by Ari Marmell
To my father, Howard, without whom I wouldn’t
have known Jack (sic) about sci-fi and fantasy
Thanks, Dad.
Prologue
DAWN BROKE across the eastern horizon, seeping into the skies above the ancient city of Denathere, the Jewel of Imphallion. And the ancient city, in its turn, would break beneath the newborn dawn.
Plumes of smoke undulated upward—hypnotic, grey-hued serpents taking great bites from the heavens. Thick and oily, they blackened the air. The clouds themselves grew dark, contaminated, sickly. And the sun did not shine upon Denathere, thwarted by the unending night.
Nor could the sullen and defeated dawn dispel the nightmares of the city’s terrified citizens, for on this morning their nightmares were real.
Fires raged unchecked through district after district, devouring homes, possessions, lives. Corpses—bloodied and broken—lined the streets. Crows swarmed thick as flies. Dogs, driven feral by the inescapable scent of blood, snapped and snarled, killing over pieces of meat that might once have fed them dinner rather than been a part of it.
From Denathere’s walls—cracked, shattered, and breached, but still intimidating—watched the city’s new masters. Most were mercenaries, their faces bereft of pity as they glared over the suffering they left in their wake, fingers idly clenching blood-sated blades. They, at least, were human. Over soldier and citizen alike watched the cyclopean gaze of the one-eyed ogres; from around their feet came the high-pitched giggling of the wild, sadistic gnomes—misshapen creatures delighting in the bloody work they performed.
Across Denathere’s surrounding fields stretched a sea of humanity. Tent peaks formed islands in the rough tides of the assembled horde. Here and there fluttered a brightly colored banner, the standard of a lord or Guild whose soldiers contributed to the gathered army.
The fields swelled with the dull drone of thousands of voices, drowning out any other possible sound. Animals for miles around fled in terror, diving deep into burrows or taking to the skies, squawking loudly as they flew. Even in the heart of the occupied city, the battered populace heard the steady clamor. “Salvation!” they whispered breathlessly to one another. But if salvation it was, it came too late for the thousands who lay dead or dying in the carnage-strewn streets.
On a hillock in the surrounding fields, beyond the reach of even the greatest siege engine, stood the largest tent in the assembled multitudes. An enormous pennant, longer than a tall man, flapped dutifully in the breeze, displaying a great bear—standing rampant beneath a broken crown—embroidered upon a field of royal purple.
A man stood now atop that hill, a spyglass pressed to his right eye. His face was rough, weather-beaten, and his rich brown hair was just lightening at the temples. The tabard he wore over his heavy armor displayed the ensign of a red eagle upon a navy field; the same could be found upon the shield lying at his feet. Slowly, he lowered the glass, shaking his head as though to dislodge the image of the shattered city.
“Does it get easier, Nathan?”
Nathaniel Espa, Knight of Imphallion, bowed perfunctorily. “Good morning, Your Grace.” He turned his head and nodded to the young regent’s companion, a soft-featured, dark-haired woman clad in a leather vest over a rose-red tunic. “Good morning, Rheah.”
Lorum, Duke of Taberness and Regent Proper of Imphallion, smiled faintly. In his midtwenties, Lorum knew just enough of tactics and war to recognize that he couldn’t lead so vast an army. He might give the orders, but every man on the field knew it was Sir Nathaniel who planned the campaign. Self-conscious in polished armor never marred by the sting of an enemy’s blade, the regent brushed light blond hair from a youthful, clean-shaven face. “How you can manage courtesy this early, Nathan, is beyond me. I feel as though I’ve been sleeping on rocks for a week.”
Rheah laughed softly. “You have been sleeping on rocks, Your Grace. That’s the joy of war: the chance to visit places no sane person would wish to go, to meet a great many people who would like nothing better than to kill you in all sorts of revolting and painful ways, and to sleep on rocks sharp enough to hobble an elephant. You should have been told this before you got here.”
“Wonderful,” Lorum muttered.
Nathaniel, however, had seen too much to smile this morning. He merely glared at Rheah, who seemed oblivious to her friend’s foul mood.
When it became clear she wasn’t about to acknowledge his irritation, he spoke instead to the young regent. “I believe you were asking me something, Your Grace?”
The young regent gestured toward the columns of smoke dancing in the air above the city they’d come, gods willing, to save. “I was just wondering about all this. Does seeing this sort of thing ever get any easier?”
Nathaniel turned back toward the city and shook his head. “Gods, I hope not,” he muttered softly. Abruptly he punched his right fist into his left palm, nearly breaking the delicate spyglass. “What’s that bastard up to?”
Rheah nodded slowly, ignoring for a moment the puzzled look on Lorum’s face. “You think there’s more to this than just conquering more territory?” she asked, her voice low, suddenly solemn.
“Absolutely,” Nathan answered. “He’s not this stupid.”
“I don’t understand,” the regent admitted, a hand half raised to get their attention. “How do we know he’s not just trying to take Denathere like he did the others?”
“He’s moved the bulk of his armies into the city,” Nathan explained, attention fixed on the distant walls. “Far more than necessary to overrun the defenders.”
“So?”
The knight sighed. “Your Grace, have you been paying attention to my lessons?”
“Of course,” Lorum insisted, sounding injured.
“All right then. Look around. Tell me about the area.”
“There’s the city, of course. The defensive walls. And, well, just open fields. Farmland, basically. A few hills.”
Nathan nodded. “Good. What does that mean?”
The young regent’s eyes glowed with sudden understanding. “Denathere’s not a particularly defensible city!”
“Very good.” Nathan smiled. “All Denathere has is those walls. Big and imposing, certainly, but breach them and there’s nothing left to stand in your way. If you were taking this city, would you hole up inside?”
“Not a chance!” Lorum insisted. “I’d be vulnerable to counterattack. Like …”
“Like the one we’re about to launch,” the older man confirmed. “Exactly.”
“It’s one hell of a mistake,” the regent muttered.
This time Nathan and Rheah shook their heads in unison. “No,” Rheah told him. “Corvis Rebaine is not a man who makes that sort of mistake.”
“Damn it! I just wish there was some way to learn what he was doing in there!” Nathaniel growled again, waving his spyglass helplessly toward the city.
“Actually,” Rheah said, her expression thoughtful, “there is.”
IN THE CENTER of Denathere, coated in ash, blackened with soot, stood a large stone hall. The banners that once fluttered gaily from the great columns and wide arches were gone, burned to cinders or yanked down by inhuman hands. But even without the pennants of the lords and the Guilds, the looming structure radiated importance.
Soldiers, human and otherwise, milled about in the streets surrounding the Hall of Meeting, mired in that frustrating pause between engagements. The surrounding buildings once represented the finest design and architecture the city had ever produced. Elegant sweeps, intricate murals, lofty peaks: all reduced to smoldering heaps of burned wood and uneven piles of jagged stone. The Hall alone remained largely undamaged.
The noble edifice stood mostly empty. The central chamber, hom
e of constant and convoluted negotiations between Guilds and noble houses, was a wreck. Shattered crystal and wooden splinters littered the floor, the oaken table that had served for two hundred years pounded to kindling by overeager soldiers. The private rooms were in no better shape. From the ground floor to the roof, furniture lay smashed, mirrors and crystalware shattered, anything remotely valuable long since plundered.
Only the basement emitted any signs of life. A chamber normally used for storage now produced the oddest combination of sounds: the undertone of frightened whimpers and desperate conversation, but also a series of oddly rhythmic thumps.
Within the walls of the chamber, well illuminated by a surplus of oil lamps, waited the city’s elite. Wives, children, and the aged of noble families huddled against the wall, features pale, many sobbing. Mothers clutched protectively at their children. Sprawled beside them were the eldest of the Council of Guilds, too old for the use to which their younger compatriots had been put. Several of the occupying soldiers milled about, paying only marginal attention to the prisoners.
In the room’s center, the stone floor gaped open as though Daltheos the Maker had taken his great hammer to the earth. It was from this yawning pit that the strange thumping issued.
One suspicious eye trained upon the nearest guard, a fellow of middle years pushed himself from the wall and sidled over toward another man, white-haired and older still. The elder of the pair, his face covered in sweat, scowled at the newcomer. “What do you want, Bennek?”
Bennek, Earl of Prace, scowled right back at him. “I want, Jeddeg, to know how you could let this happen.”
“I beg your pardon?” The old man’s expression changed not a whit, but his eyes grew cold. He rose, swiftly if unsteadily, to meet his accuser’s gaze. Several guards allowed their hands to hover near their weapons, but they made no move to interfere. “How, precisely, is this my fault?”
Bennek shoved a finger at the other’s face. “All of you! The entire council! We knew he was coming. We all knew! We asked the Guilds—we begged you—for the funds to increase our own armies. You refused us!”
“The Guilds did what we could,” Jeddeg insisted, his tone that of a man who’d repeated the same argument a dozen times over already. “How could we know we’d have so many of them to deal with? Besides, I didn’t exactly see the noble families riding at the forefront of the defense, did I?”
“You bastard, I’ll—”
“Would the two of you stop?”
Silence.
Tyannon, eldest child of the Baron of Braetlyn, blinked in bewilderment, as startled by her outburst as they were. At fifteen years of age, the cusp of adulthood in Imphallion, Tyannon was accustomed to being treated as a child—and normally to keeping her place, as a good child should. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth at the realization that she had just raised her voice to two of the most important men in Denathere.
“You’ve something to say, girl?” Jeddeg asked.
One hand nervously twisted the hem of her dirt-encrusted tunic. “That is—I—”
Her little brother, Jassion, tentatively stepped forward and gripped her other hand tightly in his tiny fist. “Tyannon angry?” he asked, his quiet voice even smaller than usual.
She took a deep breath, squeezing his hand once. “Yes, Jass. Yes, I’m angry. But not with you, sweetheart.” She glanced up, a sudden fire in her eyes. “At them!”
Bennek frowned darkly. “Now, see here, Tyannon—”
“I am! And I can’t believe what I’m seeing! I can’t believe the two of you are still fighting! People are dying, and you just can’t leave each other alone!”
“Tyannon,” Jeddeg said, “we’re trying to work out a way—”
“You’re doing nothing of the sort!” she screamed, actually stamping her foot in emphasis. “This isn’t about solving anything! This isn’t even about them!” She pointed at the guards, who were now grinning openly at the entertainment. “This is about the price of grain, or trade routes, or whatever damn thing you were discussing the day before last! If you’d put my father in charge, we’d not have lost so quickly.”
Two pairs of eyes went cold, and Tyannon realized she had, perhaps, gone a bit farther than was entirely appropriate.
Before she could stammer out an apology—or the earl or the Guildmaster could let loose with some scathing retort or another—a new voice sounded from behind her. “Do we have a problem here, gentlemen?”
Tyannon heard her brother shriek and felt his grip tighten in hers; she saw Bennek go pale and his lip begin to tremble; saw Jeddeg fall back against the wall, eyes wide. She knew she ought to turn around, to move, to do something, but she found herself frozen stiff. She showed no sign of life at all, save for her accelerated breathing.
To her left, one of the guards reluctantly moved forward. “We—ah, that is, we were just about to step in, my lord,” he hedged.
“Of course you were. How fortunate that I’ve saved you the trouble.”
The guard smirked at the trembling girl, watched her eyes grow wider still. The fight’s over! they all but screamed, even as her voice remained paralyzed. Why won’t you go away?
“What’s your name, child?” asked the voice from behind.
“T-Tyannon, my lord.”
“Tyannon.” The name rolled around in the speaker’s mouth, as though tasting it for imperfections. “And why am I speaking to the back of your head, Tyannon?”
“B-because I’m f-facing the other way, my lord?”
Most of the captives, and indeed several of the guards, gasped in disbelief, and the young woman tensed in expectation of a sudden blow. After a moment of silence, however, a soft chuckle was the only response.
Then, “Turn around, Tyannon.”
Her shoulders slumping, as if she’d consigned herself to whatever fate the gods might hold in store, she obeyed.
The figure looming before her came straight from one of the fairy tales she read to Jass every night—one of the darker ones. Shorter than his ogre minions, he nonetheless loomed over her, filling the entirety of her vision. A demonic suit of armor concealed his body head-to-toe: midnight-black steel, with thick plates of bone that gleamed unnaturally white in the orange glow of the lanterns. From small spines of bone on his shoulders hung a heavy cloak of royal purple, a coincidental match to the regent’s banner on the fields outside. The flickering lanterns sent his shadow dancing across the walls, as though guided by some mad puppeteer. Atop it all, a helm of bone, a skull bound in iron bands. Nothing human showed through the grim façade, no soul peered from the gaping black holes in the mask.
With a desperate surge of will, the young woman pulled her gaze away from the hideous mask, glancing downward instead. Her eyes fixed momentarily on the chain about his neck. It dipped down beneath the bone-covered breastplate, linked perhaps to some pendant or amulet she couldn’t see. Her eyes traveled lower still, to the large axe upon which his gauntlet rested. It stood upright, butt of the handle upon the ground. The blade was adorned with minuscule engravings-abstract shapes that gave the impression, though not the detail, of thousands of figures engaged in the cruelest, most brutal acts of war. Tyannon whimpered quietly as she saw that there were worse things to stare at than the blackened eye sockets of the helm. Things like that axe, and the figures engraved upon it, figures that seemed almost to move on their own, independent from the dancing torch-light …
“Do you know who I am, Tyannon?”
“Yes.” Her voice never rose above a half-drawn breath. “You’re Corvis Rebaine.”
The iron-banded skull tilted in acknowledgment. “That frightens you.” It was not a question.
“M-my lord,” Tyannon told him, “you frighten people much greater than I.” For some reason, that realization seemed to relax her. Beside her, Jassion cried out softly; she carefully steered him behind her, putting herself between her brother and the monster before her.
“Do I?” For a moment, the man who’d conquere
d half of Imphallion fell silent. Tyannon’s muscles twinged in protest, so rigidly did she hold herself.
A black-and-bone gauntlet gestured abruptly; despite herself, the young woman jumped, a tiny yelp escaping her lips. But Rebaine merely pointed at the arm she held behind her back, fist clenched with a death grip on Jassion’s wrist. “You do your family credit, Tyannon. But your brother is safe with me. As are you.”
Tyannon’s countenance shifted abruptly, a surge of anger seeming to drown her fears. “Are we?” she asked, her voice gone bitter, her stammer gone. She waved, her gesture indicating not merely the people present in the room, but the entire city suffering beyond the thick stone walls. “You’ll forgive me, my lord, if I have some difficulty taking you at your word.”
Whatever response the warlord intended was aborted by a sudden scuffling within the pit, followed quickly by a raised voice. “My lord! The diggers have found something.”
Rebaine forgot everyone else in the room. He stepped to the rim of the hole, glancing down, past the thick earth, past the mass of nobles and Guildsmen he’d pressed into service as excavators. He peered into the thin, stone-walled hallway they’d uncovered, part of a small complex of rooms buried beneath the Hall of Meeting since before the birth of the city itself.
“It’s really here.” It was barely a whisper, inaudible to anyone else.
Or at least it should have been.
/Did you doubt that it would be?/ The voice, as always, was mocking, sarcastic, even when its words were not.
Ignoring the speaker, Rebaine leapt down into the pit, a cloud of dirt billowing upward at the impact. The diggers drew back fearfully-many quivered visibly at his mere presence, including one man Rebaine recognized as the Baron of Braetlyn.
I wonder, Rebaine thought to himself in passing, where the young woman gets her spark from. I can’t imagine she learned from watching any of these people.
At the bottom of the pit loomed another, smaller hole, leading into the ancient stone tunnel that was Rebaine’s objective. An inky blackness filled the corridor, but Rebaine had never been frightened of the dark.
