Revenant

by Bevan McGuiness

  The army of the Revenant slumbered. Mostly.

  In any group there are those who cannot sleep, or who sleep fitfully, even among the mad. This night, a woman of C’sobra wandered the stinking rabble, her mind a tangle of disjointed images, a welter of kaleidoscopic scenes filled with violence and death. She drooled a little as she uttered a low, open-mouthed keening. She was searching for something here amid the sleeping mass. Her mind was too damaged to ever remember, to ever know what she had left behind so many days earlier when the Revenant’s madness took her. She did not even remember her own name, or tribe, or the days of torment she had suffered while sweeping across the plains of C’sobra, destroying, burning, killing in the single moment of madness that would last until her death.

  A sound reached her ears. A sound that did not belong. A sound that disturbed the swirling chaos of her mind. She stared at the dark shapes that approached in the night. Something gleamed in the pale light of Yatil. She sensed a new presence in her mind, but being so far beyond sanity, she accepted the Revenant’s consciousness entering hers without awareness.

  Something happened inside her, a transfer that went beyond mind, beyond what could happen. In the moments before her body was torn apart, the woman who had been Kirri of the Kuvnos almost remembered, but not quite.

  Ciaran stared at the woman who had stumbled across his path. Her long hair was matted, thick with blood and filth, her mad eyes glinted in the moonlight. She stopped and stared uncomprehendingly before her mouth opened in a blood-curdling scream. The sound went on, beyond what a human throat could utter, her mouth widening and widening until it started to tear at the edges. When her face began to rend itself, those asleep at her feet stirred and Ciaran could no longer watch as the woman was torn apart from the inside.

  Hundreds of members of the army of the Revenant shambled to their feet, raising whatever crude weapons lay close at hand. In a heartbeat, Ciaran was surrounded by screaming, raging people, every one of whom was hacking, slashing, kicking, biting at him. Instinct took over, bare flickering moments before panic could, sending him into a desperate whirl of steel and flesh. He dodged, slashed, thrust and parried as blows rained down on him. All semblance of thought vanished; simple survival was the only thing left.

  Ciaran slashed across the face of an already bloodied man, but his arm was grabbed before he could complete the swing. The man drove his fist into Ciaran’s chest. His chain armour broke the blow, and most of the bones in the man’s hand, but Ciaran staggered back at the force of the impact. His right hand whipped out, drawing a red line across the man’s chest with a long, curving Rilaman blade. For a moment, the man stood, shock silencing his cries before he toppled back to be trampled by others seeking Ciaran’s death.

  A hand slashed at Ciaran’s face, but he pulled back, avoiding the raking nails. He smashed his fist, wrapped around the hilt of his shorter Tusemon knife, into his attacker’s face. He did not have time to watch as the man fell screaming backward, disappearing into the melee. His knives slashed across the bodies pressing at him, causing a moment’s respite as the attackers hesitated, staying a pace away. Ciaran took advantage and pressed forward. Three fell, opening a space. Ciaran moved through, hacking from side to side, wielding his blades with all the speed and strength left to him. Bodies fell screaming, holding savage wounds that sprayed blood over him.

  Ciaran ignored it all as he forced on. His arm was covered in blood, none of it his, his legs ached from driving on and his eyes were becoming blurred from the sting of blood splatter.

  A booming, ululating cry split the night air, bringing a moment’s respite as even the drooling mass hesitated. Ciaran recovered faster and shouldered his way through the last of the enemy blocking his path. To his shock, he found himself facing a huge, gnarled figure that towered above him, at least twice his own height. He looked up at the glowing eyes and knew fear.

  ‘Who is your leader?’ the figure rumbled.

  For a moment, Ciaran was tempted to speak the truth, but loyalty was a powerful influence.

  ‘I am,’ he said, lifting his blade in defiance.

  ‘Ha!’ the thing barked in response. It raised its head and bellowed once more the cry that had brought the battle to a momentary lull. The mass of the Revenant’s army that had been pressing against Ciaran fell back twenty paces, leaving him alone with the huge black beast. He stared up at it, unable to comprehend what was staring back. When a massive hand reached down towards him, instinct took over again. Ciaran slashed out, driving his blade forward with all the strength he possessed. Crossings of training, of exercise to build the strength of his arm and shoulders, of discipline to focus on the enemy at hand, of strategy, lay behind that one precise blow. Were a human enemy to take that blow, the damage would have been hideous.

  But what took the blow was not human. The blade slammed into ancient, rock-hard flesh. The shock of the impact rang through Ciaran’s arm up into his shoulder, leaving him trembling in agony. With utter disbelief, he saw his knife, given to him by his Tuk, shatter into pieces.

  Time seemed to slow as Ciaran watched the shards of steel scatter like shining leaves on the breeze. He observed with no emotion beyond shock as his numb hand let the useless hilt slip from his unfeeling fingers. A sound like a sigh arose from the shambling mass of mindless humanity around him as if they, too, were unable to comprehend what had happened. Ciaran shook himself to try to clear his head. When the creature’s hand gripped him and started to squeeze, he wished he had stayed dazed. The white-hot agony that ripped through him as his ribs started to crack was beyond belief. He tried to scream, but the sound could not pass the blood that filled his mouth. In the instant he thought he was going to die, he heard the beast bellow in shock. Ciaran’s consciousness faded, fortunately, as the Revenant dropped him, and he did not feel the pain of landing on the blood-soaked ground.

  16

  Keshik watched as Ciaran fought, impressed with his courage and strength. When the woman exploded to reveal the beast he knew from Vogel, Keshik faltered. Around him, the dead of the Revenant’s army were piled high, but still they surged on, stopping when the beast cried out. Keshik took advantage of the pause to rest his arms. His shoulders burned with pain, his chest heaved as he worked to draw in enough air. He was soaked through with the blood of those who threw themselves so carelessly onto his blades. Even after the days of scything attacks by his archers and nights like this one reducing the fighters by dozens or more, the great mass of mindless fighters seemed to move on unconcerned.

  But now the Revenant itself was troubled enough to seek out the source of the stinging attacks. Keshik did not know whether to be pleased at being noticed, or terrified at confronting this thing. He sheathed his metal blade, having seen the worthlessness of such a weapon, and approached.

  The beast gripped Ciaran and lifted him. Keshik saw his chance and darted forward on silent feet to drive his sword deep into the back of the beast’s leg. The sorcerous blade slid easily into the gnarled flesh, releasing a flood of thick black fluid that soaked his arm to the shoulder. He wrenched his blade back before the beast could turn. For an instant, he hesitated, but sense won over thoughtless bravery. He fled, hacking a way through the fighters of the Revenant. Behind him, he heard the beast bellow in shock and, hopefully, pain.

  Drooling, wild-eyed people reached out for him, slashing with broken swords, axes, hooked fingers, anything they had. His blood-slick body was hard to grip, so he was able to evade their attempts to bring him down so that they could tear him apart as they had done to so many brave Tulugma. His mind cleared, becoming cold and utterly focused on escape. Ahead, the edge of the army became clear, beyond which lay open ground. He doubled his efforts, driving harder at the stinking rabble. They fell before his magical blade, screaming and gurgling.

  He became aware of another sound. He dared not focus on it, but it became louder, clearer. Suddenly, he was no longer surrounded. The last fighters dropped back, leaving a ring around him as they h
ad around the Revenant. His heart pounded wildly as he allowed thought to return. Had it followed him? His shoulders drooped and he turned to face his death. Instead of the Revenant, he saw a bloodied and panting Slave.

  ‘Keep running,’ Slave said. He stood still, holding his Claw above his head. Around him, the army of the Revenant was staring at the Slave of Sondelle, apparently unaware of anything else. The sound Keshik had heard was emanating from them, a low, regular chant. He could now hear it was a single word, repeated over and over: ‘Beq, Beq, Beq.’

  ‘Run,’ Slave repeated.

  Keshik ran.

  He burst through the last few fighters out onto the open ground. His nostrils were filled with the stench of death and decay, his eyes saw only the horrors of the shambling army, but he kept running until the grass gave way to darkness as he passed into the line of trees that accompanied the passage of the Great River of Kings. Once there, he paused, slowing to a walk, allowing himself to become aware of his surrounds. Others were with him, members of the arban who had survived the fight. He dropped to his knees, breathing heavily.

  There were only six left alive, and all of them were as blood-soaked as he was. At least three were badly injured, with one unlikely to survive. She was lying face down on the mossy ground, her back betraying her heavy, pain-racked breathing. Keshik forced himself to his feet, walking across to kneel beside her. With hands still shaking from exertion, he rolled the dying woman over.

  As soon as he saw the face, grey with pain and slack, he knew her life would be measured in moments rather than days. He bowed his head in respect for a brave warrior as he listened to her last breaths. When she died, he stood to look at the rest of his arban.

  ‘We can’t do that again,’ he said.

  One of the arban, a short, powerful Agomin spearman, snorted. ‘Really?’

  ‘Shut it, Elpidian,’ Keshik snarled. ‘We wait here until dawn, then make our way back to camp.’

  Elpidian muttered as he turned his back on Keshik and walked away. He sat with his back to the trunk of a huge tree and stared into the darkness. Keshik breathed deeply, keeping his temper under control, reminding himself that the Agomin and the dead woman had been long-time friends. Agomin were known for their passion and fiery tempers as much as their art. They made poor soldiers usually, but Elpidian controlled his temper with the discipline of the Tulugma. Keshik left the body and made his way down to the river.

  He stood in silence. Even this far from the Great Wall, the river flowed fast enough to gouge deeply into the plains, leaving Keshik standing at the edge of a cliff. Maybe twenty or thirty paces beneath his feet the river surged west, carrying with it the mountains of silt that made the delta beyond the Wall so fertile. The sound of the water raging, unconcerned by the madness infecting the world of men, eased his mind a little, but the fears remained.

  Could all the water ever wash away the blood shed by what Slave and I released into the world?

  What were these two beasts, these Revenants, after?

  Could they be stopped?

  A soft footfall sounded somewhere behind him. He made himself draw his sword again and whirl around. Maida stood, shocked into motionlessness by his sudden movement. Dressed in black, with a black hood over her face, he recognised her from shape alone. She took a tentative step forward.

  ‘We found her,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ Keshik asked bitterly.

  ‘Myrrhini.’

  ‘Myrrhini? Where was she?’

  ‘She was right behind Slave.’

  ‘Still trying to stand in that circle of peace around him?’

  Maida nodded. ‘I think it’s the only thing that keeps her going sometimes.’

  Keshik looked back at the Great River of Kings as it surged on its never-ending journey. ‘Mertian and Scaren. Together. Who would ever have imagined that?’ he mused.

  Maida joined him at the edge of the cliff and slipped an arm around his waist. She rested her chin on his shoulder.

  ‘Nothing is what it was,’ she said. ‘The Wall was opened to flood the delta, Lac’u is burned, C’sobra has all but ceased to exist and the Tulugma are split.’

  ‘But what is this thing doing?’ Keshik waved a hand in the general direction of the army of the Revenant. ‘Why travel away from the seas and head for the mountains?’

  ‘Tulugma was Mertian,’ Slave said.

  Keshik spun around. Slave was standing in the dark shadows under the trees, the only sign of his presence the gleam of his silver eye.

  ‘What did you say?’ Keshik demanded.

  ‘Tulugma was Mertian. The Revenant was summoned here to destroy the Mertians utterly. It is simply doing what it came to do.’

  ‘But Myrrhini is Mertian,’ Maida protested. ‘It didn’t even notice her.’

  ‘It saw me and left its Beq in charge. That is what Myrrhini Saw in her vision, I think. The circle of peace around me is a protection I offer her.’ He hesitated, remembering what he had seen. ‘I think,’ he added.

  ‘You think?’ Keshik said.

  ‘All the time,’ Slave said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think all the time, I can’t help it. It was a joke, Keshik.’

  ‘I don’t need jokes,’ Keshik spat. ‘I need answers. I need a thousand hardened warriors. I need a better plan.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You know where the Revenant is going, you know why, and you have an enemy unlike anything anyone has ever seen. The plan is working.’

  ‘Working? You saw what happened tonight! We lost almost a whole arban!’

  ‘And killed hundreds,’ Slave added softly. ‘The Tulugma you have will not survive, that is true, but given time, they will end this.’

  ‘Time! How much time! We kill and kill them, spilling our blood, and their numbers don’t diminish.’

  ‘Their numbers are diminishing every day, and we fight as long as it takes,’ Slave said implacably.

  ‘So that’s it? That’s the end of the plan? We fight until we die?’

  Slave nodded. His glowing eye blinked, but did not reappear. In silence, he vanished as quickly as he had materialised.

  ‘Ice and wind!’ Keshik barked. ‘Sometimes I hate that man!’

  Maida held him close. ‘But you know he is right,’ she whispered into his ear.

  Keshik considered breaking away from her, but did not. He leaned his head against hers and stared once more out at the rushing waters of the Great River of Kings, contemplating the next day’s raids.

  ‘In time they will end this,’ Keshik whispered the words as he watched the three arbans mount up and ride after the Revenant’s army. Every day, the arbans rode out, every night they slit sleeping throats, yet still the army continued. Slave had been right about one thing, though: the army was smaller now. When it came across villages unfortunate enough to lie in its path, it was taking longer to reduce them to smoking rubble, to kill the inhabitants, to eat everything. One thing Keshik had not counted on, however, was the way the madness could spread, infecting survivors, drawing more into the army, so many who were lost in the fights were replaced by new, fresh people to continue the weary trudge.

  Keshik had sent an arban ahead, riding hard to warn those in the way to flee. Some listened, having already heard the rumours, and fled, but some remained to defend what was theirs. Remained and died, mostly. But at least there were fewer recruits now, and every day the number of dead and dying left in the army’s wake increased. They were not only dying from the depredations of Keshik’s Tulugma, but from illness, dehydration and starvation. Some, it seemed, simply dropped dead, a product of a damaged mind unable to continue pushing a failing body.

  Despite the deaths, the army moved on. Ahead lay the mountains, the great scar that ripped across the whole world from north to south like a badly healed wound. Their snow-covered peaks were already visible and the cold winds that blew down them were biting at night. Keshik and Maida welcomed the chill after the heat and dust of Midacea, but it meant they
were closing in on the Kuriltai.

  At some stage they had passed into Tusemo, but the borders were inconstant out here, of less importance so far away from the lands of the seas. Here, in the wilderness, there were more important things than which rock belonged to which kingdom. Out here in the kingdom of Tusemo, what mattered was food, shelter from the brutal winds and a way to leave the country.

  Maida sat astride her horse to his left, while Hayde held position at his right. It had proved impossible to dislodge him in his insistence to remain at Keshik’s side, so Keshik had relented and agreed to accept the title Tuk. Once agreeing, he had pushed Hayde to the limits of his strength, accepting only the young man’s absolute best. He had quickly improved to the point where he was among the best swordsmen in the troop.

  ‘They are getting tired, Tuk,’ Hayde observed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Everyone. We’ve been pushing very hard for a long time now. They will start making mistakes soon.’

  ‘Mistakes are costly,’ Keshik muttered.

  ‘He’s right, Keshik,’ Maida said.

  ‘So we have a break? Let that —’ he waved at the slug-like mass of humanity surging across the plains ‘— get ahead?’

  ‘We can catch them,’ Hayde said. ‘We know where they’re going.’

  ‘And there aren’t many villages between here and the Kuriltai,’ Maida added.

  ‘And those that are in its path have been warned already,’ Hayde went on.