The Dusk Watchman ttr-5

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘No, look! They’re not Devoted banners,’ shouted another, the golden eagle of a Swordmaster emblazoned on his armour. He forced his way to Vesna’s side. ‘They’re fucking Farlan!’

  Vesna pulled himself to his feet again and scanned the battle-field. Farlan? How-?

  ‘It appears your people prefer to fight only at the very death,’ Amber grunted, his face twisted in pain. ‘May it prove as decisive as Moorview.’

  Vesna had been straining to see who it was arriving at this late point. Suddenly animated, he shouted, ‘Look at all the colours! Look at them — they’re nobility — it’s Lord Fernal! It’s our fucking heavy cavalry!’

  CHAPTER 44

  ‘Sound the advance,’ Lord Fernal shouted in his deep, growling voice, ‘make all the noise you can: get them to turn our way!’

  The buglers sounded their high repeating notes that cut through the air, the sounding order swiftly echoed by the hunting horns carried by many; after repeating the order again and again, they fell to just blaring loud and long, until the Devoted cavalry encircling Suzerain Torl’s troops broke off their attack and milled about the foot of the rise in a disordered, chaotic mass.

  Their commanders desperately tried to regain some control, but the Devoted began to retreat, unwilling to stay in this confined spot to face heavy cavalry.

  ‘Now get out of the way, Torl,’ Duke Lomin muttered from behind his face-plate, a berserker’s raging face heavily engraved with runes of Karkarn and Kao, the berserker Aspect. ‘Give us a run.’

  ‘He will,’ Suzerain Fordan predicted, checking his warhammer was secure on his saddle. ‘Torl shamed us all by marching when we would not — he’ll see what we must do.’

  Lord Fernal turned to look at a black-armoured figure on his right, the only other non-Farlan among them, but behind that black-whorled decoration he could see nothing. If the other outsider felt the same bemusement at the Farlan nobility, he made no sign; he merely adjusted the white tabard bearing Fernal’s crest he was wearing over his armour.

  ‘He sees,’ the black armoured knight said as the Dark Monks broke away.

  The Farlan nobles continued forward at a steady pace, their anticipation almost palpable as the rearmost of Ruhen’s Children came into view.

  They quickly closed the gap and were starting to ready themselves for the charge when two shapes dropped from the sky, landing with heavy thumps. It felt to Fernal like the wind had been punched from his men. The horses shied away from the monsters, while the men themselves faltered in the face of the figure riding the lead monster. Three figures hovered above the wyverns, their wings outstretched: Lord Gesh and two other Litse white-eyes. Gesh brandished a golden bow that glittered with magical light.

  The Litse lord’s shot arched elegantly towards them, and three thousand men, nobles, hurscals and sworn swords alike, watched it fall inexorably — until, without warning, the air shimmered into surging eddies, twisting the arrow abruptly and sending it soaring up into the sky again. This time as it fell back down, its energy was spent and it clattered harmlessly against some distant nobleman’s armour.

  Vorizh Vukotic urged his wyvern forward, the beast walking awkwardly with its wings half-unfurled for balance. Behind him were several score of Ruhen’s Children, peering in confusion at the wyverns, who hissed and roared their defiance at the advancing Farlan troops. Unafraid — or enchanted by their master — the monsters stood their ground as the Litse white-eyes circled above them, each readying his curved spear to slash at the knights below.

  ‘Ready to charge,’ Fernal commanded, ‘on my signal!’

  Forty yards from the wyverns, the black-armoured knight spurred his horse forward. Vorizh’s laughter echoed across the battlefield as he drew Eolis with a blazing flourish, but the knight did not falter; instead, he forced his horse into a breakneck charge, couching his lance as he closed. Twenty yards, ten, five — the lance-head snapped down just as the wyvern dodged around it, moving far quicker than any normal creature could.

  The lance wavered as the wyvern slipped to the knight’s right — but it was enough. The steel head drove into the side of the wyvern’s neck, and the crisp crunch was audible over the thunder of thousands of hooves hammering the ground. The wyvern staggered under the impact as the shaft of the lance shattered, but even as Vorizh slashed at the knight, he drew his own sword and deflected the blow up and past.

  The wyvern’s flailing wings caught the knight’s horse and it lurched sideways, battered off-balance by the heavy blow, but the knight slipped nimbly from its back.

  Vorizh too jumped from his stricken beast as the wyvern vomited blood onto the churned-up ground below, but he faltered when the knight pulled the tabard from his chest. ‘Koezh!’ Vorizh shouted, ‘noble brother! Come to teach me the error of my ways?’

  Koezh didn’t respond as he raced towards his younger brother, the air burning around him. Vorizh flicked Eolis round to meet him, but Koezh’s own weapon was already moving and the silver sword clashed against the black in a blaze of light, once, twice Koezh pressed forward, and Fernal felt a jolt inside him as he watched the vampire move with shocking speed and a grace the Demi-God had never before witnessed. The black sword tore through a haze of magic as Vorizh filled the air with fire to buy himself some space, his desperate defence turning Eolis into a blur of silver, but Koezh was always ahead of him, bewildering his brother as he worked his way into position. And then it was over: Koezh slashed upwards as Vorizh, dodging the previous strike, inadvertently moved into the way. His armour split with a crack and Koezh danced forward and smashed his shoulder into Vorizh’s chest, unbalancing him, and in the next instant, chopped hard into his brother’s neck.

  Vorizh was driven to his knees by the force of the blow and Eolis spilled from his limp fingers. Koezh caught the hilt of the sword on the tip of his own and deftly flicked it up so he could pluck it from the air.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered as he withdrew his sword.

  Vorizh fell backwards, mist rising up from the ground to meet him.

  Koezh glanced back, and saw the advancing line was almost upon him. Above them were the other wyvern and the winged white-eyes, who had retreated into the sky, stunned by Vorizh’s death. He ran to his horse, and after a quick check to ensure the wyvern had not badly injured it, he mounted up.

  Lord Fernal called the charge and the cavalry leaped forward, lances slowly descending as they closed on Ruhen’s Children.

  Koezh was out of position so he didn’t wait for them; instead, he urged his horse towards the nearest of the white daemons racing forward. His swords were a strange pair, though both were made by the same Elf; Bariaeth was an ugly black blade forged in Aryn Bwr’s grief and hate; silver Eolis was the last king’s finest creation. For all the daemons’ speed and fanatic fury, Koezh was faster, and heads tumbled in quick succession as the mismatched swords killed with equal ease. Then the Farlan were behind him, and Koezh cast an arc of light ahead of him to drive a path into the enemy.

  Behind him Fernal roared with bestial bloodlust as he readied his own warhammer. As the first of the white monsters ran to meet him, Fernal tightened his grip on the reins and turned his charger to meet them head-on. First one, then a second, and a third, crashed into the steel-ridged barding covering the enormous horse’s chest and were smashed from its path, falling under the hooves of those around it.

  More and more of Ruhen’s Children fell beneath them. Fernal swung his massive hammer and a head disintegrated under the blow. Beside him Suzerain Fordan’s voice was raised in strange delight, his laughter cutting through the screams and sounds of butchery.

  As Fernal cracked skulls and shattered bones the deep, distant crack of thunder came rolling down from the sky. He heard a blessing in that thunder, a benediction from his uncaring father. He growled and struck again. The God of Storms had no place here; the company of these frail and fearless men was all the blessing he needed. Horses tripped and riders fell to the ground to be trampled by t
heir own, or set upon by Ruhen’s howling monsters. As his horse slowed to a halt, unable to get through the press of flesh, Fernal felt the claws grasp at his legs, but the storm was now surging through his veins. He swung his warhammer tirelessly as the Farlan fought on with equal fury; as the black-armoured vampire cut a swathe of scarlet death; as the thunder continued to boom up above and lightning split the sky. Some part of him, some divine flicker in his blood, told him the end had almost come. A shiver ran down his spine as he realised the entire Upper Circle of the Gods were close by, drawn forth by the power Ruhen commanded.

  Still he fought and still he killed. Until the last of Ruhen’s followers was dead, nothing else in the Land could matter to him.

  Isak raised his head as the shadows unfolded all around him. Ruhen knelt at the centre of the circle, his small fingers around the crystal sword’s grip. Aenaris pulsed with power, casting its white light over the stones and revealing the indistinct figures in front of each one. Isak could taste the magic that filled the air; he knew the Gods attended.

  Behind him he sensed Lord Death, summoned by the vast power as both Aenaris and Termin Mystt responded to Ruhen’s call. He tried to fight it again, to break the flow, but he was not strong enough. He could not even free himself from the silver chain that bound him, or command the weapon stuck fast in his own hand. Termin Mystt was a burning brand against his chest, the chain itself was eating at his skin.

  He could only watch as the Gods themselves, so weak they could not fully manifest, bowed their heads to Ruhen. A wisp of light was dragged out of the blue shadow of Nartis, then Kitar and Karkarn, and in moments each thread was wrapped around the blazing blade of Aenaris as the Gods submitted to a power they could no longer match.

  Venn stood before the one unclaimed stone, an empty space where Ilit had been killed. Then the shadows squirmed, and a shape appeared there too. Grey matted hair and dead eyes, a tarnished crown and cruel triumph on her face: the Wither Queen manifested and knelt and her soul leaped forward to join the others. The Goddess of Disease gladly claimed Ilit’s place in the Upper Circle of the Pantheon of the Gods.

  Once there were twelve bound to him, Ruhen smiled in the stark light of Aenaris. With his free hand, he pulled a small bottle from his tunic, thumbed off the stopper and downed the contents in one. He tossed the empty bottle into the flames surrounding them.

  Before the poison could take effect, Isak heard shouts from beyond the circle, cries of warning, followed swiftly by the clash of steel. Ruhen looked up, but his smile remained in place, his plans complete. Isak tried to stand, but Tiniq struck him again, leaving the white-eye as bowed as the insubstantial God in his lee. Through the stars bursting before his eyes Isak saw men and women charging towards the bridge across the flames, but there were Harlequins and Acolytes ready to meet them.

  Distantly he made out Daken’s shouts above the clamour and he twisted his head to see the blurry man of the Brotherhood exchanging blows with an equally blurred Harlequin. One of the Sisters of Dusk was at his side, thrusting her spear at the white-masked warrior, but the Harlequin somehow defended itself against both attackers, its slender blades striking like snakes and catching the Brother in the shoulder, sending him reeling.

  Isak looked back at Ruhen and saw the shadows under his skin turning uneasily in Aenaris’ light. The boy was pale; his skin was almost translucent, like a plague victim’s, and his smile was faltering as the poison began to take effect. Isak felt panic set in. The Gods had submitted; the sacrifice had been made on the slopes above them. Now Ruhen had only to die, to free Azaer of his mortal vessel, and a new God would be ascend to stand above them all. The Harlequins and Acolytes were outnumbered, but they were supremely skilled. Emin wouldn’t be able to break through in time.

  He strained yet again at the chain, but his efforts succeeded only in causing a black burst of agony as Termin Mystt grated against his collarbone. The fire licking at his mind intensified and he felt it burning a path through his soul. Isak screamed again, unable to bear the forces raging unchecked through his body.

  ‘Azaer!’ roared a voice from beyond the circle of flame.

  Isak tried to focus through the pain, but his vision blurred as every scar on his body came alive with old hurts. The attackers surrounded the circle now, though not even a Harlequin would attempt to jump these flames. Distantly he could make out Doranei as the black broadsword carved through an Acolyte’s sword and body.

  ‘Isak!’ shouted someone else, ‘Isak, get up!’

  Now he could see Carel, sword and face both bloodied, roaring like a drill sergeant. A Harlequin turned to strike him down, but King Emin was at his side, shouting at Azaer, his face illuminated by red sparks bursting from the edge of his axe. Doranei turned and struck the Harlequin, claiming another life as Emin continued to shout for the dying boy’s attention.

  Slowly Ruhen turned Emin’s way, his movements dulled by the poison, but Isak could see the shadow recognised his old enemy. As soon as the boy had turned his way Emin pulled something from his belt and held it up. Isak felt a faint note of recognition as the light caught it: a cracked glass shard with a dark strand within.

  Doranei grabbed the king’s hand and before any of the defenders could take advantage, they dropped the shard onto the rocky ground. Black wings burst around them, sweeping from nowhere to envelop the pair in a flurry of movement before melting away an instant later.

  Ilumene was already moving to Ruhen’s side as the wings reappeared on the near side of the flames, between the standing stones of Nartis and Tsatach. The Gods, still bowed in obeisance, showed no sign of noticing, but as the wings vanished and the two men staggered back, Ilumene lunged forward. The king parried with a drunken swipe as he fell back against Nartis’ stone.

  Isak felt another jolt inside him as Doranei left the king’s side and threw himself at Koteer. Emin slipped around the stone just in time to let Ilumene’s sword raise sparks where his head had been, then responded with a flurry of blows with sword and axe. His former protege laughed as he battered them away, but Ilumene kept his distance now, using the longer reach of his bastard sword to keep Emin away from the kneeling Ruhen.

  On the far side of the circle Doranei was hacking madly at Koteer. The power of his sword more than made up for his opponent’s size and strength, but as Koteer gave ground, his eyes flicked to the figure beside Ilit’s stone, and Venn, unnoticed, drew his own sword as Doranei turned his back to him.

  Isak tried to shout a warning, but Tiniq smashed the pommel of his sword down onto his head and he found himself on his hands and knees, once again barely able to see. He blinked hard, trying to focus: Doranei was a blur of furious movement ahead of him, and Venn was stepping forward, his own sword ready.

  Through the darkness came another blaze of light and he saw Venn falter as fingers closed on his shoulder. He turned in surprise to see the Wither Queen holding him. Her eyes blazed blue, then faded and turned to emerald and as Isak watched the Black Harlequin shook her off and slashed at her face — but from nowhere she brought up a long-knife and caught the blow.

  Then the Wither Queen reached out and took Venn by the throat, green sparks dancing across her fingers. Venn shrieked and wrenched himself around to try and escape her grip, but all he succeeded in doing was dragging the Goddess with him, her ragged cape billowing in an unnatural wind.

  Then the rags and tarnished crown melted away into the darkness and suddenly it was Legana standing there instead. Venn tried again to run her through, but the Mortal-Aspect, moving with incredible speed, slapped his sword away. Her face became cold and focused and she closed her grip, her thumb driving into his throat, crushing his windpipe. Venn staggered back, his ruined hand pawing weakly at his neck, but Legana didn’t wait for him fall; with one blindingly quick stroke she slashed his broken neck open and watched the blood gush out.

  As Ilumene glanced up and saw his comrade fall he barely avoided an eviscerating stroke from the king. The big man snarled and
threw himself forward, hammering down on the king’s axe-shaft and smashing it from his grip. Emin tried to thrust his sword forward, but Ilumene barged into him and the two men became pinned together, their swords trapped between them.

  Ilumene drove Emin backwards until he was standing against a standing stone. ‘You’re too late!’ the former King’s Man crowed. ‘There’s nothing you can do to stop Ruhen, and my soul’s a part of him.’

  The king grunted under the pressure, but instead of reply he slipped his free hand down to his belt and dragged a dagger from it. Ilumene lifted him bodily so his head was pressed back against the flames in the stone’s alcove and the king cried out in pain, even as he jammed the dagger into Ilumene’s ribs. The big man gasped and released the king, but as he fell back, a bright ruby light burst into being from under his armour and with a shout Ilumene headbutted the king. He released his sword, then pulled out his own dagger as he bashed Emin’s head into the stone.

  ‘Surprise!’ he shouted, slashing his dagger across the king’s cheek. ‘I always was one trick ahead of you — you never could keep up, old man,’ and he punched Emin until the king reeled under the onslaught and fell back against the menhir.

  Ilumene snarled with satisfaction, but the king beat Ilumene back a step, then he hurled himself to the ground and grabbed his discarded axe. He hooked Ilumene’s leg, driving the spike into his calf, even as a second burst of light from Ilumene’s bloodrose amulet absorbed the pain of his wound and the bigger man stabbed down into his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t need to,’ Emin croaked, dragging the axe towards him and pulling Ilumene’s leg with it.

  The big fighter twisted as he fell and drove his knees into Emin, then he tried to fight his way backwards, but he floundered; his leg was caught under Emin and the king was hanging on with every last scrap of strength.