by Tom Lloyd
Doranei pointed down at the black broadsword on the ground. ‘Spoils of war, if you want it.’
Shim gave a bitter, humourless laugh. ‘No good to me,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Just a lump of metal in my hands.’
Remembering Cetarn, Doranei left the mage-killer to his thoughts. The big mage was still alive, curled around his left arm. There was blood all over his robes and his normally cheerful face was contorted with pain.
‘Cetarn, how bad is it?’ Doranei had to repeat his question before the mage noticed him.
‘A fair scratch,’ Cetarn croaked, his face white.
The mage lifted his right arm to expose the bloody stump of his left arm. The mage was trembling, but shock hadn’t taken his senses yet. As Doranei watched Cetarn flexed his fingers and a red glow surrounded the wound, followed by a sizzling sound and a smell that made Doranei gag. The mage screamed, a sound that ended with a gasping sob. The King’s Man rose and retrieved Aracnan’s discarded sword.
‘Will this help?’ he asked, offering the weapon and pointing at the Crystal Skull fused to the hilt.
Cetarn gave Doranei a broken smile. He stroked his fingers over the Skull’s glassy surface before slipping it off the black metal as smoothly as ice over stone. A brief pulse of light was enough to give Cetarn the strength to sit up.
‘The pain is gone, we can continue,’ he whispered.
Doranei stared at the mage then down at the massive sword in his own hands. ‘No, you’ve gone far enough. Time for you to get out. We don’t have much more time before the Menin garrison works out what’s happening and our escape route’s closed.’
Cetarn got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’ve still got some fight in me,’ he said in a strained voice, sounding as weak as his long-time colleague Endine, who’d been left back at the warehouse to prepare their retreat.
‘You’re out,’ Doranei said firmly. ‘Shim, see he gets back down safely.’
‘As long as he can walk,’ Shim said sourly, ‘no good in me helping him there.’
‘I can walk,’ Cetarn confirmed, taking a few wobbly steps before finding his balance. ‘Doranei, go.’
The King’s Man nodded and sheathed his usual sword, unwilling to abandon it. He hefted Aracnan’s ugly black blade. It was as ancient as any he’d ever encountered, Eolis included — but where Eolis was a cool silver, this could have been made of obsidian, its matt surface dull, but for the faint pinpricks of light bursting on the surface. It took him only a moment to realise just how light and fast the sword was — it cut the air quicker than Doranei could have with a switch of willow, let alone a steel blade.
‘Daken will find Ilumene first,’ he muttered as Cetarn headed towards the door with Shim watching him warily, ‘but if he doesn’t, this will give the traitor a surprise.’
He headed for the door Daken had left through, pausing only to spit on Aracnan’s corpse.
‘Enjoy your time in the Dark Place,’ he whispered. ‘Your master will be following soon.’
Unseen by the men leaving, the shadows began to lengthen and deepen. One Land continued as normal while another, unseen, changed and grew heavy. The sharp lines of the stone walls faded behind a curtain of darkness, the texture of night becoming more tangible than stone or wood. A distant tremble ran through the floor and faded as silence reclaimed the room. All was still for a while, then the shadows grew thicker still. The one cast by the corpse became a pool of liquid black. It twitched like a maggot-ridden corpse. For a moment it seemed to strain against the deadweight of the corpse, then it tore free and arose.
The lamps guttered before extinguishing as one. The air grew frosty and for a moment the darkness was absolute. Slowly a pale, sourceless silver light appeared, so weak it barely reached the walls on either side, but making the slow swirl of ice in the air sparkle. The shadow stood up straight and stared at the crystallising cold until a tall figure winked into being, hooded by absolute dark.
‘You come to claim me now?’ said the spirit with contempt. ‘Never once acknowledged, never offered the place rightfully mine. Now you have the gall to summon me to the fold, when my life is over?’
‘You were too weak,’ Death replied, His voice heavy, emotionless. ‘You were not strong enough to join the Pantheon.’
‘Strong enough to kill one of your kind!’ the spirit spat, its hatred undiminished.
The room grew instantly darker and more oppressive. ‘What you did was a crime,’ the cowled figure boomed, the very air shaking with His anger. ‘To murder the divine is almost beyond forgiveness — and you did so with a weapon forged by the great heretic himself.’
‘To the Dark Place with you and this feud with your creations; I want none of it — only what was due to me! I was the first of the Demi-Gods, and the greatest. You spurned me out of cowardice, not the infallible judgment your priests so cravenly claim as yours.’
Death stood silent for a while, regarding the soul of His unclaimed child as though the spirit had a face to see, an expression to scrutinise and fathom. All around them the darkness was suddenly filled with movement and life, as black shapes darted and fluttered just on the edge of sight.
‘You were the first and greatest of your kind,’ Death said without emotion. ‘For that reason I offer you a boon. You may take your place in the land of no time. You will be conveyed there with all honour due to — ’
‘Spare me,’ the spirit said furiously, ‘I want none of your honour and none of empty charity! If you mean to grant me a boon let it be this; spare me your empty words and cast me down into the Dark Place. Let the creatures of Ghenna welcome me and reforge me in their fires as Aryn Bwr did the Crystal Skulls. Let the daemons make me one of their own if you think me so weak, so flawed. Let me choose the path and the consequences, as you chose for me all those millennia ago.’
‘A boon I offered,’ Death said slowly, ‘a boon I shall give. If hatred is all you have left, so be it. There will be a place for you in Ghenna. The ivory gates will welcome you.’
The sparkle of cold vanished from the air. In its place came a deep red light and the stink of burning. The spirit turned its back on Death and spread its arms out wide as the floor trembled and shook. Distant voices came like shrieks on the wind, bloody light bursting from the cracks in the floor. The light intensified, flooding the room and shining like infernal rime on the edges of the shadows.
Death watched, unspeaking. The room around Him shook but His robes were unruffled, the mantle of night covering His head untouched by the red light. The shaking continued, but became no worse until He let go and vanished, leaving His son to his chosen fate.
As soon as Death was gone the red light filled the room and tore the floor open, a burning chasm appearing below. The distant voices became near and urgent, and screams of rage and pain echoed up to greet him. The roar of flames and howl of wind struck the spirit like a blow, but nothing could dissuade it. The spirit dived down towards the grasping hands within the chasm, reaching for their cruel embrace as the red light raced after him and the floor closed up. Behind him there was only darkness.
Doranei paused at a window and realised he could hear the clatter of combat from outside. It was too dark to see anything when he looked out other than indistinct grey movement in the darkness. He assumed that was a good sign. If the Menin garrison had worked out what was happening and arrived, the Brotherhood wouldn’t wait; they’d fight their way out using the battle-mages to punch their exit hole.
Indistinctly he heard bellowing coming from elsewhere in the tower: Daken. It was random shouting, a white-eye’s joy of battle rather than a man looking for him. He left the white-eye to it and headed further up to the duchess’ private quarters. When he reached them there were two liveried guards on the door, but they were hesitant to leave their post to take the attack to him, which gave him time to grab a pouch from his belt and toss it, half-open, at the heavy door they guarded. As it hit a puff of dust was expelled, and weak though the lamplight was, it was enough to
ignite the dust in a bright white flash.
As the men cringed and covered their eyes Doranei dispatched them quickly and recovered the pouch carefully, tugging the drawstrings tight before re-hanging from his belt. That done, he tried the door. He wasn’t surprised to find it bolted, but he didn’t bother seeking one of the Cerdin-blessed thieves. Instead Doranei placed the tip of Aracnan’s sword where he guessed the door’s hinge would be and stabbed forward with all his strength.
The weapon pierced the oak without difficulty and went straight through. He worked it up and down and quickly found the hinge, withdrawing the sword to get the tip against the metal. With a single pace as run-up Doranei slammed the sword in and felt the metal burst under the impact.
Doing the same with the lower hinge was a simple task and soon the door was hanging drunkenly, half-open. Doranei slipped through the gap and blinked at the gloom inside, for a moment seeing nothing but indistinct shadows. When his eyes had adjusted Doranei found himself in a small ante-chamber with closed doors left and right, and a wide doorway ahead leading into an elegant study. He tried the closed doors first. The child’s bedroom he tore apart until he was sure no hiding places remained, then the breakfast room got similar treatment.
The study straight ahead was empty too, and finally he headed for the duchess’ bedroom, off the study. The room was very dark, even with a faint glimmer of moonlight creeping through the clouds. The lamps were barely warm to the touch. A lifetime of night exploits had given Doranei excellent vision in the dark, but he still managed to blunder into an unseen table as he headed for the window to look down. Still no light from below, but he was running out of time.
A sudden sense of being watched crept over him, causing the hairs of his neck to prickle as he whirled around, sword raised. The dark room remained still and empty, but the sense continued.
And well it might, Doranei thought, reaching for the pouch of sparkle-dust again. That bloody door was barred from the inside.
With a sweep of his sword Doranei smashed the nearest oil lamp and dropped the rest of the dust onto it, looking away with his eyes screwed up tight. The dust ignited and the lamp oil caught immediately, casting a weak light over the room. Doranei tugged a curtain from its rail and was about to set it alight when the shadows on the other side of the window suddenly billowed.
He dropped the curtain and struck out at the shadows, but a sword materialised from nowhere and caught the blow. Doranei hesitated; short blade and long handle — this wasn’t who he’d feared.
‘Zhia?’ he said, startled.
The shadows opened like a black flower saluting the moon. Zhia Vukotic appeared, resplendent in a blood-red dress and white silk scarf, with her sword extended.
‘My dear, you are one of the few people to ever look relieved when you find a vampire lurking in the shadows,’ she said with a pained smile. ‘I apologise for giving you a start.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Doranei demanded, lowering his sword and advancing on his immortal lover. ‘Where are the duchess and Ruhen?’
‘Escaped, I assume,’ Zhia said, sheathing her sword on her back with a flourish. ‘They had already gone when I arrived up here.’
‘Why are you here? Why did you bolt the door?’
Zhia gave him a look that was almost too weary for irritation. Whatever she’d been doing, it had taken a toll on her.
‘I was elsewhere in the tower on business; Lady Kinna has apartments on a lower level. When I heard the commotion it was not hard to guess who would be heading this way. I don’t know how your Brothers would react to seeing me here, but I assumed King Emin’s pet white-eye would be at the fore. His kind are hard to talk down once their blood is up and I have no desire to kill your friends. I thought the bolted door would slow them up; I hoped they couldn’t waste the time it would require to break it.’ She gave a wry smile — then suddenly screwed her eyes closed, as if in pain.
She gasped, shock blossoming on her face. ‘By the Dark Place, I had forgotten how painful His presence was!’
‘Whose?’ Doranei asked, looking around.
Zhia straightened, as though a weight was lifted from her shoulders. ‘That’s better, He’s gone now. Your Lord Death, that’s who,’ she added with a sour smile. ‘What I crave the most I cannot bear the presence of. You must have killed Aracnan; He has come for His unclaimed son.’
Zhia stopped, noticing the sword for the first time. ‘Even your mages would have found it hard to draw the bolts to this room. I had hoped to lurk here undisturbed until He had departed. I hadn’t expected you to be carrying anything so powerful. Did you kill Aracnan yourself?’ She sounded sceptical.
‘I was there when he died,’ Doranei replied, not wanting to waste time explaining any further. ‘Can you find the child for me?’
‘I have already tried, but there’s too much of a swirl of magic around the tower for me to find anyone not a mage.’
Doranei faltered, his shoulders sagging. ‘Then this was all for nothing?’ he said distantly.
‘Not necessarily.’ Zhia pointed to the desk on which lay a few books, a writing box and a silver sand-shaker. ‘I had a look around while I was waiting for your men to lose their ardour for slaughter.’
He moved to the desk, scanning the objects on it but seeing nothing out of the ordinary. ‘And?’ he prompted.
With a twitch of her fingers Zhia caused one of the books to rise up, green light playing around the edges and illuminating the monogram on the front. ‘I noticed an enchantment on one of the books and found it bore my brother’s initials.’ She let the book fall into his hands. ‘Is this the journal you were looking for?’
Doranei looked it over. It did indeed have entwined Vs on the cover, just as the novice Mayel had described to him. This had to be what Azaer had wanted from the abbot in Scree — what the shadow had sacrificed possession of the Skull of Ruling for.
When he tried to open it he found the pages stuck together, and when he ran his finger down the edge he saw a tiny spark of light and felt something as sharp as a knife slice his skin. He withdrew his hand hurriedly.
‘It’s a simple magical lock; it will not tax your king’s mages for too long,’ Zhia assured him, ‘but right now, it is time for you to leave.’
The look on her face told him not to argue and he realised she was right. He had already stayed longer than he’d planned; it was time to make good their escape.
‘Thank you,’ he said awkwardly.
Without warning Zhia made up the ground between them and grabbed him by his brigandine. Pulling him close she kissed him hard and fierce. When she withdrew the taste of her lips and the heady scent of her perfume remained.
‘Do not thank me,’ she said, her face unreadable. ‘Every step in your war against the shadow takes you further into pain. This may bring you a league of hurt.’
‘It is necessary,’ he croaked. ‘I do what I must.’
She gave him a weak smile. ‘As do we both.’
This time it was Doranei’s turn to pull the vampire close, half-lifting her off the ground and kissing her before he fled through the door. When he had gone she stared after him, her lips pursed tight. With a wave of the hand she extinguished the flames and was left alone with the shadows.
‘Do not disappoint me,’ Zhia said softly. The shadows did not reply.
CHAPTER 15
It was not yet midday when Count Vesna reached the Tirah-Tebran border, and already he’d had enough. Advance warning of what was waiting there failed to lessen his disgust when he saw the banners in the distance — banners that had no place in this suzerainty. In contrast, the ruby shard upon his cheek tingled at the prospect of violence.
At his side General Lahk observed them impassively, his only sign of disapproval the ordering of his personal standard be carried by the advance scouts, alongside the red banners of mourning. The general was also a marshal of Tebran, and it was into his small domain they were riding. Lahk’s obedience to tradition was absolut
e, but Vesna doubted Suzerain Temal or Scion Ranah would care about the small rebuke, if they even noticed it.
They had spent the previous night at the manor of Suzerain Tebran, once one of Lord Bahl’s fiercest supporters; renowned for his strength, but now a broken man, drinking himself to death. His parchment-pale skin hung loose on his body, and when Vesna had broken the news of his scion’s death in battle, he hadn’t been sure if the suzerain had even heard him. Muttered apologies were all Tebran had given, and it had been left to his daughter, Anatay, to tell them why through her own grief.
‘He was frightened for me, frightened for us all. There was only one of his hurscals here; the rest were with you, my Lord. He had to grant them leave to stay, to march under arms in the suzerainty.’
Vesna scowled and felt his armoured fist tighten around the reins. Threatening the weak to claim the protection of the law? It made the God in him bay for blood. Each suzerainty was a self-contained domain, subject only to the Lord of the Farlan — to ride battle-ready in another’s suzerainty without permission was tantamount to a declaration of war, but with his troops not yet returned from the Circle City, Suzerain Tebran had nothing to back up his authority.
