by Anthony Ryan
And perhaps the last, Frentis mused. There may be nothing left when the queen gets done. The thought stirred memories of the grey-clad girl and her mother and he shifted his gaze to the beach in search of a distraction. Draker and Illian’s people were already ashore and in the process of splitting up to make for the bluffs. The Politai were fast approaching the beach, Weaver’s curly-haired form visible in the lead boat. Bring the healer …
“This smells wrong,” Ivelda said, scanning the poppy fields with a suspicious squint. “Not even a scout to greet us. Where are they?”
Frentis watched as Volar’s sprawling suburbs were revealed by the burgeoning sun. No walls to fight our way over, but a house can be made a fortress easily enough. “I suspect we’ll have an answer within the hour.”
They found the first body two miles on from the bay, a boy of about fifteen lying amidst the flowers, grey-clad and barely two hours gone by Frentis’s reckoning. He had been killed with a single thrust to the back, probably from horseback judging by the angle.
“Three more here,” Ivelda said from nearby. “Man, woman and child. Someone killed a family.”
They kept on towards the suburbs in a tight formation, Garisai skirmishing in front, Draker’s company on the right and Illian’s on the left. Karavek’s people followed in a dense mass with the Politai acting as rear-guard. Frentis set a punishing pace; moving across open ground with no cavalry to secure the flanks instilled a keen sense of vulnerability. More bodies were discovered on the march, grey-clads and a few slaves with the occasional black-clad. Most had wounds to the back, indicating they had been cut down whilst running. Frentis counted over a hundred by the time they reached the first houses whereupon he stopped counting.
What is she doing?
They lay in every doorway, every street corner, the gutters running red as evidence of the freshness of the slaughter. There was no sign of torture on the bodies, few with more than two wounds, most with one. This had been an efficient massacre, performed without regard to age, sex or station. Children lay alongside the elderly, slaves were entwined with overseers. Black, grey and enslaved all united in death.
“The queen?” Draker asked Frentis, skin pale beneath his beard. “I know she wanted justice, but this…”
“This was not the queen,” Frentis told him. “The Empress has set her Arisai to work.”
“Those red bastards? Thought we killed them all.”
Nine thousand more … He sighed at his own stupidity. They must have all been given the same lie to tell if captured.
“Varitai and Free Swords are one thing, brother,” Karavek said. “Even Kuritai. But my people can’t stand against the red men…”
“Then go back to the beach and beg Lord Ell-Nurin to take you home.” Frentis turned back to Draker. “Choose your fastest runner, send them to the Notch with a request the Fleet Lord come ashore with every sailor who can hold a blade.” He turned to view the death-choked streets ahead. “He’ll find us at the arena.”
They were drawn by the screams, a shrill chorus of terror and pain echoing across the bloodied streets. Frentis led the Garisai towards it, ordering Illian and Draker to work their way around on both flanks and sending the archers onto the rooftops. A hundred paces on the streets opened out into a square, displaying typical Volarian orderliness with its neatly arranged lawns, spotted with statuary and bisected with stone pathways, and, in the centre, a dense crowd of Volarians being systematically slaughtered by some two hundred Arisai. The people had been hemmed in on all sides, clustering together in instinctive terror as the red men methodically hacked their way through the throng, visibly shrinking by the second amidst a growing circle of corpses.
“I don’t expect you to fight for them,” Frentis told Lekran, raising his sword to the archers on the rooftops.
“I fight with you, Redbrother,” the tribesman told him, briefly twirling his axe. “Until this is done. You know that.”
Frentis nodded and lowered his sword. The archers unleashed their volley, the arrows streaking forth to claim at least a dozen Arisai as he sprinted forward, the Garisai following with a collective shout. Until this is done. For good or ill, it’ll be done today.
The Arisai rebounded from Sister Merial’s outstretched hand to collide with a wall, tendrils of grey smoke rising from the blackened handprint burned into his breastplate as he sank to the ground, all sign of life vanished from his frozen features. The sister turned to Frentis with a tired grin and flexed her fingers. “Handy in a tight spot, aren’t I, brother?”
“Down!” He grabbed her shoulder and forced her aside as an Arisai charged from a shadowed doorway, short sword outstretched and a joyful smile on his lips. Frentis turned the blade with his own and spun, bringing the sword around to slash across the Arisai’s eyes, finishing him with a thrust to the throat as he staggered, laughing in gleeful surprise.
Frentis paused to drag air into his lungs, surveying the street, littered with corpses from end to end. He spotted Ivelda among them, lying dead atop the Arisai she had killed, her dagger still embedded in his neck. They had fought from street to street for close to an hour now, forcing the Arisai to leave off their slaughter and face them. The fighting descended into chaos the farther in they went, as the streets grew more narrow and the Arisai revealed a fiendish talent for ambush. They would attack alone or in pairs, launching themselves without warning from alleys, doorways and windows to assault his fighters in a frenzy of delighted carnage before being brought down by weight of numbers or a well-placed arrow from one of the archers above. They had learned their lessons well in New Kethia, their advance made possible by the archers, who continued to leap from rooftop to rooftop, killing any Arisai seen in the streets below.
Frentis spied Lekran with half a dozen Garisai at the north end of the street and ran to his side, Merial following with an unsteady gait. He had seen her kill three Arisai already and knew she was risking collapse with every use of her gift.
“The last of the cowards from New Kethia pissed themselves and ran,” Lekran reported with a grimace of disgust. “I will kill Karavek with my own hands.”
“You’d have a difficult task,” Merial groaned, leaning against a doorway, ashen features sagging. “I saw him die two streets back.”
Frentis’s gaze rose at the sound of someone calling his name, finding Illian’s slim silhouette standing atop a two-storey building twenty yards away, waving her crossbow above her head. “Weaver!” she called down to him as he ran closer, indicating a point where the dense streets opened into what appeared to be a market square. “And Master Rensial!”
Frentis gestured for the Garisai to follow and sprinted for the square, finding it in shambles, carts and trestles overturned amidst the slumped forms of murdered slaves and free folk. At the north end of the square some fifty Politai were formed into a dense wedge, moving steadily forward against a seething wall of Arisai perhaps twice their number. The Politai moved with all the precision born of their years of ingrained discipline, their broad-bladed spears jutting out like the spines of a porcupine as they edged forward, Weaver’s blond head visible in their centre. Curiously the Arisai seemed to have lost much of their maddening humour when confronted with the former slave soldiers. Frentis saw naked fury on many faces as they launched themselves at the well-ordered ranks, most dying on the unyielding hedge of spears but some managing to hack their way into the formation, claiming one or two Politai in the process.
At first Frentis was puzzled by the determined nature of the Politai’s advance; there appeared to be no one left in this square to save, then he saw him, a lone rider amidst the Arisai, wheeling his mount with matchless grace, sword moving in elegant arcs as the red men fell around him. But he was just one, and they were many.
Frentis forgot all caution and hurled himself into the Arisai, sword gripped in two hands as he hacked his way through, whirling and killing as the Garisai charged in his wake. He dimly heard a shout from the Politai, not in exultation, for
such emotions still seemed to be beyond them, more an acknowledgment of an order. Their formation doubled its pace as the Arisai’s ranks thinned about them, forcing their way closer to the lone rider.
Frentis ducked under the sweep of a sword and drove his blade through the breastplate of the Arisai who held it. The man refused to die however, latching onto his sword arm and holding Frentis in place, red teeth bared in a broad, affectionate smile. “Hello, Father,” he rasped, hands like a vise on Frentis’s arm.
One of his compatriots lunged forward, sword levelled at Frentis’s neck, then drawing up short as something streaked down to skewer him through the forehead. For a second his eyes rolled up to regard the crossbow bolt as he stood, drooling, before Lekran’s axe cut his legs away. The tribesman spun, the axe sweeping up to sever the arm of the Arisai still latched onto Frentis. He tore his sword arm free of the Arisai’s remaining hand as Lekran’s axe came down to finish him, turning to see Illian standing on a nearby rooftop. He raised a hand to acknowledge her assistance but her attention was elsewhere, a bolt clamped between her teeth as she sprinted and leapt to the next rooftop, gaze fixed on the lone rider up ahead. Master Rensial!
Arrows fell with increasing rapidity as he fought his way through, Lekran at his side and the Garisai behind, more and more archers appearing on the surrounding rooftops. The Arisai’s ranks thinned ahead of Frentis as he saw three fall to the archers in quick succession, charging clear of the struggle and making for Master Rensial, a shout of fury and frustration escaping his throat as he saw an Arisai dart forward to plunge his sword into the flank of the master’s horse. It reared, mouth gaping as it screamed and collapsed, legs thrashing. The surrounding Arisai closed in, swords raised and laughing. The Politai’s formation issued another shout and broke into a charge, pushing aside the remaining Arisai and sweeping towards the cluster surrounding the fallen rider. Frentis lost sight of the horse as the Politai struck home, cutting down the Arisai then forming a defensive ring with their typical, unconscious swiftness. He forced his way through, drawing up short at the sight of the still-twitching horse, noticing for the first time that it was a fine grey stallion. He could only wonder where the master had found it. He leapt the dying animal, issuing an explosive sigh of relief at the sight of Master Rensial pinned beneath it, frowning in annoyance as he attempted to tug his sword from the body of an Arisai lying dead at his side.
“We need to find another stable,” he told Frentis, grunting as the blade slid free of the corpse.
“Of course, Master.” He knelt and put his shoulder to the horse’s body, heaving until the master was able to draw his leg clear. From the twisted, mangled state of the limb he could see Rensial would not be riding, or walking again for some time.
“Redbrother!”
Frentis rose at Lekran’s shout, finding they were surrounded on all sides by Arisai now, more having materialised out of the surrounding houses, every one of them seemingly staring at him with a mixture of fascination and delight. Arrows continued to fall from the rooftops but they seemed not to care, barely glancing as their brothers fell beside them. Drawn to me, he decided, seeing something more in the collective gaze. Madness. She has set them loose, and they all hunger for the joy of killing their father.
“This can end here!” he called to them, moving to stand with the encircling Politai. “She has freed you, I see it. Now free yourselves. Let go your madness.”
They laughed at him, of course. Great hearty peals of mirth sweeping through their ranks, some still laughing as the arrows took them.
“As you wish,” Frentis sighed, raising his sword. “Come, receive your cure!”
A new sound cut through the continued babble of their laughter, a faint, rumble echoing from the surrounding streets, soon rising to a roar, the roar of many angry men.
The Meldeneans came streaming from every street and alleyway, sabres flashing as they tore into the red-armoured throng. The Arisai fought, as they were made to, killing with happy abandon, but for all their skill and ferocity they had no counter to the tide of pirates that swept over them, islands of red soon swamped and drowned in a scant few moments. The Meldeneans shouted their victory to the sky, sabres raised and heads thrown back in feral triumph.
“Took them long enough,” Lekran muttered as the carnage subsided.
Frentis turned to find Weaver standing over Master Rensial, head cocked as he cast a critical eye over his leg. “Can you help him?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, brother.” The healer shook his head with a grimace, then raised his gaze to a massive curved structure rising above the rooftops to the west. “I have a sense I will soon need all my strength.”
He left Master Rensial in the care of the Meldeneans, most of whom seemed content to stay and loot the many vacant houses, proving deaf to entreaties to join the advance on the arena. Frentis could find no sign of Fleet Lord Ell-Nurin, or any other Meldenean of appreciable rank beyond that of second mate, so was obliged to leave them to their rewards and move on. They found Thirty-Four stitching a cut on Draker’s arm a few streets on, the dozen surviving members of the newly appointed captain’s company clustered around them amidst the bodies of some thirty Arisai.
“Can’t you get through one battle without a wound?” Illian asked Draker, her caustic tone leavened somewhat by the affectionate hand she ran through his shaggy hair.
“I do like my souvenirs,” he replied, teeth gritted as Thirty-Four tied off the thread. He raised an apologetic gaze to Frentis and nodded at something lying nearby. “Sorry, brother.”
Slasher lay on his side with Blacktooth whining as she nuzzled his head. A short sword was buried in his chest and an Arisai slumped dead against a nearby wall, his face a ruin of chewed gore.
“We can’t linger,” Frentis said, tearing his gaze away to survey the drained, pale faces of all present. There were perhaps a third of the number that had followed him from New Kethia. So many lost saving those that enslaved them, he wondered, fighting down the mingled grief and admiration that threatened to moisten his eyes.
“Captain,” he said to Draker, “form your people up as a rear-guard. Sister, take the archers and scout the approach to the arena.”
“Surely there can’t be any left after this,” Sister Merial said. Her pallor was slightly improved, though the red smudges around her eyes and nose spoke of an attempt to conceal her exhaustion.
“We thought the same back in Eskethia,” he told her. “Stay by me and do not use your gift again except in direst need.”
The dense maze of streets soon gave way to broad avenues and parks, also littered with corpses. They were mostly black-clad here, plus a few slaves cut down at they tended the grass or polished the bronze statues. Of the Arisai, however, there was no sign. A hundred yards ahead the streets fell away completely to reveal the arena, every fighter and Politai come to a halt at the sight of it, the gently curving, red-gold tiers made vivid in the sun. They could hear a great tumult from within, thousands of voices raised in adulation, no doubt of some dreadful spectacle orchestrated by their Empress. Baying like sheep as their city dies around them, Frentis thought, unable to suppress the bitter notion that these people were not worth the blood spilled on their account.
“No guards,” Illian reported. “As far as we can tell it’s completely undefended.”
Frentis looked at Weaver, for the first time seeing a troubled wrinkle to his brow as he regarded the arena, even a twitch of fear to his lips. Bring the healer … “You don’t have to,” Frentis told him. “Remain here with the Politai. I’ll send word when it’s safe.”
Weaver’s brow smoothed as he turned to him, banishing the fear with a faint smile. “I do not believe there is any safe place today, brother.”
Frentis nodded, stepping forward and turning to address them all, finding his voice hoarse and having to force the words out. “You have all done more than I could ever ask. Wait here, Weaver and I will proceed alone.”
There was no response,
nor any change in expression as they all, as one, took a step forward.
“I do not know what awaits us in there,” he told them, hearing the note of desperation in his voice. “But I know many of us will not survive it…”
“Wasting time, brother,” Draker said. Beside him Illian hefted her crossbow, meeting his gaze with expectant eyes.
He turned back to the arena as another roar sounded from inside, from the volume and length it seemed the Empress’s spectacle had reached some form of climax. “Our objective is to secure Lady Reva and kill the Empress!” he said, raising his sword and starting forward at a run. “Show her no mercy, for she has none for you!”
CHAPTER TEN
Vaelin
Stars. He blinked, trying to clear what he knew must be an illusion, but they were still there, shimmering and bright. And there were so many, more than he could ever count. Some were brighter than others, so bright it seemed they eclipsed those around them. A few were dark, shimmering between red and black. They were all moving like tiny miniature ants on a vast dark blanket of green and blue. Not stars, he realised. People.
“Vaelin.” She was there, floating nearby in the night sky, for he saw now that they were flying far above the earth. He could only stare at her, words choking in his throat, grief and gratitude combining to make him shudder. She smiled and drifted closer, hands reaching for his. “I wanted to show you,” she said. “I wanted you to see what I see.”
“I…” He stammered, clutching her hands. “I should never have…”
She moved into his arms, her warmth wondrous, banishing his guilt. “All choices were mine to make.” She pressed her forehead to his, then drew back, turning and gesturing to the star-speckled earth below them. “Look,” she said, “the world as it was, about to change forever.”
He held her hand as they drifted closer to the earth, approaching a landmass with a coastline he recognised as that of the Unified Realm. They paused above a dense cluster of stars in the centre of what would one day be known as the Fallen City, the stars resolving into shimmering forms of people as they flew lower. Two figures stood at the centre of the cluster, next to something so dark it seemed to swallow all light, Vaelin taking a moment to recognise its foreshortened shape. The Black Stone.