Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  The coming war was not of Ashana’s making, but Melanna’s own. The road she’d walked lay thick with dead. Her hands dripped with Tressian blood – the currency by which she’d purchased her crown. That debt now screamed to be paid. Whatever Droshna’s madness, she’d earned his hatred. Youth might excuse it and ambition justify it, but not to the dead or to those who sought vengeance in their name. The deeds of the past echoed forth to smother her future.

  “I deserve this.”

  Melanna spoke without meaning to, the words lost to the cool breeze almost before she heard them. But their truth lingered. All she’d done since taking the throne didn’t matter. The small justices meted out and divisions healed – her striving to be a kinder, fairer ruler than her father. The blood she’d spilled would cling to those deeds – to her – for as long as she wore the crown. The crown Ashana had promised she’d pass to a daughter.

  But Ashana had ever claimed prophecy was merely a word to justify deeds, or their lack.

  If Kaila was to inherit the throne, her mother’s deeds needed to count now, more than ever. Two days prior, the people of Tregard had risked all for their Empress. If Melanna didn’t prove herself worthy of that sacrifice then they’d died for nothing.

  The Empress was not the Empire. The people were. And the Empress’ debts had to be paid.

  There, on the balcony, her skin raised to gooseflesh by the chill Wintertide night, Melanna finally understood what she had to do. From a field of impossible choices, only one offered semblance of hope and shred of honour.

  The scent of smoke lingered amid the old wood’s fire-blackened remains. But there was something else too – a floral musk that tarried on the tongue and roused the senses even as it drove out the cold.

  The remnant of the old oak loomed against the stars, ruling over its charred court in death as it had in life. Or perhaps not. Moonlight offered glimpse of unseasonal green buds, renewal stirring in Melanna’s childhood companion as elsewhere in the wood. A promise that not all harms were for ever.

  Heart hammering, she turned to flee the terror that had walked with her across the gardens. The bright lights of the palace called to her, begged her to take counsel, to find another way.

  Brick by brick, Melanna rebuilt her composure. Fear faded. She’d come to bargain, not to beg. Weakness invited exploitation.

  “Lord Jack?”

  No answer. Clinging tight to the last of her courage, Melanna pressed on.

  “My mother owed you a debt, and I will not pay it. But I will offer you a bargain in its place.”

  A gust of wind howled about the oak, bearing fragments of ashen bark into the night. Melanna gritted her teeth, mindful that even a single misspoken word might offer more than intended.

  “My realm is beset by an army I cannot defeat. They will cast down all I have ever striven for, and render it dust. My daughter will never know the throne that is her birthright, and my people will suffer.” At the last, words almost failed her. “My bargain is this: deliver Rhaled from its enemies, and once my daughter’s rule is unassailable – not one day sooner – I will be your queen.”

  With the words spoken, Melanna saw her future dwindle almost to nothing. Ten years until Kaila was old enough to assume the throne in her stead. Ten years, and no time at all, but a greater span than any other offered that bleak night. A bargain with the divine bound all parties. If Jack agreed the terms, Kaila would take the throne, and Melanna would have ten years to prepare her for its burden. Prophecy would be fulfilled, and all debts repaid.

  She closed her eyes. “Do you agree the bargain, Lord Jack?”

  His answer came in a rustle of branches, and on windblown laughter neither malicious, nor entirely kind.

  Tzadas, 12th Day of Dawntithe

  When the wheel of history turns, it is better to be the axle than to cling to its treads.

  from Eldor Shalamoh’s “Historica”

  Fifty-Two

  Thick clouds choked the sky, robbing the world of Lumestra’s light. Viktor didn’t care for himself. Sunlight, like the firestone lanterns that were its echo, had grown wearying in recent years, fraying his shadow – and therefore himself – with even the gentlest caress. But sunlight had ever been a herald of portentous victory. Its lack was… disappointing.

  Still, the shadowthorn army on the valley ridge’s shrinking snows was barely worthy of the name. Two thousand spears, no more, and precious little cavalry, all clinging to the scrap of high ground where the road veered northeast to skirt Fellhallow’s dark boughs.

  They’d arrived with the dawn, too late to contest the broad arches of Argatha Bridge. A motley array of banners and shields from three generations of Empire, the blazons hailing back to two dead Emperors and an Empress soon to follow. For Melanna Saranal was there, her banner, fluttering in the Dusk Wind so that the silver owl spread its wings across a field of emerald silks.

  In the space between, three companies of King’s Blue wayfarers contested the steep valley slopes with shadowthorn outriders. Arrows and quarrels hissed back and forth beneath grim skies.

  “No volley,” muttered Izack. “Unusual.”

  Viktor grunted. Shadowthorn tradition was to offer three volleys in salute: one for Ashana, one for the Empress and one for her heir. “They offered no salute before they broke Ahrad’s walls.”

  Ahrad, once the enduring fortress on the border between Republic and Empire. Its ruins lay in Tressian hands again for the first time in six long years, overrun the previous day by the vengeful blades of the 7th, 10th and 11th whose forebears had perished when Kai Saran’s Avitra Briganda had burst across the Ravonn. Supported by kraikons, they’d taken all save the central keep and Viktor had left that besieged with no hope of relief.

  “Maybe they’ve heard there’s not supposed to be a battle today?”

  Izack stared directly ahead, his unwillingness to meet Viktor’s gaze no less telling than his tone. He’d never have spoken thus within earshot of the soldiery. The wayfarers were far ahead and the battle line a quarter mile behind. No other could have heard save Sidara, who shifted uncomfortably in her saddle.

  “Josiri has no authority over this campaign,” growled Viktor. The missive had been polite enough, if insistent, and as with much of what sprang from Josiri’s thoughts cared for the moment, and not the future. “Nothing has changed.”

  “Nothing has changed?” Izack swept a hand downhill, past the sprawling, serried ranks of King’s Blue and Thrakkian pennants glittering with ice – past the towering, sparking kraikons, the pride of attentive simarka and sheer ravine of Argatha Gorge – to the Ravonni lowlands. On a clear day, Ahrad’s ruins would have been visible on the horizon. “What we set out to do, we’ve done. Unless your pride’s hurting that the Hadari gave you a gift, not a fight?”

  “It’s not done until our lands are secure,” said Viktor, his shadow uncoiling as temper flared. “Essamere used to understand that.”

  Izack stiffened in his saddle, furious – as he should have been – at the reminder of his sword-siblings’ desertion. Worse than desertion. Outright defiance. Josiri’s herald hadn’t been the only one to reach the army. Another had borne from Tarvallion’s reeve, laying out in stark terms Zephan Tanor’s liberation of Apara Rann. Happily, that second herald had found Viktor alone, gifting him chance to marshal waning patience. The irony of order is that it foments indiscipline. An old sermon, and never truer. Even on the threshold of historic times unity crumbled, the men and women Viktor had trusted so long pulling in different directions, more afraid of the price than eager for the prize.

  “I don’t understand why they offer battle at all,” said Sidara.

  “Buggers don’t have a choice,” said Izack. “They lost the bridge, so the ridge is their best bet. Nothing but open ground between here and Tregard. A stand here will hurt us, might even slow us. I wish they’d bloody surrender, but good sense is a flighty wench.”

  Viktor gritted his teeth and brought his temper to heel, his sh
adow alongside. “Have the shields locked, and send them forward behind Sidara’s constructs. The thrydaxes will manage the flanks, but this victory must belong to Tressians. We take back what was ours.” He paused. Perhaps there was a middle ground to be sought. “Offer mercy to those who yield, and steel to those who do not. I trust this meets with your approval, Izack?”

  For a long moment, the other offered no reply, his gaze on the duelling outriders and wayfarers on the gorse-strewn hillside.

  “If these are your orders, Lord Protector,” he replied at last, “then I’ll see them done. But you’ll need to find yourself a new Grand Marshal after.”

  Kicking his heels to his steed’s flanks, Izack spurred through the snow towards the waiting lines. Sidara watched him go, her unease a pressure on Viktor’s thoughts.

  “It’s not his fault,” he murmured. “Nor Josiri’s. Nor Sevaka’s. They’re weary. They want peace, and who am I to begrudge that? I yearn for it as much as they, and wish I could believe it so easily won. Every ephemeral has limits, and I fear they’ve reached theirs.”

  “But not you, Uncle?” said Sidara.

  “I want nothing more than to leave all this behind, and seek a quiet life far from drums and buccinas.” He shook his head. Now was not the time to dwell on Calenne, and the promises of a future not yet earned. “I must endure. You’ll understand as you grow into your birthright. You and I are tempered by forces the others cannot comprehend. We are more than mortal, and our burdens will always be greater because of it. So long as we have the means to act, we must do so… even if others do not understand.”

  She nodded. “I won’t fail you.”

  So easy to see where her thoughts lingered. Silverway Dock, and all that had gone awry. He’d been much the same before Davenwood, dwelling on mistakes made and imperfections past. Such doubts ate at the soul like nothing else. Kind words could not ease their chafing, but anger drove them out. Wrath was the font of valour and purpose when the killing began. It had held Viktor together at Davenwood; it would hold Sidara together today.

  He held her gaze. “The warriors you face today are kin to those who murdered your father, who set fires blazing across the Eastshires and left the ruins thick with unburied dead. Mercy will wait until the battle is done. Concern yourself with justice, and do your father proud.” He paused, letting silence lend weight to the next words spoken – words that had shaped Sidara long before she’d first donned a uniform. “We fight to protect those we love. Never forget that.”

  Sidara swallowed, cheeks colouring as she took the words as criticism. Then she rallied, her irises gleaming gold, and clasped a hand to her breastplate in salute.

  “At your command, my Lord Protector.”

  Melanna had been alone before, but never like this. No matter the overlapping battle lines stretching along the crest to left and right. No matter the banners raised in defiance. No matter Elim Jorcari’s solemn, silent presence at her left shoulder and Chakdra’s golden scales to her right. All was distant, the fading embers of a dream. She was alone against the stain of Tressian shields spreading across the lower slopes. Three staggered lines, running west to east. Each wider and deeper than her own. The debts of reckless youth come due.

  Friends might have anchored her, but all her friends were far elsewhere, and better for them that they were so. Apara was in Tressia. Aeldran’s vanguard was still a day and a half away. Sera remained in Tregard, charged with safeguarding Kaila and evacuating the city – tasks in which Roslava Orova had pledged assistance, offering no explanation save a line of verse concerning a broken sword and a shield.

  No Ashana. Nor her Huntsman riding out from parted mists, his spear shining bright as it had at Ahrad. Melanna had dreamt of him in the small hours, the equerries of the Court of Eventide riding at his back, but she knew the dream was but a dream. Even Jack had offered no reply save laughter, no matter how she’d pleaded with the shadows of the old wood.

  She was alone.

  On the roadway far below, the Tressian lines gathered pace beneath numeralled banners of King’s Blue and silver thread. The shrill cry of pipes awoke tremor beneath Melanna’s feet as thrydaxes galloped forward.

  Havildars bellowed orders and the outriders retreated uphill, the skirmish ended by the onset of Thrakkian horse archers. Kraikons strode on, great swords tight in metal fists. Simarka loped ahead, streamers of golden light crackling behind. The enemy, vast before, now seemed a tidal wave fit to sweep the hillside clear and leave no trace.

  Had ever Melanna doubted that this was a doomed fight, born of pride, she did so no longer.

  A lament swelled on the Dusk Wind. Close, mournful harmonies of farewell offered by those who knew that their hour had come. Old men of the Veteran’s Lodges, young women scarcely come to the warrior’s trade, lunassera scattered throughout the line so the Goddess’ blessing might befuddle the constructs, and everything between.

  Kithaga narai. The archaic words, spun from ancient tongue, and yet so familiar from a hundred memorials – a promise of remembrance to kith and kin – spanned the myriad leagues of regret and drew Melanna back to the hillside. For the first time since taking her place in the line, she felt the closeness of comrades, tasted the bitter perfume of moorland gorse; the bite of the wind, and the rumble of a belly she’d lacked heart to fill.

  Jorcari hoisted his sword aloft. “Saranal Amyradris!”

  “Saranal Amyradris!” The cry echoed along the line, the lament abandoned to defiance.

  Shame stirred. Was this how an Empress faced death?

  No.

  Brushing aside Chakdra’s restraining hand, Melanna pushed her way through to the front rank and turned about. Back to the advancing foe, she let her golden shield fall and tugged free her helm. Her helm, and the crown bolted in place atop. The crown that she’d spent her life pursuing, and which had brought nothing but sorrow. She tossed it to Chakdra, who lingered in the front rank, his brow furrowed as one witnessing unfolding insanity, but uncertain of its form.

  “I am not your Empress! Not today!” shouted Melanna, her voice trembling and the words wild on her lips. “We come to this place already dead, and the dead have no monarch save the Raven. Blood! Valour! These coins purchase hope for our kin. I gladly pay the toll, for the dead have nothing to fear! If this is to be our Last Ride, let us go to it in glory! Kithaga narai!”

  “Kithaga narai!” Perhaps a hundred returned the cry.

  “Kithaga narai!”

  “Kithaga narai!” Swollen by new voices, Chakdra and Jorcari’s among them, the words hammered back louder than before.

  “Kithaga narai!”

  “Kithaga narai!”

  The third and final cry drowned out the rumble of hooves. Melanna reclaimed her shield and her place in the front rank and stared across the valley. At an army that could not be beaten, but would be taught a lesson to echo through the ages.

  This was how an Empress faced death.

  The first arrows fell like rain far to Melanna’s right, the Thrakkian thrydaxes of the west flank having found firmer ground than those to the east. In the centre, the Tressian line rippled as hump-backed pavissionaires presented crossbows. Kraikons lumbered to the charge. The constructs worried her. Before, there’d always been the hope of killing the proctors who gave them orders, but there were none in sight. Hammers would have to serve.

  Jorcari locked his shield to hers. For a heartbeat, Melanna didn’t see him at all, but her father come from Evermoon to witness her last battle. But the moment passed, and he was the grim-faced Blackwind veteran once more.

  “Ignore the giants,” he murmured. “The line is all that matters. At thirty paces, sound the charge. Tear the leading ranks to ruin and it might give the others pause.”

  Melanna nodded, knowing sound advice when she heard it. She’d spoken true – there was no survival worth having that day. Better to end in glory, as her father had.

  Arrows whistled overhead, the volley opening gaps in the Tressian adva
nce. The survivors bore down, thick as flies on the carrion field the hillside would soon become.

  A hundred paces. Close enough to make out individuals in the Tressian lines.

  Eighty paces. The ground shook as kraikons lumbered to the charge, simarka streaming before them.

  Fifty. Melanna swept her sword – the Goddess’ flameless sword – to grey skies. Drums boomed, the rhythm quickening as clansmen made clash of spear-staff on shield.

  The owl banner rippled and snapped as the wind veered north. The bitter scent of moorland yielded to sweet, unseasonal pollen – musky, and thick with forgotten years.

  The sky shook to a hollow, yawning groan.

  A rustling, crackling sound swallowed the mournful sigh. The fanfare of the swarm, or of leaves caught in a gale. Something Viktor hadn’t heard in six long years, and had hoped never to hear again.

  “Sound the withdrawal!”

  Buccinas brayed the descending triplets of retreat, but the newly woken Ice Wind bore them back across the river. Viktor, a score of paces to their front, heard barely a whisper. The soldiers of Izack’s advance could have heard nothing.

  Thick with foreboding and mounting wrath, Viktor rounded on the knot of officers pressed into service as adjutants. “Find the commanders! Order the retreat!”

  Confused eyes met his. Too young. Too untested to read shifting fortune. Too innocent of the world’s horrors.

  “Go!” he roared.

  The day darkened, his shadow slipping free. Adjutants spurred away on startled steeds, cloaks streaming as they galloped headlong after Izack’s assault.

  Sidara, her posture already rigid as glass, stiffened further. The halo of light about head and shoulders flickered. “What is it?” Her voice, normally so light and musical, was brittle, unswerving. Older, somehow. She twisted in the saddle, the golden fire in her eyes setting Viktor’s shadow writhing. “What’s happening?”

  New shapes appeared on the ridgeline. Thousands upon thousands. A horde of tangled briar-creatures, like poppets twisted from branch and bramble by an enthusiastic child; not quite man-shaped in their gangling limbs and lopsided aspect, but fashioned as imitation. Strawjacks. Whispering Ones. Livasdri. The ice-crusted nightmare of Hallowsiders who, praying for untroubled sleep and plentiful harvest, left tribute of vittles and kin at the forest’s edge. They came not as lines ordered for battle, but as leaves upon the storm, their mad rush billowing and ebbing according to individual pace.