Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  The disturbance intensifies. The crowd parts and a massive coach, drawn by four horses much larger than any horse has a right to be, comes into view. It is made of polished blackwood and edged in gold. Gold paint, probably, Sautea thinks as he squints. No, that is real gold.

  The coach pulls up in front of the dais and the driver steps down from his seat. Sautea recoils in shock: he knows this man. He is very tall, though not as tall as he once was, and his hair is white now when once it had been jet black. He wears a nondescript outfit: boiled-leather jerkin and trousers. A flute hangs from one shoulder. He has not aged, of course. Apprentice gods do not age.

  Lord of Bhrudwo no longer, the man has not been reduced by his new role. There is a grace to his carriage that he did not have before, a stillness that has replaced the restlessness that once characterised him. He is more, somehow, than he once was.

  His empire has dissolved into large kingdoms and petty fiefdoms. By and large there have been few wars, but the peace enjoyed by Bhrudwo no longer exists, as people struggle to adapt to the change. The great fortress of Andratan lies empty now, apparently, abandoned shortly after the Tower of Farsight was declared a sacred place. When the last servant left, the gate was locked, the key thrown into the ocean and the whole island declared off limits. Stories are told now of Ghost Island and the fiery glow that occasionally lights up the sky, supposedly on the anniversary of the fall of the Tower of Farsight.

  Noetos has often said how the ending of Kannwar’s rule is a blessing, even though it does not appear that way. Roudhos, he says, will be smaller but better than Bhrudwo was. There is no need for the calculating decisions the Undying Man once made. No need for an immortal ruler. The fisherman has no regrets, he says, at passing on his own rulership to his son.

  Kannwar bows to the stage, then opens the door of the coach. No one emerges. With a sigh he produces a wooden step and places it in front of the door, then steps back.

  “Aren’t you going to announce me, ulcers to your soul?” comes a querulous voice from within. A few members of the crowd laugh.

  “My apologies, old friend. Sauxa of—where are you from these days?”

  A wizened old man makes his way out of the coach, taking the step with care. “I’ll do it myself,” he snaps. “Sauxa of anywhere in Faltha a woman will have me!” he cries, then blinks in the sun. “Sauxa of Chardzou, actually,” he amends.

  By this time Noetos has left his seat and is already off the platform. “Sauxa!” he cries. “A cheer, everyone, for one of the heroes of the War Against the Gods!”

  The crowd cheers dutifully, by no means convinced that such an old man could be the hero of anything.

  By the gods, Sautea thinks, he’s not weathered well. Probably holed up in that tent in the middle of the plains, beating off the storms every winter and gales every summer. Last Sautea heard, the old man had retired from his role as Arkhos of Straux, left the Council of Faltha and Instruere, and taken himself back to the Central Plains in high dudgeon, complaining about the younger generation, by which he meant anyone who hadn’t seen seventy summers.

  It is wonderful to see the irascible old man. As Sauxa is led up the steps of the platform, Sautea nods to him and receives a cheerful wink in return.

  The plainsman has never been told the full story of his countryman Robal’s fate. That tale, perhaps the darkest of a dark time, emerged a decade or so after the events. Noetos has never explained where he heard the story, but there is seemingly no doubt it is true. Sautea sincerely hopes it never comes to the ears of the old man. It would break his heart anew.

  He notices the driver of the coach has not moved. “Merla Umerta of Sayonae and consort,” he announces, his deep voice carrying to every ear on the waterfront.

  “I told you not to call me that,” says a sweet voice from the darkness inside.

  Kannwar inclines his head and a small smile plays on his lips.

  From the coach descends a stunning couple. The man is dark-skinned, his broad, shining face surmounted by curly black hair. He wears the most outrageous pink jacket and pantaloons, clothes that ought to be appalling. But they look magisterial on him. The woman at his side is simply the most glorious creature Sautea has ever seen. More beautiful by far than her celebrated sister, her face lit by an inner glow that begins to bewitch the whole crowd. She smiles, and it is a shy smile.

  “Travelled with her the whole way,” Sauxa says, his reedy voice clearly audible in the sudden silence. “For a god, she’s got a god-awful voice. Never shuts up.”

  He looks around, realises everyone is listening and snaps his mouth closed.

  Sautea has seen neither of the two gods for twenty years, and his heart aches at the memory of their courage. As he begins to weep, Nellas takes his hand and squeezes it.

  “The Son and the Daughter,” she says, her voice a whisper. “Old man, you weren’t exaggeratin’ after all.”

  “They are holding in the best part of their glamour,” he says. “If you had been there, old girl, when they climbed up them stone thrones, you would have had your eyes near burned out, like mine were.”

  The Son and the Daughter, trailed by their apprentice, walk up to the platform.

  “We have come to honour the Dukes of Roudhos, both new and old,” she says.

  “And to spend time with old friends,” he adds, and smiles.

  “Please… please be welcome,” stammers the chief alderman.

  Nobody needs to be told who these presences are. Though everyone here has heard the tale of the War Against the Gods, told by raconteurs in taverns or sung by bards in those interminable verses, most consider the gods a myth. But here they are, almost too bright to look upon, standing amongst the citizens of Raceme.

  They nod to the alderman and accept seats hurriedly drawn up for them at the end of the row in which Noetos sits. Sautea is some distance from the present Duke of Roudhos but he hears the man’s question. “Any news of my daughter?”

  Lenares nods to Noetos, an answer of sorts. It is a question Sautea wants answered too, though not as urgently as Arathé’s father. She married Duon of Elamaq in a simple ceremony immediately on their return to Raceme after the northern events, and the explorer promptly took her south to his homeland. Eight years later they reappeared for one golden summer, accompanied by a tousle-headed boy of about six years of age. Arathé had recovered much, though not all, of her beauty; and the boy was the image of Anomer, who had been in Dhauria at the time and so had not met his nephew. At summer’s end, the family had left again, in pursuit of further adventures.

  Elamaq is, apparently, in turmoil. They have had the news from the occasional trader claiming to have dared Cape Despair and made it to Talamaq; and Duon and Arathé have confirmed it. The Omerans rose up against their former masters, seemingly having freed themselves of their inbred obedience, and the conflict has been a protracted one. Noetos received one letter, a somewhat cryptic account of Duon and Arathé’s preparation for a voyage to Ilixa Isle in which they mentioned his troubles in Elamaq, and has heard nothing since.

  Sautea loves Noetos’s daughter as if she were his own child. With Mustar, he rescued her from the sack of Fossa and, in a fearsome, storm-assailed journey, delivered her to her father in Raceme. His great contribution to the War Against the Gods. She was close to him in the weeks and months after the war, and her absence is one of his life’s chief sadnesses. So the nod from the Daughter bodes well.

  The gods are seated and hood their glamour still further, though everyone is still conscious of them. The alderman rises, clears his throat a few more times and commences his speech. As far as speeches go, Sautea supposes this one is a good one. Excellent, in fact. But he doubts anyone hears it. Whispers travel back and forth through the crowd and hands point to the various people on the platform—including, he notices, some at himself. Huh. Some fools will waste time on any minor celebrity.

  The alderman has just finished wiping his face for the third time—the day is warm, but summer i
s still weeks away—when a shout comes from the direction of the rebuilt Red Duke Wharf.

  “Hoy! Can anyone direct me to the Duke of Roudhos?” calls a bold voice. “We were told in Tochar that the ceremony was tomorrow, but we’ve lost a day somewhere.”

  The crowd draws away from the man and the woman hurrying along Wharf Street, daunted perhaps by his drawn sword. He waves it from side to side absent-mindedly. He is tall, middle-aged, but brimming with energy. She is also tall—certainly taller than Sautea remembers—no, she is slimmer than when he last saw her. He is wearing light ceremonial armour, and she is in a flowing pink dress that rather needs someone to lift its train from the street.

  The alderman is knocked to the ground in the rush to greet Duon and Arathé. Sautea’s eyes blur. He should have realised they would make every effort to see the new Duke of Roudhos confirmed. There are hugs exchanged there in front of thousands of bemused witnesses: gods embracing humans and vice versa, exchanging greetings like old friends. Then Arathé, bless her, calls out: “Where is Sautea?”

  She leaps onto the platform, ignoring the stairs, makes straight for him, plants herself squarely on his lap and kisses his forehead. “Oh, Uncle,” she says. “I am glad to see you.”

  “Where have you been?” he asks, barely able to get the words out past a tightness in his throat.

  “Stuck on Ilixa for years. Oh, what a terrible place! We’ve had such adventures—but I will tell everyone later.”

  He is about to ask her another question when his poor old brain catches up to his ears. “Arathé,” he says carefully. “Am I imagining things, or can I hear you talk?”

  She nods, eyes sparkling. “The reason we dared Ilixa,” she says, “was partly to see if I could recover my voice. And it worked,” she adds unnecessarily, and pokes her tongue out at him.

  “Hmm,” Nellas says. “Careful with that old man, girl. Much more happiness and he’ll have to lie down for a week.”

  After the dramatic entrances, the rest of the ceremony goes off hitchless, though rather anti-climactically. Anomer, looking every bit the Duke, accepts the sceptre from his father, along with a curious stone in the shape of a woman’s head set on a block of wood. He and Moralye are sworn in as the Duke and Duchess of Roudhos and make the necessary promises. The crowd cheers, but is clearly somewhat distracted by the personnel on the platform.

  Sautea’s heart burns in his chest.

  Music is played, songs are sung, and there is dancing in the streets, but Sautea has retired his dancing feet and contents himself with tapping them on the wooden platform. When the music is over and the last speech is made, they repair to the Summer Palace and the meal and fellowship waiting for them.

  And as dusk falls and a single star rises from the horizon, the gods’ apprentice leads them to the balcony above the city. There he cries, in a loud voice: “Let us take a moment to honour she who triumphed in the War Against the Gods. Rise with me and bow your heads to the one to whom we all owe our lives. Stella Pellwen.”

  Kannwar bows his head, and Sautea observes that the gods can indeed weep.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m a very lucky man. I get to make my hobby into my occupation, I get to entertain people (or perhaps frustrate or anger them) and to work on projects I’m proud of.

  These books bearing my name are by no means all my own work. I have received valuable assistance from readers, editors and artists. In particular I wish to thank Dorinda and Iain for reading early drafts, Phillip Berrie for eagle-eyed continuity work, and Nicola O’Shea for outstanding editorial assistance. Nicola gets what I’m trying to do, and she works to a level of detail that puts a real shine on the manuscript. The bits that don’t work for you are probably the bits where I ignored her advice.

  I’ve been fortunate to have superb cover art. You can judge these books by their covers, as they are faithful to the feel and detail of the story. My thanks to Greg Bridges and the design team. Less visible but no less important are the hundreds of enthusiastic booksellers who put these books in your hands.

  I continue to owe a great debt to Stephanie Smith, my HarperCollins editor. She is patient and perceptive, and ensures I produce my best work. Thanks to all at HarperCollins Voyager Australia and New Zealand for their professionalism.

  extras

  meet the author

  Russell Kirkpatrick’s love of literature and a chance encounter with fantasy novels as a teenager opened up a vast number of possibilities to him. The idea that he could marry storytelling and mapmaking (his other passion) into one project grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. He lives in New Zealand with his wife and two children. Find out more about Russell Kirkpatrick at www.russellkirkpatrick.com.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed BEYOND THE WALL OF TIME,

  look out for

  ORCS

  by Stan Nicholls

  “Look at me. Look at the orc.

  “There is fear and hatred in your eyes. To you I am a monster, a skulker in the shadows, a fiend to scare your children with. A creature to be hunted down and slaughtered like a beast in the fields.

  “It’s time you pay heed to the beast. And see the beast in yourself. I have your fear. But I have earned your respect.

  “Hear my story. Feel the flow of blood and be thankful. Thankful that it was me, not you, who bore the sword. Thankful to the orcs; born to fight, destined to win peace for all.”

  Stryke couldn’t see the ground for corpses.

  He was deafened by screams and clashing steel. Despite the cold, sweat stung his eyes. His muscles burned and his body ached. Blood, mud and splashed brains flecked his jerkin. And now two more of the loathsome, soft pink creatures were moving in on him with murder in their eyes.

  He savoured the joy.

  His footing unsure, he stumbled and almost fell, pure instinct bringing up his sword to meet the first swinging blade. The impact jarred but checked the blow. He nimbly retreated a pace, dropped into a half crouch and lunged forward again, below his opponent’s guard. The sword rammed into the enemy’s stomach. Stryke quickly raked it upward, deep and hard, until it struck a rib, tumbling guts. The creature went down, a stupefied expression on its face.

  There was no time to relish the kill. The second attacker was on him, clutching a two-handed broadsword, its glinting tip just beyond the limit of Stryke’s reach. Mindful of its fellow’s fate, this one was more cautious. Stryke went on the offensive, engaging his assailant’s blade with a rain of aggressive swipes. They parried and thrust, moving in a slow, cumbersome dance, their boots seeking purchase on bodies of friend and foe alike.

  Stryke’s weapon was better suited to fencing. The size and weight of the creature’s broadsword made it awkward to use in close combat. Designed for hacking, it needed to be swung in a wider arc. After several passes the creature strained with effort, huffing clouds of icy breath. Stryke kept harrying from a distance, awaiting his chance.

  In desperation, the creature lurched toward him, its sword slashing at his face. It missed, but came close enough for him to feel the displaced air. Momentum carried the stroke on, lifting the creature’s arms high and leaving its chest unprotected. Stryke’s blade found its heart, triggering a scarlet eruption. The creature spiralled into the trampling mêlée.

  Glancing down the hill, Stryke could make out the Wolverines, embroiled in the greater battle on the plain below.

  He returned to the slaughter.

  Coilla looked up and saw Stryke on the hill above, not far from the walls of the settlement, savagely laying into a group of defenders.

  She cursed his damned impatience.

  But for the moment their leader would have to look after himself. The warband had some serious resistance to overcome before they could get to him.

  Here in the boiling cauldron of the main battlefield, bloody conflict stretched out on every side. A crushing mob of fighting troops and shying mounts churned to pulp what had been fields of crops just hours before. The cacop
honous, roaring din was endless, the tart aroma of death soured the back of her throat.

  A thirty-strong flying wedge bristling with steel, the Wolverines kept in tight formation, powering through the struggling mass like some giant multi-stinged insect. Near the wedge’s spearhead, Coilla helped clear their path, lashing out with her sword at enemy flesh obstructing the way.

  Too fast to properly digest, a succession of hellish tableaux vivants flashed past her. A defender with a hatchet buried in its shoulder; one of her own side, gore-encrusted hands covering his eyes; another silently shrieking, a red stump in lieu of an arm; one of theirs staring down at a hole the size of a fist in its chest; a headless body, gushing crimson as it staggered. A face cut to ribbons by the slashing of her blade.

  An infinity later the Wolverines arrived at the foot of the hill and began to climb as they fought.

  A brief hiatus in the butchery allowed Stryke to check again the progress of his band. They were cleaving through knots of defenders about halfway up the hill.

  He turned back and surveyed the massive wooden-walled stronghold topping the rise. There was a way to go before they reached its gates, and several score more of the enemy to overcome. But it seemed to Stryke that their ranks were thinning.

  Filling his lungs with frigid air, he felt again the intensity of life that came when death was this close.

  Coilla arrived, panting, the rest of the troop close behind.

  “Took your time,” he commented drily. “Thought I’d have to storm the place alone.”

  She jabbed a thumb at the milling chaos below. “Weren’t keen on letting us through.”

  They exchanged smiles that were almost crazed.

  Bloodlust’s on her too, he thought. Good.

  Alfray, custodian of the Wolverines’ banner, joined them and drove the flag’s spar into the semi-frozen earth. The warband’s two dozen common soldiers formed a defensive ring around the officers. Noticing one of the grunts had taken a pernicious-looking head wound, Alfray pulled a field dressing from his hip bag and went to staunch the blood.