by Matthew Ward
“You were at Davenwood?”
“Held the line with you, lord. Be honoured to do so again.”
A bright note in bleak times. Not so long ago, there’d been few more hated in the Southshires than Viktor Akadra. Proof that things could change, if the will was there. Proof that old prejudices need not hold sway, and that even a shadow might serve the light.
“And the commander?”
“Keep a straight path, lord.”
Viktor thanked him and cantered into an encampment less morose than its appearance. Yes, the soldiers were filthy and tired, but a frisson burned beneath the surface. The strange alchemy of hope desired and vengeance sought, betrayed by a stiffening of the shoulders as he passed. By salutes offered and the scrape of weapons being honed. If these were the Republic’s last days – and Viktor was too much the pragmatist to completely reject the possibility – it would not easily fall, not even if all the gods mustered to the Emperor’s banner.
The sergeant had spoken true, and Viktor soon dismounted before the command tent, his reins entrusted to a squire of the 14th. Saddle-weary flesh screamed joy and horror as sensation shifted, but it felt good to regain firm ground. Conversation faded as he passed inside to behold familiar faces gathered about a map. Not just Arlanne Keldrov, but…
“Rosa!” Viktor knew better than to embrace her in front of strangers, and settled for a shallow bow.
“Viktor.”
The bow Rosa offered in return couldn’t disguise her malaise. She was too pale, her skin parchment white, and her blue eyes hard. Even straw-blonde hair had dulled to grey. Then again, she’d been at Ahrad. Lumestra only knew what she’d seen since. Rosa had always taken losing hard, as a good soldier should, and the Republic had known little else in recent days.
“Lord Akadra.” Keldrov offered salute and abashed expression. “I… wasn’t sure you’d be joining us. Is she with you?”
Inkari stiffened. “She can speak for herself. I am Inkari af Üld af Freyd, Ceorla of Elsbarg. I bear the friendship of the Thane of Indrigsval.”
Keldrov’s gaze hardened. “We know of Indrigsval’s ‘friendship’ in the south. It’s that of the wolf to the flock. Or are you not the same Inkari af Üld who led the sack of Harlene?”
She bared her teeth, but subsided. “Debts are owed. Armund af Garna, Thane of Indrigsval, sends axes to settle the account.”
Keldrov shook her head, perhaps recalling the long ago day where she and Armund had taken the field together.
Rosa raised an eyebrow. “How many?”
Inkari offered a wolfish smile. “Twenty reivings of his vanaguard and three sellings of thrydaxes. Two thousands, in all.”
“Perhaps a little less,” Viktor allowed. “They’re waiting to the south. It seemed wise not to provoke… surprises.”
“I’ll warn the patrols myself. I assume you’re taking command?”
“With your leave.”
“How else will we see if one man can make a difference? Lady Orova can tell you anything you need to know. Under the circumstances…” She winced. “I thought you’d abandoned us. I owe you an apology.”
“I gave you every reason to doubt.”
“And Lord Trelan? Lady Beral?”
Through staunch effort, Viktor kept his expression motionless. “Have other matters to attend. They stand with us in spirit.”
Keldrov left the reply unchallenged and glanced at Inkari. “Are you fit to ride?”
“Always.”
“Then I’d like to see these two thousands for myself, if I may.”
Inkari offered a stiff bow and withdrew, Keldrov close behind. Rosa stood at the table, head bowed and arms folded across her chest. A serathi, Kasamor Kiradin had once named her, lacking only wings and a halo of light to play the part. Not any longer. Now she was as cold and grey as the winter sea.
“Our scouts tell us that Izack’s making a stand at Govanna Field,” she said without looking up. “His soldiers are weary, and the Hadari will only overtake them otherwise. But the land north of here’s thick with outriders and icularis. If our heralds have reached him, we’ve heard nothing. Saran will march with the dawn. By this time tomorrow, it’ll be settled.”
Viktor stared down at the map, though he knew the land well enough. Govanna marked the border between the Marcher Lands and Royal Tressia. A long march north through Selnweald Forest, or a longer one around. “How many does Izack have?”
“Hard to say. The battle at the Rappadan ended in disaster. Perhaps eight thousand? Between what Paradan rescued from Vrasdavora and what Keldrov scraped together on the journey north, we have another three and a half – maybe four.”
Twelve thousand, plus the two he’d brought from Indrigsval. Respectable enough.
“And the Emperor?”
“Thirty. At least. Plus Jack’s creatures.”
He stared, uncertain of his hearing. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Lord of Fellhallow has declared for the shadowthorns,” she said bitterly. “They drowned Tarvallion in briar without a sword drawn. The Hadari marched straight past. There’s a forest now where the city once stood. I’ll be glad to offer Jack’s heart to the Raven.”
“I trust that’s metaphor.”
“I’m to be his queen,” Rosa replied. “He’s given me an army of revenants as dowry. A heart is a small enough price to pay.”
Her heart, or Jack’s? Viktor fought a growing sense of unreality. These days, the world held more surprise than certainty. “You may find it beyond reach. Jack keeps his heart well hidden, or so fable claims.”
She looked up, eyes swimming with anger and loss. “Then I’ll have his head, and that of the shadowthorn princessa alongside.”
He stared, the map forgotten. This wasn’t the woman he remembered. That Rosa had been driven, certainly. Angry, often. But the combination of wrath and distance belonged to a stranger.
“Rosa… What happened to you?”
Her glare shattered. Her shoulders sank. “The Hadari killed her. They poisoned me, and she died in my place.”
“Killed who?”
“Sevaka.”
Tone and expression spoke of a loss beyond friendship. Twin to his own, and red raw. “Sevaka? I didn’t know.”
She snorted. “How would you? You’ve been living on a hillside.”
Living a lie, while those he called friend moved on in joy and sorrow. How selfish he’d been. “I’m so sorry, Rosa.”
“Don’t be. I’ve for ever to repay my sorrows.” Her tone hardened, the glare back in place. “I will make the Empire a land of widows and orphans. I’ll choke the mists of Otherworld with their filthy souls, and still it will only be the start.”
She’d always been a creature of contradictory extremes. Guarded with her emotions, but generous with her heart. Endlessly selfless and unflinchingly proud. Merciless and kind. The strongest woman he knew, and yet the most vulnerable. In his absence, those extremes had grown pronounced. They transcended grief and mocked his selfishness for leaving, when he’d known that his friend bore a burden similar in shape to his own, if divergent in detail. Even at Tarona, he’d heard tales of the woman who could not die. He’d seen some of it for himself during the unrest of the year before.
“Rosa…” He drew closer. “This isn’t you.”
She laughed without joy. “But it is. A Pale Queen for the Raven King.”
Viktor looked again on her pallid cheeks, her greying hair. Had grief made her thus? The poison? Or was it the Raven’s doing? “Is it what you want?”
“Sevaka is dead. What else is there?”
“Life is about more than the dead. It has to be.” He felt a hypocrite for saying so, given all that had led him to Selnweald. “We’re soldiers, Rosa. We fight to protect those who cannot, not in service of hatred or revenge.”
Again the bitter laugh. “This is the wisdom of the great Droshna, whose shadow moves an Empire to war?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’
s what the princessa called you. A Droshna. A man-of-shadow. A vessel of the Dark who corrupts the Republic. All an excuse for hatred. Why should I not meet it with my own?”
Viktor fell silent at his own fears reflected. So Melanna Saranal had beheld the same future he’d feared? A new age of Dark. Was this war his fault? No. A man was responsible only for his deeds, or their lack. And his lack offered guilt enough. Empire and Republic had warred long before his birth, and would surely do so after his death.
“She’s right. I am Droshna, Malatriant’s heir. I hid on my hillside as much as anything else because I worried that would define me, but it doesn’t have to, Rosa. No more than Sevaka’s death need define you.” He took her hand, the fingers cold beneath his. “What we choose matters.”
She shook her head. “You really believe that?”
“I have to.”
Her gaze softened. “Can you bring her back?”
Viktor’s throat soured. “What do you mean?”
She stared up at him, voice and body quivering. “Sevaka. Malatriant reached beyond death. You say you’re Malatriant’s heir. Can you?”
Heartsick, he closed his eyes. “She’s gone, Rosa.” Even as Viktor spoke, he wasn’t certain if he spoke of Sevaka, or Calenne. “There’s nothing I can do for the dead that will not bring more misery. But the living? Those, I can help. We both can. Fight to protect, and perhaps there’s still hope for you. Perhaps there’s still hope for us both.”
She pulled away. “That’s the difference between us, Viktor. I don’t care.”
“You’re still Essamere. You swore the Vigil Oath, a shield first and a sword second.”
“That woman succumbed to shadowthorn poison. She’s dead.”
“Then the last of Sevaka died with her.” He searched her eyes for some sign, some glimpse of the Rosa he remembered. But if it was there, grief buried it too deep. And dear to him though Rosa was, she remained but a single soul where thousands were now his concern. “Will you introduce me to my officers?”
She scowled, relief just visible beneath the disdain. “Yes, Lord Akadra.”
No one challenged Zephan Tanor as he made his way along the outer defence lines. Few sentries even acknowledged his existence. If they did that, then they might also have to acknowledge the smoky shapes lurking in the mists. Better to cling close to the fires, and tell yourself that all was a nightmare. The revenants had come with dusk, without explanation and – so far – without any obvious intent. High Proctor Ilnarov had said to leave them be, and that suited Zephan just fine.
The porch lanterns of the Traitor’s Pyre cast a diffuse blaze, the coaching tavern’s crooked outbuildings a witch’s claw reaching through the mist. Govanna lay a mile further on, the emptied buildings pressed to billets for the knights and officers of Izack’s thin army. Izack had seized the tavern itself, claiming he’d a powerful thirst on the rise.
The Traitor’s Pyre had been a hive of activity since before noon, with a veritable army of heralds, squires and village children who’d take a coin hurrying back and forth with orders for the army assembled to the east.
One such child burst through the door as Zephan approached, a folded scrap of paper in one hand, and a brass farthing in the other. Zephan caught the door on the backswing, shot a filthy glance at the jangling bell, and passed inside.
“Ah, Tanor! There you are. Wondered where you’d got to.” Izack beckoned him over to the web of map- and parchment-strewn tables he’d arranged about the hearth. “Cold out? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Zephan winced. “The mist makes everything worse.”
“Here, get this down you.” Izack pressed a glass of brandy into his hand. “Is the Dauntless in position?”
The brandy’s fire did nothing to touch the cold winnowed into his soul. “Captain Kesriel has his anchors laid, but he said to remind you that a galleon makes for an easy target if it’s not moving.”
Kesriel had said more than that. He’d wanted to sail downriver with the wounded, and had pressed the point loudly. But the spectre of Izack’s wrath had quashed all argument.
Izack waved the objection away. “Better the shadowthorns are chucking rocks at him than at the rest of us. It’s the closest we’ve got to a fortification, so it’ll have to do.”
In point of fact, the Dauntless was a good sight better than a fortification, moored as it was broadside-on to the Silverway’s southern bank. With twenty ballistae across three decks – to say nothing of the pavissionaires ferried out by longboat earlier that afternoon – it would tear any riverward advance to shreds… at least until enemy catapults found their range.
It made for an unconventional defence, but unconventional was the watchword. The army had infantry enough but after the disaster at the Rappadan, lacked for cavalry. Together, Prydonis and Essamere mustered fewer than five hundred knights – not enough to challenge the Emperor’s cataphracts. Thus Kraikons had laboured until the mists had rushed in, tirelessly digging flooded ditches to stall enemy cavalry. Meanwhile, flesh-and-blood soldiers had felled trees and stripped outbuildings to fashion barricades and sharpened stakes concealed in the thick grass of the meadowlands.
Conservative estimates from Major Gandav’s wayfarers counted three shadowthorns for every man and woman mustered in the meadowlands. But Tressia’s defences were too far to reach in time. When the choices were to stand and fight, or be run to ruin, you fought. Better to face them rested.
“Did you happen to see the high proctor?” said Izack, without looking up from the map.
“Not since the kraikons went dark.”
“Lazy lump’s probably having a nap, and good for him. Tomorrow’ll be a long day. Bloody one, too. All being equal, I’d rather have Elzar’s little pets at our side than the Raven’s, but we are where we are.” He glanced up. “Can I prevail on you for another little jaunt?”
“Of course, master.”
“Torvan Mannor’s preening about a mile south of here. You’ll find him easily enough. The Prydonis will be singing their dirges, cheerless bunch. Tell him that if he sees our banner go forward I’ll expect him to do the same. Even a coward like Mannor has one good fight in him.”
He said the last jovially enough, but Zephan resolved to phrase the request otherwise. Everyone in both chapterhouses knew Izack and Mannor had been friends for years, but that seldom helped those who ended up caught between them.
“I’ll take another brandy before I go.”
Izack grinned. “Good lad. You’re learning.”
“I still say we wait. The men are tired. Why chance victory on weary shoulders?” Devren’s eyes proclaimed unease at the words’ impertinence, caring nothing that they were true. He’d never have spoken thus in the open air – only the tent’s confines gave him courage.
And he was right, Kai allowed. The men were tired, the army driven to its limits by headlong advance. Added to the hundreds lost at Ahrad and the thousands along the Rappadan were those bled away by desperate bands of Tressian soldiers cut off from the retreat, or civilians gathered to valour at the sight of a homeland invaded. On top of that were garrisons established at Tregga, Vrasdavora and a score of lesser places, charged with keeping order in the conquered land, the escorts for the provisioneer trains reaching back across the border and the sizeable blockade force holding back Chapterhouse Sartorov and the garrison of Fathom Rock. Of the seventy thousands who’d crossed the border, no more than thirty-five remained beneath his banner.
And just two leagues downriver, the Tressians assembled a force a fraction of his own. Their last hope before the walls of the city, and walls alone were worthless without men to hold them.
He glanced around the table. Prince Maradan maintained a stoic, collected silence and had done ever since a knight’s lance had plucked his father from the saddle at Tregga; his brother remained in the care of the lunassera while artisans laboured to weave a bindwork arm to replace one lost to a simarka’s bite. Neither King Raeth nor Prince Cardivan met his g
aze, but nor did they speak in Devren’s support. Haldrane and Elspeth offered no comment, but in a wholly different way to Kai’s peers. Their support, at least, he could count on.
“The Icansae stand ready, my Emperor.” Aelia favoured each of her peers with a stare. “The Tressians look to the east and see their doom. Give me firm ground and faithful swords, and I’ll forget my weariness, as will we all.”
Kai grunted. Icansae pledged to support a Saran? Madness. But then what else was there in the world of late? “How long would you have me wait, old friend?”
Devren’s cheek twitched. “Two days, my Emperor. What difference can two days make?”
What difference indeed? Haldrane had whispered of an uprising within the city of Tressia itself and forces thinned to breaking point. Every company of soldiers the Council scrounged from some distant garrison, Kai could match as the wounded recovered.
But what use victory if it came after he was already dead? “A few days” Elspeth had said, and one of those was already spent. Did he have even two days remaining to him? How long before he could no longer fight? If Melanna had been there to continue the campaign, it might have been different. Now his daughter’s crown was the gamble, and the lives of his men the stake. Just thinking it lent squalor to glory, but what else was there?
“We attack at dawn,” said Kai. “The Goddess is with us. Lord Jack is with us. What is a little weariness compared to that?”
Heads nodded around the table, the lie of Ashana’s favour unquestioned. Elspeth could have gainsaid, but did not.
One by one, the warleaders filed away until only Haldrane and Elspeth remained.
“Your pardon, savir.” Haldrane’s voice didn’t quite mirror the words’ respect. “But is it your intention to replace all your advisors with women?”
Elspeth scowled. “Are we jealous? I could geld you. That would bring you halfway there.”
Kai leaned across the table and favoured Haldrane with an unwavering stare. “If they’re apt to it. I meant what I said. Tradition is a guide to the past, it should not rule our present.”
“And our future?”
