The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection

by Tom Lloyd

  Unexpectedly Carel embraced him. ‘Aye, brother it is. I never meant those words I said back in Tirah. You know what grief does to a man.’

  Vesna nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘See you in the Herald’s Hall,’ Carel added, breaking away from the Mortal-Aspect and retrieving his sword with a grunt. ‘Put in a good word for me, y’hear?’

  With that he was off, half-running, half-limping towards the stairway where most of the Brotherhood had already entered.

  ‘Goodbye, brother,’ Vesna whispered, filled with sudden certainty that he wouldn’t see the ageing warrior again. He shook himself, then shouted, ‘Right you bastards! Form line!’ The Iron General looked around at his remaining soldiers. Some three hundred Ghosts out of the two thousand who’d ridden to Moorview had reached the top with him. No doubt there were more left back on the slope, still fighting, but three hundred would have to be enough.

  ‘Well, brothers,’ he called out as they started to get into position, , ‘looks like we’ve found a good place to die. Let’s give the bards something to sing about, eh?’

  And all around him, the Farlan battle hymn started up again.

  CHAPTER 43

  At the centre of the cavern there were more standing stones, each one as high as the pair marking the entrance, set in a circle thirty yards across. They’d not been carved or quarried, and the only markings they bore were the rune of a God, carved on their inside faces, above a small niche. Isak could feel the presence of the Gods here; this place was a lodestone for their spirits.

  As he dragged himself towards the centre of the cavern Isak felt the heat on his skin, and he quailed inside, knowing the sight he would soon be faced with. When they had rounded the last of the great pillars even Ilumene had faltered, the leash falling slack for a moment, until Ruhen had gestured and the former King’s Man trotted up to his side again.

  A swift-flowing river of fire, ten feet wide, was swirling around the standing stones, high flames leaping like grasping hands from its surface. A single stone slab crossed it. Isak cringed at the memory of Ghenna as the heat and pain of his torments radiated out of his many scars. He dropped to one knee, his arm thrown across his face as though to protect himself, but he could not tear his gaze from those flames.

  ‘Lit by the River Maram,’ Ruhen announced with delight, ‘holy beyond the Palace of the Gods itself. This is the heart of the Land, the very bedrock of the Gods and the worship that sustains them.’ The boy turned to face Isak and he saw the shadows surge and dance in the mismatched eyes. His pale skin was tainted by grey swirls as Maram’s light showed Azaer’s true self through its mortal vessel.

  ‘This is the place?’ Isak croaked, fighting for breath. He forced himself to his feet again, standing for a moment with the silver chain dragging at his shoulder, until he dropped heavily to his knees again and prolonged the moment a fraction more. ‘This is where you had Aryn Bwr forge the Skulls?’

  Ruhen gestured towards the standing stones and Isak realised each of the niches set below each God’s rune was

  were were

  large enough to take a Crystal Skull. ‘I merely showed him this place; his decisions were his own.’

  ‘But you gave him the idea – how to restrict the power of the Gods.’

  ‘I told him the truth of the crystals he found here, the link each one had to the Gods, how worship and magic flowed through them. How each could be limited, the Last King discovered himself. He saw them for what they were: beings of power who cared little for their creations. He made them care, he made them dependent on their followers, and for that they hated him.’

  Ruhen looked at Isak, his face strangely intense. ‘Do you remember any tales of the Age of Myths? The mountains they carelessly tore down, the moon they threw into the night sky? They acted without regard for consequences. The myths speak nothing of the mortals lost when the mountains fell or the waters rose. The Elves suffered, the Tribes of Man suffered, and so Aryn Bwr tried to limit them, to grant the Gods understanding and bring the creation of mortal life full circle.’

  ‘And for that they cursed him,’ Isak whispered.

  ‘They did not see it as a gift,’ Ruhen said. ’They could accept no hand but their own shaping their existence.’ He crossed the slab and entered the circle itself. ‘Bring him,’ he commanded.

  Ilumene followed eagerly, half-dragging Isak after him, with Tiniq and Venn close behind. Once inside Isak felt a sudden coolness on his skin; the oppression of Maram’s flames dimmed within the circle.

  ‘Venn – the Skulls.’

  The black Harlequin reached into a bag at his waist and withdrew three Crystal Skulls which he placed in the alcoves under the runes of Vrest, Amavoq and Ilit. Tiniq tugged Isak towards the stone bearing Death’s rune and put the Skull of Ruling there, but he kept his hand on it to maintain the link between it and on Isak’s black sword. The Harlequins and Acolytes spread out, outside the ring of fire, keeping a wary eye on the entrances to the tunnels. Koteer, the grey-skinned son of Death, took up position on the bridge itself, making himself a barrier to anyone else’s entry.

  ‘It is almost time,’ Ruhen said in a quiet, reverential voice. ‘I can feel my children dying.’

  He nodded to Ilumene, and the big man let Isak’s leash fall to the ground as he drew his sword. Ruhen followed, the strain clear on his face as he unwrapped the shining crystal hilt of Aenaris and drew it. He reversed the sword and drove it down into the rock until the blade was half-buried, then handed Ilumene the Skull he had been carrying.

  Isak recognised it: Dreams had been fused to Xeliath’s withered hand. Once it had been Life’s, the Queen of the Gods, now it was linked to Kitar, Goddess of Fertility.

  Ilumene slipped the Skull onto his sword so it fitted around the blade and turned to face Ilit’s rune, and Isak gasped as a burst of magic filled the room like a thunderclap, the shadows receding as Aenaris shone with a bright clear light.

  ‘Ilit, come forth,’ Ruhen intoned, his small face tight with unaccustomed strain. ‘Ilit, I summon you.’

  The light intensified, the air shuddering as though under sudden assault. Isak shied away from the magic that spiralled down into the circle with a great rushing sound. There was a surge of a stormy wind, then a funnel of air appeared from nowhere, spinning tightly into a whirlwind ten feet high before melting into nothingness to reveal the white-robed figure of Ilit, staring imperiously at Ruhen.

  The God’s narrow face was sharp, the jutting lines of his nose and brow as solid as his hair was flowing and ever-moving. He carried a golden bow in his hand, and the shining Horn of Seasons nestled in the crook of his arm. Ilit’s piercing, sky-blue eyes focused on Ruhen. His expression was one of rage. ‘This—’

  But the God didn’t get a chance to finish his words as Ilumene ran him through, the jewelled bastard sword blazing with light as it drove deep into Ilit’s gut. Ichor spilled down his pristine robe and the God staggered back. He raised his hand to strike Ilumene down, but the grinning warrior twisted the sword in the wound and Ilit faltered, holding still just long enough for Venn to cleanly sever the God’s head.

  Isak felt Ilit’s death like an explosion on his skin, a sudden battering of wild magic and life-force torn apart before they dissipated and were absorbed by the rock of the cavern. He shuddered, feeling a hollow pain in his stomach as the Land roiled beneath him, reeling from the sudden, enormous death it had suffered. He retched again as the scent of ichor filled his nose and Ilit’s death-scream crashed through his mind.

  ‘See my resolve, Gods of the Upper Circle,’ Ruhen intoned, eyes wide and shining bright. ‘See my power and despair. I can tear you all down, each and every one of you.’

  He turned to Venn as the black Harlequin wiped the dead God’s blood from his blade. ‘Herald of twilight,’ Ruhen crooned, ‘attend me.’

  Venn stopped as though stung by a wasp, his mouth open. A wisp of black mist snaked out like a daemon’s tongue, followed by more and more. Faint trail
s crept from his eyes and ears too, and coalesced into a shadow slipping out of Venn and becoming a kneeling figure, head bowed before his master.

  Isak caught the sharp, sickly scent of rotting peaches on the air and recognised it from Doranei’s accounts: Rojak, the minstrel responsible for Scree’s destruction.

  Isak was helpless under the weight of Termin Mystt and the silver chain. He could only watch as the shadow’s lips parted and Rojak spoke silent words to his master’s mortal vessel. Ruhen smiled and looked away. A sliver of white light broke away from Aenaris and dipped down to the flowing flames surrounding them.

  The magic gathered up a small stream of fire and carried it up in the air, high above their heads, where it swirled with malevolent intent. Isak’s ears rang with the distant howls of the souls within Maram’s fire, which broke apart at a word from Ruhen and became twelve streams, each one twirling out to encircle the top of each standing stone, crowning them with flame. Isak could sense a greater spell being worked as the power of Aenaris grew stronger yet again. It momentarily blinded Isak with its light as the wreaths of fire hissed and spat on the stones they now bound.

  There was another great burst of light, and when the stars in Isak’s eyes cleared he saw each ring of fire break and slither like snakes towards the alcoves beneath each rune. Ilumene and Venn placed their Crystal Skulls into the appropriate niches and all six were covered by flame. Balls of fire filled the empty alcoves.

  Isak couldn’t see behind him, but the jolt of pain that wracked his body and filled his bones with acid told him Tiniq had released his contact with the Skull. Magic filled his body; he felt it leaking out like blood seeping from a wound, but the loss was a relief and after the first moments of agony he realised the power of Termin Mystt was joining that of Aenaris, its mate, and fuelling the ritual Ruhen was performing. He screwed up his eyes and tried to fight it, to disrupt or slow the spell, but the effort was excruciating, like claws tearing at his mind, and he had to release it, whimpering like a dying puppy.

  All around him he sensed the power in the Skulls twisting and knotting, their unleashed presence like beacons in the night. Distantly he could sense the others too, Legana and Vesna both crying out as fire wrapped around their Skulls—

  Close – they were close!

  Hold on, Isak screamed at himself, desperate to keep his mind removed from the terrifying power surging through his body. They’re coming. Hold on!

  Vesna roared and struck again, flames from his Crystal Skull surging down the length of his blade to burst on the Devoted’s shoulder. The man crumpled, but another lunged at him frantically as his comrade fell. The Mortal-Aspect felt the man’s sword scrape up across his cuirass and over his bicep; he twisted and brought his left arm down like a hammer, snapping the blade against his armour. A backhand blow shattered his attacker’s helm and threw him backwards, and a Ghost hacked into his hip, felling the Devoted.

  He looked around and saw Ghosts and Devoted alike dying. The Farlan line had buckled under the press of greater numbers, but they were holding, fighting with the fury of daemons, and the Devoted were being repelled. Vesna levelled his sword and the magic engulfing it lanced out, lashing fire across the retreating soldiers.

  ‘More coming!’ one man yelled, and a ragged group of Devoted came charging from the left. The waiting Ghosts readied themselves for another assault. All around them a carpet of death covered the hill.

  That last wave that should have swamped them, Vesna thought, but for the ferocity of the Ghosts. As he watched the Devoted fell, one by one dropping to the ground, and he suddenly realised they were not charging but fleeing.

  ‘The Menin!’ Vesna shouted with the strength of a God, ‘they’re our allies!’ And behind the Devoted came dark, heavily armoured men with a tall soldier at the front: General Amber, driving his men onwards. He slashed a last Devoted across the head, and the impact snapped the man’s neck sideways and felled him instantly.

  The line of Ghosts opened and Vesna saw a hundred or more Menin surge into the gap, some gasping, others howling warcries that no longer contained words.

  General Amber staggered towards Vesna, one arm slack and trailing blood as he walked. ‘Iron General,’ Amber rasped, forcing himself to stand tall, ‘we stand with you.’

  Vesna raised his flaming sword high above his head and the Ghosts cheered raggedly. ‘We welcome you,’ he bellowed, as though his men could regain their strength from the power of his voice alone. ‘Karkarn stands with us.’

  ‘And daemons hunt us,’ Amber croaked as Nai ran to his side and grabbed the general’s arm.

  Amber flinched in surprise, then seemed to realise who was there. Nai carried one of Amber’s own scimitars; clearly he’d picked it up when Amber had been wounded, but he dropped it now and wrapped his hands around Amber’s bleeding arm. A swift burst of magic made Amber cry out with pain.

  ‘It’s sealed,’ Nai announced, retrieving his weapon, ‘but your ribs are broken. You need to hold back. They need you alive.’

  Amber growled a curse at the man and turned away. ‘They need me down there,’ he grunted, ‘but I can’t help them now. Those daemons will tear the heart out of us, and once they do, I’ll have no men left to need me.’

  Vesna turned to where he pointed; he couldn’t see the slope itself from where they were standing, but he knew there was fighting all up it. Beyond the base, however, Menin and Narkang soldiers were advancing side by side on the boiling mass of white monsters who had ripped into the very heart of the army.

  ‘Look – the Dark Monks,’ someone cried, pointing to the low ground between hill and rise. ‘They’re moving to attack!’

  Vesna felt a jolt as he saw Suzerain Torl’s cavalry aiming for the rear of Ruhen’s Children, though fresh Devoted cavalry stood in their way. Once he got into that strip of ground there would be little room for Torl’s horsemen to manoeuvre, but the suzerain appeared to have forgotten the tactics he’d championed among the Farlan. Even at that distance Vesna could see this was not a strafing run; the Dark Monks were getting ready to charge directly for the enemy, though they had already fought several engagements and their horses had to be almost blown.

  ‘He’s trying to buy us time,’ Vesna realised. ‘He knows the pressure needs to be relieved.’

  ‘He’ll die, then,’ Amber rasped, his arm pressed to his side as he moved up to stand beside Vesna. ‘They’ll get pinned down by the infantry on the rise and crushed.’

  ‘He’s the best of us,’ Vesna said to shouts of agreement from the Ghosts nearby. ‘Torl doesn’t fear death, only failure.’

  Suddenly Amber dropped to one knee, gasping in pain. Vesna half-picked him up but that seemed to only hurt Amber more and the Farlan hero felt a sudden pang of fear for this man he barely knew.

  ‘You’re hurt badly – get that armour off.’

  ‘Piss on you,’ Amber growled. ‘If I’m done, I’ll go fighting, not sat on my arse while my men protect me.’

  ‘Then you’ll die, you fool!’

  Amber scowled, straightening up for a moment and looking Vesna straight in the eye. ‘I’m Menin,’ he said angrily, making it clear that was the end of the matter.

  Then he added, ‘Promise me one thing.’

  Vesna felt the words catch in his throat. They didn’t have time to talk; already he could see more Devoted cresting the hill and moving to attack them.

  And yet … and yet what other time do we have left? Might be we’d already have fallen if this man hadn’t killed himself reaching us. He could have seen to his own, led his remaining troops away from this slaughter, but he chose to stay and die with us.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘If any of us live,’ Amber panted, ‘lead them home.’

  ‘Home?’

  The Menin general’s face was now white with pain. Vesna realised in that moment the man’s injuries might be greater than just broken ribs; Amber might be bleeding inside too.

  ‘You’re their general n
ow,’ Amber whispered. ‘You’re their God. Lead them home. Fulfil my promise.’

  Vesna bowed his head in acknowledgement and the movement seemed to instil a flicker of new life into Amber. ‘I’ll die with my sword in my hand,’ the Menin declared.

  ‘You’re not dead yet,’ Vesna warned as the line of Ghosts parted to incorporate Amber and the handful of Menin with him. ‘We’ll take them together.’

  Amber gave a brief nod, still wincing at the injury to his side, but there was no time for further words as the enemy arrived.

  A spear shot towards Amber’s cuirass and glanced off, but the Menin appeared not to even notice. With a roar he hurled himself into the mêlée and Vesna went with him, the two men bearing death in their wake.

  They ran as fast as the dark allowed, the ground shaking underfoot, groaning like the Land itself was assailed. The upheaval spurred them on. Legana led with her Crystal Skull in one hand, the flames trailing from it lighting their path. On one side of her jogged Daken, on the other Ardela. Close behind were King Emin and his Brotherhood, Carel and the two Farlan Ascetites, with the eighty remaining Sisters of Dusk following.

  After the initial shock and pain of having her clothes set alight, Legana had wrapped her hand in magic and allowed the Skull to burn there, though she was unable to stop and work out why flames licked over the Skull’s glassy surface. Not long after they’d entered the tunnel a God of the Upper Circle had died; as soon as she’d told them, Legana had upped their pace, careless of her own poor balance, the injuries others carried or the chance of ambush. Whatever had been done to the Skulls must be part of Azaer’s plan. Time was running out.

  The tunnel widened a shade and up ahead an opening appeared, lit by a faint crimson glow from the chamber behind. Daken didn’t break stride but sprinted ahead of the rest, his movements blurring as a blue shadow-image appeared in front of him. At the opening he checked himself and let Litania’s shadow whip through, to be met by swords flashing out from either side – but they cut only mist. Then Daken smashed one weapon from its owner’s grip while Ardela, beside him, smacked down the other, bringing her Harlequin’s sword back up in one smart movement to cut into the ambusher’s neck. Daken didn’t bother finishing off his; he left the disarmed Acolyte to those behind him.