by Lloyd, Tom
As soon as Death was gone the red light filled the room and tore the floor open, a burning chasm appearing below. The distant voices became near and urgent, and screams of rage and pain echoed up to greet him. The roar of flames and howl of wind struck the spirit like a blow, but nothing could dissuade it. The spirit dived down towards the grasping hands within the chasm, reaching for their cruel embrace as the red light raced after him and the floor closed up. Behind him there was only darkness.
Doranei paused at a window and realised he could hear the clatter of combat from outside. It was too dark to see anything when he looked out other than indistinct grey movement in the darkness. He assumed that was a good sign. If the Menin garrison had worked out what was happening and arrived, the Brotherhood wouldn’t wait; they’d fight their way out using the battle-mages to punch their exit hole.
Indistinctly he heard bellowing coming from elsewhere in the tower: Daken. It was random shouting, a white-eye’s joy of battle rather than a man looking for him. He left the white-eye to it and headed further up to the duchess’ private quarters. When he reached them there were two liveried guards on the door, but they were hesitant to leave their post to take the attack to him, which gave him time to grab a pouch from his belt and toss it, half-open, at the heavy door they guarded. As it hit a puff of dust was expelled, and weak though the lamplight was, it was enough to ignite the dust in a bright white flash.
As the men cringed and covered their eyes Doranei dispatched them quickly and recovered the pouch carefully, tugging the drawstrings tight before re-hanging from his belt. That done, he tried the door. He wasn’t surprised to find it bolted, but he didn’t bother seeking one of the Cerdin-blessed thieves. Instead Doranei placed the tip of Aracnan’s sword where he guessed the door’s hinge would be and stabbed forward with all his strength.
The weapon pierced the oak without difficulty and went straight through. He worked it up and down and quickly found the hinge, withdrawing the sword to get the tip against the metal. With a single pace as run-up Doranei slammed the sword in and felt the metal burst under the impact.
Doing the same with the lower hinge was a simple task and soon the door was hanging drunkenly, half-open. Doranei slipped through the gap and blinked at the gloom inside, for a moment seeing nothing but indistinct shadows. When his eyes had adjusted Doranei found himself in a small ante-chamber with closed doors left and right, and a wide doorway ahead leading into an elegant study. He tried the closed doors first. The child’s bedroom he tore apart until he was sure no hiding places remained, then the breakfast room got similar treatment.
The study straight ahead was empty too, and finally he headed for the duchess’ bedroom, off the study. The room was very dark, even with a faint glimmer of moonlight creeping through the clouds. The lamps were barely warm to the touch. A lifetime of night exploits had given Doranei excellent vision in the dark, but he still managed to blunder into an unseen table as he headed for the window to look down. Still no light from below, but he was running out of time.
A sudden sense of being watched crept over him, causing the hairs of his neck to prickle as he whirled around, sword raised. The dark room remained still and empty, but the sense continued.
And well it might, Doranei thought, reaching for the pouch of sparkle-dust again. That bloody door was barred from the inside.
With a sweep of his sword Doranei smashed the nearest oil lamp and dropped the rest of the dust onto it, looking away with his eyes screwed up tight. The dust ignited and the lamp oil caught immediately, casting a weak light over the room. Doranei tugged a curtain from its rail and was about to set it alight when the shadows on the other side of the window suddenly billowed.
He dropped the curtain and struck out at the shadows, but a sword materialised from nowhere and caught the blow. Doranei hesitated; short blade and long handle — this wasn’t who he’d feared.
‘Zhia?’ he said, startled.
The shadows opened like a black flower saluting the moon. Zhia Vukotic appeared, resplendent in a blood-red dress and white silk scarf, with her sword extended.
‘My dear, you are one of the few people to ever look relieved when you find a vampire lurking in the shadows,’ she said with a pained smile. ‘I apologise for giving you a start.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Doranei demanded, lowering his sword and advancing on his immortal lover. ‘Where are the duchess and Ruhen?’
‘Escaped, I assume,’ Zhia said, sheathing her sword on her back with a flourish. ‘They had already gone when I arrived up here.’
‘Why are you here? Why did you bolt the door?’
Zhia gave him a look that was almost too weary for irritation. Whatever she’d been doing, it had taken a toll on her.
‘I was elsewhere in the tower on business; Lady Kinna has apartments on a lower level. When I heard the commotion it was not hard to guess who would be heading this way. I don’t know how your Brothers would react to seeing me here, but I assumed King Emin’s pet white-eye would be at the fore. His kind are hard to talk down once their blood is up and I have no desire to kill your friends. I thought the bolted door would slow them up; I hoped they couldn’t waste the time it would require to break it.’ She gave a wry smile — then suddenly screwed her eyes closed, as if in pain.
She gasped, shock blossoming on her face. ‘By the Dark Place, I had forgotten how painful His presence was!’
‘Whose?’ Doranei asked, looking around.
Zhia straightened, as though a weight was lifted from her shoulders. ‘That’s better, He’s gone now. Your Lord Death, that’s who,’ she added with a sour smile. ‘What I crave the most I cannot bear the presence of. You must have killed Aracnan; He has come for His unclaimed son.’
Zhia stopped, noticing the sword for the first time. ‘Even your mages would have found it hard to draw the bolts to this room. I had hoped to lurk here undisturbed until He had departed. I hadn’t expected you to be carrying anything so powerful. Did you kill Aracnan yourself?’ She sounded sceptical.
‘I was there when he died,’ Doranei replied, not wanting to waste time explaining any further. ‘Can you find the child for me?’
‘I have already tried, but there’s too much of a swirl of magic around the tower for me to find anyone not a mage.’
Doranei faltered, his shoulders sagging. ‘Then this was all for nothing?’ he said distantly.
‘Not necessarily.’ Zhia pointed to the desk on which lay a few books, a writing box and a silver sand-shaker. ‘I had a look around while I was waiting for your men to lose their ardour for slaughter.’
He moved to the desk, scanning the objects on it but seeing nothing out of the ordinary. ‘And?’ he prompted.
With a twitch of her fingers Zhia caused one of the books to rise up, green light playing around the edges and illuminating the monogram on the front. ‘I noticed an enchantment on one of the books and found it bore my brother’s initials.’ She let the book fall into his hands. ‘Is this the journal you were looking for?’
Doranei looked it over. It did indeed have entwined Vs on the cover, just as the novice Mayel had described to him. This had to be what Azaer had wanted from the abbot in Scree — what the shadow had sacrificed possession of the Skull of Ruling for.
When he tried to open it he found the pages stuck together, and when he ran his finger down the edge he saw a tiny spark of light and felt something as sharp as a knife slice his skin. He withdrew his hand hurriedly.
‘It’s a simple magical lock; it will not tax your king’s mages for too long,’ Zhia assured him, ‘but right now, it is time for you to leave.’
The look on her face told him not to argue and he realised she was right. He had already stayed longer than he’d planned; it was time to make good their escape.
‘Thank you,’ he said awkwardly.
Without warning Zhia made up the ground between them and grabbed him by his brigandine. Pulling him close she kissed him hard and fierce. When she wit
hdrew the taste of her lips and the heady scent of her perfume remained.
‘Do not thank me,’ she said, her face unreadable. ‘Every step in your war against the shadow takes you further into pain. This may bring you a league of hurt.’
‘It is necessary,’ he croaked. ‘I do what I must.’
She gave him a weak smile. ‘As do we both.’
This time it was Doranei’s turn to pull the vampire close, half-lifting her off the ground and kissing her before he fled through the door. When he had gone she stared after him, her lips pursed tight. With a wave of the hand she extinguished the flames and was left alone with the shadows.
‘Do not disappoint me,’ Zhia said softly. The shadows did not reply.
CHAPTER 15
It was not yet midday when Count Vesna reached the Tirah-Tebran border, and already he’d had enough. Advance warning of what was waiting there failed to lessen his disgust when he saw the banners in the distance — banners that had no place in this suzerainty. In contrast, the ruby shard upon his cheek tingled at the prospect of violence.
At his side General Lahk observed them impassively, his only sign of disapproval the ordering of his personal standard be carried by the advance scouts, alongside the red banners of mourning. The general was also a marshal of Tebran, and it was into his small domain they were riding. Lahk’s obedience to tradition was absolute, but Vesna doubted Suzerain Temal or Scion Ranah would care about the small rebuke, if they even noticed it.
They had spent the previous night at the manor of Suzerain Tebran, once one of Lord Bahl’s fiercest supporters; renowned for his strength, but now a broken man, drinking himself to death. His parchment-pale skin hung loose on his body, and when Vesna had broken the news of his scion’s death in battle, he hadn’t been sure if the suzerain had even heard him. Muttered apologies were all Tebran had given, and it had been left to his daughter, Anatay, to tell them why through her own grief.
‘He was frightened for me, frightened for us all. There was only one of his hurscals here; the rest were with you, my Lord. He had to grant them leave to stay, to march under arms in the suzerainty.’
Vesna scowled and felt his armoured fist tighten around the reins. Threatening the weak to claim the protection of the law? It made the God in him bay for blood. Each suzerainty was a self-contained domain, subject only to the Lord of the Farlan — to ride battle-ready in another’s suzerainty without permission was tantamount to a declaration of war, but with his troops not yet returned from the Circle City, Suzerain Tebran had nothing to back up his authority.
Technically they were within the law, but it was a gross flouting of custom, and at any other time Vesna would have sorted it out at the point of his sword. Now, however, he had to ignore the breach, the only way to avoid bloodshed on his return to Tirah. The heir to the Ranah suzerainty was a hot-headed thug who’d draw at the first provocation and whether a battle or a duel, it would only make a bad situation worse.
‘Suzerain Torl?’ he called, turning in the saddle to catch the attention of the grey-haired suzerain riding a little way behind him.
‘My Lord,’ Torl acknowledged, as formal in addressing Vesna as the rest of his fellow Brethren of the Sacred Teachings, despite their past years of close friendship.
Isak, Vesna thought sadly, was this how your life was? Always set apart, even from friends? Never allowed to be just part of the crowd? He shook the thought away. Time for that later.
‘Do you know Suzerain Temal? I’ve met Ranah several times and he doesn’t have the brains to get on his horse the right way round first try.’
‘Yes, my Lord, well enough. Temal’s got precious little affection for his subjects, but I’d never thought the man disloyal — or religious, for that matter.’
‘So we have a whole new faction?’ Vesna muttered. ‘Gods, it’s a wonder we ever got around to building a bloody nation here.’
Torl gave a noncommittal shrug. The ageing warrior had never been one for ceremony and was dressed like any cavalryman, only the badge with his Ice Cobra crest indicating he was a nobleman.
A red cape of mourning hung over Vesna’s divine-touched left arm, hiding it from onlookers, but the rest of his clothes followed tradition. His oiled hair was tied down one side of his neck to cover the blue tattoos of knighthood there.
‘General Lahk? How do you want to play this?’
Lahk looked back at the divisions of Palace Guard following them before replying, ‘We cannot be sure of their intentions, and until proved otherwise we must assume they are allies. They have broken no law.’
‘I suppose so,’ Vesna said reluctantly. ‘Riding on through would be insulting to their stations, however strongly Lord Fernal ordered us to return without delay.’
‘They’re not here to fight — no Farlan suzerain takes on the Ghosts, however mauled we might be.’
Vesna looked around. The Tirah Highway passed through mainly forested ground, but there were villages and towns around and clearings and fields dotted the landscape. Here there were sufficient trees to obscure his view, and space for a few legions of troops to wait for the order. The mountain-lines of the Spiderweb range stopped at Tebran’s outer border, but ridges of high hilly ground remained and anyone advancing towards Tirah would continue to be at the disadvantage right up to the city walls.
‘They might if they have reinforcements nearby — our scouts and scryers could have missed an ambush easily enough.’
‘Of the nearby suzerains the only one whose loyalty was in question was Suzerain Selsetin, and he died in battle at the Byoran Fens. There is no man of Duke Certinse’s ilk here,’ Torl pointed out. ‘What would be their reason for such a risky venture, my Lord?’
Vesna shook his head. ‘I don’t know — and that’s what has me worried. The past six months has shown us that the usual rules of the great game need not apply. I’m inclined to see hostility in any move I do not understand.’
‘Sir Cerse,’ Lahk called, prompting the colonel of the Palace Guard to urge his horse up to Lahk’s.
Vesna watched him approach with a sense of sadness. Sir Cerse had been an eager young soldier when they first met not long ago — a political appointment, but keen to earn the loyalty of his men. Now there was a grim set to his jaw and a bandage covering one ruined eye. The colonel of the Ghosts had earned the respect of his men, but Vesna recognised all too easily a soldier who’d lost something of himself on the way.
‘Sir Cerse, call a halt and ensure the men are ready for whatever might happen. We’ll take two squads as escort and proceed to greet our peers.’
‘Are you sure?’ Vesna asked once Sir Cerse had returned to issue the order. ‘Won’t that just encourage them to act rashly?’
‘“If your enemy intends to act, encourage him to do so rashly”,’ Lahk quoted in response. ‘My authority ends with the military side of matters. Suzerain Torl, Count Vesna; I suggest you discuss the politics with Ranah and Temal, it is not my domain. If they do indeed intend us harm, let that come about before they discover Count Vesna’s new allegiance.’
‘I take your point,’ Vesna admitted. He sighed and touched his black-iron fingers to the sword on his hip. ‘It will be easily done, but let’s hope it won’t come to that.’
Riding ahead with a battle-scarred squad of Ghosts on each side, the three veterans did not speak until they passed through the advance companies of troops. They found themselves at an inn where Suzerain Temal and Scion Ranah were waiting. It was a big place, a three-storey stone building overlooking the single bridge across a tributary of the River Farsen, which cut through the heart of Tirah.
Soldiers were all around, and Vesna could see the inn’s serving girls were struggling to meet the demand just from the hurscals. The more he looked, the more troops he saw — mainly light cavalry, of course, but also what appeared to be a division’s worth of archers and spearmen.
‘Good morning Suzerain Torl, General Lahk,’ called Suzerain Temal, rising from his seat at a round
stone table on one side of the inn named after it. He spared Vesna a look, but nothing more, making it clear he did not expect the lower-ranked man to speak until invited to do so. Vesna might be a hero, and Isak’s right-hand man, but he was still a count, and ranked below both suzerains and generals. ‘Please, join us in a cup of wine.’ Palms upturned, Temal had pointedly dispensed with the usual formalities, something Vesna hoped was a good sign. That he was excluding Vesna was no great surprise; a suzerain had the right to speak only to his peers if he so chose, and if Vesna didn’t speak, it was less likely Ranah would either.
The suzerain was a man of nearly forty summers. He had a welcoming smile. He wore his sword on his right hip because a childhood injury had robbed him of most of the use in his right hand. He’d not joined the army when Lord Isak had called his nobles because of it, but Vesna had heard he was a fair left-handed swordsman all the same.
Torl and Lahk dismounted and returned the suzerain’s greeting. Vesna followed them. He had no intention of speaking until addressed, but the hatred on Scion Ranah’s face made it obvious he’d be easy to provoke, whilst keeping within the bounds of protocol. Ranah disliked Vesna intensely — a matter of principle more than anything else. The fact that Vesna had seduced the scion’s sister was less of concern than Ranah made out; in truth, he was jealous.
