by Lucy Hounsom
They had no time to catch their breath. With a clap of leathery wings, another beast catapulted out of the sky. Gareth groped for his sword, but it hadn’t yet been returned to him and his belt was empty. He looked at Brégenne, his eyes widening, and she ducked instinctively as he hurled a fireball at the creature rearing behind her. The force knocked the beast off its course; the great wings beat, carrying it up and away from the novice. Flames wreathed Gareth’s hands, as he summoned more energy, but channelling the Solar was taking its toll. His face was white.
She couldn’t tell how many beasts were attacking their group; blood flecked the ice. Some of the warriors were down, but most still fought in a tight ring. Brégenne strained for the Lunar and, though she felt the tiniest flicker, the Solar still bound her power. Gareth gave a scream of effort and hurled a blazing spear into the sky. His aim was off; the spear merely grazed the creature’s hindquarters and – maddened – it threw itself towards them. The Solar shield he conjured at the last moment was too weak to withstand its charge; it shattered and they were sent flying. Brégenne tumbled across the slick ice, flailing for purchase. Bruised and bleeding, she picked herself up, searching for Gareth. He was on his hands and knees, his chest heaving. The creature stalked him, lizard-head lowered, scenting the blood that dripped from a gash on his brow.
Brégenne gave a cry of rage and, without thinking, she hurled herself between them. Teeth bared, woman and beast faced each other across the ice. Instinct drove her, the will to survive, and, as she lunged for the Lunar, the Solar cage that encased it cracked. Power flooded into her, though not as much as she wanted – the evening was young. She raised her hands, jabbed them at the creature and a hundred silver darts flew from her fingers, embedding themselves in its flesh. The beast’s answering screech was terrible, but it wasn’t enough. Its hide, half scales, half fur, was tough and the darts could not fell it.
Brégenne sent out a wave of force instead, which staggered the creature and then she turned, yanking Gareth to his feet. ‘Back to back!’ she cried, seeing other beasts closing in, their four-clawed feet scoring the ice. The novice was trembling with exhaustion. ‘The sun’s almost gone,’ he gasped. ‘I can’t do much more.’
‘Make for the gates,’ she said, realizing their battle had carried them away from the only safety to be had. Still back to back, she and Gareth began inching their way towards the fortress. The beasts kept pace with them. Gareth burned one and Brégenne froze another, but the Solar fire worked better. They were creatures of the snow, resistant to cold, and they quickly shook off her binding. When two charged at once, one from each side, Brégenne sent out a circular wave of force that caught both and hurled them back. It didn’t harm them, though. Even Gareth’s Solar flames took a long time to burn through the creatures’ hides. Brégenne used more darts and the combination of the two dropped one of the beasts. ‘Again,’ she said and Gareth groaned. His strikes were growing weaker as the sun waned. The window where both powers were active was narrow; soon she’d have to defend them against the creatures alone.
Egil’s warriors charged with a cry, their swords biting into the beasts she and Gareth had weakened. More blood spattered the snow. Brégenne laid about her, using her darts, spears, all the offensive techniques she could remember. Eventually, a high, inhuman scream pierced the melee and the largest of the creatures lifted itself into the air, blood dripping from dozens of wounds. Those beasts still alive followed its lead, their white wings buffeting Brégenne with a strange, sharp scent like resin and seawater. They were near the gates now and Gareth collapsed to his knees in the snow.
The next thing she knew, the warriors surrounded them, bloodied swords pointing at their chests. ‘What are you?’ one man asked, his voice harsh with pain or fear. His left arm hung at an angle, useless at his side.
‘They saved us, you fool,’ the woman in the bear armour said, coming forward. She slapped the man’s sword down.
Slowly the other warriors lowered their weapons too and Brégenne relinquished her hold on the Lunar. ‘What were those things?’ she asked.
‘We call them wyverns,’ the woman said, ‘though no doubt they bear a different name wherever they come from.’
Acre, Brégenne thought to herself. The Rib Wall is gone. They must have come over the ice. One of the beasts lay at her feet. Even peppered with wounds, it was majestic, its snowy hide covering a body like a lion’s. Its open eyes, filmed with death, were ruby and its flat head was a lizard’s, black tongue lolling out between a double row of teeth. She felt almost sorry for it, lying lifeless in the snow, but the bodies of a dozen war riors were being borne across the shoulders of their comrades and she swallowed, realizing that she and Gareth hadn’t helped them all.
Despite the woman’s favourable words, Brégenne and Gareth were kept under guard as they walked through the gates of Stjórna. Brégenne supported the novice, uneasily entertaining the image of a monstrous gullet – the walls here were curved, smoky stone and the gates set into them almost circular. The boom they made as they closed behind did nothing to reassure her.
Another five warriors dragged a wyvern corpse inside and dumped their trophy in the dark vestibule. Brégenne looked up to see another of the creatures held by a dozen spears against the stone. It looked as if it had been there a good month, its white hide hanging slack and eyes shrunken in their huge sockets. A piece of stone adorned the wall beside it, carved with names. Its victims? Brégenne wondered.
They moved into a gloomy entrance hall, which became a corridor further along. A woman was striding down it. One of her hands held a staff, longer than she was tall, decorated with feathers and small bones. To her disgust, Brégenne saw a trio of shrivelled raven heads dangling from a strip of leather tied to the top. The woman was dressed in a combination of furs and leathers cut to resemble robes. Pauldrons lent her outfit a warrior’s air, crafted from the tusks of some unfortunate animal.
‘Take the injured to Gysalt’s Chamber,’ she said when she reached them. ‘Make them as comfortable as you can. I will see to them on the morrow.’
‘Your will, Kul’Das,’ the woman in the bear armour answered, bowing her head. Before she moved off, she turned to Gareth, taking the sword from her belt. ‘You have earned the right to reclaim your blade,’ she said, handing it over. Gareth received it with a weary nod.
‘These two claim guest-right,’ the woman added to Kul’Das. ‘It falls to you to judge them worthy, but without their aid, more would lie dead. They seek audience with Ümvast.’
Kul’Das studied Brégenne and Gareth, her eyes travelling over their battered forms. They were sharp and blue, distinctly out of place amongst all the brown. ‘Stjórna welcomes you,’ she said coldly. ‘You will tell me your names and your reasons for coming here. If I find them satisfactory, I will take you to Ümvast.’
Brégenne didn’t care for her tone, but she kept her own civil. ‘I am Brégenne of Naris,’ she said. ‘My news is for Ümvast alone.’
Kul’Das pursed her lips. ‘And you?’ she said to Gareth.
The novice hesitated. ‘Gareth Hafgald.’
‘Why would a child of the north take a southerner’s name?’ Kul’Das tilted her head on one side to regard him. She wasn’t a tall woman – not much taller than Brégenne, in fact – but her sheer presence more than made up for it.
Gareth shrank under her regard. ‘Ilda-Son,’ he muttered.
One of the warriors swore softly; others simply stared at Gareth.
‘Ilda-Son?’ Brégenne repeated, wondering why the novice would hide his real name. ‘What does it mean?’
‘That’s how we’re called in the north,’ he said shortly. ‘Ilda is my mother’s name. I am her son.’ He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Kul’Das’s expression had turned, if possible, even colder. After a few more moments of scrutiny she said, ‘Ümvast will see you. Come.’ She began striding back down the shadow-draped corridor, as if she owned it.
Escorted by ten warri
ors, they followed Kul’Das through hall after hall, chamber after chamber, until Brégenne was sure they had to have reached the other side of the fortress. Although the grey walls were lined impressively with shields and crossed weapons, she didn’t care for them. Compared to the warm, dark stone of Naris, which felt as if it had a life of its own, this was a soulless place. Dust layered the tapestries they passed, bright scenes lost beneath a thatch of cobwebs.
At last they reached their destination: two hammered-metal doors that depicted a battle scene. Gareth stared at the tableau of swords and axes, caught forever mid-swing above the mutilated bodies of the fallen. At one end of the battlefield was a contingent of warriors – knights, by the look of their plumed helms and plate armour. The butts of their spears were firmly planted in the soil and their banner streamed behind them on the frozen, metal wind. Gareth seemed transfixed by the knights. One stood out in front, his visored face concealed. The figure was tall, his raised, gauntleted fist clenched in triumph. Shallow loops of writing stood proud from the carving and Gareth leaned in closer, trying to make it out.
Kul’Das pushed the doors open and the scene split in two. Gareth recoiled as if burned. The woman shot him a glance and then with a small, abrasive smile, she led the way into the chamber beyond.
Uneven flagstones made up the floor, the central ones worn smooth. Kul’Das struck them with the butt of her staff as she walked and the sound was overly loud in the near-empty space. A mere dozen people, mostly warriors, dotted the vast hall, which could have held a thousand. Draped in furs, a great chair took up the far end, its wide back almost a wall in itself, carved with more battle scenes, though none as riveting as the one sunk into the metal of the doors. Instead of the man Brégenne expected to see, a woman occupied the chair, clad in the same furs and leathers as the warriors escorting them. A mantle adorned her shoulders, sewn with beads, bones and bright bits of glass. When Gareth saw her, he gasped, his face a mixture of shock and dismay.
After an endless voyage across the stone floor, they reached the foot of her throne. Ümvast watched them come, her face utterly emotionless. She wore no helm and her hair was intricately plaited, silver streaks augmenting her air of authority. A scar puckered her cheek, starting at her nose and tapering off towards her left ear.
The ruler’s gaze acknowledged Kul’Das and swept over Brégenne, finally coming to rest coldly on Gareth. The novice met her eyes for the briefest of seconds and then sought solace in the floor.
‘Why, if it isn’t Kul’Gareth,’ Ümvast said, her voice glacial. ‘Though you shame the Kul.’
Gareth swallowed, still studying his boots. ‘Hello, Mother,’ he said.
PART THREE
24
Sartyan Camp, Encar, Acre
Hagdon
He woke from the dream of his sister’s body hanging from the tree.
Hagdon sat up with a yell, groping for his sword, but what good was a blade against a memory? The drop hadn’t killed her and the scarf around her neck wasn’t tight enough to make it quick. Her purpled face told him how much she’d suffered as she twisted alone in her little garden. She’d once sat beneath the very same tree to read to her only son. His death had broken her – the child she’d longed for, the child she’d been denied so many years. Even Hagdon, with all his status, hadn’t been able to protect him from the emperor. An accident, the Davaratch had lazily explained, when the young man’s naked body, wrapped in a sheet, was returned to the family home.
It was his fault, Hagdon knew, for securing Tristan a position in court. Paasa had been so grateful – the tutelage her son would receive under Relator Shune would be second to none. But the Davaratch’s dark eyes had been on the young man, watching, desiring. Hagdon felt sick.
I swear to uphold and defend Sartya, its lands and peoples, from all enemies. It was the vow of service he’d sworn upon joining the Fist as a junior officer. I swear to obey my superiors, to place their requirements above my own. Gusts battered the canvas walls of his tent, like a fist hammering on wood. ‘I swear to serve the Davaratch,’ he whispered aloud, ‘in whose name the empire was founded, and to protect him from all harm.’
When he’d cut his sister’s body down and laid it on the earth, smoothing a few dark hairs away from her cheek, a dreadful chasm had opened in his chest. He was glad that neither of his parents was alive to see her like this. His brother was in the south, hundreds of leagues away, and Hagdon was left alone in their grand house. He’d given it up, taken a room in the barracks with his soldiers, tried to bury himself in duty.
Despite the late hour, he redressed and donned his armour, as if it could defend him from the twisted world in which he continued to serve his nephew’s murderer. There was a last swig of brandy left in the bottle. Hagdon downed it and then flung the empty bottle across the tent with a yell.
It narrowly missed Iresonté, in the process of blazing inside. She spared a glance for the smashed glass before turning her glare on him. ‘You bastard. You did it deliberately. As revenge.’
‘Did what?’ Hagdon said shortly.
‘Let Galla die!’ Her blue eyes were aflame. ‘You sent her against a Starborn.’
‘I didn’t know the girl was Starborn,’ Hagdon replied coldly, ‘and you forget – I lost soldiers of my own that night.’
‘Sir.’ Carn poked his head through the flap of the tent. ‘Is everything well?’
‘Get out,’ Iresonté snarled.
‘Carn is my man. You won’t order him anywhere.’
‘I’ll be outside, General,’ Carn said and disappeared. Hagdon wished he’d stayed.
Iresonté stood there a few moments, her chest heaving before she regained control. ‘I thought to find you abed.’ She nodded at his injured shoulder. ‘The men talk of little else, you know. How their general fell to a Defiant dog.’
‘I heard tell he was one of yours,’ Hagdon said darkly.
‘I regret losing little Tava.’ It sounded as if she regretted nothing of the sort. ‘Good aberrations are hard to come by these days, what with the continuing raids on the prison wagons.’
‘Did you come here merely to irritate, Iresonté? Or was there something you wanted?’
‘Ah, to business, then,’ she said. ‘Jed, Caleb, bring him in.’
Hagdon blinked as two of the stealth force entered his tent, dragging a ragged figure between them. They dropped him at Iresonté’s feet and retreated with a hasty salute. Hagdon studied the prisoner. It was a man, dressed in trailing, grey tatters that left most of his flesh exposed. He was bound hand and foot and blood caked the side of his face.
In one vicious gesture, Iresonté seized his head and jerked it up.
Hagdon started violently. His shoulder gave an angry throb, but he couldn’t dwell on the pain, instead transfixed by the prisoner’s face. It was a horror, surely assembled by a blind man, for none of the features matched. One of his cheeks was wrinkled and his eye, though swollen shut, was sunken with age. But the rest of him was unlined, bits and pieces garnered from every stage of life.
Iresonté wore a smug smile. She had a right to: the man was Khronostian.
‘How did you find him?’ Hagdon breathed, quite unable to tear his eyes from the barely conscious prisoner.
‘You know I travelled south,’ she answered, ‘following a lead I had from the Beaches.’ She glanced at the Khronostian. ‘We found another of them dead, but this one …’ Her smile widened. ‘He hadn’t managed to crawl far. Someone did a good job of roughing him up. When I found him, he could barely lift his head.’ She released her hold and the man dropped to lie prone on the floor. ‘I’d give a lot to know who felled a couple of dualakat.’
‘I hope he’s not too far gone to talk,’ Hagdon said, gazing down at the man at his feet.
‘Oh, he talked.’
Hagdon’s head snapped up. ‘You interrogated him without informing me.’
‘Interrogation of prisoners is my province, Hagdon.’
‘Not when th
at prisoner’s Khronostian.’ Hagdon glowered. ‘You had a duty to bring him to me.’
‘You’re in no position to reprimand me, General. I’ve achieved what you, in years, have not. His Majesty is pleased.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And grateful.’
Hagdon strove to hide his unease. ‘You’ve heard from him?’
‘Why, yes,’ Iresonté said. ‘A raven brought a message today. The prisoner has supplied us with an excellent means of leverage.’
‘The Kala will … destroy you.’
They both looked down. The Khronostian coughed; blood flecked the thick mats spread over the tent’s floor. ‘He will bring ending. He will bring … beginning.’
‘We got a lot of that,’ Iresonté said easily. ‘But reading between the drivel, the Khronostians are seeking a person they call “Kala”. They’re obsessed with this man, seem to think he’s akin to some reincarnated god.’
‘Khronos –’ the prisoner choked, his every breath a wheeze now – ‘has returned. The sun … sets … on your empire.’ He gave a long sigh and his head lolled to one side.
‘So much for your pet Khronostian,’ Hagdon remarked.
Iresonté nudged him with her armoured toe. ‘It’s no matter. I got what I needed. A description of the Kala – he’ll be hard to miss – and the next location of Khronosta itself.’
‘Congratulations,’ Hagdon said sourly. ‘So what are His Majesty’s orders?’
‘Why don’t you come and see?’
Hagdon frowned as she turned and left the tent. He strapped on his weapons, picked up his helm and followed her.
Something lay sprawled just outside. Hagdon tripped over it and, cursing, he looked down. He’d trodden on a pale hand, lying limp and bloody on the earth. Eyes widening, he followed it up an arm to a shoulder – a shoulder that bore his colours. His family’s colours. A cry built in the back of his throat. ‘Gods,’ he gasped, crouching to turn the body. ‘Carn, no.’
