by Anthony Ryan
The next floor yielded three more servants, all dispatched with quiet efficiency. The woman opened successive doors until she found her quarry. The boy half rose in his bed as the light from the hallway bathed him, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He was nine or ten years old and stared at them with a strangely fearless wonder, saying something in a sleepy murmur.
“You’ve never had a dream like us, boy,” the woman said, then nodded at Frentis. “Bring him.” She turned and walked along the hallway to another door, pushing it open and provoking a startled shout from an unseen female occupant.
Frentis entered the boy’s room, standing over him, hand outstretched. The boy looked at his hand then at him, his eyes suddenly absent of sleep and full of terrible understanding. I’m sorry, Frentis wanted to say, standing there, tormented to the edge of reason by the binding and the agony in his side. I’m so sorry.
The boy’s head slumped and he took Frentis’s hand, allowing himself to be led from the room, padding alongside in his silk pyjamas as they went through the door the woman had opened.
He found her tying another woman to a chair, her head slumped forward, dark hair dangling as the woman bound her with ropes torn from the drapes over the windows. When she was done she took hold of the woman’s hair, jerking her head back, revealing a face of arresting beauty, the kind of face that belonged on one of the Alpirans’ god-worshipping statues. The bound woman was dressed in a white silk robe, the ropes leaving red weals where they bit hard into her tanned flesh. The woman slapped the beautiful face, once, then twice. The bound woman’s eyes flew open at the second slap, bright green and darting about in alarm.
“Beloved,” the woman said in Realm Tongue, “allow me to present the Lady Emeren Nasur Ailers, former ward of the Emperor Aluran Maxtor Selsus, and widowed bride to Seliesen Maxtor Aluran, the fallen Hope of this empire.”
The Lady Emeren drew a great breath, tilting her head back.
“Scream and the boy dies,” the woman said.
Emeren closed her eyes, the breath hissing from her through gritted teeth. “Whoever you are . . .” she began in accented but well-spoken Realm Tongue.
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “My etiquette is not what it was. You must, of course, be fully informed of who we are. This handsome fellow is my lover and soon to be husband, Brother Frentis, formerly of the Sixth Order of the Faith and the Unified Realm. As for myself, I haven’t had need of a name for many years, so let’s just call me a servant of Volarian Imperial interests, for the time being anyway.”
Frentis watched the calculation on the Lady Emeren’s face, the way her eyes shifted from the woman to Frentis and the bloody dagger in his hand, then to the silent boy holding his other hand. It was only when she looked at the boy that he saw true fear in her eyes.
The throbbing in his side was like a spike, plunging into his flesh, over and over . . .
“If you know so much,” Emeren said, her voice even and well controlled, “you know I hold no power in this empire. I have no sway with the Emperor. My death will cause him no hurt.”
“Hurting the Emperor is not our object,” the woman replied. She went to the large bed, sitting down and bouncing on the soft mattress, her legs dangling over the side, a little girl at play. “I thought you might like to know something,” she said. “Regarding your recent visit to the Meldenean Islands. Did you know, if you had succeeded in your artful scheme, you would have given immeasurable aid to our enterprise? We’ve given up trying to take Al Sorna, now it’s just his death we seek. He’s there in every scrying, every vision we wring out of the seers. The endless impediment, saving those we want dead, killing those we want alive. Your much-mourned husband for instance.”
Emeren’s eyes flashed at her, fury burning amidst the fear.
“Oh yes,” the woman went on. “The visions were quite clear. Had he survived his encounter with Al Sorna, Seliesen Maxtor Aluran would have orchestrated the assassination of your Emperor, blaming it on agents of the Unified Realm, sparking another war, a war that raged for years, sapping the strength of the empire and making him a monster, the greatest tyrant in Alpiran history, and the doom of his people. For when our forces landed, there would have been scant strength to oppose them.”
“My husband,” the Lady Emeren grated, “was a good man.”
“Your husband lusted for the flesh of other men and found you repellent.” The woman’s gaze shifted to the boy at Frentis’s side. “Surprised he managed to get a child on you though. Still, duty makes us perform the most vile acts. Take my darling betrothed here. I know what I’m about to make him do will cause him great and terrible pain, but I will do it. For it is my duty to educate him in the nature of our bond. He doesn’t love me, you see. To love a man and not have that love returned is . . .” She sighed, offering a sad smile to Emeren. “Well, I think you know. The blood of your son, spilled in front of his mother’s eyes, will turn his soul a darker shade, bind us closer. For every time we kill together our bond grows. I know he feels it, my song tells me so.”
The sickening fear gripping Frentis deepened into terror as he saw a tear trace down the woman’s cheek, her eyes wide in adoration as she gazed at him. “Take his fingers first, my love. Nice and slow . . .”
. . . the throbbing was almost continuous now, barely pausing between each stab of agony . . .
He tugged the boy to his knees, tightening his grip, forcing the fingers apart, placing the blade of his dagger against the knuckle of his smallest digit . . .
Something made a loud crashing sound downstairs, followed by a fierce shout in Alpiran.
“HEVREN!” the Lady Emeren screamed, putting every ounce of her strength into the cry, straining against her bonds, neck muscles bulging.
The instant thunder of boots on marble could be heard through the open door.
“Oh bother!” the woman sighed, springing from the bed and moving to the door, drawing her sword. “No time for play, after all, beloved. I’ll be downstairs. Make sure of them both and don’t linger.”
Alone with them, Frentis took hold of the boy’s hair, drawing his head back, placing the dagger against his exposed throat . . .
The throb exploded in his side, a nova of all-consuming pain, burning every thought from his head and swamping the binding. He staggered, letting go of the boy, reeling in a welter of pain.
The boy ran to his mother, tugging at the bonds that bound her to the chair. “Unteh!” she shouted at him, shaking her head frantically. “Emmah forgalla. Unteh! UNTEH!”
He won’t run, Frentis thought, seeing the boy continue to tug at the ropes.
He was surprised to find he could move, despite the pain raging in him from head to toe. He could move. He took a step, he actually took a step of his own volition, though the binding still compelled him to slit the throats of this boy and his mother. It was still there, flaring away, but compared to the pain that exploded from his side, it was little more than an irritant.
From downstairs came the sound of combat, multiple voices raised in challenge and fury, steel clashing, then a loud whoosh, like a first spark touched to oil-soaked kindling on a pyre. Screams followed and a pall of smoke started to fog the hallway beyond the door.
Frentis stumbled towards Emeren and the boy, limbs twitching as he fought for control through the pain. He collapsed against her, a shout of agony erupting from him to wash over her face. She twisted away in disgust and terror, screaming again as his dagger came up, wavering as he strove to control it. The boy launched himself at Frentis, kicking, punching, biting. He hardly felt it, focusing all his will on the dagger, bringing its trembling tip onto the rope across Emeren’s chest. One final spasm of muscle and it was done, the rope parting and falling away. He released the dagger, letting it fall into her lap, rolling onto his back, convulsing in pain.
The binding was flaring with a new ferocity, the pain in his side slowly dimin
ishing. Not enough, he thought, teeth gritted as he writhed on the floor. The seed didn’t grow enough.
He was aware Emeren was standing over him, dagger in hand. The look on her face was one of mingled rage and confusion. “S-sorry . . .” he sputtered, spittle flying from his lips, “So . . . s-sorry . . .”
Her eyes bore into him as her son tugged at her hand. “Entahla!”
Frentis wanted to scream at her to run, but the resurgence of the binding left no room for further forbidden action. She gave Frentis a final glare of frustration and fled, lifting the boy into her arms and running from the room. She turned to the left, wisely opting not to take the stairs to the lobby.
The binding closed on him like the fist of a giant, forcing him to his feet with an implacable command: HELP HER!
He ran for the stairs, sword drawn, descending to the lobby to find the woman locked in combat with a white-cloaked guardsman. The walls of the lobby were covered in fire, thick black smoke blanketing the ceiling. The woman attacked the guardsman with every vestige of skill she could muster, her blood-streaked mouth snarling, but he was no easy opponent, fending off her blows with rapid counterstrokes of his sabre. There was something familiar about him, a tall black-skinned man with pepper-grey hair and the lean weathered features of a veteran. Catching sight of Frentis he grimaced, side-stepped a lunge from the woman and launched himself towards the stairs.
Frentis parried the sabre thrust and countered with a slash to the guardsman’s eyes, but he was quick, dodging past the blade with inches to spare, leaping up several stairs to turn and face them. He met Frentis’s gaze, eyes bright with desperation and fury, torn between continuing the fight or running to check on the fate of the lady and her son.
They’re safe, Frentis wanted to say, but of course, the binding wouldn’t let him.
A shout caused him to turn back to the woman, finding her battling two more guards who had braved the flames now licking around the open door. The grey-haired guardsman saw his chance and thrust at Frentis. He managed to twist away before the sabre point found its target but the edge left a shallow cut on his back as it sliced through his black cotton shirt.
He launched a kick at the guardsman’s chest, the boot impacting on his breastplate and sending him sprawling. There was no time to press his advantage as the woman called him to her side. She retreated back from her two opponents, Frentis stepping in to fend them off as she sheathed her sword and pointed both clenched fists at the nearest wall. She screamed as the flames burst forth, two columns of raging fire striking the wall and blasting through in a haze of cinders. She collapsed as the flames faded from her hands, blood streaming in red rivers from her nose, ears, eyes and mouth.
Frentis caught her before she could fall, lifting her onto his shoulder, parrying a final thrust from one of the guardsmen then sprinting through the hole she had blasted in the wall.
The villa grounds were a confusion of running guards and swirling smoke. Frentis ran to the rear of the house, seeking the stables, hoping he didn’t catch sight of Emeren and the boy, knowing what the binding would force him to do. The stables were full of guards and servants trying to save the horses from the inferno now engulfing the main house. Frentis picked out a large stallion, rearing in alarm as a stable boy attempted to lead him away. He felled the boy with a blow to the back of the head and caught hold of the reins, hoisting the woman onto the stallion’s back then vaulting up behind her. The horse ran without need of encouragement, desperate to be away from this place of fire and terror.
They were free of the smoke in a few heartbeats, galloping hard to the west as the villa burned and tumbled to ruin in their wake.
PART II
The exact origins of the people comprising the mass migration into the Northern Reaches, now known as the onslaught of the Ice Horde, remain a mystery. Their language and customs were uniquely unfamiliar to both Realm subjects and the Eorhil and Seordah warriors who confronted their invasion. The vast majority of the Horde died in the carnage following their rout on the plains, only a pitiful remnant fleeing back to the ice. Consequently, opportunities for the scholar to gain a full picture of their society are limited to the experience of Realm-born witnesses, an inevitably skewed interpretation full of prejudice and fanciful tales of Dark skills and unfeasibly monstrous war-beasts. What is clear from the available evidence is the merciless ferocity of the Horde towards any man, woman or child not of their tribe and the unusual level of control they exerted over their animals, large numbers of which were employed in the line of battle.
—MASTER OLINAR NUREN, THIRD ORDER,
THE NORTHERN REACHES: A HISTORICAL SKETCH,
THIRD ORDER ARCHIVES
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
I cowered against the ship’s rail, shrinking from the fierce inquisition of the foul-smelling man.
“I do not know,” I said.
The man drew a knife from somewhere. It must have been hidden in his clothing for I had seen no weapon on him when he boarded the ship. The blade was at my throat quicker than I would have thought possible, his free hand coming up to grab my hair, pulling my head back, his reeking breath washing over me. “Where is he, scribe?”
“Th-the Northern Reaches,” I babbled. “King Malcius sent him there when he returned to the Realm.”
“I know that.” The knife blade burned as he pushed it deeper into my skin. “Where is he now? What did the Battle Lord tell you of him? What messages were sent to him?”
“N-none! I swear. He was hardly mentioned. The Battle Lord seemed to have a hatred for him.”
The foul-smelling man leaned closer, eyes searching my face, no doubt looking for signs of deceit.
“I trust you’ll compensate me for any loss,” the general said. “I had intended making considerable use of this one.”
The foul-smelling man grunted and released me, stepping away. I sagged against the rail, fighting to keep upright. Collapsing to the deck would have been deemed an insult to my master. The general’s wife came closer and handed me a silk kerchief. I held it to the shallow cut on my neck, blood staining the finely embroidered material.
“You have been interrogating the captives, as ordered?” the man demanded of the general. He stood by the table, helping himself to wine, downing a cup in a few short gulps, red liquid spilling down his chin and staining his already besmirched clothing.
“Yes.” The general’s eyes were narrow as he regarded the dirty man before him, his tone hard with reluctant compliance. “Plenty of tall tales about this Darkblade they seem to hate so much. No actual information. They find the idea that he would come to their aid ridiculous.”
“Really?” The man turned his gaze on me once more. “Come here, scribe.”
I walked to the table on unsteady legs, avoiding his gaze.
“You travelled with him to the Isles,” the man said. “Do you think it ridiculous that he’d come to save those who hate him?”
I recalled the tale Al Sorna had told me during the voyage, all the trials and battles that had coloured his life. But the clearest memory was the day of the challenge, the Shield lying senseless, Al Sorna walking away and sheathing his sword. I had reasons of my own to hate him, I still thought of Seliesen every day, but it was a hatred that had dimmed that day, never quite dying, but no longer burning with the same passion. “Forgive me, Master,” I said to the general. “But he will come to fight you, if he can. Here or anywhere else.”
“Of course he will.” The man drained another cup of wine and tossed it away, the dregs spilling on the exquisite map. He stalked from the table, walking back to his boat.
“You have no intelligence to offer?” the general called after him.
The man glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, don’t expect it to be easy.” He vaulted the rail with considerably more athleticism than a man of his years should have been capable, landing in the boat and barking an order at the
slaves on the oars. The boat pulled away and made its way back to the shore, the man standing immobile in the prow. I felt I could still smell him even at this distance.
Fornella said something in a soft voice, a quotation, one of my own, from the Third Canto of Gold and Dust: Meditations on the Nature of Politics. “‘Judge a nation best by its allies.’”
◆ ◆ ◆
The assault began at midday, hundreds of boats carrying thousands of Varitai and Free Swords across the river to land under the walls of Alltor, greeted by swarms of arrows from the defenders. Some boats never made it to land, so saturated with arrows their oars went limp and they drifted away on the current. More fell as they leapt from the boats and tried to form ranks. The general opined he had been wise in issuing shields to his men, something he was keen for me to record.
“A few planks of wood nailed together and held aloft by two or three men,” he said. “A simple antidote to these supposedly fearsome longbows of theirs.”
Despite his antidote, however, I still counted over two hundred dead under the walls by the time the first battalion made it to the nearest breach. The ballista ships had been moved closer, their projectiles now consisting of great bundles of oil-soaked rags, lit with a torch just before being launched over the walls. From the rising smoke it seemed several fires were already raging in the city. “Fire is the bold commander’s greatest ally,” the general quipped, making me wonder how many of these he had prepared in advance. From his wife’s rolling eyes, I suspected quite a few.
