by Tom Lloyd
From the lee of a stalagmite a slender figure danced, diamond patchwork clothes suddenly bright in the light of Legana’s flames. A long-knife flew through the air and caught the Harlequin in the shoulder, slowing its lethal lunge just enough for Daken to be able to parry the sword and bring his axe-blade down on the Harlequin’s leg. Still the white-masked figure turned and slashed at Daken’s face, and the edge scraped across his cheek-guard as Daken barged into the Harlequin’s shoulder. The impact knocked it off balance and Legana moved even faster than a Harlequin to open its throat.
More Acolytes converged on Daken, trying to pick him off, but King Emin and Doranei reached his side in the same instant. The sight of Doranei’s star-lit sword made them hesitate, and then the rest of the Brotherhood had come through, Veil leading the charge.
Out of the darkness on the other side of the cavern a dagger flew towards the king, who reeled away, crying out, as the air around him suddenly filled with white light. The dagger fell harmlessly to the floor and Legana stormed past the Brotherhood before any of them had found the new threat, kicking the knife away as she went.
A pair of dead blue eyes shone out from the darkness of a tunnel entrance, and as Legana advanced, a figure wearing a tarnished crown emerged into the half-light of the chamber.
‘You are too late,’ the Wither Queen rasped, malice shining out from her face. ‘Ilit is dead. They dare not oppose him now.’
Legana paused only to hurl a gout of flame at the Aspect of Death and the Wither Queen vanished backwards into the tunnel again, mocking laughter echoing in her wake. Legana started to head off in pursuit, until King Emin shouted after her, ‘She’s leading us off the path! You can’t follow her.’
Legana’s blazing emerald eyes turned back to him. ‘She will dog our path. I must stop her,’ she said into their minds.
‘What about Isak?’
‘You are all connected to him; you can find him without me. I will meet you there.’ And with that she vanished into the darkness, her bloodied long-knives ready for the fight to come.
King Emin muttered a curse and looked around at his troops. Ardela stood poised to run after Legana, but then she realised she would only hinder her mistress.
Instead it was Leshi who moved first. The Farlan ranger was gripped by a murderous fury over Tiniq’s betrayal. ‘This way,’ he said. ‘We’re running out of time.’
Swords crashed down on both sides, hammering against Vesna’s black armour. The dead were piled high around the standing stones; though his men had been greatly thinned by the repeated assaults, they were refusing to be broken. White light whipped around the Mortal-Aspect as he turned aside an axe and punched the man who’d struck him. A Ghost threw himself forward and dragged down the Devoted who was trying to stab up under Vesna’s guard; a Menin moved to Vesna’s lee and chopped down another soldier.
The Ghost fought his way on top of the Devoted and hammered at his face with the pommel of his sword, smashing teeth and bone with repeated blows until the soldier was still. He scrambled back towards the line, his feet slipping on the blood-slicked corpses, but a spear got him first. Vesna saw his mouth fall open in shock and pain, but all he could do was behead the Ghost’s killer and drag the dying man back.
Behind him Amber knelt, bleeding from half-a-dozen wounds but refusing to submit to death. The Menin general forced himself upright again, and the remaining Menin roared their approval even as Amber was forced to use his scimitar to keep himself upright.
Vesna scanned the ground, then grabbed an abandoned spear. He handed it to Amber in exchange for the blunted scimitar, which he hurled at the last knot of Devoted soldiers still fighting. It caught one in the side of the head and sent him staggering into the man beside him, the distraction enough for both to be cut down.
He looked around at the bodies lying around the circle they had defended. Some were crying out in agony; others gasped like dying fish, but all of them were aware their time had come.
‘We can’t face much more of this,’ he said, to himself as much as Amber. ‘There’s too many of them.’
‘Look,’ Amber croaked, pointing to the foot of the hill, where the white daemons of Ruhen’s Children fought on against the few remaining Kingsguard and Menin. There would be no relief, Vesna realised: what few troops left on the hill were dying by the hundreds in that horrific slaughter below.
‘Cavalry,’ shouted someone, and Vesna saw the Dark Monks, Suzerain Torl’s command, fully engaged with the enemy, outnumbered but pressing forward towards the rear of Ruhen’s Children with no regard for their own lives.
‘Torl’s buying us time with his own life,’ Vesna moaned, ‘but for what? There’s no one left—’
Further off there were other fights going on as the Devoted forced the mercenaries and battle-clans further and further away from where they were needed.
‘Not them,’ the soldier shouted back. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’
Even the weariest heads lifted at the surprise in his voice. Everyone turned to look where he was pointing, and there, behind the rise, were several legions of cavalry, advancing in an ordered line.
‘They’re not ours,’ Vesna realised with a sinking feel. ‘How in the name of the Dark Place did they hide those reserves?’ A wave of helplessness washed over him and he dropped to his knees, the cold realisation that they were beaten draining his God-granted strength. They could not possibly survive this; even with Torl’s sacrifice, the heavy infantry could not slow Ruhen’s Children much longer. Thousands of the white monsters had died, perhaps ten thousand, but there were still enough left to wipe out the last few of King Emin’s men who were left defending this peak.
‘No, look! They’re not Devoted banners,’ shouted another, the golden eagle of a Swordmaster emblazoned on his armour. He forced his way to Vesna’s side. ‘They’re fucking Farlan!’
Vesna pulled himself to his feet again and scanned the battle-field. Farlan? How—?
‘It appears your people prefer to fight only at the very death,’ Amber grunted, his face twisted in pain. ‘May it prove as decisive as Moorview.’
Vesna had been straining to see who it was arriving at this late point. Suddenly animated, he shouted, ‘Look at all the colours! Look at them – they’re nobility – it’s Lord Fernal! It’s our fucking heavy cavalry!’
CHAPTER 44
‘Sound the advance,’ Lord Fernal shouted in his deep, growling voice, ‘make all the noise you can: get them to turn our way!’
The buglers sounded their high repeating notes that cut through the air, the sounding order swiftly echoed by the hunting horns carried by many; after repeating the order again and again, they fell to just blaring loud and long, until the Devoted cavalry encircling Suzerain Torl’s troops broke off their attack and milled about the foot of the rise in a disordered, chaotic mass.
Their commanders desperately tried to regain some control, but the Devoted began to retreat, unwilling to stay in this confined spot to face heavy cavalry.
‘Now get out of the way, Torl,’ Duke Lomin muttered from behind his face-plate, a berserker’s raging face heavily engraved with runes of Karkarn and Kao, the berserker Aspect. ‘Give us a run.’
‘He will,’ Suzerain Fordan predicted, checking his warhammer was secure on his saddle. ‘Torl shamed us all by marching when we would not – he’ll see what we must do.’
Lord Fernal turned to look at a black-armoured figure on his right, the only other non-Farlan among them, but behind that black-whorled decoration he could see nothing. If the other outsider felt the same bemusement at the Farlan nobility, he made no sign; he merely adjusted the white tabard bearing Fernal’s crest he was wearing over his armour.
‘He sees,’ the black armoured knight said as the Dark Monks broke away.
The Farlan nobles continued forward at a steady pace, their anticipation almost palpable as the rearmost of Ruhen’s Children came into view.
They quickly closed the gap and were starting to read
y themselves for the charge when two shapes dropped from the sky, landing with heavy thumps. It felt to Fernal like the wind had been punched from his men. The horses shied away from the monsters, while the men themselves faltered in the face of the figure riding the lead monster. Three figures hovered above the wyverns, their wings outstretched: Lord Gesh and two other Litse white-eyes. Gesh brandished a golden bow that glittered with magical light.
The Litse lord’s shot arched elegantly towards them, and three thousand men, nobles, hurscals and sworn swords alike, watched it fall inexorably—
—until, without warning, the air shimmered into surging eddies, twisting the arrow abruptly and sending it soaring up into the sky again. This time as it fell back down, its energy was spent and it clattered harmlessly against some distant nobleman’s armour.
Vorizh Vukotic urged his wyvern forward, the beast walking awkwardly with its wings half-unfurled for balance. Behind him were several score of Ruhen’s Children, peering in confusion at the wyverns, who hissed and roared their defiance at the advancing Farlan troops. Unafraid – or enchanted by their master – the monsters stood their ground as the Litse white-eyes circled above them, each readying his curved spear to slash at the knights below.
‘Ready to charge,’ Fernal commanded, ‘on my signal!’
Forty yards from the wyverns, the black-armoured knight spurred his horse forward. Vorizh’s laughter echoed across the battlefield as he drew Eolis with a blazing flourish, but the knight did not falter; instead, he forced his horse into a breakneck charge, couching his lance as he closed. Twenty yards, ten, five – the lance-head snapped down just as the wyvern dodged around it, moving far quicker than any normal creature could.
The lance wavered as the wyvern slipped to the knight’s right – but it was enough. The steel head drove into the side of the wyvern’s neck, and the crisp crunch was audible over the thunder of thousands of hooves hammering the ground. The wyvern staggered under the impact as the shaft of the lance shattered, but even as Vorizh slashed at the knight, he drew his own sword and deflected the blow up and past.
The wyvern’s flailing wings caught the knight’s horse and it lurched sideways, battered off-balance by the heavy blow, but the knight slipped nimbly from its back.
Vorizh too jumped from his stricken beast as the wyvern vomited blood onto the churned-up ground below, but he faltered when the knight pulled the tabard from his chest. ‘Koezh!’ Vorizh shouted, ‘noble brother! Come to teach me the error of my ways?’
Koezh didn’t respond as he raced towards his younger brother, the air burning around him. Vorizh flicked Eolis round to meet him, but Koezh’s own weapon was already moving and the silver sword clashed against the black in a blaze of light, once, twice—
Koezh pressed forward, and Fernal felt a jolt inside him as he watched the vampire move with shocking speed and a grace the Demi-God had never before witnessed. The black sword tore through a haze of magic as Vorizh filled the air with fire to buy himself some space, his desperate defence turning Eolis into a blur of silver, but Koezh was always ahead of him, bewildering his brother as he worked his way into position. And then it was over: Koezh slashed upwards as Vorizh, dodging the previous strike, inadvertently moved into the way. His armour split with a crack and Koezh danced forward and smashed his shoulder into Vorizh’s chest, unbalancing him, and in the next instant, chopped hard into his brother’s neck.
Vorizh was driven to his knees by the force of the blow and Eolis spilled from his limp fingers. Koezh caught the hilt of the sword on the tip of his own and deftly flicked it up so he could pluck it from the air.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered as he withdrew his sword.
Vorizh fell backwards, mist rising up from the ground to meet him.
Koezh glanced back, and saw the advancing line was almost upon him. Above them were the other wyvern and the winged white-eyes, who had retreated into the sky, stunned by Vorizh’s death. He ran to his horse, and after a quick check to ensure the wyvern had not badly injured it, he mounted up.
Lord Fernal called the charge and the cavalry leaped forward, lances slowly descending as they closed on Ruhen’s Children.
Koezh was out of position so he didn’t wait for them; instead, he urged his horse towards the nearest of the white daemons racing forward. His swords were a strange pair, though both were made by the same Elf; Bariaeth was an ugly black blade forged in Aryn Bwr’s grief and hate; silver Eolis was the last king’s finest creation. For all the daemons’ speed and fanatic fury, Koezh was faster, and heads tumbled in quick succession as the mismatched swords killed with equal ease. Then the Farlan were behind him, and Koezh cast an arc of light ahead of him to drive a path into the enemy.
Behind him Fernal roared with bestial bloodlust as he readied his own warhammer. As the first of the white monsters ran to meet him, Fernal tightened his grip on the reins and turned his charger to meet them head-on. First one, then a second, and a third, crashed into the steel-ridged barding covering the enormous horse’s chest and were smashed from its path, falling under the hooves of those around it.
More and more of Ruhen’s Children fell beneath them. Fernal swung his massive hammer and a head disintegrated under the blow. Beside him Suzerain Fordan’s voice was raised in strange delight, his laughter cutting through the screams and sounds of butchery.
As Fernal cracked skulls and shattered bones the deep, distant crack of thunder came rolling down from the sky. He heard a blessing in that thunder, a benediction from his uncaring father. He growled and struck again. The God of Storms had no place here; the company of these frail and fearless men was all the blessing he needed. Horses tripped and riders fell to the ground to be trampled by their own, or set upon by Ruhen’s howling monsters. As his horse slowed to a halt, unable to get through the press of flesh, Fernal felt the claws grasp at his legs, but the storm was now surging through his veins. He swung his warhammer tirelessly as the Farlan fought on with equal fury; as the black-armoured vampire cut a swathe of scarlet death; as the thunder continued to boom up above and lightning split the sky. Some part of him, some divine flicker in his blood, told him the end had almost come. A shiver ran down his spine as he realised the entire Upper Circle of the Gods were close by, drawn forth by the power Ruhen commanded.
Still he fought and still he killed. Until the last of Ruhen’s followers was dead, nothing else in the Land could matter to him.
Isak raised his head as the shadows unfolded all around him. Ruhen knelt at the centre of the circle, his small fingers around the crystal sword’s grip. Aenaris pulsed with power, casting its white light over the stones and revealing the indistinct figures in front of each one. Isak could taste the magic that filled the air; he knew the Gods attended.
Behind him he sensed Lord Death, summoned by the vast power as both Aenaris and Termin Mystt responded to Ruhen’s call. He tried to fight it again, to break the flow, but he was not strong enough. He could not even free himself from the silver chain that bound him, or command the weapon stuck fast in his own hand. Termin Mystt was a burning brand against his chest, the chain itself was eating at his skin.
He could only watch as the Gods themselves, so weak they could not fully manifest, bowed their heads to Ruhen. A wisp of light was dragged out of the blue shadow of Nartis, then Kitar and Karkarn, and in moments each thread was wrapped around the blazing blade of Aenaris as the Gods submitted to a power they could no longer match.
Venn stood before the one unclaimed stone, an empty space where Ilit had been killed. Then the shadows squirmed, and a shape appeared there too. Grey matted hair and dead eyes, a tarnished crown and cruel triumph on her face: the Wither Queen manifested and knelt and her soul leaped forward to join the others. The Goddess of Disease gladly claimed Ilit’s place in the Upper Circle of the Pantheon of the Gods.
Once there were twelve bound to him, Ruhen smiled in the stark light of Aenaris. With his free hand, he pulled a small bottle from his tunic, thumbed off the stopper
and downed the contents in one. He tossed the empty bottle into the flames surrounding them.
Before the poison could take effect, Isak heard shouts from beyond the circle, cries of warning, followed swiftly by the clash of steel. Ruhen looked up, but his smile remained in place, his plans complete. Isak tried to stand, but Tiniq struck him again, leaving the white-eye as bowed as the insubstantial God in his lee. Through the stars bursting before his eyes Isak saw men and women charging towards the bridge across the flames, but there were Harlequins and Acolytes ready to meet them.
Distantly he made out Daken’s shouts above the clamour and he twisted his head to see the blurry man of the Brotherhood exchanging blows with an equally blurred Harlequin. One of the Sisters of Dusk was at his side, thrusting her spear at the white-masked warrior, but the Harlequin somehow defended itself against both attackers, its slender blades striking like snakes and catching the Brother in the shoulder, sending him reeling.
Isak looked back at Ruhen and saw the shadows under his skin turning uneasily in Aenaris’ light. The boy was pale; his skin was almost translucent, like a plague victim’s, and his smile was faltering as the poison began to take effect. Isak felt panic set in. The Gods had submitted; the sacrifice had been made on the slopes above them. Now Ruhen had only to die, to free Azaer of his mortal vessel, and a new God would be ascend to stand above them all. The Harlequins and Acolytes were outnumbered, but they were supremely skilled. Emin wouldn’t be able to break through in time.
He strained yet again at the chain, but his efforts succeeded only in causing a black burst of agony as Termin Mystt grated against his collarbone. The fire licking at his mind intensified and he felt it burning a path through his soul. Isak screamed again, unable to bear the forces raging unchecked through his body.
