The Twilight Herald

by Tom Lloyd

  Zhia paused for a moment, on the point of speaking before she abruptly shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ She gave an almost wistful sigh. ‘You Raylin are a curious breed. Legana, you should come with us too. Panro, collect my personal belongings and meet me at the far side of the barricade.’

  King Emin coughed. ‘Lady, we cannot be encumbered by baggage; it will slow us down.’

  The vampire, a small smile on her face, said, ‘Your Majesty, they are only a few personal items, nothing that will get in your way.’ Her hand went to her neck and from underneath her cuirass she pulled three chains. She smiled, her long teeth shining bright. Each chain was strung with cut gems, a fortune in fat, glittering stones. ‘When you live as I have, you learn the value of travelling light, but there are certain little luxuries no lady in my condition should be without, and gems are good currency wherever one finds oneself. Now, shall we be off?’

  CHAPTER 27

  Isak kept his eyes on the ground to avoid the shattered bricks that littered the road as he ran to the street corner where Major Jachen and the ranger Jeil were crouching. Above them the end wall on the first floor of the building had been smashed through and he glanced up into the black tear in the wall. The building had been converted into a barracks for the Fysthrall soldiers, which must have pleased the rich folk living all around. This part of the city was still dark, for the moment protected from the conflagration they could see consuming south Scree.

  ‘How does it look?’ he asked softly.

  Jachen looked up. Only his eyes were visible through the helm, but they were enough to betray the man’s anxiety. ‘It looks quiet, my Lord. The scouts have not seen any mobs following the decoy troops.’

  ‘They’re there,’ Isak said with certainty. He shone in the darkness with an intensity that made him feel all the more vulnerable. The moons were high and bright, free from the cloud that hung in a wreath around the horizon, and casting their light down to catch the exposed armour of the Farlan soldiers. ‘They’re probably keeping clear of the Fysthrall soldiers and whatever mages they have left.’

  ‘The good news is that one of the scouts saw troops leaving the Red Palace compound for the Princess Gate, presumably to secure it for when they escape the city.’

  Isak nodded. ‘Pride; without Scree the Circle is finished. Siala won’t abandon the city until the last moment; she won’t want to leave unless she has to, and she certainly won’t want to walk out into the welcoming arms of the Devoted, or the Farlan. No doubt the news that we’d entered the city put a smile on the woman’s face.’

  ‘We’ve sent the decoy troops to the south side of the palace, close enough to dissuade Siala from trying to escape.’

  The advance troops consisted of a division of light cavalry led by Suzerain Torl. The clattering of hooves on cobbles was sure to attract attention from the mobs, which was the intention, and Isak was confident the soldiers would be able to ride through all but the most crowded streets.

  He looked back at the troops behind him. Those who’d been with him from the beginning in Scree had been bolstered by a regiment of Ghosts and the suzerains from Saroc, Nelbove and Fordan, the first to beg to accompany him. The others had quickly followed, but he’d refused them, allowing those three only after Tila had whispered in his ear that they were men desperate to prove their loyalty. For the first time in what felt like a long time, Isak had laughed out loud. Here and now, these men still played their games, thinking about allegiance, respect, even dynasty. Only the look on Suzerain Fordan’s face had stopped his laughter: the man was willing to risk his life just to show he was as true as his father had been -though there had been no breath of suspicion otherwise, still Fordan felt compelled to do this before he could walk proudly in his belligerent father’s shoes.

  ‘How far to the palace?’ he asked.

  ‘Five hundred yards, my Lord,’ Jeil said softly. ‘I counted ten guards on the nearest stretch of wall; the rest moved off when they saw the Ghosts to the south. There are no foot patrols beyond the wall.’

  ‘Good.’ He beckoned and a handful of figures started to converge upon him. ‘I’m taking Leshi, Tiniq, Shinir and Vesna; that’s all. Jachen, watch our backs, and get ready to wade in if we get into trouble.’

  ‘Only five of you?’

  ‘It has to be quiet. I don’t know how many Fysthrall are still in the palace, but probably more than we can handle. Vesna, are you ready?’

  The count gave a curt nod. He looked strange in full armour, especially when on foot and standing next to the more lightly armoured rangers. He had the face-plate of his helm up, the lion mask staring up into the sky. His face was tight, fixed in an expression of concentration, as though he could will his doubts away.

  ‘Let’s seek our revenge,’ Isak said softly.

  They kept to the shadows as best they could, but they were still painfully obvious on Scree’s dead streets. The silence was disturbing. A city without people was a body without a beating heart. The stench of corruption filled the air. Soon the conflagration in the south would burn everything away, leaving only ash in its wake.

  When the wall was almost upon them, Isak pulled off his silver helm and edged his head around the corner of the building, his blue hood blending into the shadows.

  What if they did see it? Isak wondered privately. In this place the Gods have abandoned, would they be glad to see the face of Nartis?

  There were half a dozen torches burning on the wall, just enough to illuminate the oil-coloured scale pattern of Fysthrall helms, and the white scarves around the soldiers’ necks. Every one was shifting uncomfortably or pacing the wall. The ground before the wall was a stretch of formal gardens, with lines of low bushes that might act as shallow trenches for the attack party. Dotted around the gardens were several dozen crumpled shapes. After a few moments Isak could see there were arrows sticking up from some of the bodies.

  ‘Now we need a diversion,’ he whispered, ‘something to get us close enough to kill them all quickly.’

  ‘And your plan?’ Vesna asked.

  Isak could hear a strain of hope in the man’s voice. ‘Worried that I might be making it up as I go along, my devoted bondsman? ’

  ‘I’m not your bondsman any more,’ the count reminded him, ‘but I remain a loyal servant of the tribe, so obviously I’m eager to find out what you want me to do.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Isak smiled. ‘Now I need to find some bats.’

  ‘Bats?’ Vesna and Jachen spluttered together.

  ‘Bats. Night’s heralds, Death’s winged attendants. Look at the men on the wall; they’re all shuffling about, or pacing, or twitching: no one’s standing still. That tells me they’re nervous. I think we should borrow the majesty of the Gods as we’re going to punish a heretic; there’s symbolism and everything there.’

  Isak grinned at the count, who shook his head wearily. ‘You’re an example to us all, my Lord,’ Vesna said darkly.

  Isak reached over and patted the man on the slight peak of his helm. ‘That’s what I thought. Now shut up and let me concentrate.’

  He pulled off one of his gauntlets and closed his eyes as he ran his fingertips over the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. It was unusually warm to the touch, as ever, but now the Skull felt as slippery and elusive as a wet icicle. His fingers slid almost without resistance over its surface as he reached out with his senses to the Land beyond. The air was thick and heavy in his throat; he could almost taste the putrefying wounds of the dying city. Scree was expiring, almost on its last breath. He felt the empty streets all around him, the stony dust of its broken bones and the hot stink of its bloating flesh.

  In his mind Isak kicked away from the ground and surged up into the cooling night sky, letting the oppressive street-level air drop away like a shed skin. He sensed the reviving kiss of the wind high above and felt a gasp of pleasure escape his body as the gusts lovingly wrapped him in their chill arms. The cold bright moons prickled his skin and drove the remaining vestiges of Scree�
�s choking oppression from his body, purging the poison from his veins.

  Isak sighed. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed using magic, feeling the energies thrumming through his bones, but he’d had no choice -with the vast power available through his two Skulls, one small lapse of concentration would have announced his presence to the rest of the city. He couldn’t risk it before, but now . . . now it was like returning to the embrace of a lover.

  The witch said to accept what was inside me, he thought with a smile, so why should that not include magic? It’s been with me my whole life, shaped me from womb to throne. Either I embrace it and keep control over it, or I risk letting it control me.

  He cast his mind back to the battlefield outside Lomin, that winter landscape feeling an age away during this brutal summer heat, and he recalled that scary moment when he literally lost himself in the rampant tides of magic flowing through his body. I refuse to let that happen again, he told himself sternly.

  Soothed by the bright night sky, with only the moons for company, he found a moment of contentment -and then, at last, Isak could feel the distant presence of Nartis once more, beyond the western horizon, watching between one moment and the next as the Land continued unaware of the scrutiny. It was nothing like the raging torrent Isak had felt upon Bahl’s death -when the looming storm had rushed in to crash over his fragile body and raise him up to where the Gods stood -but something altogether more gentle and comforting. Isak’s connection to his God was a delicate thing, too weak to be noticed, until times such as this.

  If the God of Storms took note of such a small thing, he did nothing about it. Isak sensed a vigil of sorts, one centred on the black pit of Scree beneath him. Below he felt his body almost swallowed in the darkness. The weight of the city beneath him was a black stain on the Land; a hole through which the normal order was draining away.

  He reached his arms out wide, towards the distant clouds that had been kept at bay for too long. Isak gasped at the vastness of it all, for a moment terribly afraid of the thin shadow of his own soul, spread out over so many miles as the clouds started massing, closing a jealous embrace on the city.

  And then here they were: flickering wings and sharp clicks in the darkness, shapes that darted and dodged after insects, flying in long, graceful spirals, drawn ever closer to his light.

  He hadn’t known what would happen once he was here, but he trusted the witch of Llehden. He remembered when first they met, when the gentry of Llehden had welcomed him as a brother -these creatures that cared nothing for the squabbles of man had recognised in Isak something he didn’t quite understand himself. He was no prophesied Saviour -Isak needed no further proof of that, whatever any fool prophecy foretold -but the wilds had always been where he was welcome, and the mark of the Gods had deepened that connection; now he felt bound, and now he had to learn to understand.

  The bats eagerly clustered around him, their sharp hunter minds curious at what they could sense in the air, though they couldn’t trace an outline of him against the clouds. They followed him down, spiralling towards Scree and the street where Isak’s body still crouched, before jinking away at the last moment towards the walls of the Red Palace. He opened his eyes just in time to see the swirling cloud of shadows descend upon the terrified soldiers, a darting funnel whipping around them as they ducked down fearfully.

  Isak took a few steps forward, out into the moonlight where his armour shone brightly, and slid his helm over his head. No warning voices came from the wall; the Fysthrall guards were too intent on hiding from the column of bats that was spinning tighter and tighter. Isak felt magic billow through the night air, blossoming on the wall like flames bursting into being. He slid the shield from his back and onto his arm, anticipating an attack, before realising it was coming from the bats themselves.

  ‘What have you done?’ moaned the usually reticent Tiniq.

  Isak tore his eyes away from the bats for a moment; General Lahk’s twin looked like he was about to be sick. He felt a shudder echo through the air from the wall and looked back to see the bats had vanished, to be replaced by a tall figure holding aloft a tall silver standard topped by a stylised sculpted shape.

  ‘What is that?’ Vesna asked grimly, loosening his sword. ‘Have you woken another elemental?’ His tone wasn’t accusatory, just determined.

  ‘Piss and blood,’ Tiniq replied, dazed, ‘look at the standard.’

  They all did so, then Vesna hissed with trepidation, ‘Merciful Death, Isak, it’s the Gatekeeper.’

  ‘Gatekeeper?’ Isak said. He thought he recognised the standard from somewhere - a circle open on one side with a fist pushed in -but the memory was old, indistinct. Suddenly his heart chilled. ‘The Herald of Death?’ he gasped.

  ‘It must be,’ Vesna said, though he sounded scarcely able to believe what he was saying. ‘The Herald takes the dead through his hallway, “where only bats and Gods may linger”, and on to Death’s final judgment. He holds the keys to the throne room of Death.’

  ‘And he’s here to help us,’ Isak finished. ‘Perhaps the Gods have not entirely abandoned this city.’ He pointed to the soldiers on the wall. Those that hadn’t fled were silent, staring in horror at the motionless figure, completely oblivious to what might be happening in the streets of the city.

  ‘My Lord, you don’t understand!’ Vesna sounded aghast. ‘The Herald of Death does not leave his halls, he does not appear before the living. He isn’t a Bringer of the Slain, he’s not one of the Reapers -he should not be here!’

  ‘Well he is,’ Isak snapped firmly, ‘and whatever portent you intend to read into his presence, it helps our cause. This is a city of the dead and we hunt a necromancer, so I think the rules are changed. Now move yourselves!’

  Not waiting for the other four, Isak broke into a run towards the wall. There was a deeply set postern gate to the right but he ignored that, instead heading directly for the nearest part of the wall. From the corner of his eye Isak could see the others making for the gate, Shinir first, ready to scramble up and over to unbar it from the inside, as planned. It was Isak’s task to leap straight onto the wall and kill the guards before they could raise the alarm.

  He let energy flood his body, infusing his limbs with a burst of new strength. The wall was ten feet of fat grey bricks, but he vaulted up onto the walkway effortlessly. The nearest guard turned at the sound of metal on stone and died before his eyes could focus on the massive white-eye. A second died in the next heartbeat, still staring at the black skin and crimson robes of the Herald of Death. Only the fourth managed to raise a weapon in his defence and Eolis sheared through the spear-shaft and into the heart with ease.

  Isak caught a glimpse of the Herald as two more Fysthrall, shaken out of their trance, ran down the walkway towards him with spears lowered. The Aspect of Death was taller than he, and had perfectly black skin. There were no eyes nor mouth, only slight indentations in an androgynous face. The smooth curve of its skull was broken only by its ears -and at that, Isak’s memory stirred: the Herald could not see the dead and had no words for them, though Death himself saw all in those halls, and His words were as tangible as the pale grey stone walls.

  Isak dragged his mind back to the present in time to deflect the two Fysthrall soldiers, turning into one spear with his shield while felling the other with his sword. The rusty-skinned soldier didn’t check his stride in time and Eolis flicked out to pierce his chest. The other tried to pull back, but Isak was faster. He drove his sword across the man’s throat. Both fell silently.

  He looked towards the postern; the two corpses above it told him Shinir was already at the gate. That moment of distraction almost cost him dearly as a blow to his shoulder spun him around and almost knocked him off his feet. Looking past the motionless Herald, Isak saw a soldier desperately trying to reload his crossbow, and another spearman on the wall, looking bewildered and terrified. Isak, realising he couldn’t risk being hit by another bolt, flung Eolis overhand twenty yards. The swor
d buried itself into the crossbowman’s chest, as easily as a knife sliding into butter.

  Seeing Isak unarmed, the spearman found his courage and rushed forward wildly. Isak didn’t bother drawing the dagger at his belt. Balling his hand, he drew a fistful of warm night air and punched it forwards. The soldier was two yards away when the blow hit him and rocked him back on his heels. He stopped dead, confused by what had happened, and took a moment to look down and check for injuries. The Fysthrall was still bewildered when Isak smashed his shield into his head and dropped him for good.

  A hush descended, cut only by a low string of curses from Isak. The line of wall was broken by fat square towers; Jeil had described them on the way, and he had been sure there that there would be no one in them -a major design fault meant the arrow-slit windows had no real views of the approaching streets. As a result, each section of the wall was isolated. They had gained the wall furthest from the main part of the palace and, thus far, they hadn’t been seen.

  The Herald hadn’t moved. It stood and stared straight at Isak, its lack of eyes apparently no hindrance to knowing exactly where he was. Something about its stance spoke of a readiness, of impending movement. Isak suddenly began to feel vulnerable without his sword, but Eolis lay behind the nightmarish Aspect of Death, catching the moonlight as it stood out from the soldier’s impaled chest like a parody of the Herald’s standard.

  He fought the urge to step back. The minor deity had helped them in some small way, but he had this strange feeling that the Herald was on the point of attacking him. In that expressionless face Isak sensed rage, a boiling anger that was hardly contained.

  ‘You see me,’ whispered a voice in Isak’s mind. ‘You can smell your prey, but still I am beyond your grip.’ He gave a slight start -then realised it was not the Herald, but Aryn Bwr, the spirit of the dead Elf king he held prisoner in his mind, on the threshold of Death’s domain. Suddenly it all made sense.