‘First Mireces army?’ the prince questioned, pausing in his reading to assess Durdil.
‘Yes, Your Highness. A reconnaissance patrol spotted a second army venturing down the Gil-beside Road and heading directly in-country. When General Koridam found out, he and the surviving Wolves set out in pursuit. I have heard nothing since.’
‘So there’s a second invading army in Rilpor and a shattered, exhausted Rank is the only one in pursuit?’ Rivil rolled up the report and slapped it against his palm. ‘Not good enough. We need to mobilise reinforcements.’
This was where all Durdil’s suspicions would be proven correct. Galtas was still missing and Renik had confirmed he wasn’t with the East Rank. To effect Rivil’s rebellion, Galtas’s only other option was to travel into Listre to hire mercenaries. Rivil would announce he’d secured aid from Listre and that would be the final part of the proof Durdil needed.
Durdil’s hands tightened on his belt and he moved into parade rest to keep from fidgeting. Any second now.
‘Father, we should call a Thousand from the North, South and East Ranks to bolster the Palace Rank’s numbers and ensure the Mireces are defeated.’
Durdil blinked. What?
‘As you think best, my boy.’ Rastoth waved him on. ‘I leave the matter entirely in your hands.’
What?
‘Your Majesty—’ Durdil began.
‘Thank you for the report, Commander,’ Rivil said smoothly. ‘We will keep you informed.’ Durdil didn’t move and Rivil’s gracious smile turned quizzical. ‘Was there something else, Commander?’ he asked.
Durdil’s movements were jerky as he bowed and backed towards the door. He paused there as Rivil turned his back on Rastoth and began penning a series of messages. On the throne, Rastoth looked on in blissful ignorance and mumbled platitudes to his dead wife.
‘Forget Rastoth, I think I’m the one going bloody mad,’ Durdil said, his fingers scraping through the stubble on his head. ‘How can he do that? How can he just give the security of the country to Rivil while I’m shitting well standing there? I’m the bloody Commander of the bloody Ranks!’
‘Durdil, calm down. You’ll rupture a blood vessel.’ Hallos forced him to sit and put a glass in his hand.
‘We’re going to have to tell him,’ Durdil said eventually. ‘We’re going to have to tell Rastoth about Rivil’s conversion, his alliance with the Mireces, everything. Six pigeons left the roof an hour after that audience,’ he added. ‘I counted. And you know what? They all circled and headed east. All six. You can write quite a long message if you send it on six pigeons.’
He broke off and put his free hand on his chest, taking deep breaths against the slowly tightening band of steel around his ribs. Bloody heart twinges. Now is really not the time.
Hallos was at the window of his study. ‘Durdil? You’d better come and see this.’
‘Why? Is it the Mireces army come to murder us in our beds?’ Durdil asked sourly. He drained the glass, grunted and refilled it.
‘They’re opening the gates.’
Durdil dropped his glass and crunched heedless through the shards shattered on the flagstones as he ran to the window. He shoved Hallos aside. There was a cheer and people poured through the gate from Fourth Circle into the assembly place. Nobles, court officials, lawmakers, plaintiffs. Hundreds of people flooding Fifth Circle and entering the palace and courts. A Hundred from the Palace Rank marched in last and filtered into the palace. The Personals would be relieved at least.
‘Lockdown’s over,’ Hallos said quite unnecessarily.
‘Then we’re out of time. Rivil’s making his play. We need to make ours, convince Rastoth his son’s a traitor.’
Hallos nodded. ‘I’m with you. We’ll make him listen.’
The door swung open. ‘Commander Koridam?’ Lieutenant Weaverson wobbled into the room brandishing his pike with an air of miserable bewilderment. ‘The heir commands you are to be confined to quarters for the duration of this emergency. There are concerns over your ability to effectively counteract the Mireces threat. If you would accompany me please, sir.’
Durdil looked from the boy to Hallos and fought the urge to laugh. ‘Speak to him,’ he hissed. ‘Make him listen. Today. Now.’ Weaverson herded him to the door. ‘And send some fucking pigeons to the Ranks.’
‘The pigeons are to be used only by the royal family,’ Weaverson said apologetically. ‘There are concerns that unauthorised pigeons and messages have been sent.’
Yes, and we all know by who, Durdil thought as Weaverson pushed him gently out of the room. Unauthorised pigeons. The need to laugh rose in him again. Mace is coming. Mace is coming with the Wolves and Hallos knows the truth.
It wasn’t enough and he knew it; in his bones he knew it. Rivil had outsmarted him.
‘Lieutenant, I commend your loyalty to the king and the heir. Tell me, would you defend them with your life?’
‘Of course, sir,’ Weaverson said without hesitation.
‘Good. Remember that. I’ve a feeling you may have to do that very thing very soon.’
‘The Mireces, Commander?’
‘No, lad,’ Durdil said. ‘I think it’s going to be a lot closer to home than that.’ He hesitated in the entrance to his quarters and grabbed Weaverson’s pike. Startled, Weaverson snatched it back and dropped into a fighting stance. Durdil held up both his hands. ‘Good. Stay sharp. I think someone’s going to try and kill the king.’ He closed the door in Weaverson’s face and leant his back against it. After a moment he heard the lock turn from outside. He slid down the wood on to the floor and put his head in his hands.
‘All down to you now, Hallos.’
CORVUS
Third moon, year 995 since the Exile of the Red Gods
Watchtown, Western Plain
The battering ram they’d hauled all the way from the forest was useless, the gates too well built and propped with timbers on the inside. Scaling ladders were little better against walls built with an overhanging lip. Instead, Corvus had them pile the ladders against the gates along with some clay jugs of pitch, dropped handfuls of dry grass and some old rags on top; then they threw a torch into the mess.
The wood exploded into flame and his archers poured fire arrows into the gate and over the walls. Others aimed for the jugs of pitch, and each time one exploded the fire jumped higher up the gates. There were whumps as thatched roofs caught and Watchers disappeared from the walls to fight fires inside the town. More archers picked off any who tried to throw down water.
Fire everywhere, at the walls, in the town. They wouldn’t take much more of this. It’d be over soon, one way or the other. The smoke coiled so thick in the early-morning sky that a second night had fallen. Fitting for the Watchers to die without the light of their goddess on their faces.
Corvus stood with his army just out of bowshot and watched the gates burn, split and curl in on themselves like dying spiders. He sent the ram team forward again, his archers forcing the Watchers to keep their heads below the wall. The gates were so weakened it only took four swings before they splintered and broke. A stream of Watchers poured through the breach and killed the men on the ram. To be expected.
But now there was Corvus, King of the fucking Mireces, with an army of thousands of Raiders, all of who had sworn blood oaths to exterminate the Watchers. Roaring, Corvus lunged through the smoke and fire of the gates, his men howling behind him, howling into Watchtown.
The Watcher was older than him by two decades, but fast and deadly, the tip of her spear countering his every thrust and hack. She wore a brooch that showed her to be the town’s elder, and it winked in the light from a nearby fire as she deflected a slash down into the packed earth of the road and recovered faster than he did, following the arc of her parry so that the butt of her spear slammed into the side of his neck. Pain, and weakness up into his head so that his tongue went numb, and down into his arm.
Air, and its lack, as his neck muscles squeezed, constricti
ng his windpipe. Corvus stumbled a step sideways, his sword drooping in his hand. Hazel eyes burnt into his and Corvus knew himself for a hog ready for slaughter.
Her hands pulled back on the spear, her shoulders setting for the killing blow and still there was no air in the world. He wobbled, pulled away and the Watcher stepped forward, driving with the tip of her spear and all the strength of her shoulders and hips, unstoppable.
An arrow appeared in her shoulder and the strike missed, the tip digging a furrow through Corvus’s cheek as it passed. Air rushed into his lungs and he straightened as she overbalanced. ‘My feet are on the Path,’ he croaked and drove his sword into her belly.
He coughed and wiped his eyes, sucked in air thick with smoke that made him cough again, and stepped over the woman. She was keening, a high-pitched wail that grated along his nerves, her hands pressing at the wound. He ignored her, waited for Valan and some others to catch up, and pressed forward.
Flames everywhere, leaping high from buildings left and right, shouts and screams adding to the chaos. An empty alley to his left and he was five strides past when men and women erupted out of it and drove into his squad, hacking into them with swords and spears. Four of his men went down in the first flurry.
A man like a bear drove a club at Corvus’s head, an axe in his other hand swinging at his knees at the same time, and Corvus had no time to decide. His hand did it for him, sword swinging to parry the axe, head ducking, hoping. Not enough.
The axe opened the front of his right shin and the club damn near took off the top of his head and Corvus was horizontal in the air, sword flying from his fist. The Watcher reversed his swings. The club would punch him into the ground and the axe would follow, burying itself in him. He could see it happen, no way to stop it. He made a wild grab, somehow got one hand around the club arm and jerked it down with him. The breath slammed from his body as he landed, and a second later the Watcher overbalanced. He landed on his knees next to Corvus and Corvus snatched at the club, got his hands around it and used it to block the axe arcing for his face.
Wood chips sprayed his eyes and yelling mouth and the Watcher leant his weight on the axe, forcing it down. Corvus thrashed his legs but no help came. His exhilaration at finally being in Watchtown died as rapidly as he was going to. The axe head grated sideways along the club and Corvus twisted with it, letting the man’s weight take it across. The axe thunked off the end of the club into the dirt, the Watcher bending over him. He straightened, freeing the axe, and Corvus poked him in the face with the handle of the club, just hard enough that he flopped back off his knees on to his arse.
In the sliver of space Corvus got a knee under him and both hands on the club’s handle. He swung, awkward, not much power, and clocked the Watcher along the side of his head. The man rocked and Corvus got to a foot, heaved himself up, kicked the man’s axe away and beat in his skull with the club, blow after blow until his head was red pulp and smashed white bone. Then he spat on the corpse. Then he clubbed it again.
‘Sire, are you all right?’
Corvus brushed Valan’s hand off his shoulder and heaved in air. ‘Keep going,’ he ordered, glaring at his surviving two men. ‘And keep a fucking eye on the alleys.’
GILDA
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Watchtown, Western Plain
Gilda stood beside the Blessed One and wept as Watchtown burnt. ‘Fly to the Dancer,’ she whispered, ‘and know Her grace.’
‘They’ll know the Red Gods’ might first,’ Lanta said. ‘They’ll know pain and suffering and the deaths of their children.’
Gilda faced her: ‘Shall I break your nose this time, or would prefer another black eye?’ and was gratified to see Lanta stumble backwards. A guard appeared at her side with a dagger. The corner of Gilda’s mouth twitched and she opened her arms. ‘Be my guest.’
Lanta pushed his hand down. ‘No. She wishes to avoid the pain of seeing any more of her people die. She’s a coward, but she will watch.’
‘Aren’t you worried your king will be killed in there?’ Gilda asked. ‘Watchtown is made of many warriors, the streets littered with traps, blind alleys and murder holes.’
‘We walk the Dark Path,’ Lanta said, serene and confident. ‘We will do and die when commanded. If Corvus’s destiny is to die in there, then die he shall.’
The sky was a riot of sparks and black smoke lit from beneath with a hellish orange glow. She couldn’t imagine anyone getting out of there alive, Watcher or Raider. Her throat was raw and her eyes stung with smoke and tears and something in Lanta’s words made her repeat them in her head.
‘Oh,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t realise.’ Lanta stared down her nose at her. ‘You’ll take command of the army if Corvus dies, won’t you? I mean, you’ll leave the tactics and the fighting to the warriors, but you’ll have overall control. This will be your army. In fact, it would probably suit you better if he did die, wouldn’t it? No pesky king wresting away your power.’ She paused to cough. ‘What’s the plan? Corvus dies in Watchtown and you marry Rivil, make yourself queen?’
There was a glint of fear in Lanta’s face, there and then gone. Gilda had touched a nerve. ‘Mireces do not marry, and priestesses do not become queens,’ Lanta said, haughty.
Gilda folded her arms. ‘Yes, but this is a new world, isn’t it? If you manage to bring back your psychotic gods and rule this land, why, anything could happen. So what if Corvus lives? Will you stab him in the night? Or do you just not care which of them makes it on to the throne? You’re not fussy, perhaps, about who gets between your thighs?’
Lanta backhanded her and this one Gilda didn’t see coming. It spun her in a half-circle and dropped her to one knee. Her cheek and eye were throbbing. Definitely touched a nerve.
Gilda clambered to her feet, feeling her age. Smoke tickled the back of her throat. ‘Would the gods approve your ambition?’ she croaked and coughed.
Lanta seized the plait of her hair and jerked her head back. A slim knife was in her hand and she pressed it under Gilda’s chin. ‘If you speak to me like that again, I’ll have you blinded and your tongue chewed out of your head. There are men in our army who enjoy that sort of thing. Do you understand me?’ Gilda looked into Lanta’s eyes and saw nothing but absolute honesty in them. ‘Do you?’
‘I do, Blessed One.’
‘Then watch your town and your people die, and don’t speak to me again.’
Gilda did as she was told.
DOM
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Watchtown, Western Plain
Dom sat on his horse and listened to it crop the grass. Behind that sound was the crackle of fires still burning in the ruins of Watchtown. Behind that, the echoes of screams. And behind even that, the endless whispers of the Dark Lady, dripping poison into his ear, rotting the edges of his mind, clouding his ability to think.
Corvus’s route was easy to follow. Thousands of men marching left a trail fifty strides wide in the grass. Over the ford, through Watchtown, and on towards the bridge at the West Rank harbour. Into the boats and down the Gil to Rilporin.
The day was bright but he was blind to it, blind to the flags of flame still rising from Watchtown’s homes. All urgency had left him. There was something he had to do, somewhere he needed to be, but it was hazy, unimportant.
A ripple of smoky air blew hair into his eyes, tickled a strand over his stubbled cheek. The burning in his wrist couldn’t be ignored, and as he stared without seeing he picked savagely at the scabs. When his fingers became too slick to find purchase, he brought his arm up to his mouth and chewed.
Sometimes his vision flickered and he saw the cavern, the Waystation to the Red Gods’ Afterworld. Other times She showed him what had happened here, the smoke and battle, the slaughter, the temple where Gilda had raised him desecrated and burning, corpses in the godpool, blood on the walls. Individual deaths, of warriors and children alike, danced
across the backs of his eyeballs, and the memory of their screams echoed in his head. An endless parade of corpses matched only by the real ones littering Watchtown.
The horse shifted beneath him; Dom dismounted and wandered through the shattered gates. The heat beat at him like a drum from shops and houses burning on both sides. It smelt of stale smoke, old blood and roasting pork. Pools of blood blackened and cooked into plates with the consistency of frogspawn. And bodies. Burnt, hacked, stabbed. Men, women, children, goats.
He wandered to the assembly place at the centre of town, where judgements were given and marriages celebrated. They’d made a stand here and they’d died in heaps and drifts like snow messily shovelled away.
‘Is this not beautiful? Is this not the Afterworld on earth?’ The Dark Lady stood in the centre between the dead in the blue and the dead in green and brown, smoke curling like a living thing around Her, flames dancing on the edges of Her shadow. ‘Now you see clear, little calestar. Now you see me, here in the world.’
‘I see death,’ Dom mumbled around his wrist. The source of the itching was there somewhere; he just had to get to it.
‘And yet you rode so hard to come here and see it.’ She glided towards him and Dom backed away. She stepped closer anyway. ‘Was this what you wanted to see? What were you going to do here? Tell me.’
‘Whatever I had to to stop it.’
The Dark Lady tutted. ‘No, you weren’t. You were racing here for another reason. My reason. Say it.’ She took hold of his hand and drew his arm away from his teeth. Her fingers brushed the scabs, the raw flesh oozing clear liquid, and the itching faded, fell away. Dom’s eyes closed in an ecstasy of relief.
‘Is that better, my love?’ She whispered, Her lips brushing his. ‘Is that what you wanted?’
‘Yes.’
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