Legacy of Steel

by Matthew Ward

  “Until Malachi gathers his wits, or Izack stabilises the situation in the east.”

  He glared, a coward trapped by his own failings. A better man would have challenged her, fearful her inexperience would cause more deaths. But Leonast Lamirov wasn’t a better man, and the only death that truly troubled him was his own. “And your hearthguards?”

  “Are deployed to protect Lord Reveque, nothing more.” She shrugged. Lamirov knew it was a lie, but as with so much of council business, there was form to these things. “Three days, Leonast. Then I’ll step aside, and you can do as you wish. To me, and to this city.”

  His mask of consideration did little to hide churning thoughts. Calculations. Timings. The likelihood of convincing others to dislodge her by force. The Akadra hearthguard wasn’t in much better shape than others in the city, but it had a reputation.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Three days.”

  He turned stiffly and left her office. Messela almost laughed, overtaken by the giddiness of victory. Three days. She’d expected to settle for two. Perhaps she did have a future on the Council, after all.

  Then she stared out across the city again – to where the mist stole away the streets, and where the ruin of Abbeyfields blazed against the morning murk – and darkness returned.

  Buildings came and went, crooked manifestations of places Kurkas knew well, and others unknown to him. Withered trees and sprawling mausolea. A sunken river, bounded by pitted and broken statues. All hurried along by the song of the etravia and the fraught, distant weeping of prizraks.

  Apara led the way, Sidara limping close behind, with Hawkin and Constans shuffling along in the middle. Kurkas brought up the rear, Altiris at his side and troubled by the slowing pace. Apara was increasingly hesitant in choosing her course.

  Worse, the crumbling ruins in which he’d awoken were but a memory. Most buildings now were smooth stone, with solid doors and lantern light burning behind the windows. Or at least what passed for lantern light. Kurkas wasn’t about to trust to anything burning bright green. If the elder cousins came again, there were damn all places to hide save for alleyways whose darkness set the spine tingling every bit as much as witch-lights beyond filthy glass.

  “Can you handle things here for a bit?” asked Kurkas.

  Altiris nodded, his face tight but his fear under control. “Long as you need, captain.”

  “Good lad.”

  Clapping Altiris on the shoulder, Kurkas lengthened his stride until he reached Hawkin and Constans. The lad was staring resolutely down at his feet, the steward’s arm about his shoulder. Her other was tucked tight across her chest, the blouse stained with dry blood.

  “You all right, Mistress Darrow?”

  She offered a wan smile. “I’m not a soldier. I’m supposed to be interviewing a new governess for Constans this morning… if it is still this morning.”

  He nodded and moved on. Hawkin at least seemed halfway composed, and he’d no idea how to reach Constans. Paths muddled by emotion, Apara had said. Of the two Reveque kids, Kurkas much preferred his chances of tackling Sidara.

  “How’re you holding up, lass?”

  She offered a hollow glance. “I hurt. Inside and out.”

  “Altiris told me what your mother did. Worse ways to go, and worse things to die for.”

  She touched her eyes closed, and wiped at her cheek. Soot smudged and glistened. “She’s still dead. I never even had chance to say goodbye, nor apologise for being a brat. We’ve done little but argue this last year. I kept wishing I was free of her. And now? Now I just want her back.”

  “Ain’t your fault.” He stared at the viridian sky, floundering even in the shallows of heartsore conversation. “Way Altiris tells it, she faced it proud. Her and the plant pot both. That’s more than most can say.”

  “Who’s Halvor?” said Sidara. “I heard you call out.”

  Kurkas scratched his head. “A friend of your Uncle Josiri’s. She saved my life, only I couldn’t return the favour.” He sighed. “She chose her fate too. Seems folk keep dying to save my worthless hide. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to.”

  “Reckon you’re right.”

  They walked for a time in silence, Kurkas’ attention split fore and aft as he watched for pursuit. Sidara glanced behind and lowered her voice.

  “My father serves the Crowmarket,” she said. “The one I hurt… Athariss, I think… He said so. Mother confirmed it. She said he’d no other choice.”

  That’d explain a great deal. “Probably he doesn’t. Those mangy old crows know how to twist a man.”

  For the first time, sorrow slipped from her expression, leaving something hard behind. “I wish I believed that.”

  “This is it!” Apara spun around, face framed by relief. “I can get us back from here.”

  Kurkas strode to join her. He saw little familiar about their surroundings. A crumbling church of a design he barely recognised, and beyond the withered churchyard, a narrow alley between timber-framed buildings. “Where?”

  “Cradlesmith Alley.”

  He tried to match name to surroundings and failed. He shook his head. “That’s in Dregmeet.”

  She glared. “Is that better or worse than here?”

  “Good point.”

  Altiris beckoned. “Captain! They’re here!”

  Typical. Kurkas shoved Sidara towards the church’s ruined porch, a pang of guilt surfacing as she stumbled. With everything else, he’d forgotten how beaten up the girl had been just a day before. Shouldn’t have been moving around at all, by rights. Maybe that was why she was having trouble reaching her light. It was working overtime just keeping her upright.

  “Under cover.” He dragged Constans on and pointed towards the porch. “Quickly now!”

  In defiance of his own orders, Kurkas headed out into the street to meet Altiris. Though he strained, he caught no sight of the elder cousins. “Where are they, lad?”

  “Can’t have gone far. The singing’s stopped.”

  Kurkas grunted. The lad was paying better attention than he was. “All right. We join the others. Apara reckons she can get…”

  A thin noise, more gasp than scream, billowed forth from the church. Eyes wild, Altiris bolted across the churchyard and vanished inside. Kurkas, slowed by age and thumping headache, arrived two paces behind.

  “Stay back!”

  Hawkin stood on the porch’s inner threshold, her arm no longer about Constans’ shoulder, but tight across his neck. The other held a bloodied dagger to his throat. Apara lay gasping across a grimy pew, hands clasped to the bloodstain spreading across her lower ribcage. Sidara looked on with fury. Behind them all – behind the lopsided statue of a spread-winged raven – the viridian sky crackled and swirled through the fallen arch of a stained-glass window.

  “Hawkin!” shouted Sidara.

  Hawkin drew her arm tighter about Constans’ neck. “Come with me, and I’ll not hurt him. I promise.”

  Kurkas circled closer. “Starting to think your promises ain’t worth much, Mistress Darrow.”

  She twitched the dagger, spurring a muffled cry from Constans. “We do what we have to.”

  Altiris stepped forward, sword raised. “Let him go.”

  “Can’t do that, my bonny. The Parliament want Sidara, so she’s coming with me.”

  “No,” he snarled. “She’s not.”

  Hawkin shook her head. “Not your choice, lad. Is it, Sidara?”

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Sidara. “If you’re afraid of the Crowmarket, the Council can protect you.”

  “How, when your father’s drowning in Dregmeet? The Parliament takes what it wants. Always has. Right now it wants you.”

  Kurkas inched closer. Hawkin was vranakin. Equally certain was that Apara hadn’t known. It made sense of the chandelier that had crushed Lady Mezar. Hawkin had been right there. Of course no one had suspected her. Who’d believe the carefree, vivacious steward
had a darker side? Unless that was the only side to her, and the other a mask. Careful. Manipulative. She’d never been in any danger from the chandelier, just like she’d not been wounded during that fight at Abbeyfields – her hand was too steady for that.

  “You’re wasting your time,” gasped Apara. “She’s too… new. Still got the shine on it. Still believes there’s a pulpit in the… Church of Tithes waiting… for her. Hope… the biggest lie.”

  “Shut your mouth, traitor!”

  “They mean to kill Sidara, Hawkin,” said Kurkas. “Bury her alive with a corpse for company. Can you live with that?”

  Sidara paled. For all her apparent poise, Hawkin’s eyes were restless, uncertain. She didn’t entirely believe she’d pull this off, and that kind of uncertainty had a tendency to make itself truth. Kurkas searched for the words that would tip her over.

  “Your wife’s the head of the constabulary, for pity’s sake.”

  Hawkin flinched. “Vona was dead from the moment she struck down Crowfather Athariss. I made it as kind as I could manage.”

  “I thought you were my friend!” Sidara’s eyes crackled with golden light, then went dark with fading strength. The girl looked dead on her feet.

  “Friends always leave, my bonny. You can’t trust them. Only family.”

  Kurkas coughed. “Lad, if I get that dagger out of her hand, can you take her?”

  “Count on it,” said Altiris.

  Kurkas’ eye rested on Constans, hoping for a sign of the boy’s famous wildness. A distraction. He simply stood there, face pale and eyes drawn, all resistance gone. Hard to blame the lad. A real swine of a day, and no mistake.

  “No way this ends well for you, Hawkin,” he said softly. “Let Constans go. We’ll all be mates again. No one else has to get hurt.”

  No one else but Apara, who was already hurt – maybe dying. Their only way out of Otherworld.

  So how did Hawkin expect to escape?

  Behind her, three tattered elder cousins drifted through the shattered window. Sedate. Serene. Whether it was the three from before was impossible to tell.

  Hawkin’s expression became a triumphant sneer. “You’re right. No one else has to die. Sidara stays. You leave.”

  “Let Constans go,” said Sidara. “Let them all go, and I’ll come with you.”

  Altiris started towards her. “Sidara, no!”

  “Constans stays with me, so I know you’ll behave.” Hawkin shrugged. “I don’t care about the rest.”

  The elder cousins were halfway across the nave. A ragged sleeve brushed a pew. Black, scuttling insects rushed away across the timber.

  “This ain’t the way, lass,” said Kurkas.

  Sidara tore her eyes off her brother’s. “It’s what I’m choosing, captain. Tell my father I didn’t abandon my family. If anything matters to him any longer, that should mean something.”

  There wasn’t another way, was there? Getting Constans free had always been a risk. Now it was impossible. The only choices were surrender the kids, or for them all to die. And dead men didn’t effect rescues.

  Throat thick and bitter, headache swamped by an impotent rage that washed everything black, Kurkas turned to Altiris. “Get Apara on her feet, lad. Get her outside. I’ll be right behind.”

  Expression as flat and hard as Kurkas’ own, the lad hauled Apara upright, his shoulder beneath hers, and stumbled out into the churchyard.

  Hawkin gave a sly, triumphant smile. “No heroics, captain.”

  “I’m just a bluff old soldier. I leave heroics to my betters. All I have’s a message.” The elder cousins were close enough that their cold raised gooseflesh on Kurkas’ skin. Fear burned like tinder as it met the heat of his anger. “Sidara. Constans. This ain’t the end of it. And Hawkin? Same promise.”

  He left the church at a walk – not a run – and with every step fought the urge to look behind. Thirty yards, and the longest walk of his life.

  Altiris and Apara were waiting in the street, the former staring in anguish back toward the church, the latter sitting slumped against the wall, her left hand at the wound in her chest, the other hanging loose. Only now did Kurkas note the deep slash across her right forearm, and another at her throat, the blood pulsing away over her talons’ leather straps. The air stank of it.

  “Paths muddled,” murmured Apara. “Wasn’t… children. Her.”

  Hawkin. Drawing them in circles until the odds were in her favour. Obvious in hindsight.

  “Where’s Sidara?” said Altiris.

  “Where d’you think?” Kurkas replied heavily.

  “I thought you had a plan!”

  “I do!” Kurkas rounded on him, cheeks wet with tears of rage and shame. “This was it! You think I’m not sick to death of losing to these bastards? Alive, we have a chance. They have a chance. Dead, there’s no bloody hope at all! Don’t you get that?”

  “No! I won’t leave her to die. I can’t!”

  Just like that he was gone, headlong into the mists, back towards the church.

  “Altiris!”

  Temptation to follow rushed thick. But only a fool balanced another’s recklessness with his own. Not unless all hope was gone. He crouched beside Apara.

  “You still with me? Enough to get me back to Dregmeet? Somewhere they won’t be?”

  She nodded, lips pale and eyes half-lidded. “Yes.”

  It wasn’t much, but that was all right. It’d do. He’d promises to keep. “Good.”

  Fifty-Five

  The outriders of the southern army reached the bustling camp at noon – the vanguard as dusk purpled the western horizon. A woman rode at its head, though not the daughter Kai longed to see. This one wore her hair short. Past the ghostfires marking the camps boundary, she slowed her horse to a walk. Kai stifled a smile at Devren’s soft splutter. Kai hadn’t shared Melanna’s warning of the princessa Andwaral’s unveiling, nor had he done so when Haldrane’s rider had come to camp hours before. An Emperor’s privilege. For all the unwelcome surprises Kai had experienced in recent days, it felt fair to save one for his closest friend.

  She slid from her saddle and knelt in the mud, head bowed as the column marched on. Behind, her brother did the same. Further back, Haldrane held a watchful peace. If asked, he’d doubtless blame the crutch for not kneeling. Truth was, Haldrane only knelt in apology for having erred.

  “My Emperor,” said Naradna, gaze still averted. “Vrasdavora is ours, the Greyridge shirelands taken. It was your daughter’s wish we lend our strength to yours.”

  “And the Tressian army?”

  “Escaped, my Emperor.”

  “So you failed?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, my Emperor.”

  The reply buttressed a decision taken in the early hours. The warrior – the woman – who had sought so ardently to prove herself at Ahrad would not have passed up the opportunity to blame Melanna for the failures of the southern campaign. “And I am to understand you are to be warleader in my daughter’s stead?”

  Naradna raised her head. “So she instructed, my Emperor.”

  “And if I do not concur?”

  She shared a glance with her brother and bit her lip. “Then I will serve however you think proper, so long as that service is accomplished with a sword.”

  He nodded, and raised his voice, letting it carry as far as failing strength would allow. “I have been blind. That the blindness was passed down from father to son is no excuse.”

  Conversation hushed and heads turned, the quiet rippling outwards.

  “Tradition is slow to fade,” said Kai, “but we can always do more to ease its passing. Women do not bear swords. That has been truth for generations. And it has been falsehood just as long. No more. The world holds lies enough. Let this one die. I name Naradna Andwaral a warleader of Empire. Rhaled recognises her claim to the throne of Icansae, and will back that claim with spears, should any offer contest.”

  The marcher column stuttered to stillness. Silence reigned, and never
more than where Naradna knelt, open-mouthed – a woman trapped in a waking dream.

  “I…” she stuttered.

  “You have something to say, warleader?” Kai hooked an eyebrow. “You reject the honour?”

  Her jaw set. An appraising expression stole over her features. Pride chanced the dream, and made it truth. “Aelia,” she said. “My name is Aelia.”

  “Then rise,” said Kai. “Subservience has its place, but I’ll need boldness come the morrow. And if it is your fortune to see my daughter where I do not, please tell her that her father was possessed of some small wisdom, after all.”

  “Hail Aelia Andwaral, Queen of Icansae!” bellowed Aeldran. “Dotha Icansae!”

  The words rushed outwards, gathering pace as other voices joined to his.

  “Dotha Icansae! Andwaral Brigantim! Dotha Icansae!”

  And Kai Saran, who had made many mistakes in recent days, knew in his heart that this could not be numbered among them.

  The makeshift camp sat sullen beneath the southern eaves of Selnweald Forest. Beyond the fresh palisade, sparse banners proclaimed the presence of soldiers from a dozen regiments and two chapterhouses. Tattered cloth marked service in the chaotic retreat. Others were fresh, unmarred by smoke and bloodshed. A few hundreds, where thousands should have mustered.

  “Hold fast!” bellowed a sentry. “Declare yourself!”

  Saddle-sore and weary, Viktor eased his horse to a halt. At his side, Inkari did the same. The rest of the borrowed army waited a league to the south, behind a rise – and all of them better for a long day’s ride than Viktor himself. A year playing at farmer had eroded so much of what he’d been.

  “Lord Viktor Akadra. Where can I find Commander Keldrov?”

  The sentry scowled. “I’ll send word. You’ll wait until then.”

  Not a question, and a manner that Viktor couldn’t resent. With all that had happened, letting two strangers wander the camp – one a Thrakkian, and the other a vagabond in garb from either side of the border – was hardly advisable.

  “Let him through.” A sergeant appeared from behind the palisade, the numeral of the 14th proud blazoned on his hawk tabard. “Glad to have you with us.”