by R. S. Ford
He had seen enough now. Josten was hungry and thirsty and needed some sleep before the next wave of Shengens came knocking. He stood, leaving Aykan Cem to stammer his false regrets to his men before fleeing like someone had set his arse on fire. Harlaw and Vallion were more than capable of concocting the next battle plan. Not that they had many options beyond standing and fighting until everyone here was dead.
As Josten made his way to the main courtyard he could see two men arguing over a piece of dried beef. It was obvious there wasn’t enough food to go around for the militia, let alone a prisoner brought all the way from the Suderfeld to die. His stomach was rumbling and he started to wonder whether it was worth joining in the fight for scraps when he spotted the boy Ctenka sitting with those two children.
Ctenka was genuinely caring for the pair of waifs and had managed to find them food from somewhere. He certainly made a better nursemaid than a fighter, that was for sure.
The rest of the men gave those children a wide berth, but that was only to be expected. They had conjured enough magic to decimate an entire unit of legionaries. Two little children. The fact they were dangerous was plain for all to see, but Josten didn’t share their apprehension. He had seen magic manifested as pure evil. He had faced the witch Innellan and lived, so he was hardly going to be frightened of two little children.
He walked to where Ctenka was trying to get the girl to eat some rancid-looking jerky, and sat down with them.
‘Keeping our secret weapons well fed?’ he said.
Ctenka looked up at him, not seeing the funny side. ‘They’re not weapons. They’re children. Or can’t you see that?’
‘I saw them slaughter about fifty men with a gesture. They looked like weapons to me.’ Ctenka ignored him. ‘You know when this is over you won’t be able to keep them.’ Josten remembered how Livia had been relentlessly pursued across three nations. He knew full well these children would be coveted for their power much the same.
‘They’re not mine to keep,’ Ctenka replied. ‘But someone will have to take care of them.’
‘So you’re just going to take them back to where you found them?’
‘I—’ Ctenka clearly hadn’t thought it through.
‘Best thing you can do when this is all over, is take them far away from here. Far from anyone who knows what they can do. It’s the only chance they’ve got for a life.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said Ctenka.
‘Let’s say I’ve seen this kind of thing before. And it won’t end well for anyone if people know what they’re capable of. If you want to keep them safe, keep them hidden.’
‘Why do you care?’ Ctenka asked.
Josten remembered a conversation he’d had not too long ago with a lad called Lonik the Fidget. He’d tried his best to help that boy. To keep him alive. He remembered how that had turned out.
‘I don’t.’
Ctenka shook his head. ‘Even I can see through that lie. You care more than you’re willing to say. You saved me out there. Stood by me, ready to die. That’s not a man who doesn’t care.’
‘Maybe I’m just not choosy about where I die… or who with,’ was all Josten could think to say.
He stood, the conversation leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
Aykan Cem was mounting his horse, spewing platitudes to the men he was leaving behind. Assuring them that he would return swiftly at the head of an army. Josten couldn’t help but grin at the prig as he rode off. He doubted he would ever see Aykan Cem again.
As he watched the man ride away, his horse galloped past a figure approaching down the Skull Road. Perhaps a deserter who had changed their mind about running away, returning to die by the sword rather than be taken by the desert. Perhaps a lone traveller lost on the road. Well, they’d be in for a surprise if they thought they’d gain any succour here.
Before long he could discern it was a woman. A few moments more and he realised it was a woman he recognised. But it couldn’t be. She had been killed at Kessel. Slaughtered in a battle between fanatics, or so Josten had assumed.
Silver walked into the fortress of Dunrun and the courtyard went silent.
‘Fuck me, what’s this?’ said one of the militia.
‘What’s a woman doing here?’ said another.
Josten walked forward, standing in front of her. She glanced back at him, as though not recognising the man she had travelled through the desert with not more than a year ago.
‘Silver?’ he said.
She frowned at him, as though searching her memory for any sign of familiarity.
‘I know you,’ she said. ‘Yes, I remember you.’
‘It’s Josten,’ he said. ‘Josten Cade. We travelled through the Ramadi together. We fought together at—’
‘Yes,’ she said. Then walked past him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked as she walked away.
Before she could answer, the two children Ctenka had been looking after appeared at Silver’s side. She looked down at them as they stared up adoringly.
‘We knew you would come,’ said the little girl.
Silver knelt down beside them. ‘Sweet child,’ she said, running a weathered hand across the girl’s head. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘None of us should,’ said Ctenka, rushing over. ‘Come away, children.’
They both ignored him, continuing to stare at Silver. ‘Will you stop him?’ the girl asked.
Silver nodded. ‘That is why I have come,’ she replied.
‘Stop who?’ asked Josten. ‘What are you doing here?’
Again she ignored him, rising to her feet and making her way through the fort. He followed her beneath the Hangman’s Gate, the two children running after her like she was leading them by an invisible rope.
As they made their way through to the next courtyard every eye turned towards them. Josten had to admit they struck an odd group, a woman fresh from the desert followed by two children. This was a fortress besieged. It was no place for any of them. But then, Josten had seen what Silver could do. Had seen what these children were capable of. They had more right to be here than anyone.
When she reached the Chapel Gate, Vallion and Ermund were discussing tactics. They had put the remaining militia to task shoring up the wood-and-iron gate. It already looked sturdier than the last one. Only time would tell how long it kept the enemy out.
Silver stopped before the gate, as though waiting for someone to knock.
Vallion and Ermund stopped their conversation, noticing Silver standing there, the two children waiting behind, watching her every move.
Ermund looked at Josten with a quizzical expression. ‘Who is this?’
‘This is Silver,’ Josten said. ‘She’s…’
‘I am here to kill your enemy and send him back to where he crawled from,’ Silver said, still staring at that gate.
Vallion walked forward, sizing Silver up. ‘You are here to kill the Iron Tusk?’ he asked.
She turned to look at him, and Josten was surprised to see this implacable warrior unable to hold her gaze.
‘Whatever you choose to call him,’ she said gently, ‘I am here to stop him, before he can do any more damage to this place.’
There was silence, until Josten could stand it no more.
‘Well I for one am glad of the help,’ he said to her. ‘You’re very welcome to stay and die with the rest of us.’
No one seemed to want to argue with that. Least of all Silver.
SIFF
SHE opened her eyes to watch the world burn. Fire consumed a sea of corpses. A funeral pyre of thousands, flames licking the heavens. A dead world slaughtered in sacrifice to the gods.
Temples towered above the dead, erected in tribute to her rule. Factories churned with activity, cogs perpetually spinning, bellows pumping, chimneys coughing out poison. The sky was black with the ashes of the dead. There was no more life in this place. No relief. She had seen it laid low and now, in her victory, she
had a carrion realm to rule over.
This was what Siff’s triumph had cost, but it was the only price that could be paid. She had defeated every enemy. The Archons were dead and there were no lands left to conquer, in this plane or the next.
She looked down from her tower and wept.
Her tears splashed to the ground, running in rivulets, coalescing into streams that poured in rivers to quell the fires that consumed the world. But it was too late. Too late for this place or any other.
Too late.
* * *
She screamed, body convulsing, tortured, wracked with pain.
It was a familiar agony. A body burned. Useless.
Only this time she was not alone in the desert. This time she was surrounded by life.
No, not by life. By life-givers.
Siff opened her eyes to the night. A sea of stars spread across the sky. She could make out every one pinpointed in the blackness, swirling in concentric patterns, forming sigils and glyphs, verses and stanzas… symphonies in the night.
Surrounding her, mortals kneeling in the dark. They mumbled ancient tenets and credos. Prayers she had not heard for a century, but they were familiar to her ears. They filled her with a strange sensation, as though a restorative light were glowing in the pit of her stomach. Healing her. Bringing her back from the brink.
Even when she stood from the makeshift altar they continued to pray. Her legs were weak, unsteady, but as she stumbled she could feel the muscle and sinew knitting back together. Her flesh blossoming with life, sloughing off the burned flakes of dead skin.
Slowly, one of the worshippers stood. A woman, face time-worn and back stooped by the weight of her years. She looked up with rheumy eyes shining with tears.
Siff looked down at the woman, opened her mouth to speak, but before she could the light from the stars suddenly went out…
* * *
The next time she woke she was inside, surrounded by a hide shelter that swayed gently in the desert breeze. Siff raised a hand; every inch of her was wrapped in linen bandages. It stirred a memory…
A mortal. A beautiful mortal and his two beautiful sons. They had bandaged her body, healing her, but not with their worship. They had done it with kindness. With patience. With love.
She had been different then. Forged from the desert and born anew as Silver. But that woman had been no one. Not the mortal whose body she had taken. Not the goddess, Siff, who she eventually became. She had been both of those and neither, and now she was gone. Killed in the desert when Siff had taken her vengeance. Now all that remained was the Archon.
The hide was pulled back, letting in the bright sun, and she turned away from its glare. Someone entered, shuffling to her bedside, and when Siff looked up she saw the old woman from the night before. She was smiling kindly.
Before Siff could try to speak, the woman lowered herself to her knees, bowing her head.
‘We are truly blessed,’ she said. ‘Truly blessed that you have returned.’
Her reverence sparked memories. Old memories of a different age. A different time, when she had been worshipped by mortals. When entire nations had fallen to their knees and given themselves to her willingly in supplication. It sparked a forbidden desire within her she had fought to repress for a thousand years, a desire that nagged at her, pulling at her with its temptation. She tried to rise, to stop the woman before she could continue, but her body would not respond.
‘Do not kneel,’ she managed to say through cracked lips.
Slowly the woman stood, smiling down. ‘I am the umma of this caravan,’ she said. ‘We have waited so long for you.’
‘How long have I been…’
‘With us once more? Weeks? Months? We have not counted the number of moons. We have simply prayed for you to be restored.’
‘Who do you think I am?’ asked Siff.
The woman seemed fazed by the question. ‘Why, you are Anural. Cup Bearer to Sol the Father. The Life Giver.’
It became clearer now. In the Cordral they had called her Anural, and Brachius was known as Sol. She cringed at the thought; she had never been cup-bearer to anyone, least of all that sot Brachius.
She tried to sit up, but the umma put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
‘You must rest,’ said the old woman. ‘Your journey from the heavens was a hard one. We will take care of everything. Soon you will be restored.’
Siff shook her head. ‘No. I will recover without your help.’
‘But we have already prepared for you. We pray day and night. We go without food or water.’
This was exactly what Siff had feared. ‘No,’ she said as firmly as she could. ‘You are not to suffer in my name. You are not to offer me worship. It is too…’
But Siff could already feel it filling her with power. That exquisite sensation she had spurned for what seemed an age. But then, it had been an age.
‘Fear not, goddess,’ said the woman, pushing Siff back to the bed. ‘We will take care of everything. Soon you will be healed. Then you may lead us.’
Siff wanted to argue but she couldn’t. The combination of fatigue and the fact that she could feel the life returning to her body made her lie back and close her eyes.
To accept such veneration was forbidden. She had been the one to forbid it. But now all she could think was how exquisite it felt…
* * *
Her dreams had changed. No longer did they plague her with visions of what could be. Now they seemed to show her a picture of what was.
She floated over the sands, further and further north, the miles flashing past impossibly fast as she soared, the hot air rushing in her face.
The Ramadi Wastes burned. Slaves toiled deep beneath the earth, reconstructing palaces that had been empty for a hundred years, reclaiming ancient temples from the sand. The death cults were uniting, their ancient wars now all but forgotten. Wherever there was resistance to this new order it was crushed, dissenters sacrificed to the gods… no, not the gods. To one god.
Innellan towered over them all, consolidating her power, destroying all who did not kneel before her. And all the while she did it in the body of an innocent child. The White Widow ruled her empire from a tower that teased the sky, and all worshipped her for her beauty. All lusted after her. All would have flung themselves on their swords for a word of approval from her perfect lips.
She had very nearly united an entire nation in less than a year. Only a small cell of resistance remained and it would not last long. Then she would clutch the allegiance of every death cult in her wicked grip. Every warlord and chieftain would kneel before her. Where before there had been chaos, now there would be unity. And once she held ultimate power in the Ramadi, Innellan would turn her eye south…
Before she could see more, Siff was moving again, flying east over blasted desert until she reached the mountains. Over the peaks, over valleys and jutting crags, until she reached the land of the Shengen. There she saw an emperor die. Legions falling to their knees in worship of an inhuman warlord mounted on an armoured beast. Where before there had been order, now there was only violence. Only pain and suffering. Again, dissent was quelled in the cruellest fashion. A nation that had once prospered was falling to ruin, but still Armadon pressed on. All he yearned for was conquest and he had already begun his march west.
He was already well on his way through the mountains and there was no one to stop him.
* * *
When Siff woke, it was night. She could still hear them praying outside, but where before she had accepted their praise, now it only served to raise her hackles.
Gingerly she rose from the bed, limping from the tent and out into the night. Torches burned at the edge of the camp and she could hear the high-pitched keening of some animal off in the distance.
Siff had been expecting a score of worshippers on their knees in prayer, but there was no one waiting for her outside the tent.
She stumbled on through the dark, following the distant sound of
the animal. As she moved on broken feet she could soon hear worshippers at prayer, feeling their benefaction eking into every fibre of her being. When she had walked far enough she saw them, more torches burning in the night as the whole tribe seemed to be kneeling in prayer. They had erected an altar upon which the umma stood. Her arms were raised as she led their rite and Siff could see in one hand she held a curved dagger.
That keening noise rose up into the desert night once more and Siff realised it was made by no animal. On the altar in front of the umma was laid out a child, struggling against its bonds.
‘Stop,’ Siff cried.
The umma looked up from her mumbled prayers. More than one of the congregation shrank from Siff as she appeared, but the rest carried on with their devotion.
‘This is for you,’ said the old woman. ‘It will restore you, that you might lead us to salvation. Our sacrifice shall be your—’
‘I said no!’ Siff yelled over her worshippers’ droning noise.
Even as she forbade it, Siff yearned for the sacrifice. The blood of that child would grant her great power. Would make her invincible, for a time. It was everything she desired and it took all her will to quell the need.
‘This is our way,’ said the umma, raising that dagger high. ‘This has always been our way.’
Siff wrenched one of the torches from the ground. She could barely comprehend what she was doing as she flung the pole at the woman. The flames made a hissing noise in the wind before the torch impaled the woman atop the altar and flung her back into darkness.
One of the congregation screamed, fearing the wrath of a god. Two more leapt to their feet and fled into the night. Then, like a dam breaking, the rest of them ran.
Siff walked to the altar, climbing atop it, seeing the infant there, still struggling, still wailing into the night.
This was what the world had become since the Archons had left. This was why she had demanded the Heartstone be broken. This was why she had to stop Innellan.
But there was a more pressing danger. A conqueror was already on his way to subjugate these lands.
