It was a familiar voice, and it made Ruan smile, because even her, facing his death song, he had allies. A powerful ally indeed.
The Outlaw King was here in spirit, as he had been once, long ago, when that man's spirit had led him to Roskel, and to Ruan's salvation. The dead, it seemed, saw long.
*
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sing out, Blade Singer...sing out!
Could he? Could he win through, against the power before him?
Ruan let himself be lifted by the song, despite that they sang of his death for his crimes. I don't know, he thought. I am full of doubt.
Then listen and weep, for they sing of your shame that is no shame. Listen and weep while you let the world die.
He closed his eyes, hoping for the King's voice to leave him be. He knew he had but one chance, but under the power of the song, he was next to helpless. He let himself be carried along by the terribly allure of the magic in the words.
How could he sing against such passion and beauty - the untainted song of his kind?
Sing, man...sing before the song ends.
Ruan had never seen the Outlaw King. But even now, just his voice radiated power. Ruan could only imagine the strength of the last King of Sturma, to send his voice through the spirit world, the world beyond the gates, to talk to Ruan and urge him on...give him strength...
He felt strength coursing through him again. His throbbing head felt clear for the first time since awakening, bound and on trial, in Yemathalan.
Sing, sing, sing for your life and the lives of Sturmen and Draymen and Rythe herself, sing!
The power of the song sung against Ruan did not lessen. If anything, it built and built until it was a tower of sound, looming over him. Many had been crushed beneath such a song. Yet Ruan smiled, buoyed by the passion of the spirit King. Lent strength and passion and bravery where he may have wilted.
I've got to try, he thought. I have no choice.
Quietly at first, then louder and louder, he began to hum.
He had a choice, yes. He could lay down and die under the power of their song, but even without his tongue, he was no without power himself.
Sing, Drayman, sing!
And he sang.
*
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ruan hummed, but his humming alone, aided by his magic, was melodic enough. At first his own tune, his song, was drowned out by his kin, but the power in his tune grew and grew until Ruan himself quivered with the power of the song. He was held in its thrall, and in time, so were his kind.
So, wordlessly, he sang, and his song grew until it became a story and his defence, his plea and the truth all in one. It would have to be enough. But then he was not alone. The Outlaw King was a force, like the wind itself, within his head.
In a small corner of Rythe is a country called Sturma, he sang, but the Draymen knew this well, for they were old enemies. This alone would not sway the Blade Singers, he knew, but as with a song, a story must begin at the beginning...
Across the wide ocean there is another land...a land bigger than all of Drayman lands and the lands of the North and Sturma together. This land is ruled by creatures known only as the Hierarchy.
These creatures feed on hatred and anger. It is the source of a foul magic...the foulest to stain the lands of Rythe. It is an abomination to all that is held holy by the Blade Singer. It is...unjust.
Justice was something the Blade Singers understood well, for they were judges. This, of course, Ruan knew.
Justice, called Ruan. In the song he called, justice.
His people remembered. The Blade Singer was the judge. That Sturma is the ancient enemy of their people did not matter. That the Hierarchy were evil, this stirred the souls and hearts of the Blade Singers.
And Ruan hummed and his song rose on the dusty air.
His people swayed to his music, as he swayed to theirs. His magic, his song, was strong, maybe more so for the lack of words.
Still bound by his hands to a wooden pole, there was only one way to show his kind that his cause was just and his song was true. He needed the power of his sword...not because it was mystical, but because it was his focus.
Ruan's song changed, became a wave of sound, visible even, in the disturbance in the dust and chill air. Ruan called forth his sword.
It rose in the air, twirling. Ruan did not move but for his lips and his throat and the rise of his chest, but the sword came at him, fast, until at the last moment it swung behind him and cut his bonds. The sword swung back before Ruan. He plucked it from the air and held it above his head.
This is power, he sung, but without justice it means nothing. It is a tool for barbarism, nothing more.
This is magic, he sung, and this is the song that the Hierarchy fear. The Sturmen have no magic. The Hierarchy burn the land and the people with their evil, and the Blade Singers stirred, for it was outside the natural order.
Their song joined Ruan, and he knew he had won this battle, just as each and every Blade Singer in Yemathalan's courtyard knew that they could not win the next. But they would stand with Ruan.
They would follow.
Thank you, King, he thought, but there was no presence in his head. Yet his pain had gone, and he wore a smile on his face to be among his brethren and sistren again. The road would be hard, and there was only death for them at the end of it. This much was understood by all, with or without the song. The Hierarchy numbered legion, and the Blade Singers were but a hundred, maybe, certainly no more.
It did not matter. Justice was all to the Blade Singers. They were born and raised to be judges and executioners, and the Hierarchy were an abomination.
They would follow Ruan across the mountains. They would stand against the enemies of humanity.
*
Chapter Thirty-Four
The winter's suns burned high in the sky when the Blade Singers mounted their horses. They moved as one. Some carried provisions, some did not. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but the battle to come. It was not an army.
There were maybe a hundred Blade Singers left in Draymar. They were an old order, and the men and women gathered were the last of their kind. Their kind would not come again. They each knew, finally, that they were to judge the ultimate evil, not the petty squabbles of their people, but evil incarnate.
It was what the order of Blade Singers were made for.
No man, no woman, regretted mounting their horses and setting out for Sturma. Now their course was set, they would see it through to the end. Army though they were not, they rode to battle as one. With the song lifting their spirits, and lending their mounts unnatural speed, they rode. A great plume of dust followed them as they heeled their horses harder and faster, faster, across the plains.
The dust cloud grew larger, and night fell.
More days, more nights. Breaking to water the horses. They rode to battle, to death, to glory, and when they were gone there would be none left to sing their song. They would die. But before they did they would sing the song of swords one last time.
*
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Hierophant did not feel the cold, though snow fell hard and the wind blew slantwise across the blasted, barren wasteland north of the mountain range that hid Sturma. Still, he wished for the view from his minaret in Lianthre. The climate was more agreeable, and the view mildly interesting. From his tower he could watch the humans below playing out their petty lives, warring and building their rude dwellings down next to the mud.
No, the cold might not bother him, but the view did. It was never ending, nothing but a dull white. In the cold sunshine the ice and snow twinkled and blinded him. In the night there were no lights to see by at all. And when it snowed, he could see nothing but the flakes that crusted his hood and his short black eyelashes.
No Hierarch sported a beard, like the barbarian humans of Sturman lands. The Protocrats, those Hierarchs who had no magic but had their lust for blood and pain, would feel the b
itter wind keenly in their bones. Their armour would freeze. Many days now they travelled through the wasteland with nothing to see but the vague shape of the mountains in the distance, and still, not one of the Protocrats complained about the freezing weather, their snow crusted cloaks and armour, nor the burden of their weapons and their shields.
The Hierophant, had he any of the baser emotions, might have expressed his pride to his troops, but it was not his way.
He strode south with nothing on his feet, the snowfall melting beneath him. The other Hierarchs among their number took the lead. The Protectorate Tenthers, the fighting units of the Protocrats, followed tireless behind. One approached the Hierophant. Their leader did not halt his progress. The man fell in beside him.
'My Lord,' said the Protocrat. A scout, the Hierophant assumed, by his garb. He did not trouble himself to learn the ways of the Protectorate. They were hunting dogs, no more.
'What?' he replied. He might have the man skinned. He might not. It depended on the message. It might be that the man was highly placed within the army, or a simple footsoldier, but truth was, the Hierophant did not care. He was absolute.
'There is something in the snow. Many of our patrols have not returned.'
'Lost in the blizzards, no doubt,' said the Hierophant, dismissing the man with a wave.
'My Lord, forgive me...we have found bodies...torn...as though by a beast.'
The Hierophant nodded. Perhaps he would not have the man skinned. It was...interesting news.
At last, he thought. Something to do.
'Go find out what it is, then.'
The Protocrat bowed low, although the Hierophant had already left, walking on ahead, as though the loss of his soldiers was of little import.
The loss of a few soldiers did not bother the Hierophant at all. Yet the news was interesting indeed. Maybe they would find some amusement on the long journey south yet. Between the making of the portal and the machinations from afar to exterminate the line of kings, this war had gone on too damn long.
Truth be told, the Hierophant was long-lived, but Gods, he was so bored. So bored. He longed to hear the screams of soldiers on the battlefield. He needed to feed on their pain and agony. What was the point of living long, if not for the pleasure of torn flesh?
*
Chapter Thirty-Six
Night fell with a darkness that was absolute. Not the dark of the moons, nor the dark of the city, but a complete lack of light.
The blackness did not matter to Hierarch or Protocrat. The Protocrat army had no magic, though they were perfectly capable of setting camp, blind, if need be. They did so methodically, each Tenther unit setting out their own tents. Even had they wanted to move on, they would have been unable - the blizzard had reached such a climax that even the Hierarchs among the army would have been hard pushed to make their way through the thickening ice and the worsening storm. They may not have felt the cold, but they were not immune to the deep drifts that they came across, struggling through under their own power, sometimes burning holes through the deeper drifts with unnatural fire.
Even so, the Hierarchs were not immortals - magic took its toll, and was not limitless. For larger, more powerful spells, blood would be needed. Humans were good for that, though there were no humans whose pain the army could feast on.
In the blackness night many of the Protocrats and Hierarchs had ever experienced, Hren and Gern, Rythe's dual moons, completely hidden, nothing could be seen - not even two feet in front of a man. So it was that when the attack began, the army of Protocrats, professional and experienced soldier were taken by entirely by surprise.
*
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The scout that the Hierophant had briefly considered killing was fast asleep, taking brief respite from the cold. Even in his sleep he shuddered from the cold, and dreamed of ice.
He was woken from a terrible nightmare and thrust into something more real by shouts of pain nearby, out by the edges of the camp. For mere seconds, he remained in his bedroll, unsure as to whether the cry was his own from the dream, or for real.
A scream came again from a different quarter. This time he knew it was for real, because for a Protocrat or Hierarch to scream, the agony must have been terrible indeed. His kind were born to bear pain. Other cries of pain joined the first few, and became a cacophony. He threw himself out of bed, ready in moments - he only wore light leather armour, and was armed with a short sword which he kept beside his bed. He slept in his armour and cloak - anything to provide more warmth. He was ready as soon as his arms were free. He snatched up his sword.
There was meagre light in the tent from two candles. Something tore a hole in the side of his tent and a great beast powered through the hide covering. In the low light the scout saw that the thing's white fur was caked in blood and ice. It had huge paws that ended in deadly black claws. With a terrible snarl it came for him.
He knew no fear - he was a Protocrat. Fighting was in his blood, but he knew he would die this night.
The beast tore the head from one Protocrat who was too slow to react.
The scout did not see the head fall, because the beast swung again. He ducked under a powerful lunge and jabbed up with his short sword. The blow should have pierced the creatures lungs. But his sword merely seemed to irritate the beast.
In the next instant, his chest was crushed by a punch the likes of which he had never known. He was thrown backwards over his bedroll to land with a heavy thump against the icy floor.
He looked down to see his life blood gushing from the wound. In the candlelight he noted how black his blood looked.
He glanced away from the sight of his life's blood pouring from his wound. He saw that in mere instants a single creature had killed every Protocrat in the tent. The thing roared, deafening even in the midst of the noise of battle.
He tried to reach his short sword, but his arms would not work. The thing leaned over him, roared again. It sniffed at him, once, then turned and was gone. The scout's eyes drifted closed and he dreamed...for a short time. Then, nothing.
*
Chapter Thirty-Eight
At first, the cries of the dying were lost on the wind before the reached the centre of the camp. The attackers slaughtered maybe a hundred soldiers before the remainder of the Protocrats and the Hierarch mages knew anything about it.
Then a great light hit the sky - the magic of the Hierarchs - and their attackers were thrown into relief in the sudden brightness of fiery light.
All around the camp, and through the outskirts, towering white beasts, their entire bodies covered with thick white fur, rampaged against the Protocrats.
Tenthers were emerging from their tents. The first few to the battle were torn to pieces as though their armour was nothing but cloth. Then, with the light in the sky, the Hierophant emerged from his tent to see the mayhem the strange white beasts had wrought.
He clapped, once only, and a deafening peal of sound rent the night sky. Alert as they had not been before, the Protocrats came in force to answer the alarm. The battle was joined.
*
Chapter Thirty-Nine
At first it seemed as though the Hierophant's spell caused the fell weather to cease. The terrible wind quit in an instant and the snow stopped in moments.
Yet when the great peal of the Hierophant's thunderclap was gone, the wind rose again. The Protectorate soldiers were fighting virtually blind in a blizzard once again, with periodic flashes of bright mage light. Though there were mages among the army, fire burned from their eyes and hit friend and foe alike so that they were of little use in the battle. The strange white beasts burned like anything else would have. The protocrats, too, caught some of the fire, so that the battle was a collision of light, followed by darkness, filled with the clamour of arms and the cries of the dying. Some were immolated, some torn apart by blade or claw or tooth.
The Hierophant was a stranger to battle, but he was no fool. A sadist, yes, a cold creature of tortu
re that took pleasure in the pain of others, yes, but no fool. He saw the weather for what it was - it was created by the white beasts themselves, a blind for the true power of their forces.
He saw, too, the way the battle was going.
He smiled at the pain, but that cold heart of him knew he would be forced to act, to show his true power. Soon, the tide of battle would turn, but he was enjoying the diversion.
The white wastes had been so boring.
But he could not afford to lose his entire force in one skirmish against these fey creatures. He did not have the gift of prophecy, but he knew as long as his soldiers were blind, the white beasts could attack at will. They seemed to have no difficulty in finding their mark in the white-out.
Time to counter, he knew. He shrugged his shoulders and cracked his long neck, still smiling and feeding, yes, on the terrible pain that was being inflicted on both sides. Magic like he was about to unleash took pain to feed it, and he was near full.
This magic the creatures wrought was like no magic he understood, but a Hierarch's greatest talent was with fire. His own soldiers would burn, too, though, and he was already loosing enough men from the screams he could hear.
No, burning the entirety of the battleground was not the way. He could not through his inferno into the wheeling masses fighting all around him.
The Hierophant stood thoughtfully, everything peaceful around him despite the carnage.
He nodded, his eyes closed. Sighed. Then he opened his eyes and let out the magic.
*
Chapter Forty
The Hierophant shuddered from the suddenly release of energy. His body shook. Then a great gout of fire burst forth from his eyes, burning up the sky, in an inferno that raged high into the air. The fire reached as high as the clouds, then spread across the bottom of the cloud like flames running across a ceiling.
The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Page 8
