The Dusk Watchman ttr-5

by Tom Lloyd

  It wasn’t far, but it took Carel a long time to reach the town, lost as he was in his memories. He found himself resting on the swordstick he used to support himself more often these days. He only caught himself at the river, when the click of the stick’s metal tip on the bridge woke him from his thoughts. Carel stared at the stick, struck by a sudden urge to throw it into the river.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ a woman called.

  Carel turned and peered through the low light at the speaker. ‘Ardela?’

  ‘If you’re going to pitch yourself off, best find somewhere higher,’ the former Hand of Fate advised, stepping lightly over to him. She was dressed in men’s clothing as usual, but judging by her battered brigandine and black breeches worn over high boots, this time she’d looted the tent of some Brotherhood man. Short, unruly curls of dark black hair poked out from beneath an ancient wide-brimmed hat that Carel guessed would make the king laugh.

  He looked down at the river, some twelve feet down below. ‘You could be right, but I was more thinking of takin’ my life back from this damn thing.’

  ‘Your swordstick?’

  ‘I keep finding myself putting my weight on it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s turning me into an old man.’

  ‘That ain’t the stick, old man — anyways, not as if you’re one o’ those wrecks shuffling around with their white collar stained so bad by wine, folk won’t believe they were ever in the Ghosts.’

  Carel straightened up automatically. He was certainly more grey-haired than in his army days, but it had been the loss of his arm that ended his fighting career, not his age. ‘I’m not so old as that.’

  ‘True,’ Ardela conceded, ‘but any fool can see the weight on your shoulders, so maybe the stick’s not so bad an idea.’

  ‘Since when did you find such wisdom? Come with the tattoos, did it?’

  Ardela automatically looked down at the circles on her palms. They were recently done, and the slow way, as she’d not been present after the battle. ‘I think that’s experience, not wisdom. There are times I’ve needed a stick too.’

  Carel looked the muscular young woman up and down. ‘Somehow I find that hard to picture.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’d have said the same about Legana. First time I met her I thought she was just some mad blind woman out in the forest — a long way from the Hand of Fate I’d heard was the best of us,’ Ardela said with fierce pride. ‘She walks with a stick now; that’s not so much a ruse as the blindfold she uses to shade her eyes, but it doesn’t mean she’s so weak as all that. Any man here’ll come off worst against her, I promise you that.’

  ‘I’ll not be the one to test her,’ he said, forcing a smile, ‘but I like the thought o’ not being entirely useless. So how does it feel, to walk as silently as the Grave Thief?’

  ‘No different yet, not till Legana’s back. The magic to link us comes from her; these tattoos are mostly to make the job easier for her; at least that’s what Nai says. Doing it all from scratch, she’d need Mihn there every time and that ain’t so practical for a sisterhood. With the tattoos done and a brand ready, the God part of her can put in the magic easy enough.’

  ‘Brand?’

  Ardela grinned, reminding Carel more than a little of Isak. White-eyes didn’t enjoy pain, he knew that, but the prospect was enough to animate the savage fighter within them and Ardela looked no different there.

  ‘Aye, that “heart” rune they all got on their chests — came from Lord Isak, I’m told, but it’s the pain of the tattoos and the branding that opens the path for the magic. Don’t understand it much myself, but given some of the shit I’ve seen mages do it makes sense.’

  Carel hesitated. ‘So it’s a link to Isak too? To Mihn, to Legana, to Xeliath too, if she’d still been alive?’

  ‘Guess so, why?’

  ‘Come on.’ And without bothering to explain, Carel set off to the small compound on the eastern edge of the original town, the large stone house and a pair of barns which had been appropriated by those priestesses and Hands of Fate who’d answered Legana’s call in search of a new purpose. The original owner had died in the Menin advance; King Emin had been glad to offer his new allies the space to make their own. Carel guessed it housed a hundred or more of the sisterhood, a good dozen of whom had been priestesses of the Lady.

  The compound was surrounded by a wicker fence the height of a man, and armed women stood on guard at each of the gates. The guard stepped in front of Carel well before he reached it, her spear lowered enough to force him to stop or be impaled upon it. The Farlan veteran didn’t break stride but struck with surprising speed, battering the spear aside with his stick, then stepping inside her guard, he turned into her blow as she struck at him with the butt of the spear, getting too close for there to be any real force in it.

  ‘Stay your weapon!’ Ardela called from behind him. ‘He’s with me.’

  The guard scowled at Carel, her face only inches from his, before growling, ‘Doesn’t mean he’ll be welcome, heretic.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, bitch,’ Ardela snapped back. ‘Now step aside or I’ll put you down.’

  ‘What do you want, heretic’s friend?’ the guard said, flushing with anger, but directing her antagonism at Carel. She knew full-well Ardela was one of their best killers.

  ‘You to get out my way,’ Carel said quietly. ‘I ain’t going to ask again.’

  The guard blinked and found the handle of his swordstick pressed against her throat. The rounded pommel was solid brass and he could see she knew how little effort it would take to crush her windpipe, one-armed or not.

  Carel eased himself to one side, allowing the guard to do the same and edge out of his way so he could slip through. He wasn’t surprised when Ardela stayed outside while he continued on.

  The enclosed area was a hive of activity. The doors of the nearer of the barns were wide open, and Carel could see the small forge inside. Before it were several tables where all sorts of work was being done, but none that interested him. He ploughed on to the other side where he could see a gate leading to the stone-walled courtyard of the main house, and his gamble paid off: the priestesses were taking advantage of the daylight.

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ the nearest woman spluttered in outrage. Judging by the wrinkles on her face, Carel guessed she was older than he was, despite the bright copper hair tied back in a plait.

  ‘Your new recruit,’ he declared, stepping past her. One young woman was stripped to the waist, with just a scarf wrapped crossways over her breasts to cover them. Three copper-haired priestesses were gathered around her, tattoo needles poised. He nodded companionably at the young woman and found himself a stool opposite her, shrugging off his coat as he sat.

  ‘And to think Cedei told me I’d not get so much as an eyeful round here,’ he commented as he fumbled one-handed with the toggles on his doublet.

  ‘What in the name of the Dark Place do you think you’re doing?’ hissed the oldest of the priestesses, brandishing a long bone needle tipped with black ink.

  ‘I want you to tattoo me; I need it done before your Mortal-Aspect arrives.’

  ‘You’re not one of us — why?’

  Carel winced as he tugged his doublet over his maimed arm. The stump underneath looked pale and withered in the dull light of day. It had been a clean cut, made by Eolis when Isak realised the arm couldn’t be saved, but still the swirls of scarring from where he’d cauterised the wound looked horrific to Carel.

  ‘I’ve got my reasons.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ the priestess snapped. ‘I’m not wasting hours of work on some ancient veteran just because he wants to rejoin the Ghosts.’

  ‘Do it,’ Ardela called from the open gate. The priestesses turned in surprise, more than one tensing at the sight of her. ‘You can’t deny Carel — he’s more right to this mark than any of us.’

  The priestess shook her head firmly. ‘Our sisters are the only ones who have a right to it. He is
no one.’

  ‘He’s more than you know. The tattoos belong to Mihn and the witch who made them; the Ghosts and our sisterhood are only borrowing that power. Mihn did it out of devotion to his lord, and Carel’s got more claim to that than we do.’

  ‘Then he can wait for Legana to return — if she sees the right of it, she will decide.’

  Ardela moved in and shut the courtyard door behind her. One hand rested casually on the hilt of her plundered Harlequin sword. ‘Man’s clearly got a reason for wanting it now. I’ve spent enough time around those at the forefront of this war to recognise that look in his eye. It’s a reason that goes to the bone.’

  ‘I do,’ Carel said, a quaver entering his voice as King Emin’s words echoed in his mind, ‘one that’s my own. Your Mortal-Aspect don’t think that’s a good reason, she can take the damn tattoos back.’

  The priestess’s expression became pointed. ‘She might yet do that — the spirit of our Goddess flows through our sister’s veins. Neither cares much for the pain of the undeserving.’

  ‘She can take ’em back with a rusty knife,’ Carel growled, sitting forward to look the priestess straight in the eye, ‘my oath on it, if she don’t think I’m worthy.’

  The priestess sighed and glanced at the young woman whose tattoos were unfinished. The woman nodded and reached for her shirt.

  ‘As you wish. Carel, is it? Well Carel, let’s start with your hands. I’m going nowhere near the soles of your feet till you’ve washed.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Carel edged forward, his steps uncertain, the tip of his sword pointed at the Kingsguard’s face. The scuff of his boots on the ground and the chink of chainmail were the only sounds he made. The soldier watched his approach from behind a large round shield and waited for an opportunity; his sword he kept close to his body, half-hidden behind the shield. Only his eyes moved, glancing constantly between Carel’s sword-tip and his shuffling feet.

  The veteran feinted but was ignored except for a twitch of the shield, then his opponent suddenly moved, trying to swat Carel’s sword away with his own. The former Ghost only just managed to avoid it; once he would have caught the blade and ridden any buffeting, but he had no shield of his own, and that affected the way he now fought. He took a step closer, crowding his opponent and trying to batter down on his arm.

  The man responded by turning behind his shield again and driving forward. Carel was forced backwards, his sword-arm caught by the shield, and he heard the ominous scrape of steel over mail across his belly.

  ‘You’re dead, old man,’ laughed a soldier on the sidelines. ‘Thought you Ghosts were meant to have some skills?’

  Carel stepped back, scowling. ‘Been a while since I used one o’ these.’

  ‘Stop trying to fence with it, then!’ called a voice from somewhere behind him. ‘Fast way to get dead that looks.’

  The Kingsguard soldiers all tensed and several had started reaching for their weapons before they caught themselves.

  ‘Easy boys,’ Carel said, ‘man’s an ally now, remember?’

  General Amber was standing behind the dozen young Narkang warriors, all of them in full armour, their faces flushed from sparring. He didn’t bother to confirm Carel’s words; the look on his face was stony and he was also dressed for war. ‘Take your hands off your weapons, boys,’ he said at last, ‘less you don’t fancy reaching manhood.’

  The Menin looked to his left, in case the Kingsguard hadn’t noticed the bodyguards who followed him everywhere. They carried long axes, using them as unwieldy walking sticks so they were constantly to hand.

  ‘How’s about everyone here remembers their orders?’ Carel demanded loudly, then turned to the big Menin. ‘Amber, what’re you doing here? Thought you were marching out today.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Until I saw your efforts just then, anyway. You keen on getting yourself killed, old man?’

  ‘Just rusty is all.’

  ‘Prancing around with a swordstick will do that for a soldier,’ Amber agreed. He held out his hand and Carel, after barely hesitating, handed over his sword. It was a one-handed weapon, naturally, with a thin double-edged blade that tapered to a long point.

  ‘It’s light,’ Amber commented, ‘but you’re not going to put out anyone’s eye with it.’ He gave Carel an assessing look, stepped to his left side and prodded him in the ribs then shoulder. He shook his head. ‘Just mail? Most soldiers won’t bother slashing at you, especially if you’re as close as you just were. Get some steel bands to cover your ribs — you’re open to sticking there.’

  Carel’s eyes went to Amber’s twin scimitars. The general had a long reach with them, but it was a curiously elegant style of fighting that belied the man’s size and strength. They were heavy, slashing weapons and few had the skill to thrust with such swords. ‘You would.’

  ‘But most likely I’m not who you’ll be facing: I need to stand back and cut faster than my enemy lunges, and so do you.’ He waved a finger in the vague direction of the Kingsguard Carel had been sparring with. ‘Ask any of them: they’d try to close and pin you, then jam something in your ribs just as you got there.’

  ‘So I need a scimitar? Maybe if I had my old one, but that’s best in General Lahk’s hands. I’m too old to learn with a full-weight sword.’

  ‘You’re too old to learn,’ he agreed, ‘so stick to what you know — and don’t move like you’re fencing. You’ve not got the speed to lunge any more, so don’t bother; stand off and use your experience.’ He turned to Carel’s sparring partner. ‘You, advance on me like before.’

  At a nod from Carel the man did so, again coming low behind his shield. In one smooth movement Amber drew a scimitar and stood ready, left arm tucked behind his back to mimic Carel’s lost limb. He stood more square-on than Carel had, and he moved his sword moving constantly, all the while watching his opponent advance. Carel felt his hand tighten around the grip of his own sword as the two came within striking distance, then smiled as Amber took a pace back and out of range.

  The Kingsguard hesitated a moment, then hurried to make up the ground again, but in that moment Amber moved right and slashed high, right to left. On instinct the Kingsguard pushed his shield forward to block the blow, but Amber tilted his body and let the blade skip lightly off the shield before flicking it back around and underneath to touch against the arm. By the time the soldier’s own sword had come up to strike, Amber was further around and the soldier’s blow barely reached the Menin’s pauldron while Amber went for a second strike to the back of the man’s neck.

  The scimitar hovered six inches from a lethal blow and the soldier froze. Even as Amber stepped neatly away, the man’s face showed he was imagining the blow falling on a part only knights could afford to protect properly.

  ‘Steal a knight’s pauldron; pad and protect that shoulder,’ Amber said as he sheathed his weapon. ‘You cut from range, then they’ll do the same. You will take blows, but most’ll be looking to bring the fight to you. If they do get in close, surprise them and meet it — put your weight on the shield and thrust over.’

  Carel nodded and sheathed his weapon.

  His movement reminded his Kingsguard opponent that his was still drawn, and he lowered his weapon.

  ‘You got time to spar?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Amber said, ‘we’re marching out today. The army’s just waiting for me to return. I want to get a good distance under my belt before evening.’

  ‘So why’re you here?’

  Amber opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. Carel recognised the flicker of pain in his eyes from several evenings of hard drinking together. It was easy for Amber’s mind to slip to subjects that physically pained him; Nai used his name regularly to reinforce the man’s defences against it, but there was no healing the wound completely.

  At a look from Carel the Kingsguard backed off to give them privacy; Amber’s bodyguards did the same once the Kingsguard had moved away from their commander.

  That�
��s a sad sign right there: I’m just an old cripple in their eyes, no threat to anyone.

  ‘Lord Isak will return here soon,’ Amber began hesitantly. ‘I’ll be gone by then, but we will meet — before we reach Byora. I do not know-’ He stopped.

  ‘How you’ll act?’ Carel prompted at last, looking at him. The Menin’s face was an open book now, his thoughts writ clear.

  Amber ducked his head as though Carel had swung at it. ‘How I’ll act, yes. He — he broke my mind. He tore out a part of me.’

  ‘None of us are whole, friend,’ Carel said softly. To emphasise his point the veteran raised his good arm and the stump of his left. ‘That’s what war does to us. That’s what we do to each other.’

  ‘For a time, all that kept me alive was the hatred I felt. Nai gave me a-’ He cast around for the right word in Farlan. His command of the dialect was impressive, reinforced by magery, no doubt, but Carel could see his thoughts were still a jumble. ‘The necromancer gave me point of reference,’ he went on, ‘but it was either pain or hatred. I chose the one that would keep me alive.’

  ‘I understand.’ Now it was Carel’s turn to feel the hurt of memories, but his were as much shame as grief. ‘I blamed a friend for Isak’s death. The boy was a white-eye, for pity’s sake — he was supposed to outlive the grandchildren of anyone I knew, not die before an old wreck like me. I couldn’t deal with the loss, I realise that now, so I heaped it on another. I’m just glad Vesna was strong enough to survive it — though he wouldn’t even return the favour when he lost his betrothed, just took it all on his own shoulders.’

  ‘Vesna? The Mortal-Aspect?’

  Carel nodded sadly. ‘Cruel blessing, that, I think. He’s the sort to take on the burdens of the whole Land, thinking it’s his duty, but the Gods’ strength can’t do much for a man’s soul. He’ll feel it all in a way no God was supposed to.’

  ‘That’s what we do to each other,’ Amber echoed with a haunted expression. ‘I can’t be sure what I will do when I meet your lord. I can’t be sure how strong the hatred is — so I ask you to be there when it happens. We are… we have come to understand each other, I think. Seeing you beside him may keep my mind clear.’