’ he said.

  ‘No! Not there. Take me outside and let me lie in the sun.’ She gasped another breath.

  ‘You are hurt. You will catch a chill.’

  She tried to smile. ‘I have no secrets from you. I have survived a magician’s knife; do you not think I will survive an afternoon breeze?’

  He smiled at her courage and carried her outside, handling her as though she were made of crystal. He found a grassy place next to the path and laid her there. At once she closed her eyes; her features relaxed somewhat and her laboured breathing settled into a regular pattern.

  Robal collapsed onto the path and began to weep.

  Some time later Conal the priest rescued him from his spiralling thoughts. ‘Robal,’ the man said, tugging at his cloak. ‘Robal, what happened here?’ He groaned then, clutching at his left arm.

  The guardsman wiped his face with his hand and turned his gaze on the priest. ‘What do you mean? You know what happened. You saved Stella.’

  Conal’s pinched features remained puzzled. ‘Saved Stella?’ he echoed in his irritating fashion. ‘I didn’t. I remember…I don’t remember. Why does my arm hurt so much?’

  ‘Priest, this mummery is not worthy even of you. Yes, you slew the magician who tried to kill the queen. Showed the speed, strength and courage her guardsman lacked. What else do you want me to say?’

  ‘But, Robal, I don’t recall any of it. We were standing in the reeds, arguing about where the queen might have gone; then I found myself in a room, on my knees, and she was just hanging there.’ His voice broke on the last two words.

  ‘There is something we don’t yet see,’ Robal said, easing himself to his feet. ‘I don’t understand what happened to you; you say you don’t remember it, but you acted like a man possessed. For a moment I thought the Most High himself had taken command of your body. How else would you have been able to charge like a bull through the rushes, bash the brains out of a man who opposed you, and stab a powerful magician to death?’

  ‘I did all that?’

  ‘Someone did, but it certainly wasn’t you. Nor the Most High, not unless he is completely unlike what you priests tell us about him. You behaved more like Achtal the renegade Bhrudwan did in battle training.’ He realised that the priest might well have no idea who he was talking about. ‘Powerful, unstoppable, like a bear on a rampage. Does that sound like you?’

  ‘No. Robal, the man cut her up!’ Conal’s voice was pitched higher every time he spoke. ‘There was blood all over the floor. He was about to drink it! Is she going to be all right?’

  ‘Priest, I don’t know the answer to that question. I don’t have answers to any of this. But here are my best guesses. She stumbled on a magician, or she was drawn here by him, one or the other. I don’t know how he found out about her secret, but he knew she was immortal and sought to gain that prize for himself. And either you are a hero with special powers who saved her with great courage and skill, or you were used by something or someone who cares about the queen. Or has plans for her. Ah, I cannot figure it out. There are too many unknowns!’

  Conal’s eyes grew as big as saucers. ‘Immortal?’ he whispered. ‘When was she going to tell me about that?’

  The guardsman clapped a meaty hand to his forehead. Foolish runaway mouth. He didn’t know. Nor did I, really, until today, not for certain, anyway. But he would have reasoned it out, surely. Eventually.

  ‘The magicia
n was a Lord of Fear,’ said Stella, her weak voice barely audible. The two men turned, their attention instantly focused on her wellbeing. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you both about my…ah, good fortune. But I thought you must have known.’ She grimaced. ‘No, that is a lie; it won’t do. I tried to keep it secret from everyone, though I don’t really know how successful I was.’

  She levered herself up from the grass as she spoke, and rubbed at her left wrist with her right hand. Robal offered her an arm, but she waved him away.

  With a wan smile set on her face she told them everything that had happened to her since she had sent them into Vindicare. A thick rage gripped Robal as Stella explained how Ma had betrayed her. ‘What was the price?’ he growled. Stella suggested it might have been a misguided loyalty to the dead king. There will have been a price, the guardsman thought, but he kept his views to himself. He listened intently as she gave them the reasons for her belief that the corpse in the cabin was a Lord of Fear, a reduced but still potent remnant from the days when the Destroyer fled his ruin at Instruere. The priest asked questions incessantly, making it impossible for Robal to get any clear sense of what had happened. How many Lords of Fear accompanied the Destroyer back east after his defeat? How powerful were they?

  ‘How about you let your sovereign tell her story, son,’ he barked in his best barracks-room voice.

  For a wonder, Stella agreed with him. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to hear the story behind the Lords of Fear,’ she told the priest. His response was a wide grin, which in Robal’s view served to make him appear even more foolish than normal.

  ‘I’m coming with you, then,’ the priest said, and Robal could have grabbed him by the throat, such was the complacency in his voice and manner.