The Twilight herald tr-2

by Tom Lloyd

  'A while ago,' she said, not really sure when that had been.

  'Shall I fetch you something? You're not looking your best.'

  Tila sighed, her fingers twisting the citrine ring on her left hand. 'I'm not hungry, and I'm not ill, I'm just worried.'

  He tried to look relieved, but Tila couldn't tell if it was genuine. 'Lady Tila, I don't care how mad the people of Scree are, they couldn't hurt Lord Isak. All he needs to fear are the Gods themselves!'

  'I'm afraid you are wrong, Cavalryman,' Tila said wearily. 'Lord Isak is stronger and faster than any man, but he is flesh and blood. After the battle in Narkang I bound his wounds. He has as much to fear from battle as you or I. Is there any news from the city at all? Do we not have scouts or mages reporting back?'

  'Of course,' he said, wondering how much he should say. 'There's no word of Lord Isak. I heard one of the mages tell General Lahk that some of the Knights of the Temples were on the move. There's talk they're going to ambush Lord Isak, but the general says he was expecting them to move.'

  'General Lahk is correct,' Tila said firmly. 'The Devoted will not harm Lord Isak – they will head straight for Six Temples and protect it against the mobs, nothing more.'

  The soldier nodded and Tila thought she saw a fleeting glimpse of surprise on his face, though it was obvious enough to anyone who knew anything of the Devoted.

  Behind her the narrow guardroom window was open to the city. Bars made it secure against intruders but they did nothing against the ebb and flow of sounds from outside, voices, the clatter of hooves, and behind them, further away, noises she couldn't identify. The newly returned wind rustled through, bringing no relief from the sticky heat within.

  The soldier bobbed his head, trying to catch Tila's attention as she stared pensively at nothing. Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?' he repeated doggedly.

  Tila nodded. 'I'm sure. I left my books in Tirah and that's all I want right now.'

  'Your books?'

  'Oh, everything: history and diplomacy, journals, treatises on prophecy – in times such as these, who knows what scrap of informa¬tion – a past allegiance, a war long-past – might prove crucial to us now. I feel so useless sitting here; surrounded by people moving with a purpose, while I have none. If I had my books, I could at least pretend to be something more than a liability.' She sighed again.

  The soldier shifted his weight, deeply uncomfortable. He was there

  to bring the lady a pot of tea, not to tell a noblewoman how to make herself useful. He knew men who'd been flogged for expressing opin-ions on the subject, so he kept his mouth firmly shut. As expected, she didn't seem to be looking for a contribution from his corner anyway.

  'If you change your mind,' he ventured after what he thought was an appropriate pause, 'if you do need anything, just call. I'll be down the corridor.'

  Tila looked up, bleary-eyed. 'I'm sorry; I didn't mean to keep you. Thank you for the tea; please tell me when Lord Isak returns.'

  The soldier bobbed his head and ducked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

  Tila listened to the half-dozen heavy footsteps that took him to his station at the entrance to the guard tower, then returned to her thoughts, and a creeping fatigue. She tried to count the hours since she'd slept properly and gave up. The heat had reduced a full night's sleep to restless hours punctuated by snatched moments of rest.

  She looked around the guardroom. She'd come in here because there was a pair of massive armchairs in the centre of the room, pre-sumably liberated from some officers' mess, and each one was easily large enough to contain her small, exhausted frame. Between them was a battered leather-bound chest held shut by mouldering buckles that she was using as a footstool. She curled up again and let her

  thoughts blur and drift. The clatter outside began to slowly recede into the background.

  Tila's eyelids sank inexorably down as her head filled with the stuffy air of the guardroom that smelled of dust, dried mud and old wood shavings. There was an empty grate beside her, where shadows danced over the cold ashes. She tried to focus on the blackened hearthstone, attempting to pick out the worn, sooty lines of the image cut into. She expected to see Grepel of the Hearths, Tsatach's most domesti-cated Aspect, with her burning tongue hanging out like a dog's, but Tila's brow contracted into a frown as she realised the undulating lines bore no relation to Grepel. Her mind tried to frame the shapes around oilier Aspects of Tsatach, but the effort proved too much as her ilioughts floundered like a deer in a tar-pit. A sense of weight built relentlessly, dragging on limbs already weakened by fatigue. Her breath grew shallower. All the while the flame of the oil lamp gut¬tered, flickered and grew ever dimmer.

  Unable to resist, Tila submitted and felt herself drift down into the shadowy embrace of sleep. Sliding up the walls of the guardroom, the darkness rose until the feeble light from the oil lamp was nothing more than a distant glimmer, subsumed by creeping fingers of darkness that flowed over her skin, soothing and lulling away the weariness. Enveloped in that comforting touch, Tila skirted the boundaries of sleep for a time, her awareness dulled as she listened only to the sound of her own breath, in and out, in and out… until that too was lost to the quiet of the night.

  Then there was only the darkness.

  A sudden breath surged through her body, forcing her eyelids open a crack and rushing with a tingle from her lungs out to her fingers and toes. Tila stared ahead in surprise at the unfamiliar room smelling of dust and mould, and the oil lamp in front of her faded almost to nothing, down to vapours. The guardroom, the Autumn's Arch gate. Images and faces returned: the door left ajar, the small cylindrical cup in her hands coming back into focus.

  A chair where she sat so snug and warm, another opposite her, fac¬ing away from the lamp. The shadows looked longer now, lying thick within the other chair, so it looked almost like a man sat there, the worn, scratched leather supporting a shoulder there, and an arm…

  What am I doing here? she thought bitterly. Why did I make sure they brought me, when all I could do was to slow them down?

  'Because they are men without families,' the shadow answered her. 'You bring order to their lives, and a balance, that reminds them of who they are.'

  Is balance what they really need? she found herself thinking, as if the shadow had actually spoken to her. A good soldier is one who can cast off who he is, put aside everything of him except instinct and training.

  'And you remind them of their fears,' the darkness in the empty chair continued. 'By your vulnerability you demonstrate what price they might have to pay, you wear the faces of those they might lose. What use are you now to your lord?'

  I am his advisor, she told herself. J have taught him about history and prophecy-

  The shadowy figure laughed. 'And yet you cannot even see when it is on the cusp of being fulfilled. You failed to recognise the danger of the lust king on Silvernight, you ignored all the signs while you pursued your own desires.'

  How was 1 to know? 1 couldn't have known-

  'You failed him when his life was in the greatest of dangers and now once more your inadequacies prove a burden.'

  A burden? Tila asked herself. What now? What have I done so wrong? She felt tears welling in her eyes as dread stole over her.

  'This task you appointed to yourself, yet cannot fulfil. The role so crucial to the fortunes of your lord given to a foolish slip of a girl with a head full of gossip and some childish notions of scholarly work, playing the minister and guardian of her lord's person.'

  She could not control her deep, juddering sobs now. What have I missed?

  ' "Twilight heralded by theatre and flame, the scion and sire kill in the place of death-'"

  ''Treasure and loss from the darkness, from holy hands to a lady of ashes. A shadow rising from the faithful," she continued with mounting hor-ror, uhis twilight reign to begin amid the slain." Oh merciful Nartis – his father! His father is missing!

  'And he meets his allies at the
Temple of Death,' the voice in her head finished triumphantly. 'And thus once more you fail him.'

  Swathed in a cloak of night, Aracnan watched the Farlan soldiers below, raising their barricades ever higher as they prepared for assault. Three legions were camped outside the city gate, lines of tents and cooking fires huddled close to the wall. A rampart of earth studded with sharpened stakes had been thrown up in a crescent around them. Pickets lined the rampart and most of the soldiers had been formed into regiments, ready for the general's command – but still dozens of men were preparing food, irrespective of what violence might be occurring soon.

  'A statement to those of us watching,' said a voice beside him. He knew better than to turn. Shadows were best seen out of the corner of an eye.

  I don't think we need take note of any such statement. Leave that to the cattle out there.'

  Their voices were strangely similar; more than once Aracnan had wondered whether there was anything to read into that.

  'I prefer to observe it all nonetheless,' the shadow said with the breath of a chuckle.

  Despite himself, Aracnan felt a chill run down his spine. Laden with malevolence, the shadow's laughter cut to the bone in a way Aracnan had never experienced before. Having trembled at the rage of Gods and lived more years than he cared to count, he had never been so unsettled by so simple a noise. And that is why I've joined him, Aracnan thought. Alt my life I've been forced to adapt and survive, I recognise my better here, and in turn he knows I'm no mere mortal plaything.

  He shifted the bow and quiver over his shoulder to a more comfort¬able position as he looked out into the dark streets of the city. In the south an awful orange glow consumed the air. The bow was one he'd taken from Koezh Vukotic's armoury. It epitomised the quality of the methodical Vukotic craftsmen. It wasn't yet time for him to take a hand in events – he wasn't yet past the point of no return, however much he could taste it on the coming wind – but there was something refreshingly direct about a well-placed arrow, and events might yet need a helping hand. Magic would leave no trace, while craftsman¬ship could be identified and hasty conclusions drawn. Aracnan had learned over the centuries that a little misdirection was often worth the effort.

  Aracnan saw the vast destruction already inflicted on the southern districts, filtered through swirling sooty clouds. The slum districts were the worst affected; some were already obliterated because of the close wooden houses – and the inferno was growing. It had driven the mad¬dened, mindless people further north, and they lingered on the fringes of the light from the Farlan lines inside the city. Had they noticed the soldiers there, they would have attacked without a moment's thought, blind to their own lack of weapons and driven by a compulsion that was all-consuming.

  He felt little towards them; certainly he took no pleasure in the senselessness forced on them by Rojak, but they were not his kind and the life of an immortal was ruled by pragmatism. If Azaer could give him what he wanted, then he would follow the shadow's orders. Neither of them was so foolish as to ask for trust. He was not even worried by the thought that Azaer might use him to lure Isak to the right place – such was life. As it was, Aracnan had only to guide the wandering mobs to where they were required, currently held hack from the Farlan lines by a simple enchantment of his.

  Aracnan had found himself impressed at the magic wrought by Rojak. Rarely had he seen such accomplished magic worked by a mortal, let alone such devotion. Few believed so fervently as to bind their own soul to a spell, but Rojak had done that at his master's bidding. While the minstrel was failing fast, Aracnan had a suspicion tonight wouldn't be the last time he suddenly smelled peach-blossom on the breeze and turned to see that mocking smile. Death might only be the beginning for Azaer's greatest servant.

  'Have you delivered your message?' he asked, letting his gaze wander slowly from the wavering figures hiding in dark corners to the barred guardroom window where the girl dozed.

  'It is done.''

  'Will you now explain it? I assume declaring your intention through prophecy is not merely conceit.'

  'Forewarned is forearmed.1

  Aracnan thought for a moment, the skin of his gaunt, hairless head contorting strangely until realisation dawned. 'Ah, I understand; the bidden face of covenant theory, the perversity of magic. To achieve grand deeds you must first sow the seeds of your own destruction.'

  'Now that would be a little foolish,' said the shadow, 'but it is nonethe¬less necessary to allow for the possibility of those seeds to exist. No magic is unstoppable, no spell irreversible. Without that element of the unknown, nothing could be achieved, but perhaps it is possible to guide the unknown in a certain direction.'

  'The girl has been warned that her lord is just a player in your game so you can predict their reaction?'

  'Exactly so. Even now she is trying to find General Lahk to explain the danger. Better that than to gamble on what someone is thinking and leave it to chance.'

  Aracnan made a sweeping gesture, as though gathering up the threads of a fishing net and drawing them towards him. 'Well then, let us make sure we know what General Lahk will be thinking about.'

  The movement ended as his hand reached a pouch sewn onto his black stiffened-leather armour. He pushed one bony finger inside and smiled as the energies comprising his spell danced up his arm, prick-ling; the skin as they dissipated into the black clouds above him and vanished.

  Almost immediately the first howls of animal rage rang out from the streets below. They were joined by hundreds more, merging into a great roar of wordless voices and running feet that drowned out the warning shouts from the FarIan pickets.

  CHAPTER 29

  Rojak watched the scene playing out before him and felt a flicker of satisfaction break through the pain wracking his body. The dead were scattered all around. Men, women and children lay curled up in tidy bundles, or sprawled in almost comic poses. Others were little more than lumps of flesh rendered unrecognisable by the brutality done them. He sat in a broken chair scavenged from somewhere by one of the Hounds. It was far from comfortable, but he was in no position to complain – he was in no position to do anything but sit and watch the final death'throes of Scree.

  'It is done,' he whispered, to himself or his master, Rojak was not sure now. 1 am done, he added to himself. Azaer's shadows, so close for all these years, felt like they had penetrated him, flesh and bone. As the corruption inside him raged unchecked, his soul faded faster, merging with the intangible essence of his master.

  'Not done, not quite.' The susurrus reply echoed in ghostly fashion all around the broken building. Rojak couldn't move, his strength having failed on the steps below. When they had arrived at this place, it had been a scene of fresh devastation, the air tasting abused, and scorched by the rampant energies unleashed by the abbot. The buildings were aflame, or smashed and scattered over the packed-dirt streets.

  'It cannot be stopped now, it is too far gone,' Rojak said, compelling his thoughts to order. His master, whispering in his ear, had told him some of what was going on in the rest of the city, and Rojak could feeI a prickling map of hurt on his skin that echoed the destruction, hot stinging fires that consumed whole streets, the slender needles of Crystal Skulls and divine-touched people scraping a path through the flesh as they moved.

  'Lord Isak will soon reach Six Temples and there he will be forced to make a stand with the Devoted.' He paused and struggled to breathe.

  A shriek from somewhere below marked some deranged citizen stray¬ing too close to Mistress's remaining pet. 'King Emin is so very close now, and soon he will have all that he desires.'

  'Then let it play out. Make your final moves on the board before you fall.'

  Rojak tried to nod, but the effort defeated him. Death was so close he could almost reach out and touch the robe, as they said in Embere-

  But no, not Death; the Chief of the Gods would not claim him. It was not a black robe he felt all around him, merely shadows. Death would not have him. There was n
o word for what would happen when Rojak's body failed finally. It would be an ending, but not death.

  Rojak's vision whirled, flames blurring for a brief while before the details of the street ahead returned. He could just see the rotting corpse of a wyvern, one of the pair kept by the Raylin called Mistress. The beast had had its fill of the clamour and stink of dead meat all around. It had snapped at what it thought was a corpse, but the mo¬ment a canine caught Rojak's sleeve, the minstrel's plague had caught it, passing through its razor-sharp teeth to its tongue and down its throat. Its scales, once glittering in myriad shades of green and gold, had sloughed off as its body erupted in viscous pus-filled boils and thick, black blood had seeped from all its orifices. In a few moments the wyvern was just another rotting pile on the ground.

  Rojak sat upstairs in a small house now exposed to the elements after the abbot's magic had torn roof and walls away. It was the closest remaining building to where the abbot himself lay gibbering, curled in a foetal position, in what was left of his cellar. The furious incarnation of Erwillen, the abbot's Aspect-Guide, fuelled by the Skull's power and random blasts of raw energy, had blown up the building.

  Much of what remained was still burning fiercely; the protective ring of fire kept the boldest of Scree's citizens away for the time being. There was little of the house left intact now, only the thick stones of the kitchen hearth and the wall opposite it, almost to the height of a man. The rest was broken stumps of wood and heaps of stained brick. Amid the rubble lurked the soot-blackened feathers and claws of the High Hunter. Rojak could hear the beast's laboured breathing, no doubt echoing Abbot Doren's own exertions.

  'Venn,' he croaked. The slim man came to his side as though glid-ing on ice, his tattooed face completely unreadable. Diamond'shapes ran down his left cheek, running around his ear and down the side of his throat, disappearing under the frayed neckline of his tunic. 'It is time for you to leave.'