by Tom Lloyd
Kastan took a few more deep breaths, readying himself for what might come, and then nodded.
‘Very well; do what you came to do,’ he said, with an instinctual boldness that wasn’t echoed in his heart.
The Lady nodded and raised one upturned palm to her lips. Her hand appeared empty, but when she blew him a kiss something rushed towards him. Sparkling threads of emptiness surged up and around Kastan’s body, tenderly wrapping him in the inky oblivion of the night sky. The cocoon of dark contracted around his body and Kastan felt himself moving, soaring through the air and across the years.
A moment later the surge slowed and held. Kastan felt himself settle somewhere else; almost disembodied until he realised it was his own form, but utterly different also. He looked up and saw a storm on the horizon, recognised the Menin standard beating at the harsh wind. The sun was a wounded and dying creature impaled upon distant mountains, the clouds dark and malevolent as they swept over the Land. Before him was a huge host, dark armoured knights swarming in their thousands over a defeated foe. Lines of archers were spread out west, still and watching, while a division that could only have been the Reavers bellowed their wordless triumph amid a swath of torn corpses.
The whole scene looked like a dream, but Kastan could taste the blood on the air and hear the echo of steel still ringing in his ears. And no dream ever felt this free. Kastan didn’t need to move his arms to feel the astounding power within them, to know how easily he had ripped men in two just moments ago when his sword slipped from his grasp. The tang of magic hung thickly in his throat, intoxicating and addictive but now under his control in a way Kastan had never dreamed of, let alone experienced. So much control; so simple to wield these tools and craft the Land to any shape he desired.
Great furrows had been driven into the earth, the rampant energies so hungry for ruin they had gorged on rock and earth once no man was left alive. The devastation was horrific and Kastan fled within himself to discover what he had become. He had no wish to become a ravening monster. To his relief he found greatness there, not madness. A warrior and conqueror, but not the despoiling fiend he had feared. There lurked the burning red of pride alongside the sparkle of genius, but with such power how could pride be faulted? His achievements were his own, hard won and deserved, while his failures fuelled endeavour and been turned right in time.
‘This is greatness,’ came a whisper at his ear, ‘heroism personified – matchless ability and limitless ambition. The greatest mortal ever to be born. The destiny of the Land is an unknown entity, any path encompasses us all and even I can only tell that it exists, nothing more. If this is where you choose to be, this destiny will be your companion. You shall be the driving force, the relentless energy behind history. Your place will be that of first among men.’
‘At what price?’ asked Kastan huskily, near overwhelmed by his sudden strength.
‘The price? What change could come without a terrible price? You’ll destroy nations, tear down temples and slaughter tens of thousands. Suffering follows any war, and your hand will touch the furthest corners of the Land. This destiny will be what is necessary; your part will be what must be done and you will be feared above no other. As a Menin you should understand the Long March that took your people to the Ring of Fire was never kind, but always necessary.’
Kastan nodded, his thoughts lost in the tale every child in his tribe knew. The Long March had left less than a third of the tribe alive, but brought the strong and the faithful to this fertile ground and made them great once more. The man who had brought it about was both lauded and reviled by his own people, both monster and saviour, but his place in history was assured.
‘To be the engine of change is not to be a hero. Upon this path you will cause enormous pain to the very Land itself. Your life will be won alone, without the hand of your patron or any God. Your position you must fight for, your abilities you must teach yourself, your son you must desecrate for …’
‘My son?’ Kastan could hardly believe the words as he said them. White-eyes could only have children with their own kind, and the females were so rarely born they were almost myth. He’d grown up in the belief that his father’s line ended with him; that the Styrax name would survive only through his two cousins.
‘Oh yes, a son and heir. A child who will grow loving you and jealous of you – who will never betray you but always resent the shadow he stands in, not realising your shadow lies also upon the entire Land. But your bride will have no love for you. Upon this path, you must take everything you want, sacrifice any principles and risk your very soul to strive for all your ambition demands. No mortal shall ever defeat you in combat, you shall be matchless throughout the entirety of history, and when the Land has need of such strength you will find a legacy like no other.’
Kastan felt the older form he inhabited call out to him, crying to be joined as one. Only the Lady’s presence held him back and with a sudden blaze he was torn from the body and returned to the enveloping night. The memories ran deep, permeating his soul with enticing promises but the cool emerald light reminded him of who and when he was.
‘And now the other path,’ declared the Lady.
‘What could possibly compare with that?’ wondered Kastan aloud, reeling from all he had seen and the gnaw of hunger in his heart. The desire for power was the very fibre of a white-eye’s being, each one born to love their brute strength and the intoxicating fury of magic in their veins.
‘Peace – the joy and contentment lacking from the soul of every white-eye. There is more to life than what you have seen, more to you.’
Kastan relaxed into the swirl of thoughts and starry cloud, dropping down to find himself on a hillside very close to where he stood with Fate. There was an awareness of age, but little had changed other that the house he had built for himself looking down on the village from the north. There were children playing on the slopes before him. They all waved and then continued, happy under his watchful sight.
Kastan sensed he was older; not as advanced in years as before but following a more human path. Then he had felt near divine, a vitality far beyond human constraints, while now he was merely strong and healthy. Something told him many years had passed. The trees were so much taller, new ones had sprouted and matured while the comfortable assurance of middle age was all he felt in himself. He himself was taller and broader, but far from the failings of grey hair and shaking limbs. The biggest change now was in his soul.
As he looked inwardly, Kastan was struck by what he found there. Ambition and energy had been supplanted by wisdom and understanding. When his companion had said peace it had sounded such a small thing. Now calm infused his being, a sense of place in the Land without that belligerent spark of the white-eye part. Gently flowing through every fibre was a knowledge of himself and the Land that defied belief.
Kastan could feel the land beneath his feet; the huge heavy breaths of the trees, the rush of the wind and the smile of flowers as they looked up to the afternoon sun. The delighted flash of swallows darting up above and the muzzy warmth of a badger slumbering in the bosom of the earth – these things he knew as well as his own hands. They were part of him; they completed him as much as the restless ocean a thousand miles away drove his heart to beat. The earth belonged to him and he to it. He could sense his place in the Land, the fragile patterns of nature weaved about him and holding him tenderly close.
‘This is where you could return. Never to have the son, but to be a father of sorts to generations and loved by each. To be teacher and guide to philosophers and heroes. To be the inspiration that drove them and the hand that ensured their fulfilment. To not worry when they look so curiously at you and wonder why you never became all you could have been. To live in an age of peace by foregoing the turmoil of another life, by turning your back on what might be. To inspire happiness in those you watch over, to know the effect of your teachings will ripple far beyond the horizon.’
Kastan smiled, basking in the tranquill
ity of his soul, allowing the Lady to draw him back to the hillside where they sat. He kept his eyes closed for a few moments, feeling the afterglow diminish until he was back to himself and remembered his own life as it was. He stood and stretched, feeling warmth spread down his spine and absorb the stiffness. Looking down the hillside he saw his father labouring up the slope. The man’s head was down, looking at the earth he trudged on.
‘Remember that nothing is for certain. What you saw were possibilities – ideas that are close to where you could take yourself, but as the paths are yours to choose, the shape they take is ever more open.’
Kastan nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘And have you chosen?’
Kastan took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of pine and earth, of dung faint on the breeze and the fresh oil on his sword. He could feel the blood pumping through his body, the skin close around his thick muscles and the smooth flow of breath in his nostrils. The weight of his cloak around his shoulders and the sword-belt drifted away with the breeze. He felt naked and refreshed, the strength of the mountain beneath him.
‘I have.’
THE DARK OF THE MOOR
A Beginning
Before I begin this account I feel I must first confess its inadequacies to the reader. Being familiar with the conventions of the macabre tale, I fear this may prove unsatisfactory in comparison. This is the case because these pages contain the truth and I am forced to be reticent even with that. The how and why are questions that have consumed my hours since these terrible events began, but no measure of enlightenment has brought peace to my troubled spirit.
I have withheld details so that at least some measure of account be permitted to survive. The truth brought to light by my late mother was a secret born from the murky depths of unrecorded history. What accompanied it was death and darkness, and the Land cannot yet profit from such knowledge. It is my hope that one day some scholarly mind be permitted to draw these threads into a whole, but that day has not yet come and this remains overshadowed by a greater tale.
To the more inquisitive reader I say this – the whole truth has been omitted to protect those I love from a terrible spectre. I gained nothing from my understanding and my hand trembles at what I will now lose. I urge you to be content solely with what I lay before you, or you may well suffer the fate my mother unwittingly invited upon us all. I write this as a warning to those who follow as much as in the hope that one day the truth may out. I pray that this curse is one day lifted and these vague passages may yet provide a degree of understanding.
Coran Derenin, 6th Suzerain of Moorview, this 21st year of the reign of King Sebetin Thonal
The cold light of autumn was the first change to meet me when I set eyes upon Moorview again. An ill pallor had taken hold of the countryside. It came as a grim shock to one whose recent visits had been conducted in glorious summer. The abandon of leaves and chill wind further muddied my already dismal mood. That I had been notified of my mother’s death by a hurried and sparse note did nothing to ease the heart of a man whose very nature was to be seen in the detail and clarity of his work. To be denied knowledge of what illness had claimed my mother seemed a calculated iniquity, but at such unhappy times much does.
As we journeyed the last few miles to Moorview, already within what were now my lands, we entered familiar and beloved terrain. I knew within minutes the track would start to climb under our wheels and then I would truly have come home. Once that rise had begun, Moorview would be visible through the trees. For the first time in my life I dreaded it.
The sudden caw of a crow broke from the great forest of beech and scarred ash to disturb my brooding. I parted the curtains of the carriage window and my youngest daughter, Sana, forced her way onto my lap to secure the best view. Together we stared out into the tangled woodland that wore the colours of rust and fatigue. A mouldy odour rose up from the chaotic undergrowth to greet us and sickened yellow leaves waved a feeble welcome at my return. It was a familiar sight, but years of absence and city life had rendered the fascination of youth down to a base anxiety. For a moment I felt myself falling, drawn horribly into the snarl of skeletal branches and ancient cobwebs. Only the resplendent sight of my eldest son trotting alongside kept the malign labyrinth at bay.
Dever saw us looking out of the window and gave us both a fatherly smile. It was a warming sight. Dressed in the famous green-and-gold of the Kingsguard, Dever brought a proud piece of civilisation to a corner of the realm where myth and mystery ruled. Sana took hold of my finger in her small fist and pointed out past her brother to the invisible creature of the wood.
‘Bird.’
I couldn’t help but smile at the delight that accompanied her every new experience. She was four winters old and had learnt to speak earlier than the others, but for the main preferred uttering only solitary words. This habit had the peculiar effect of making the other party interpret their own meaning into Sana’s words. My wife nobly attributed this tendency to Sana inheriting my love of poetry, but I knew well enough that her intellect would quickly outshine my own. Despite her tender years and heartening innocence, there lurks an understanding of others I feel sure will see her right.
Bird. What echoed in my head as we travelled to take ownership of my family estate was Carrion Bird. Whether the creature was a portent too I could not say. I lack the religious fervour of my parents’ generation, but it was a fitting welcome to my former and future home – one I had been reluctant to visit while my mother was alive.
It was not long until Sana had tired of trees and we returned our attention to within the carriage. My wife half-dozed with the hint of a smile on her lips, while the other two girls were bent over some game of pebbles on a board of twelve wells that I had never fully grasped. Shifting Sana to the seat beside me, her eyes already on the game in hand, I squeezed myself into what room remained beside my wife and took the hand that was immediately offered. Touching it to my lips I drank in the heady scent that lingered on the lace of her gloves, before kissing her fingers fondly.
She was again dressed in city fashion, her more comfortable travelling clothes abandoned to impress her status upon the housekeeper of Moorview. The high-necked dress of a married woman had been expensively tailored in fox fur and black velvet, but what caught my eye was the collar of gold and jade that was set about her neck. It had been a wedding gift; a piece of family jewellery presented to my mother by the previous king that she had passed on in a rare fit of grace.
The housekeeper had never approved of my wife, Cebana, whose Canar Thrit origins were the only reason I could imagine for this distaste. Her family was of good name and her conduct impeccable, both with hapless servants and those abhorrent politicians I required her to charm at dinner. Madam Haparl, Moorview’s most devoted servant, would be more than reluctant to give up her rule of the household, but she could not argue with royal approval.
With a lurch up to the left, the carriage set itself onto the gentle slope I knew could only mean one thing. To confirm this, my sons cried ‘Moorview!’ with the same breath. In the next instant all three girls were at the right-hand window, straining to see the famous castle, though they had all been there many times before. As they matured, my children had each begun to realise the effect Moorview had on our fellow citizens of Narkang. Dever, as the eldest, had been most profoundly struck by the weight of what he would inherit.
As a recent recruit to the Kingsguard – which it hardly needs to be noted as bearing a special bond to the name of Moorview – we had kept back Dever’s family name for fear of an ill air in the barracks. With the death of his grandmother, Dever then took the title that I had found little use for in my chosen path, Scion of Moorview. He had been determined not to avoid his heritage and made a point of wearing his badges of title on his uniform before we left.
He later confided to Forel that his courage had drained away when the barracks fell silent and Colonel Atam himself recalled aloud what family bore that crest. His brotherly
confessor had told me that Dever near fainted in relief when cheers suddenly erupted from the entire company. I have heard from other sources that men wept with pride that the heir of Moorview wore the green-and-gold. Several went further still and said Dever is to be groomed as next Sunbee; champion of the Kingsguard legions and, by consequence, all the armies of Narkang and the Four Cities.
Ushering the girls back from the carriage window I took in the sight of my childhood home; the castle that abutted a moor soaked in the blood of perhaps a hundred thousand men. Built in three distinct stages, it was made a fortress after a century of overlooking Tairen Moor. While the most famous action it witnessed never reached its walls, more blood has been spilled within Moorview’s grounds than most castles. The history I have never taken much interest in, but several volumes in the library concerned the sometimes less-than-noble history of my home.
To an adult eye it was not hard to see why local legend had always held Moorview in wary regard; cold and unyielding stone walls, the arrow-slits looking like suspicious eyes, the musty corridors and labyrinthine collection of cellars cut into the rock. With the wild beauty of the moor stretching so far into the distance, this region had inspired more than its fair share of tales even before the battle. I wondered how I had never felt anything but peace there until I noticed that there were no figures in the grounds before us. Devoid of life in attendance my home took the air of a mausoleum to past glorious dead. By contrast, my early years had been attended by scores of servants tending the castle and grounds. The lonely presence of the moors beyond had not encroached onto the grounds as I felt now.
The nearer we got to the castle the more noticeable was the disorder of the place, one I had never seen here before. Autumn is never the neatest of seasons, but now the feral reach of the moor encroached on this bastion’s walls. In my heavy heart I could not help but wonder what else had come with it.
