We are each tested in our own way.
She’d been arrogant. And now she recognised that, she remembered how she’d felt at Skavengard, when she’d driven the dreadknights back. She hadn’t defeated them through any power of her own. Instead she’d let herself be used, becoming a channel for the Aspects’ will. All she needed to do was to submit.
I am your instrument, she thought. Use me as you see fit.
And with that, she found the light.
She felt it first in her breast, a blazing star of wrath, bursting into existence. It blasted away the corruption that clung to her mind and body, driving out the foulness. A tide of strength crashed through her. She snatched up her staff, planted it in the ground and rose to one knee.
‘Back!’ she cried, throwing out a hand towards the soldier standing over Ruck, ready to impale her. ‘You will not touch her!’
The guardsman faltered, halted by the power in her voice. The prisoners were meant to be incapacitated. He looked at Klyssen uncertainly, who looked to Plague in turn. The dreadknight stepped forwards, gaze fixed on her, and the clicking in his throat became louder. Vika felt his terrible will bear down on her again, but the light was growing in her now, and nothing could hold it back. The air seethed and swam as the chaotic stuff of the Shadowlands pressed close. Angles stretched impossibly; faces shifted as if viewed through water; lanterns flickered, waned and grew fierce again.
‘You are a creature of the Abyss!’ she accused, and she pulled herself to her feet, dragging herself up the length of her staff. ‘You are unhallowed, and your Krodan masters are damned for treating with you! Spawn of the Outsiders, these are Joha’s lands, and the Nine rule here!’
The light flared in her, filling her up, and it was impossible to contain it any longer. She lifted her staff in the air. ‘Down, beast!’ she cried, and it shone with a blinding glow. Plague cringed from the light, throwing a hand up to shadow his stitch-riven face. ‘Down!’ she shouted again, and thrust the staff towards him. Plague staggered back, rattling like an angry snake.
‘Kill her!’ Klyssen shouted at the soldiers.
At his order, the guardsmen overcame their uncertainty and advanced on Vika. Either they didn’t see the light or were not affected by it. Vika was so focused on Plague that she didn’t notice them coming. The nearest guard, who’d been about to kill Ruck, drew back his sword to stab her in the ribs.
A snarling mass of teeth and fur knocked him to the ground before the blade could find its mark. Suddenly the vault was alive with confusion and movement as the fallen companions, freed from Plague’s influence, surged to their feet and took up their weapons. Harod’s sword was first to his hand; he clashed with two men, then three, holding them off until Aren could bring his own blade to the fight. Grub leaped onto a soldier and tore away a piece of his chin with his teeth, then knifed him as he screamed.
Vika was only half aware of it, locked in her own battle. The light was too fierce to bear, burning her from the inside out; she couldn’t sustain it for much longer. Plague cowered before her upraised staff, but she could only repel him, not destroy him, and when her strength failed, he’d kill her. She began to claw inside her patchwork coat, her fingers brushing over the clay phials there.
‘Kill that Ossian witch!’ Klyssen demanded again, but in all the disorder he went unheard. Seeing that nobody would do it for him, he drew his own knife and circled around Plague. Vika was still fixated on the dreadknight, unarmed but for her staff, and his hands flexed on the hilt of his knife as he prepared to stab her.
He was an instant too slow. Vika found the phial she needed and drew it out.
‘Down!’ she screamed again, and she flung it into the dreadknight’s face. It shattered as it hit, covering his head and upper body with a viscous jelly which burst into flame the moment it was released. Klyssen was caught at the edge of the splash, his arm and face spattered with blobs of the stuff. He wailed in pain and horror as it ignited, dropping his knife and flailing backwards, beating senselessly at his own face and arms.
Plague went up like dry tinder. He reeled away with a frenzied clattering coming from his mouth. Black smoke boiled off him and the air filled with the choking stench of burning flesh, and something foul and bitter underneath.
Then she could hold the light no longer, and somehow – she knew not how – she shut it off. The strength flowed out of her like water and she sagged, but she was caught by Cade before she could fall and he dragged her upright again.
‘Come on!’ he cried as he led her round the edge of the room, stepping over bodies, hurrying past treasures of uncountable value. To their left, Harod and Aren fought with several guardsmen, their backs to the door, keeping the soldiers occupied in the centre of the chamber while their companions made their escape. Klyssen was on his knees in an alcove, his back to them, hands beating frantically at his face.
‘The Ember Blade …?’ Vika gasped.
‘Orica has it,’ said Cade.
Plague’s thin, ragged body had become a torch. He staggered across the chamber and fell against the guardsmen’s backs, sending them into agonised panic as they were burned from behind. While they were distracted, Aren and Harod slipped out behind Vika and Cade. In the corridor were Ruck, Grub and Orica, who had the Ember Blade in one hand and its scabbard in the other. Fen fired her last arrow through the doorway, killing a guardsman who tried to follow them out. Grub put his shoulder to the vault door and shoved.
As the door swung closed, Vika caught a glimpse of a frightened face, lit by the burning slumped heap that Plague had become. It was Klyssen, his spectacles gone and his eyes full of fear. One gloved hand held his cheek as he stumbled towards them, the other reaching out in supplication.
‘Don’t close the door! Don’t close the—’
The vault boomed shut. Grub twisted the Master of Keys’ medallion to lock it, then spat on the door.
‘Grub like to see you get out of that any time soon,’ he sneered.
They slumped against the walls, panting, drained by the horrors they’d endured. There was no triumph, just the shock of survival. A great weakness lay on Vika, bone-deep, so heavy she could hardly stand. Ruck flurried around her, licking at her fingers, and she could have wept with relief at the touch of that slobbering tongue.
From behind the door they heard the faint thumping of Klyssen’s fists, his howls as he begged for escape.
It was Aren who spoke first. ‘We make for the underkeep,’ he said. ‘It’s our only way out.’
Orica offered him the Ember Blade and its scabbard. He took the sword and sheathed it. A faint and weary smile touched Vika’s lips as she looked at him.
‘Lead on,’ she said.
102
Ruin’s hammer swung high and hard, smashing apart the table in front of him. Nearby guests huddled and shrieked as they were pelted with splinters, glasses, food and wine. The dreadknight heaved the sundered table aside and stepped past, into the makeshift arena where Garric stood with one arm hanging limp, the body of General Dakken at his feet.
Soldiers hurried into the feasting hall behind him. Some ran to surround the prince, others spread out around the room. Seeing their chance, many of the guests fled through the broken door, but some, mostly Krodan, stayed. They were reluctant to abandon their prince, or they didn’t want to be branded disloyal. That, or they just wanted to see what would happen next.
Garric backed away from the monstrous figure, his legs trembling with weakness. Torture had sapped his strength and fighting Dakken had tired him, but the final blow was despair. The prince was beyond his reach now. Even if he could beat this dark giant, there was a forest of blades between them.
He hefted his sword, which was now so heavy he could hardly lift it. Men with crossbows were moving into place for a shot and the prince was being hustled away.
Thirty years a rebel, and he may as well have been a flea for all the trouble he’d caused the Empire. Thirty years of failing. They spoke true who sai
d that one man couldn’t make a difference against such might. He’d been arrogant to dream he could.
Let them kill me, then, he thought as he saw the crossbowmen set their sights. But there will be no surrender.
‘Stop!’ cried Prince Ottico.
His voice brought the soldiers to a halt, and the dreadknight, too. All eyes went to the prince, who was irritably shrugging off one of his barons.
‘Unhand me!’ he snapped.
His gaze met Garric’s across the room, over the shoulders of his guards, and there was a glitter of hungry malice there. He’d been scared and humiliated, but the tables had turned now and he wanted vengeance.
‘This man, this assassin, was once counted among the greatest of Ossian warriors,’ he declared, red-faced. ‘Let us see how he fares against a Krodan warrior, then! Crossbowmen, stay your triggers. Let the dreadknight have him.’
‘Your Highness, let us take you to safety,’ the baron beseeched, but Prince Ottico waved him away.
‘There are a dozen men between us. I will stay, to see the last Dawnwarden fall.’
Ruin stepped closer, his hammer ready. Garric kept out of his reach. For all his courage in battle, he knew fear now. It radiated from his opponent, setting his skin crawling. If any heart beat beneath that armour, it belonged to no ordinary man.
‘Death to the enemies of the Empire!’ cried some enthusiastic patriot in the audience, and Ruin lunged forward.
Garric was ready for the attack and jumped out of the way as the hammer came down, shattering the flagstones. He hacked at his enemy’s outstretched hand, but he was off balance and his blow rebounded from the armour. The agony of sudden movement almost made him faint as the two halves of his broken bone ground against each other. He staggered away, retching up bile.
There were cheers from the audience and shouts of abuse. ‘Eel-eater scum!’ ‘Die, traitor!’ ‘The Nemesis welcomes you!’ Garric barely heard them through the red mist of pain. His vision had narrowed to a tunnel, at the end of which he saw Ruin advancing again, hammer cradled in his massive hands. Instinct told him to attack, but he held himself in check.
Wait for it. Wait …
The hammer came from the side; Ruin was quicker than his size suggested. Garric dropped to one knee and ducked as it whistled over his head, then he thrust forward, aiming for a chink in the dreadknight’s armour. But Ruin shifted his weight and the gap closed before he could reach it. For all its brutish design, the armour was a masterpiece, an impenetrable carapace of witch-iron.
The next swing came from overhead, so fast that Garric barely dodged it. He sprang up and back as the floor exploded in a stinging flurry of stone chips. Unbalanced by his dead arm, he tripped over his heels, stumbling backwards till he crashed into the edge of a table. Plates smashed, spraying food; cutlery bounced away across the floor. Someone reached over the table and shoved him from behind, sending him reeling back towards Ruin.
He saw the hammer coming to meet him and dug in his heels, his sword raised automatically in defence. The hammer blasted past his face, missing his nose by inches. It caught the blade instead, ripping it from his grasp and sending it spinning away. It slid under a table and was snatched up by a Krodan who raised it in the air, to the cheers of the audience.
‘How unfortunate,’ sneered the prince. ‘It seems you’ve lost your blade.’
Ruin lumbered towards him. Garric, dizzy and weaponless, tried to back away, but there was no strength left in his legs. He was helpless as he was seized by the throat and lifted off the ground. The dreadknight’s armoured hand was cold enough to burn, and its touch carried a creeping foulness that horrified him. Garric kicked uselessly at the air, choking. His ears roared with blood and the triumphant cries of the audience.
The world tipped and spun as he was thrown bodily across the room. He smashed down onto a table, skidded across it in an avalanche of goblets and furrowed cloth and flew off the other side to crash into a brazier. Hot coals scattered as it tipped over.
He lay there gasping in agony, his broken arm screaming at him. He’d snapped at least two ribs in the impact, and they sawed at his back with every drawn breath. He was bruised and torn, and there was blood in his mouth.
He was dying, of that he was certain. But still he clawed at the ground, dragging his knees beneath him. Still he fought to stand.
‘Fetch water! Water!’ he heard somebody cry. Fire was blooming at the edge of his vision: a tapestry, ignited by the coals.
‘My prince, we must leave!’ the baron pleaded.
‘Nobody leaves until justice is done!’ Prince Ottico yelled in fury.
Ruin filled Garric’s vision, a faceless monster of dirty iron. He tried feebly to fend him off, but he was seized by the throat again and lifted up.
End it, he begged silently, because he wouldn’t beg aloud. End me.
There was no such mercy. He was thrown, high and far, flailing through the air towards the curtained alcove at the far end of the room. Plush fabric swallowed him. There was a moment of excruciating impact as he crashed into something unforgivingly hard. Blackness took him, but all too briefly.
When he opened his eyes, he was tangled in a green velvet curtain, which had fallen across his face. It was sodden, and there was an acrid stink coming from it. His head pounded and there was a ferocious knot of agony at the base of his skull. Below that, he felt nothing at all.
A deep calm came over him. He was disembodied, helpless in an ocean of fabric. That last collision had broken his neck.
No more, then, he thought, his mind clear and serene. I strived and failed, but none can say I did not give my all.
Footsteps, slow and heavy, coming closer. The curtain was pulled from his face and Ruin stood over him. Behind him, Garric could see the hall, where soldiers were beating at the fire that had spread to a nearby tablecloth. His eyes were dimmed and everything was blurring. It all seemed like a strange play, viewed as from some far distance.
There was the prince, surrounded by nobles imploring him to retreat from the smoke and growing flames. There was General Dakken, sprawled out on the flagstones in a pool of gore. And there was a little girl, too, a little girl wearing a black hooded robe, her forehead high and white. He couldn’t focus well enough to see her clearly, but he knew she was watching him, standing eerily still at the edge of the room while others flurried around her.
His eyes rolled in their orbits; they were the only thing he could move now. He lay among the shattered remains of a barrel rack which had been hidden behind the curtain, where the servants could draw drinks for the guests. His body was twisted and limp, tangled in bloody armour and splintered shards of wood, and his face was wet with spilled wine. Wine, and something else that gave off a sharp reek which he recognised.
‘Stop playing and finish him!’ the prince ordered.
Ruin lifted his hammer, ready to bring it down on Garric’s skull. But Garric wasn’t looking at him. He’d caught sight of a broken crest amid the folds of curtain: two wolves rampant, flanking a spreading tree. The emblem of the Amberlyne vineyards.
The prince will have no sweetwine but Amberlyne with his dessert. It’s one of the few things he likes about our country.
He knew that smell. He’d smelled it in Mara’s barn as he filled these very barrels with elarite oil. His gaze flicked from the crest to the burning tablecloth, and the thick, clear liquid spilling down the stairs towards it. Finally he looked up at his enemy, into the darkness behind his visor. A smile of triumph spread across his bruised and discoloured face.
‘For Ossia,’ he croaked hoarsely.
Then all was fire and force, and nothing after.
103
They hurried by lanternlight down silent ways, faces grim with the memory of what had gone before and the thought of what lay ahead.
Aren would never forget the sight of his skin bursting with boils, nor the taste of diseased flesh in his mouth, but it was already losing the power to terrify him, fading like a nightm
are. Plague’s touch had humbled them all, and Aren was ashamed at how completely he’d succumbed to it; but they’d defeated him nonetheless, thanks to their druidess.
He looked back over his shoulder. Vika was catching them up, staff in hand, Ruck trotting protectively at her side. She’d plainly been exhausted by fighting Plague, but after swigging a concoction from one of her phials, she’d found strength to move again.
What secret battle had she fought with the dreadknight, while he was occupied with his own agonies? Had there been a light, or had he imagined that? All he knew was that Vika alone had overcome Plague, driven him cowering before her and set him aflame. She’d proved stronger than the foul sorcery of their enemy. It was enough to make Aren wonder if the Aspects were real after all, and on their side. Anything felt possible with the Ember Blade in his hands.
He clutched it close to his chest as he hustled through dusty rooms, passing covered furniture and walls empty of tapestries or decoration. The sword was sheathed now, but its nearness heartened him and made him brave.
Their route took them back to the lower levels by the same way they’d come. With luck, Mara had anticipated their decision and would meet them at the entrance to the underkeep. If not, she’d head there when the alarm was raised, which couldn’t be long now. Once in the underkeep, there was no telling what they might find, but whatever it was, Aren had faith that he and his companions could handle it. They’d claimed the Ember Blade. There was nothing they couldn’t do.
They came to a shadowy hall, huge and echoing, grey in the moonlight. Aren went first and the others came behind him: Grub, his eyes glittering with dark excitement; Orica, fearful, watching for enemies; Harod, stoic as ever, with Vika labouring at his side and Ruck loping at hers. Fen’s expression was cold, yet even so, Aren found it hard to take his gaze from her face. Last was Cade, holding the lantern, his jaw set.
The Ember Blade Page 81
