by Tom Stacey
“Run, you old fool!” he screamed and ran headlong, leaning forward to put his weight into his steps lest Aifayne’s weight slow him down. His bruised body protested but he put all thought of discomfort underfoot.
The screams grew more frequent and mingled with the ring of metal on metal, though the latter was a sound all too broken and sporadic to convince Loster that any real resistance was being offered to the strange, stork-legged soldiers.
Aifayne finally turned the right way around and the pair picked up pace. Nevertheless their going was still slower than Loster would have liked, and he had to try and ignore the nagging suggestion to run with all the speed his youth could muster. The mist was a cloying blanket now and they had lost the sight of the wagons. Instead they were surrounded by the tall silhouettes of the trees and every now and again the threat of a mysterious soldier flitting in and out of their bubble of visibility.
“Your father’s men,” muttered Aifayne, his breath a too-loud wheeze that would surely betray them, “why are they doing this?”
“They’re not my father’s men,” said Loster, stopping to catch his breath. Aifayne sank gratefully down on to a fallen log. “Did you see how tall they were?”
“I am not a tall man, my Lord. Everybody is tall to me.”
“Not like that. They’re like demons.”
“No, my Lord,” Aifayne breathed in raggedly. “Do not speak of such ills. Leave them to the stories where they belong.”
“But I saw them!” Loster said incredulously, his heart hammering in his chest like a trapped bird.
“Maybe they were rebels?” Aifayne offered. The old man had found a portion of his breath again and now his voice took flight on one of its interminable journeys. “The Heartlands are at war, you know. It is not unbelievable that they mistook us for soldiers of Illis.”
“Ssshh!!” Loster hissed at the elderly priest to be silent, and Aifayne did stop, though he looked offended at the interruption.
The forest was a miasma of vapour and tension, striped here and there with the dark vertical of a tree. The silence that had once seemed so welcome and peaceful was now ripe with the unnerving promise of something horrible. Loster wished to all the gods that he held a weapon in his hands, though he knew he would not be able to use it to much effect. His Lord father had made certain that he focus on his studies rather than anything practical, if only to protect his bloodline. Now he was off to the Temple Dawn, and the Temple Dawn was not a place for weapons.
Loster scanned the undergrowth, glad that his itchy white tunic served as camouflage in the mist. He could see no more than twenty paces all around and was fast losing memory of which way he had come. He turned to whisper to Aifayne but the priest was staring wide-eyed at a spot over Loster’s right shoulder. Loster spun around and threw himself backwards as a spider-fingered gauntlet of barbed metal closed on the air where he had been. Loster landed on his back and the air flew from his lungs with an oof. He breathed deeply and quickly, and scrabbled backwards, away from the thing that rose over him.
It was a creature of nightmare, at least as tall as a bear standing on its hind legs, though slim and seemingly fragile. The line of its visor was a black, merciless void and yet Loster could sense something lurking behind that featureless metal face. It stepped forward again to seize him but Loster found that he could not react. It was as though his mind alone ran free in a body made of stone, and he could only watch as a cruel grey gauntlet reached out to take him, for this was a nightmare he had experienced before. He saw again Barde’s face and the painted maw of the Unnamed, and finally the huge metal Guardian that had split his brother in two. The soldier before him now was much smaller, but it was an almost perfect copy of the monster below the mountain.
It crouched awkwardly in its armour, taking a knee to reach him so that the spiked kneecap pointed its barb along the ground towards him. It stretched out a terrifyingly long arm, and the cold metal of its fingertips brushed his forehead and cheek almost tenderly. He felt himself scream silently in his head but he could do no more, for he was afraid and the warm blanket had begun to smother his mind, deciding that he die now so that he might not live to fear again.
A horrible noise someway between a gong and a crunch echoed through the forest until the mist absorbed the sound like a sponge. Loster felt sharp pain as the barbed fingers scratched down across his cheek and he watched the small Guardian topple sideways, its strange helm caved in at the side like a dented bucket, a small hand axe with a worn handle buried in the visor. Above the fallen creature stood a woman in a grey robe. Her face was pink from exertion but her eyes spoke of determination.
“Come, little Lord,” she said in a voice he had heard before. “We must be away.”
Loster looked up and found himself grasping the proffered hand with unnecessary force.
It was the woman from the Great Hall, a member of the Sons of Iss, and she had come to save him.
XIV
The leaves were damp and crunched underfoot, and Loster was sure that they were being too loud. They had been following the woman called Selene for over a night and a day, keeping well away from the road, but the dense undergrowth was taking its toll and Aifayne was growing weaker with every minute. At first, their steps had been dogged by the sounds of pursuit: strange, haunting horn blasts that frayed the nerves, accompanied by the shrieks of foul creatures that remained unseen. Selene was forcing them to move quickly, but if they ever stopped for more than a few moments of rest, the horns would blast again and they would be forced to flee.
“They’re driving us.” Selene squatted on her haunches, scratching a crude map into the mud with a stick. “We’re being herded like cattle.” They were in a small dell that held the skeletal remains of several birds. Loster thought it might be the home of a fox or a badger. Or a lurk, said an unhelpful voice in his his mind.
Aifayne moaned and Loster moved to his side. The old priest was taking this frantic journey through the forest hard. He sat propped up against a tree, head lolling with exhaustion. Last night, Selene had shaken them awake while the thin moon was still high. They had pushed on, suffering the lashes of obstructing branches and risking turned ankles in the dark. Loster understood her reasoning; she wasn’t alone in wanting to put some distance between them and their pursuit. Yet it seemed their efforts had failed: a dawn break a few hours earlier had been cut abruptly short by the wail of those strange horns, and they had been forced on once more. It had burned much of what Aifayne had left to give.
Selene finished her map and grunted. “We’ll be out in the open soon. This forest doesn’t go on forever.”
“What do we do then?” asked Loster, weathering the withering glare from the woman in the grey robes. Aifayne groaned and screwed his eyes so tight that Loster was worried he would squeeze them into jelly. “Will they catch us?”
“They could have caught us a dozen times by now.”
A bird whistled nearby and they both flinched, fearing that the bright warble was a distant horn. “We can’t keep this up,” Loster said. “Aifayne needs to rest.”
She snorted. “You should leave him here. It might distract them long enough for us to get away.”
“And go where?” Loster noted that Selene had said ‘you should leave him.’ She had already absolved herself of any responsibility, making him decide whether or not to leave an old man to an unknown fate. No, he thought, not unknown. Aifayne would die if they left him. Loster did not even want to acknowledge her suggestion, lest he start to consider it.
“You know where. This isn’t the first time we’ve met. You might think nobody saw you on your perch back in your daddy’s hall, but I did.”
“You were talking to my father.” He felt as though he were confessing a great secret.
“Ha! As if anybody could have a conversation with your father. Malix is a fool, and he has upset some very dangerous people. We’re going to make him pay, with you.”
Loster felt sick. Being chased by stra
nge soldiers was one thing but the thought of being dragged back to his father was so much worse. “I don’t have any money,” he said softly.
She laughed. “I’m not a thief, little Lord.”
“Just a kidnapper, then.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Some might call it a rescue.”
“A rescue from the frying pan, perhaps.”
“Very good, Loster. Do all of your family have silver tongues? Maybe I should cut it out and see.” She pulled a fold of her robe aside to show him a long knife on her belt. “You’re coming with me back to the Widowpeak, and if you so much as think about running, I’ll use this on your friend here.” Selene stood and began to scuff out the marks she had made in the dirt. “Pick up the priest. I want to get away from here before they find us again.”
Night was approaching and Loster was beginning to think they had lost their pursuit. They hadn’t heard a horn since dawn, yet still the thought of those tall, grey men was lodged in his mind like a thorn. Aifayne staggered alongside him, clutching weakly at his robes for support. The old priest could barely stand and Loster had taken on the duties of a third limb for him. Aifayne’s craggy face was as pale as milk and his eyes remained shut for the most part as he blindly stumbled on at what was a torturous pace even for Loster. They marched on until the failing light forced them to stop. The moon was little more than a sliver, and though Selene would not listen to Loster’s protests about Aifayne’s condition, she accepted that they could not risk being turned around in the dark and stumbling back into the path of the enemy they had so recently escaped.
Loster settled gratefully into a shallow depression between the roots of a gnarled old tree, while Aifayne simply collapsed where he was. Loster moved over to his tutor and smoothed the hair back from the old man’s brow. If Aifayne felt his touch he did not show it.
“You shouldn’t mother him,” said Selene munching on some treat she had squirrelled away in her robe.
“I’m not mothering him. He’s sick.”
“He’s old. He’ll die soon.” She smacked her lips as she ate and Loster felt a stab of irritation.
“What do you care if I look after him?” he snapped.
Selene looked at him and then swallowed. “Because he’s dead weight. If he can’t keep up then it will benefit us both if I do him a kindness and cut his throat.”
“I won’t let you,” he tried to growl but it sounded feeble.
She laughed. “Something less invasive, then?” She pulled a small phial from deep within her robes. It held a dark green liquid. “Sweetwater. One drop of this and he’ll never wake up. We could put it in his water or I could dip my blade in it and—”
“Do all the Sons of Iss enjoy murdering old men in their sleep?” Loster knew little about Selene’s shadowy group but he knew they were enemies of the state. It was rumoured that they had been responsible for the mysterious death of Bellephon Hammerfist, a great hero of Illis’ rebellion. He had been found dead in his bed. “Aifayne is of the gods.”
Selene scowled. “Your gods, not mine. The gods of Respin don’t speak through frail old men.”
“Is that why you’re hiding in the mountain? He didn’t tell you the Widowpeak was once a Temple Deep did he?”
She waved a hand. “Verian superstition. The Black God can’t hurt me.” Loster felt his stomach clench at the mere mention of the Unnamed. “We’re hiding in the mountain because we are being hunted. It wasn’t enough for Illis and his plotters to take our homes, now he wants to try and erase us from history. It pains me that we have been forced to turn to profiteers like your blighted father. I always said it would be a poisoned chalice, but we’ll get even. We always do. Ask the Scourge.”
Loster frowned. Aifayne had told him the story years ago. The Scourge of Iss, whom Verians called the Helhammer, had been another hero of Illis’ rebellion — the great war fought decades ago. He had beaten the Higard — the elite of Respin’s military might — again and again, breaking free of the ambush at Fend where Illis was taken prisoner and returning within the year to storm the walls of the fortress city and seize back his captive Empron. Yet his was a soiled legacy. After the ambush at Fend, the Helhammer had led the remnants of his army through the Heartland mountains, through ice and snow and winds that could strip a man’s skin from his bones. After weeks of suffering, they had emerged high above the lush plains of Respin, in sight of Iss, the City of Innocents. Iss had been known for producing some of the greatest works of art, music, and literature ever to come out of Daegermund. The Helhammer’s forces had fallen on it like wolves on lambs and the City of Innocents had burned and bled.
The Verians had won the war but they could never shake the stain of Iss.
“Will you kill my father, as you killed The Hel— the Scourge?” Loster tried not to sound hopeful.
“That is not up to me. One death is never good enough for people like him. If the gods are just then the Scourge is still burning in the fires he started.”
Aifayne moaned in his sleep and began to cry out, raving in his dementia.
“Shut him up,” said Selene. “I don’t want to be found again.”
Loster placed a hand on Aifayne’s brow and recoiled at the heat there. “He needs water.”
“Then go and get some, but don’t try to run. I’m more than happy to do what you don’t have the strength to.”
Loster wandered off into the trees. It was dark with such a small moon, but they had been following a stream for much of the day and it was not difficult to find the sound again. He returned to the camp with a skin full of water, save for the few sips he had taken. When he got there he could see the dark shape of Selene bent over Aifayne’s still form. Anger swelled in him.
“Get away from him,” he said in as menacing a tone as he could muster.
She turned to look up at him and grinned, pulling off her hood to reveal her long black hair. “Relax, I was just checking on him.” Loster moved to sit alongside Aifayne and Selene moved away to lean against a bank of leaf-strewn earth. “You really should let me kill him. He’s not going to leave this place.”
“Shut up,” Loster said with feeling, and she laughed once, then settled down to sleep, pulling her robe about her as a blanket. Loster looked down at the priest. They should have been in Temple by now, safe in the chambers of a Temple Dawn. Now that he was asleep, Aifayne looked peaceful. The lines on his face were smoothed out and the trouble in his rheumy eyes was hidden, but so too was his wisdom, and Loster needed that now. He wanted to wake the old priest but Aifayne was far away, and wherever that was, he would likely stay there, just like Selene said.
Loster looked over at the dark shadow where the Daughter of Iss slept with ease, just another log in the forest. He felt a tugging sensation in his skull and laid down next to Aifayne. If he was lucky, he would be able to fall asleep before the pain got too much and pulled him into a restless oblivion.
Loster woke to a finger on his lips and he opened his eyes to see Selene’s pinched face hovering above his. She jerked her head over her shoulder and moved away, waiting for him to sit up and follow her. It was dark and quiet, yet Loster had a feeling of dread he could not shake. He rolled to his feet and looked around, half expecting to see a stone altar and the ghost of his brother. No, you’re not dreaming. This is real.
“Loster!” Selene hissed impatiently and beckoned for him to come with her. Loster looked down at Aifayne. The priest was as still as if he were in his tomb. “Leave the priest, we’ll come back for him.”
Reluctantly, Loster followed her into the trees. She stepped lightly, avoiding anything steeped in shadow and keeping to firm, clear ground. He tried to match her steps but realised before long that he was falling behind. He cursed softly and quickened his pace.
“Where are we going?”
“Quiet! I heard something earlier. It went this way.”
“But what if it’s them?”
“Then we go the other way. Now be quiet.”
T
hey crept on through the forest, pausing every now and again to listen. However, it seemed that whatever Selene had heard — be it one of those tall warriors or simply a woodland creature — was long gone. Loster had no idea of the time but soon he could make out more details: leaves stirring in the gentle breeze, pale scars on the skirts of trees where larger animals had scratched the bark away. Above, the milky blue light of dawn was beginning to spill into the sky.
“We need to get back,” he kept his voice low. “If Aifayne wakes up he’ll panic.”
Selene did not respond, so he poked her in the back. She slapped his hand away and hissed for him to be quiet. “Listen.”
Loster strained his ears. There! A whimper nearby. “What is it?” he asked.
Selene shook her head and pointed through the trees ahead. He followed her outstretched arm. There was something in a clearing close by, and as he squinted to make out more, it moved. They crawled through the forest, keeping low until they came close enough to see what the shape was.
It was a horse lying on its side, and as they approached, it whinnied pitifully, blowing a great plume of breath into the frosty air.
“I’ve seen this horse before,” said Loster. “There was a merchant back on the road with the others. He left with his family.”
“They didn’t get far.” Selene knelt and laid a hand on the beast’s flank. Its coat was stained with old blood and fresh blood, seeping from a dozen lacerations and one deep puncture wound that bubbled with pink foam. The horse whimpered again and Selene drew her knife, placing the tip on the great pulsing vein that ran like a rope down the horse’s neck. Loster turned away and tried not to gag as the bitter tang of blood assaulted his nostrils. There was a brief flurry of activity and then silence, broken only by the creaking of Selene’s knees as she stood and slotted her knife back into its sheath. “Come. Let’s get back to the priest.”
Their return went faster as they gave less thought to caution and more to speed. Loster had no idea of the way back but Selene seemed to have a route in mind, and that was good enough for him. It grew lighter still as they walked and the wood brightened to a rosy hue. The dew steamed from the mossy earth, releasing the pungent aromas of the forest. Loster drank them in, trying to forget about the horse. If he closed his eyes, the tall men in ghoulish armour were but a memory trapped in his nightmares. Loster imagined that if any of them were to step into the sunlight in front of him they would turn to dust. “Selene?”
