by Tom Lloyd
CHAPTER 28
Dawn intruded. His head felt heavy, unwieldy and as he forced his eyes open and the hot needles of sunlight drove in, he gasped and wrenched his head away. As he shifted from his awkward sleeping position the pain moved to his neck, a spiked collar that sent arrows of agony down his spine. He tried to move his unresponsive fingers, making a weak effort to massage away the pain, while a hot throb ran down his arm from the point of his elbow, which felt as stiff and hurt as much as his neck.
He blinked until the blur of light and dark slowly came into some semblance of focus. A broken table lay a few feet away amidst the pottery shards of several wine bottles and piles of abandoned clothes. For a while he stared at the mess, not understanding what had happened. A shaft of sunlight cut a thin white line across the rug-strewn floor and ran up his leg and chest like a sword-cut. It hit another bottle, clasped between his legs, still intact but empty. It looked as if the wine that had spilled into his lap was now mostly dried.
He lifted an arm to remove the bottle and froze. The arm wasn’t his; it was bigger, and unnaturally black - like some creature of the Waste. He turned it over and tried to make out the markings on it —
— and grief hit him like a thunderbolt, slamming into his head and racing down into the pit of his stomach. Count Vesna doubled over as the void in his gut twisted violently, and he wrapped mismatched arms around his body as he started retching, spewing a thin stream of sharp, sour bile onto his battered boots. A coughing fit followed, deep, shuddering exhalations that ended in a choked howl of sorrow.
The ruby teardrop on his cheek flared warm as his armoured fist tightened around the arm of his chair, snapping the polished wooden armrest like a twig. Memory flooded back as black stars burst before his eyes: the scratch on Tila’s face as she tried to speak, her last words to him. It had been such a small thing, barely more than a graze. As the image appeared in his mind he recalled that sickening sense of hope he’d felt at, the cruel momentary waning of horror, the second before he felt the ruined mess of her back.
Trembling, he wiped the stinking spittle from his chin with a grimy sleeve. Away from the shaft of light, the room looked dark and still, wrapped in cold shadows. Nausea shivered through his body again, but Vesna did not care enough to fetch a bowl or move away from the puddle of puke. A black knot of pain was building behind his eyes, eating away at his mind.
‘Why her?’ Vesna whispered. The effort of speaking, even to an empty room, drained him of energy and his head sagged onto his chest. For a while he looked at the torn threads on his tunic where buttons had once been, and the wine-stains on the fabric. He didn’t remember putting that tunic on; his memory was a jangled mess. Only Tila’s face was clear.
What happened then, the glass arrow, was in the distant past, as was the duel he’d fought with the Elf. There were clouds in his mind, after that, voices talking over one another, faces overlaid with pain and blood, someone shouting in his ear, tentative hands leading him through the streets, faces filled with horror and terror . . . such a long time ago . . .
There was a sound behind him, a click and creaking. Once he had been able to recognise the noise of a door opening. Now, he didn’t turn. The sound belonged to a different time, one where Tila lived. Nothing mattered now. As a voice began to speak he tuned it out, staring, unfocused, at the wine-stains. The words flowed over him unheard as the ache behind his eyes sharpened with every beat of his absent heart. The sound filled his ears and rattled his ribs long after the voice stopped and he realised he was alone with his pain again.
‘She can’t be gone,’ he muttered, ‘she can’t be.’ But no matter how often he repeated the words, the hollowness in his belly remained and he knew the words were a lie. His God-given strength was useless against such overwhelming power. Karkarn’s iron general was surrounded and helpless; his forces were broken, his stratagem in tatters. He had been defeated. Nothing was left but pain —
The cloud of shadows was suddenly thrown back and Vesna felt an explosion of pain in his head as he was thrown sideways onto the floor. He crumpled, content to lie there, even as the years of training tried to cut in and force him to stand.
‘Get up, you useless streak of piss!’ yelled a voice. ‘On your feet, soldier!’
Vesna found himself dragged upright as he stared blindly at blurs that lurched and swayed. Before he could focus on anything he felt a hand slap him across the face with enough force to snap his head back.
‘You pathetic, fucking drunk! You shame her memory, boy!’ the voice roared, choked with rage.
Tila. Energies caught life inside him, sparking like a lit fuse, and Vesna caught the next blow with one hand and struck out with the other, trying to shove his attacker away. From somewhere his sword slapped into his palm and then the blur disappeared from his eyes.
In front of him stood Marshal Carelfolden, his face red with rage, and Sir Dace, his cheek yellow with old bruising.
‘Get out,’ Vesna growled.
Sir Dace opened his mouth to reply, but Carel beat him to it. ‘Fuck off, you whining little brat! You want to be alone? You get out.’
Vesna took a step forward, power flooding though his body as the lit match became a mighty flame. ‘Get out or I’ll kill you,’ he growled.
Carel raised his head slightly, like a duellist en guarde. He held a long log in his hand, the one he’d smashed around Vesna’s skull. ‘Go on then, you damned coward. You can kill me, but don’t think you frighten me.’
‘I will kill you.’ Vesna raised his sword.
Carel spat on the floor at Vesna’s feet and tossed the log aside. ‘What are you waiting for then? I spent years around Isak and his temper; your grief’s nothing new. Want me to count the number of times he threatened me? From his thirteenth summer, that boy was strong enough to kill any man in the wagon train, and I’ve got the scars to prove his temper - and so does’ - he faltered momentarily, but caught himself - ‘and so did he.’ The rage in his eyes lessened, to be replaced by something Vesna recognised.
When Carel continued it was in a much quieter voice, though he was no less defiant. ‘You ain’t the only one who’s lost here, Vesna. You ain’t the only one who grieves for Tila.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Vesna asked.
Carel shook his head and his shoulder sagged. Now more than ever he looked the old man he was. ‘There’s no one here can tell you what to do. You’ve got to figure that out yourself - but if you just sit there I’ll keep swinging this log ’til your brains spill out or you gut me.’
‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Vesna said in bewilderment. ‘Just get out and leave me alone.’
‘Sorry, my friend,’ Sir Dace said with an apologetic shake of the head. Vesna’s oldest friend took a pace forward and pushed aside the Mortal-Aspect’s raised sword. ‘It’s no joke. You’ve been sitting here for more’n a week, and we won’t take it any more. Whether the words were spoken or not, you were married to Tila, and I swore to stand sentinel to that marriage.’
‘There’s no honour to defend now,’ Vesna whispered, dropping his sword. Dace stepped forward and slipped a shoulder under his friend’s arm.
‘Yes, there is,’ Dace said, his face tightening, ‘yours and hers. You think she’d want this? You think this is the memorial she deserves? A hero crippled with grief? A man both blessed and useless in one?’
Vesna shook his head. ‘What Tila would want?’ he whispered. ‘She’s dead, Dace, she doesn’t want anything now, and I — I can’t go on, not this way.’
‘No,’ Carel declared. ‘No, you can’t go on this way. I don’t agree with what you’ve done to yourself, but it’s done, and if your wife could accept it, so can and must I. And she did accept it, wholeheartedly and without reservation. She knew she’d be sharing you with Lord Karkarn, and there was never one word of complaint, not even after you left with the crusade. It was the duty you felt, the duty you chose, and she would never have stood in the way o’ that.’
&
nbsp; ‘You made her proud,’ Dace said, his voice soft, ‘so damned proud I could hardly believe it. You’re my best friend, and the finest soldier I ever met, and I’m proud to have served with you and fought alongside you - you know that. But for Lady Tila, it wasn’t just that. You were far more to her than your skill with a blade, much more, and I’d rather die than see you disappoint her that way. I won’t allow you to be less than the man she believed you to be.’
Tears were streaming down Vesna’s face, every time Tila’s name mentioned hitting him like a punch in the belly. In his mind he could see her, looking at him from the doorway, seeing the state of him now: hair matted and greasy, earrings of rank discarded, his body rank, his clothes filthy and stinking. ‘I don’t have the strength,’ he mumbled, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘You do your duty,’ Carel said gravely, ‘for better or worse, you do your duty. Karkarn’s your lord now, and Isak showed you the path. You make your fear and your pain a part of you; you use them as weapons, if what’s needed.’
Vesna sagged, leaning heavily on Dace. ‘How?’ he asked. ‘I don’t even know where to start.’
Carel and Sir Dace exchanged looks. ‘You start with a bath,’ they said together.
‘Ah, Vesna,’ the Chief Steward said, seeing the door to his office open, ‘do come in.’ He gestured to one of the chairs. ‘Please, have a seat.’
‘What do you want, Lesarl?’
The Chief Steward gave him an appraising look. The count still looked ragged around the edges, but it was a vast improvement on the wreck of a man Lesarl had tried to speak to a few days before.
‘What have you done with my clothes?’ Vesna continued, doing a poor job of hiding his mounting anger, but if Lesarl noticed it he gave no sign.
‘I removed them,’ Lesarl said eventually, sitting down behind his desk. There were leather-wrapped files scattered everywhere, but Lesarl didn’t take his eyes off Vesna as he reached out and touched one of the files with two fingers. ‘They are the accoutrements of a count of the Farlan, and legally you cannot possibly be that.’
‘You stole my clothes?’ Vesna gestured at the dark grey brigandine he wore, far plainer than anything he would normally wear in the palace. The only detail was a small bronze pin on the collar bearing Karkarn’s device.
‘And your earrings,’ Lesarl replied brightly.
Vesna’s black-iron-clad fingers flexed. ‘You think now’s the time for this conversation?’
‘I am bound to enforce the law,’ Lesarl said by way of reply. ‘Naturally the cults are demanding all your worldly possessions and deeds now belong to them, but given the unusual circumstances, it will be easy to delay any ruling for as long as you need.’
‘Need?’
Lesarl again pointed to the chair. ‘Please, Vesna - sit.’ When at last the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn did, Lesarl continued, ‘Your title and noble possessions will be held by the Lord of the Farlan until such a time as you express a wish as to what should be done with them.’
Vesna leaned forward. ‘You can piss them away for all I care. They hardly matter now.’
‘They matter quite a bit,’ Lesarl corrected, ‘symbolically, as much as anything. You have been a faithful servant of the tribe and you are a hero of the Farlan Army - I tend not to piss away, as you so delightfully put it, such powerful symbols.’
‘As you wish. I’ve no use for them,’ Vesna growled. ‘Is that all you wanted from me?’
Lesarl pushed forward a second file, a slim one this time. ‘Not quite. First you should read this.’
‘Why?’ There was no reply and after a moment Vesna gave in and grabbed the file, knocking some on the floor as he did so. He flipped it open and read the top page. ‘It’s a murder report.’
‘Indeed it is. Look underneath.’
Vesna did so and frowned. ‘Another murder report. Both priests; what’s wrong, Lesarl, one of your agents go beyond their remit again?’
‘Can you see the link between them?’ Lesarl asked. ‘It’s rather easy to spot.’
‘They’re both priests of Karkarn - is that why you think I’ll care?’ Vesna stood. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Karkarn and I aren’t exactly speaking right now.’ The iron fist tightened again. ‘If he hadn’t interfered at the shrine there’s a good chance . . .’ He stopped, then whispered, ‘There’s a good chance Tila would still be alive.’
‘And you would likely be dead,’ Lesarl pointed out. ‘Karkarn saved your life, and like it or not, it was the right thing to do.’
‘Right?’ Vesna yelled, slamming his fist onto Lesarl’s ornate monstrosity of a desk, hard enough to make it shudder under the impact. ‘You had better carefully consider the next words to come out your mouth.’
‘Vesna,’ Lesarl said in a quieter voice, ‘I do not pretend to know your pain, I would not presume that.’ He took a long, slow breath, and saw Vesna do the same after a moment. He had had years of practice with Lord Bahl’s grief and temper over the murder of his lover, replayed in Bahl’s dreams, thanks to the Menin. He could recognise the tipping points well enough. ‘Vesna, you must believe me: it gives me no pleasure to remind you, but someone has to.’
‘Remind me of what?’
‘As much as it will make you laugh until you’re sick - remind you of your duty.’
Vesna gaped. ‘Duty? You think I care about duty now?’
‘Of course not.’ Lesarl held up a hand to stop the angry retort he could see forming on Vesna’s lips. ‘Lord Bahl taught me about duty: it’s a heartless mistress, but it binds as powerfully as love, or grief.’
He stood up and walked halfway around the desk. ‘Vesna, we’ve known each other for many years, and in all that time your duty has guided your actions and shaped the man you have become - a man who realised he was being offered a difficult, unforgiving path, and who had the courage to take it all the same.’
‘Whatever you’re getting at,’ Vesna said, rising and heading towards the door, ‘I’m not interested.’
‘Really?’ Lesarl said in a sour tone. ‘Then perhaps I was wrong all those years ago when I first asked you to work for me. I had thought you more than just a thug for hire. I didn’t think you’d ever be one to run away from your duty, not ever.’
Before he could blink Vesna had moved back to the desk and grabbed Lesarl by the throat, driving him backwards into a bookcase of files.
‘Enough of your shit! You’ve used me like a toy for years - in the service of your own sick sense of humour more than the tribe. Is this anything more than the petulance of a twisted child whose plaything has been stolen away? You sicken me, you and all those who play games with the lives of others! I’ve had enough of it; I’ve lost more in your games than anyone could be asked to give, and I’m not playing any more!’
‘You’ve lost?’ Lesarl gasped, ‘you accuse me of petulance? You claim you’ve lost more than anyone should?’ Vesna shook him like a dog, but Lesarl continued with sudden, rare anger, ‘Damn you, Vesna, you’re not the one who’s lost here; you’ve come out ahead of the rest of us and now you think you can just walk off with your winnings? Tila lost, Lord Isak lost, Lord Bahl lost - the Gods alone know how many soldiers who looked to you for inspiration lost as they died in battle. It wasn’t their fight, it wasn’t their war - but they marched for the tribe, and they died for the tribe!’
Lesarl struggled out of Vesna’s grip and wrenched at his tunic to right it. ‘They are the ones who’ve lost in this war,’ he said contemptuously, ‘and you honour their memories by running away. You’re wrong, Iron General - this is a game you’ll see to the end, and that’s a choice you’ve made already. The only question is whether you realise your duty must come before your grief in time to ensure their sacrifices were not made in vain. You need to act - you need to find the courage your friends have shown and do your duty, no matter the cost.’
‘You want me to chase after Lord Styrax and die at his hands too? Maybe run away like Mihn on some witch’s errand — ?�
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Lesarl’s face purpled. ‘You think Mihn’s run away? Nartis preserve us, you really are just a stone-headed soldier, aren’t you? Didn’t you see the tattoos he put on himself?’
Vesna frowned, confused. He realised he had never seen Lesarl so incandescent with rage. ‘Of course I did - but I’ve no mage’s schooling.’
‘And you never even bothered to investigate.’ Lesarl shook his head in disgust. ‘I don’t know whether it was something he cooked up with Lord Isak or if he just guessed his lord’s mind, but Mihn has made as much of a sacrifice as you - probably even more; I imagine it will last a great deal longer. He’s not let anything get in the way of his duty.’
‘What in Ghenna’s name are you talking about?’
‘Hah, exactly! Charms of protection, charms of silence - even a rune that echoed the one on Lord Isak’s chest! He linked his soul to a white-eye, one who had been dreaming of his own death for months, who believed it would be at the hands of Lord Styrax — and who then marched south towards that death.’
