by Tom Lloyd
The vampire reached out a gloved hand with her palm vertical, as though pressed flat against a door rather than in mid-air.
Doranei could see nothing of her face, but he had spent enough time in her company to recognise the taste of magic in the air as she drew on the Skull. The smell of her perfume seemed to wash over him on the wind and Doranei instinctively tilted his head up like a dog catching a scent.
‘Down, boy,’ Veil muttered from beside him, ‘mind on the job.’
The King’s Man scowled and pursed his lips.
Faint trails of light began to swirl through the air around Zhia, slow and languorous. The wisps were barely more than suggestions in the air, but they traced a pattern that almost looked like runes before fading and being replaced by others. The trails continued to move outwards, spreading up to the edges of the branch and tree trunk until there was a silvery white glimmer on the inner edge of the arch.
‘Thought mirror-magic had to be worked from the destination,’ Veil whispered in Doranei’s ear.
‘It does,’ he confirmed, ‘but we’re going further than anyone’s capable of by themselves — she’s adding her strength to the link, or we’ll never reach the mirror.’
Behind them the rest of the party had gathered the horses and were preparing to lead them through the archway. The light around the edge of the arch continued to brighten while the air within grew dark and shadowy, reflecting the shadow of the courtyard Mage Ashain would be using, Doranei guessed.
He disliked trusting a man who’d been so vocal an opponent of the king’s for so many years, but there was no denying the man’s skill.
The shadowy air seemed to coalesce with a snap, almost as tangible as a curtain that trembled under Zhia’s fingers. The vampire stood and gestured for Vesna to go ahead. ‘The link is secure, but we should not waste time.’
Vesna nodded and briskly walked his horse through, vanishing into thin air as the dark curtain billowed around him. They had agreed he would go first, in case there was any form of treachery — it was unlikely any enemy mage would be able to hold a link open if the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn attacked him, but as it was, the curtain settled with unnatural speed and was still long before the next person went through.
‘Move yourselves,’ Zhia snapped at those lingering behind. ‘Ashain is only mortal and his strength will be quickly sapped.’
Veil’s earlier mirth vanished and he jumped to obey with the rest. Doranei sent the horses through one by one, then it was his turn to step through. He couldn’t help but glance at Zhia before he did so, and she gave him a slight smile, her irritation melting away. The King’s Man took a deep breath and let his fingers settle around the hilt of his brutal broadsword before stepping forward.
With the sensation of a trickle of water dancing over his entire body at once, he pushed through the grey curtain and out into the courtyard of Leppir Manor, many miles to the south. He shivered and almost stumbled as the Land around him seemed to reform in a bright flash of light, grey pillars and flagstones replacing the trees and leaf-strewn ground. His stomach lurched and black stars burst before his eyes, fading only slowly when he tried to blink them away. The touch of the curtain had left a chill on his skin that raised every hair and set goosebumps on his body. A wave of dizziness passed over him and an ache blossomed in his head.
‘Stop gawping and move!’ snapped a voice he didn’t recognise, and he turned to see Mage Ashain, his bearded face contorted with effort. He moved to the side of the enormous mirror he’d just stepped out of, where Daken was waiting, ready to grab at the reins of the next horse to come through.
‘Only way to travel eh?’ the white-eye laughed, apparently unaffected by the strange sensation.
Doranei shivered again as Hulf scampered through, followed quickly by Isak. ‘Prefer my hangovers to follow a drink or two,’ he croaked, pinching between his eyes as the ache continued.
Daken cackled. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that, then!’
CHAPTER 22
At dusk, after a day of rest and recovery at Leppir Manor, Isak began to grow restless. The manor was owned by King Emin and maintained by a steward as a useful waystation on the border; the region had been fractious for years. After long weeks of travelling their horses were in need of rest; they all needed to replenish their supplies, repair clothes, tend weapons and spend at least one day not fleeing from search parties of Black Swords.
The haunted look was still on Isak’s face when he headed through the long hall. Without speaking Vesna followed his friend outside to the courtyard, where Hulf lay watching the steward’s geese from a safe distance. The dog gave a happy bark at the sight of Isak and ran to him.
It had been a warm day and neither man had bothered with anything thicker than a tunic. Isak’s brown sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, displaying the strange balance of light and dark on his scarred forearms. The Skull of Ruling was a bulge at his waist, kept secure by a thick strip of cloth worn under his shirt. His right hand was empty again, the skin as dark as charcoal.
Hulf kept clear of it, Vesna saw, though he couldn’t begin to guess whether that was wariness of the black sword’s return or fear of touching Isak’s stained skin.
‘Isak,’ Vesna began hesitantly, ‘what does it feel like?’
‘The sword?’ He raised his hand to inspect his skin. The look on his face was one of wonder and disbelief, as though even Isak couldn’t believe the strange turns his life had taken. ‘Like a cloud’s crossed the sun, that sudden chill — but the rest of my body is still hot, warmed by Ghenna’s echo in my bones.’
Vesna flexed the black-iron clad fingers of his own God-touched limb. ‘Do you feel Death’s presence?’
Isak laughed softly. ‘I’ve felt that for a while, my friend. No, I know you didn’t mean it that way: you mean can I feel Death’s spirit as you feel Karkarn’s?’
‘I suppose I do, yes.’
‘No, and for that I’m glad. He’s not so much a part of me as that — maybe it’s because the Gods are weakened, but all I can feel of Death Himself is an echo in my bones. It’s not so different to when I had the Reapers caught in my shadow. Maybe it’s better to say I’m walking with one foot in the lands beyond this one. Part of me is still there, and Termin Mystt’s the key to reaching it. I actually feel more complete this way, can you believe that? My soul’s caught between realms, but with Termin Mystt in my hand I feel like I’m on the border between them. It’s not enjoyable, but at least it feels like I can reach both parts of me from here.’
‘Will you be able to step back from it?’
‘Step back?’
Vesna caught his friend’s arm, careful to touch the cloth of his sleeve only. ‘Isak, you can’t live this way for long, remember? You might walk the border between lands, but you’re still flesh and bone, a mortal man. Even using Ruling to balance the power of Termin Mystt it isn’t something you’ll be able to endure for long. You remember why you did this, right?’
‘You’re fussing like an old woman,’ Isak growled. ‘I’ve forgotten nothing.’
‘So you remember you will have to give this up?’ Vesna persisted.
Isak shrugged. ‘Soon this will all be over, one way or another. It might not be quite the Age of Fulfilment some hoped for, but there’ll be a resolution between us, Azaer and I have ensured that.’
‘And we will win,’ Vesna said firmly, ‘never doubt it. Azaer has nothing to match our power and-’ His voice wavered, but he finished, ‘and I refuse to allow Tila’s death to be in vain.’
Isak winced at the mention of her name. ‘I feel her death on my shoulders,’ he whispered, ‘and Mihn’s too. How many others do I bear? What chains of responsibility will I have to drag after my Final Judgement?’
‘You’ll not bear them alone,’ Vesna declared fiercely. ‘There’s an army of us behind you, all those marked Ghosts and Hands of Fate: they’ve embraced your fate and your burdens too. The ivory gates will shake as we march up Ghain’s slope,
but it’ll not be for long years yet, my friend.’
‘Think so? What place in this life will I have afterwards? On that day, victory or no, the Land’ll be done with me.’ He raised a hand to stop Vesna as the Mortal-Aspect began to argue. ‘You think you can change what I am? I was born for this Age, and this Age alone. Once the Land’s remade, my purpose is done — I’m done. But I’ve lived long enough with Death’s hand on my shoulder and Death’s Aspects in my shadow, and my friend, I don’t fear it. Part of me craves some form of relief from all this. I’ll give up the sword easily enough, my friend, or it will give me up.’
They came to a stream running merrily through the moorland that ran east from Leppir Manor. The ground was studded with clumps of purple heather, rejuvenated by recent rain. Twenty yards beyond the stream, half-concealed by the grass, was a lichen-clad stone circle the height of a man’s knee. Isak didn’t enter, but placed his left hand on one of the stones and bowed his head as though in prayer. That done, he turned to face Vesna and sat without reverence on the stone.
‘Calming the local Aspect?’
Isak nodded. ‘Two, actually — a lord and lady, for want of better words. The circle’s dedicated to some Aspect of Nyphal, a safe rest for travellers unwelcome at the manor.’
‘And the other?’
‘The river-spirit — a son of Vasle.’ Isak smiled in his crooked way. ‘Both are weak, they were even before the Gods drew on their Aspects at Moorview. The union’s probably all that’s keeping them from being hunted by daemons each night.’
‘I’m sure Tila would have found great romance in a union of competing Gods,’ Vesna said.
‘No doubt, but my mind’s on other things right now.’
Vesna squinted, trying to see Isak’s expression.
‘We’re about to have a visitor,’ he said by way of explanation, looking up at the sunset sky past Vesna’s head. ‘I wanted to have this conversation away from the others.’
As Vesna looked up, he saw a dark shape in the sky that soon resolved into two shapes with outstretched wings. With his divine-touched senses he reached out and tasted magic on the wind, the scent of large creatures and a dry, ancient odour that he recognised all too easily.
‘What do you want with him?’ Vesna demanded before the pair of wyverns reached them. ‘You surely can’t plan on trusting a madman?’
‘It’s not a question of trust,’ Isak replied, still watching the wyverns. ‘He carries a Crystal Skull, so he’ll be involved before the end, one way or another.’
Hulf crept to Isak’s side, pressing up against the white-eye as his natural boldness faded in the face of those enormous predators. The wyverns shone blood-red in the evening light as they wheeled around the stone circle and dropped lightly to the grass beyond. Golden eyes peered rapaciously at them as the beasts folded their wings and settled themselves.
Vorizh Vukotic slipped to the ground and shrugged off the oversized cape that hid his pale skin from the sun. Despite his efforts, the skin across his eyes and nose was as dark as Isak’s arm; they’d seen that streak on Zhia’s face often enough. Underneath the cape was the familiar black whorled armour Aryn Bwr had forged for each of the Vukotic family, contrasting with Eolis’ white grip, visible over Vorizh’s right shoulder.
‘Lord Isak,’ Vorizh called, bowing with all ceremony to them, ‘do you now accept my gift?’ He gestured to the second wyvern, which was weaving its head from right to left. At first it watched Isak as if he were a rabbit coming into striking distance, but under Isak’s scrutiny the wyvern furrowed the ground with its claws and ducked its head low.
Vesna realised the creature was nervous in Isak’s presence — or the sword’s, at any rate.
‘I’ve enough to do without learning to handle such a creature,’ Isak said eventually.
‘Then what is it you want of me? My sister is already your servant, and she is skilled in most disciplines.’
‘I have something I need you to do.’ Isak gestured to the stone circle and stepped inside it, Hulf still at his heel. ‘Come inside. I’ve seen to it the local God won’t object.’
Vorizh cocked his head at the white-eye, intrigued at last. ‘If you want a vampire bound,’ he commented with a trace of contempt, ‘I believe my sister’s tastes run more that way than mine.’
Isak ignored the comment; she’d heard worse from saner men over the millennia. ‘It’s dusk,’ he explained. ‘The shadows are at their longest now, and I’d prefer not to be overheard.’ A spark of magic left his blackened fingers and danced around the circle, leaping from stone to stone until a haze filled the air between each one. ‘Circles can be used for protection as well as binding.’
Vorizh inclined his head and joined Isak inside, and Vesna followed a moment later. As he passed through the barrier Isak had created Vesna felt a frisson of energy run over his skin and a sudden whisper of wind through grass filled his ears until he was on the other side and then there was calm again: a magic-dulled stillness.
‘And now,’ Vorizh said, ‘what service can I render to one who commands Gods and frees daemons?’
In the depths of a thicket a hundred yards from the stone circle, someone watched, a shadow on their shoulder that brushed the figure’s pale skin with spidery claws. ‘What bargain with Vorizh must be kept even from his companions?’ the figure wondered, eyes fixed on the stone circle. ‘After all we’ve seen at his side?’
‘ One the boy would be a fool to trust in, ’ the shadow replied, ‘ but he can feel the end drawing near. I so prefer desperation in my enemies — all the better to let them seize their undoing. ’
The two men faced each other, neither speaking. A space had been cleared in the town square, and soldiers crammed every side-street, watching the silent meeting of two weary but unbowed men. The elder looked small in his armour, the wrinkles on his face more apparent when viewed opposite the scars of the younger man. He was more heavily armoured, his banded pauldrons and solid breastplate bearing a fanged skull device. His younger opponent wore leather armour stiffened by grooved steel rods. They both carried Menin steel half-helms.
A cold wind drove down from the north, stretching out the banners that flew proudly from the town’s tallest buildings, fluttering madly in their reach for freedom, though beyond these walls they would be burned or trampled into the dirt. Here was their last bastion.
‘You come as his envoy?’ General Arek asked at last. All around him, hands tightened on grips as they awaited the reply.
Amber shook his head, slowly, regretfully. ‘I come as a Menin.’
‘You come to join our stand?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’ There was no rancour in the general’s voice, none of the antagonism Amber had expected, no interest nor passion; the man was playing his part. Beyond the fatigue in his eyes, Amber saw relief, and the promise of a longed-for end.
There is no such promise for me.
‘I come to save the lives of these warriors. I come to lead them back across the Elven Waste and return them to their homes,’ Amber declared, loud enough for all to hear.
‘You will lead them against our enemy?’
‘They are no longer the enemy; they are the victors in our war. All that remains is the long march home, to follow in the footsteps of our ancestors.’
Amber could tell from the tense silence that the significance was not lost on anyone there: the Long March had been instigated by the most infamous of Menin lords, the man who had nearly obliterated the Litse tribe before a mysterious change of heart. Amber alone among his people knew the truth of this mystery, but they all knew that Lord Grast, instead of completing his scouring of the Land, had marched his tribe across the Waste to a new home, letting the weakest fall by the wayside until only the strongest survived. The Long March had meant rebirth for the Menin, but it had meant terrible loss too, and it revealed the callousness of rulers.
‘You would play Deverk Grast’s role?’ General Arek asked. ‘I do not think you
strong enough to follow the dark dragon’s lead.’
‘I am no dark dragon, and I make no such claims, but I will do what must be done.’
‘You are of noble birth? What emblem would take the dragon’s place?’
The question caught Amber unawares and he reeled from the bursting stars of pain and loss in his mind. ‘I…’ Amber closed his mouth, the air sucked from his lungs. To answer the question he tugged the gauntlet from one hand and unfastened the vambrace from his left arm. On his forearm was a dark rusty-red tattoo, a bird in flight.
‘A red merlin? You are from the west slopes?’
Amber nodded. ‘But of late I’m accompanied by ravens; the red merlins of my home are just a faint memory.’
The comment deflated the general. ‘I would have preferred a dragon to that dark omen,’ he said, ‘yet you come to us speaking of ravens and a long march. I think you bring us nothing but pain, all for a faint promise of home.’
‘That is all I have.’
‘You would accept King Emin’s offer? You would become a mercenary under his banner?’
‘I would do what I must,’ Amber said. ‘I have nothing else.’
‘I cannot,’ the general replied after a long pause. ‘I cannot ask that of my army.’
‘I know.’ Amber looked around at the assembled faces. Most were hidden behind thick black beards, but he was Menin; he knew the anger contained within each man. ‘We are Menin,’ he started, ‘we are the finest soldiers this Land knows. We have seen much since crossing the waste — the squabbling of the Farlan, the foolish obedience of the Chetse, the resolve of Narkang. We have seen weakness and strength, but what do they see? Battle-thirsty monsters? Warriors who cannot comprehend defeat? The place of a general is to make the choices that must be made. Your men will not like the decision, but they are not Farlan — they will not whine, nor argue and plot in secret. They will know the right of what must be done. A sour taste in the mouth is not enough to sway Menin.’
