Legacy of Light

by Matthew Ward

  He sprang down from the wall, gait hunched and angular, the after-image of an abyssal corvine shape again flickering in the mist behind. The air shook with shrieking voices. “Then perhaps you should be scared of him again!”

  He thrust his spread hands towards her in a shove. For all that it never made contact, it hurt. Already fraying, Calenne sought something, anything, to keep her being anchored and whole. She found nothing. Strand by strand, she came unravelled.

  Her last sight was of the column’s trailing end vanishing into the mists.

  Josiri spread his hand against the tree and doubled over, spluttering as damp air filled his lungs. For all that the mists were no less prevalent in the living realm than in Otherworld, they felt somehow more wholesome. Or perhaps it was simply that the world no longer shifted and blurred. Part of him wished it did. All the better to hide the horror that Eskavord had become.

  Seven years since he’d been here last. Seven years of avoiding his ancestral home. His dukedom. Beyond sparse trees, the fire-blackened ruin of Eskavord’s north wall was just about visible – the mist granting shape even under black, oppressive skies. Its palisade had long since gone to ash, but the stones beneath still stood proud. The space between remained as grey as at Josiri’s last glimpse, the carpet of ash undisturbed by winds that never found real purchase in the Southshires’ newest Forbidden Place.

  He righted himself and stared southwest to where Branghall’s ruins waited beyond the veil of mist. So many years and so many leagues travelled, and yet so little had changed. Perhaps nothing had changed since he’d parted from Viktor at the foot of Drannon Tor, he bound for Tressia, and Viktor to an exile’s life. Strange to regard such days as happier times.

  The bobbing lanterns of what only the generous might call an army formed up beneath the gold and green banner and the circle of light from its lantern. Ninety knights, a half-dozen hearthguard. Two politicians and a thief turned assassin, turned spymaster. Most were pale from the passage of Otherworld. Josiri had been fortunate, having walked its paths in Ashana’s company; Altiris and Kurkas for less auspicious reasons. For all others save Apara, it had been a new and unpleasant experience, marked by haunted expressions and shaking limbs. Even Essamere’s valour had limits.

  Infantry all, for no one had wanted to trust a horse within the mists. He hoped it’d be enough.

  It wasn’t that the Council weren’t convinced Viktor was a threat. Quite the opposite – they were frozen in fear of what he might do if provoked. Better to let the storm blow out and calm return. Only… Josiri knew Viktor too well to believe that was a possibility. Horror was brewing in the Southshires – the only question that remained was whether it would be Tressia or the Hadari Empire that would suffer first. The usurpers, or the ancient enemy? Ironic then that Josiri, who as little as seven years before would have happily watched both drown in shadow, found himself charged with their deliverance.

  “Night already?” Sevaka, like Josiri himself, cut an unfamiliar figure in borrowed armour. She wore an Essamere tabard unearned, save through Zephan’s insistence. “We’ve not been marching that long.”

  “Time runs different in the mists, but it’s not night.” Apara’s pensive eyes stared southward. “It’s the Dark. This is how it was after Davenwood. He had me bring him here, last time…”

  She twisted away, the thought unfinished.

  Josiri caught Sevaka’s worried glance and drew closer to Apara. “You should go,” he murmured. “You’ve done enough. Leave the rest to us.”

  “Could you?” Apara replied.

  He glanced down at his tabard, at the golden phoenix embroidered on King’s Blue. The phoenix he hated, and wore only to remind himself of what he owed Viktor, good and bad. One way or another, the day would clear all debts. “I have to finish this.”

  Steel crept into grey eyes. “So do I.”

  Leaving the sisters to contemplate an uncertain future, Josiri rejoined his knot of hearthguard – or what remained of it – all of them burdened with lanterns and wrapped bundles slung across their backs. Viara and Beckon stood in hushed conversation off to one side. Jarrock and Kelver stared at the growing Essamere shield wall. Brass made gloomy appraisal of Eskavord’s distant wall. Altiris nodded pensively at his approach. Only Kurkas, hunch-shouldered though he was from a long march he’d not been fit for in the first place, seemed at ease. But then, he wore only leather where the others wore full armour – a sign of flagging reserves.

  “Looks like this is it, sah.”

  “You’ve a site picked out for what we discussed?”

  “Over there,” Altiris pointed to a low hummock on the treeline, far to the east, and halfway to Eskavord’s walls. “Brass says it’s a good spot.”

  Brass grunted. “Brass said it might be a good spot.”

  “You really think he’ll meet with you, lord?” asked Viara.

  “I know I have to try.”

  “I should be with you,” said Altiris. “There’s nothing I can do over there.”

  Josiri laid a hand on Altiris’ shoulder and met him eye to eye. The lad had come a long way in a few short weeks, more than worthy of the Trelan name, but he’d plenty of lessons ahead. “I’ve Essamere to keep me safe, and Phoenixes should stand together. If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that.” Lowering his voice, he addressed the other fear lingering in Altiris’ eyes. “We’ll find her. I’m not losing any more family today, do you hear me?”

  Altiris nodded. “Yes… Father.”

  Satisfied that warning had hit home alongside reassurance, Josiri drew back, careful to meet each Phoenix’s gaze in turn. “We’ve seen some times, haven’t we?”

  Words dried on his tongue. Anastacia would have known what to say. Something irreverent, insulting, but with affection beneath. The hole in his heart grew a size larger.

  “I feel I should say something, but I can’t find the words. Just know that I’m proud.” Moved by uncertain emotion, Josiri held out his hand. “Thank you for everything, Vladama.”

  Kurkas gripped his hand tight and nodded, a little of his Raven-may-care insouciance returning. “Go on, get. Don’t want me to start crying, do you?”

  He didn’t look like a man about to weep, but then he probably didn’t have the energy to spare. Not that there was any point telling Kurkas to sit this out. Josiri stared north through the mists, summoning to mind the muddy field outside Zanya where his mother’s dreams had died. He and Kurkas had fought on opposite sides in that battle. Eskavord’s razing might have felt like it only yesterday, but Zanya seemed impossibly far in the past.

  A cry of alarm drew his attention west, to a scattering of dark figures emerging from Davenwood’s deeper reaches.

  Altiris started forward, hand on his sword. “Trouble?”

  Josiri shook his head, the newcomers close enough for him to recognise King’s Blue shields bearing the numeral of the 14th. Keldrov’s old regiment. “I don’t think so. Get in position.”

  Leaving no chance for reply, he headed back through the sparse trees, skirting the Essamere line to greet the newcomers and beckoning Zephan and Sevaka to his side. He spotted a familiar face soon after, garbed in armour and cloth not worn for years.

  “Arlanne? This is a day for old uniforms.”

  “Lord Trelan. Master Tanor. Governor Orova.” Governor Keldrov offered a weary salute, well matched to a face that had aged a decade in a few short weeks. “Tell me the Council’s sent more than this?”

  Sevaka snorted.

  “The Council sent nothing at all,” said Zephan, another soul who’d aged badly in the newborn year. “This was all we could gather.”

  Josiri had taken the new arrivals to be the 14th’s vanguard. Fresh appraisal of battered and bloodied faces – and paucity of numbers – corrected that impression. He saw barely thirty, and nary an officer among them. “What happened?”

  “We went in when the skies turned black. Lord Droshna was waiting.” Keldrov’s eyes lost their focus. “A
few Drazina, and rank upon rank of clay soldiers, the Dark seething beneath their skin. He calls them Ocranza – like the guardian statues – and it’s not unfitting. They’re not as bad to fight as if they were kraikons, but they’re bad enough.”

  “Blessed Lunastra,” murmured Zephan. “Can they be killed?”

  “Yes. We found that out the hard way. That skin of theirs looks tough, but it’s nothing to steel. I don’t know that they feel pain, but they’re like foundry constructs. Break the shell and the magic escapes. Then some of our own they… they just…” She shook her head, voice fading as a faraway look came into her troubled eyes. “They turned on their comrades. Tore them apart from the inside just as the lines closed. It was a slaughter.”

  Josiri scowled, the description too similar to the influence Viktor had wielded over Apara, himself… Lumestra knew how many. That he no longer felt the shadow save in absent memories didn’t mean it wouldn’t return, if Viktor chose. He touched a hand to the pendant of Saint Selna hanging at his neck. Guardian of Lost she might have been, but the silver mattered more. Each of them wore a similar token, blessed that morning by the serenes of the Highmount Church – something to cheat the influence of Viktor’s shadow, or so Josiri hoped.

  But Keldrov’s report offered good news alongside. Proof that Viktor’s Ocranza were no hardier than Calenne’s clay form, and leagues apart from Anastacia’s porcelain body. A handful like Anastacia would have slaughtered every soldier he’d brought from the north. But then Anastacia had been unique, not just for her serathi spirit, but for the craftsmanship of her doll’s creation. No stolen soul and patchwork body could ever be her equal. An imperfect army for a misguided cause.

  “What are his numbers?” asked Sevaka.

  “We gave good account of ourselves before…” Keldrov scowled. “Maybe five hundred of these Ocranza, and fifty Drazina – at least, that I saw.”

  Worse than they’d hoped for. Better than they’d feared. “Are your soldiers fit to fight?” asked Josiri.

  Earnestness returned to haggard features. “We can do no other.”

  “Form up behind my lot,” said Zephan. “We’ll bear the brunt, and look to you for support.”

  “Agreed.” Keldrov raised a hand. “14th!”

  King’s Blue peeled off towards the thin shield wall. Keldrov lingered, her troubled gaze directed towards Eskavord. “Don’t let this be for nothing. We’ve…” She tailed off. “Josiri, I need… I have to… I…”

  Hand on her brow, she fell silent, pained expression a clue to burdened soul. Josiri, who’d earlier struggled for words, more than understood. Keldrov had been Viktor’s staunchest supporter in recent years.

  “You’re not responsible for what he’s done, Arlanne,” Josiri said softly.

  She nodded, her furrowed brow suggesting she wanted to say more. Instead, she walked away as one on the point of collapse. Sevaka watched her go, brow furrowed and eyes troubled, her manner that of one trying to pin down a stray thought. A feeling Josiri had known all too well of late.

  “You still want to talk to him?” Zephan’s steady rumble dragged Josiri’s attention back to the matter in hand. “The 14th was at full strength. Izack kept it so in case our Thrakkian neighbours made trouble. A thousand swords, gone. He’ll break you in half and not even blink.”

  “How confident are you in the alternatives?” asked Josiri.

  He offered no reply.

  Josiri stared bleakly at Eskavord’s empty north gateway. “Then let’s get this over with.”

  “Viktor! Will you speak with me, brother?”

  Viktor was waiting on a restless horse at the north gateway when Josiri’s voice rang out. He watched as the other closed to within fifty paces of the gate, twice as far again from the Essamere banner and its swarm of lanterns beneath the ragged trees. Josiri the traitor, come to barter and hector as he always did. His strength lay in wearing others down.

  But still…

  Hope remained that perhaps Josiri had recognised the wrongness of his stance. Nothing could forgive Calenne’s death, but the rest? For all he pretended otherwise, Josiri was a spiritual man and others would easily have twisted that to their own ends. Had he come to his senses, now Anastacia was gone? That possibility tempted Viktor to rare hope. Family should be together, and Josiri was family. He proclaimed as much, even now.

  “Viktor! Will you speak with me?”

  Viktor stared down the rubble of the ruined street to the Ocranza standing silently in the mist, awaiting the nudge of will that would loose them to battle.

  He felt Drazina and others nearby, or more precisely the specks of shadow with which he’d quieted their troubles. Some fought his influence, though never enough to be wholly free. No matter. They were a temporary solution, while Sidara raised enough Ocranza for his needs. Keldrov had inflicted heavy losses before he’d brought her to heel, the southern approach littered with bodies of flesh and clay. But with Otherworld open to him, such losses were easily replenished.

  Yes. It was worth the risk. After all, what risk could there truly be? With old limitations cast aside, one man alone was of no threat. If nothing else, talking bought time for Sidara to draw forth new soldiers. She’d no need of his presence, not with Constans and Tzila at her side.

  The matter settled, he rode for the gate.

  “He’s actually going for it,” murmured Kurkas. “And alone, too.”

  Lying prone a short distance behind, Altiris fought the urge to rise up and see for himself, but one set of eyes – well, eye – above the hummock and its thin bushes was already a risk. Not much of one, as their lanterns were darkened so as not to give them away, but even that would have been too much. Bad enough to know that they were much closer to Josiri and Lord Droshna than to the Essamere lines.

  The only clue Altiris had to his fellow Phoenixes’ positions lay in the small sounds. Viara lay somewhere to his right, her breathing uneven as she sought to control fear. Brass a little further to the left, sounding like a beast at slumber. The others lay further back, awaiting the signal, muttered prayers and the scuff of knee and elbow betraying nervousness.

  Altiris’ veins coursed hot and cold, anticipation vying with apprehension. Hope of being reunited with Sidara contested the hollow dread that it was already impossible. One road led to joy, the other to impenetrable darkness. And so he counted away the pulse of his heart, trying not to think about how every breath drew in wisps of ash from the ground beneath him, and waited.

  The hoofbeats slowed. Viktor became a dark, armoured shape, framed by a cloak of writhing shadow and his unshaven face void of expression. He looked… empty. Josiri could think of no other word to describe it. Even imprisoned in the clocktower, there’d yet been a trace of his friend. Now? Though Viktor’s features were the same, they belonged to a stranger. Or maybe it was easier to think of him thus. Conscience bore a stranger’s death easier than a friend’s.

  “Viktor.”

  “Josiri.” Viktor made no move to dismount. “You wanted to speak. I’m here.”

  His tone was measured, calm. But then Viktor had never wanted for reason, even at his most unreasonable. Josiri set his free hand on the pommel of his sword and drew his lantern close, guilt at Viktor’s shying from the light eased away by memory of recent deeds.

  “I wanted to give you chance to explain.” He circled round to the south, his back towards Eskavord. “One last chance.”

  Viktor mirrored the movement, his horse’s hooves rousing sprays of ash. A rumbling, snorting laugh echoed through the mists. “And here was I, thinking you’d found your senses. You know the Republic cannot stand without me.”

  “Then perhaps it shouldn’t stand at all.” Josiri halted, his back westward to Branghall’s hidden ruins. “Everything you’ve done—”

  Viktor glared and leaned low over his horse’s neck. “Everything I’ve done? You betrayed me to the shadowthorns! When the demons of Fellhallow wreak slaughter on the Eastshires, will that be my fault as we
ll? When our cities burn and the populace are taken for slaves? Will you cling to vacillating principle and blame me for the loss? I’m trying to save us. Can’t you see that?”

  Cold stung the back of Josiri’s throat. He felt something whisper across his soul. It spoke with a voice like his own, and yet different. Urging, nudging. Viktor’s shadow, not quite held at bay by Saint Selna’s pendant, but revealed by it. Or perhaps he only recognised it because he’d been looking? Because he knew Viktor would seek to twist him as he had before?

  Did it even matter, when so much of what Viktor said was true? There was no guarantee Melanna wouldn’t seek reprisals. Such had been the way of Republic and Empire for generations. Blow and counterblow. Revenge and retaliation. The past was no longer relevant. The future was everything.

  Weariness hung heavier than ever. Arguments marshalled in hope of changing Viktor’s mind bled away into the mist. A part of Josiri knew his malaise to be the work of Viktor’s shadow, but only a small part. The rest yearned to believe.

  “It is a last chance,” said Viktor, “but that opportunity belongs not to me, but to you. I’m prepared to forgive you, brother. The Republic still needs you. I still need you. Help me save our people.”

  Leaning low in the saddle, he held out his hand.

  “That’s it,” hissed Kurkas. “Get in position.”

  Phoenixes scrambled to their feet, the scrape of boot on ash joined by the whisper of arrows drawn from quivers. Altiris hung back, letting others find vantage upon the hummock. As with Jarrock and Beckon, he’d never learnt an archer’s trade. Not like Viara, who’d indulged target shooting as only a highblood could, or Kelver, who refused to admit where he’d honed his craft. As for Brass, the retired poacher? The terror of the Akadra estates was in a league of his own.

  Taking care to keep low, Altiris followed them onto the summit and knelt at Kurkas’ side.

  As promised, Lord Droshna’s back was to the hummock, haloed in the drifting mist by light from Josiri’s lantern. Altiris scarcely believed the cold calculation of Josiri’s plan. Hard enough to lure a man out under terms of truce while all the while manoeuvring him into an archer’s sights, but when that man was your brother? Altiris hated Lord Droshna almost as much as he feared him – had done since the night of Anastacia’s murder – but knew with unflinching certainty that his own loathing was nothing to his adoptive father’s.