by R. S. Ford
‘Then we fight for you?’ Silver asked, the blade she held not moving an inch.
‘Of course.’ Kraden opened his arms out wide as though about to embrace them all. ‘You have the word of the Fist on that. And your arrival is most fortuitous. The gate to Kessel will fall tonight. The Brotherhood will be slaughtered where they stand and the citadel will be ours.’
Silver slowly lowered her sword. Josten wasn’t sure whether trusting the warlord at his word was the right idea, but they had no choice. They were waist-deep in shit now, and nothing was going to get them out but to keep wading through it.
‘We need armour,’ said Josten, unwilling to leap into the breach dressed in rags. Then he looked at his rusted blade. ‘And weapons.’
‘Yours,’ said Kraden. ‘I have enough to spare – my dead are piled high. But before you go, I must know one thing…’
‘What’s that?’ Josten asked.
‘Why would you join with us? Do you hate the Qeltine so much that you would give your lives?’
No one seemed willing to speak.
‘A long story,’ Josten replied, to break the silence. ‘Do you care as long as we kill your enemies?’
Kraden needed no time to consider his answer. ‘Of course not! Kill my enemies and you will be hailed as heroes among the Legion of Wraak.’
‘Then kill them we will,’ Josten said, trying his best to sound as though he was born to it. Right now he didn’t feel born to much at all. He was tired and he stank and more than likely he was going to die attacking some fortress in the middle of the desert, but he did his best to hide all that.
Kraden looked the bedraggled trio up and down. ‘Come, I will see you are dressed more fittingly for battle.’
Josten couldn’t help but think they’d be dressed more fittingly for their funerals as Kraden led the three of them from the tent. If the men Silver had killed meant anything to the armoured giant he didn’t show it, leaving them behind in pools of their own blood.
They were led to an armoury of sorts – a huge hide tent housing a pile of arms and armour most likely stripped from the dead. At any moment Josten expected Kraden’s warriors to come rushing from the darkness, but it seemed the Fist was indeed a man of his word.
‘Dorcus!’ the warlord yelled as soon as they entered the tent. From the shadows limped an old warrior, wispy grey hair hanging limply around his battered face. ‘New meat for the horde. See that they are well prepared for the final assault.’
The old veteran nodded as his leader left. Josten was still wary that this could be some sort of trap, but as Dorcus led them towards the weaponry he realised if Kraden wanted them dead it would have happened already.
With the warrior’s help, Josten and Randal managed to bundle together enough bone-embossed plate and mail to look the part at least, but Silver favoured the battered sword she had brought with her.
When they were suitably equipped, the old veteran led them from the tent. Josten wondered if he was leading them straight to the siege, but instead they were taken to a fire, upon which sat a cauldron of boiling broth.
‘Do you think this is fit to eat?’ Randal asked, screwing his nose up at the dubious stench.
‘I’m too hungry to care,’ Josten replied. ‘Besides, I don’t fancy dying on an empty stomach.’
As they helped themselves to the foul-smelling broth, Dorcus left them to it. Josten couldn’t help but notice the sadness in the old warrior’s eyes as he went, as though he would have much preferred flinging himself at the walls of Kessel than acting custodian to the arms and armour of his dead brethren.
Josten girded himself before digging into the bowl of broth. Two mouthfuls and he’d stopped caring how bad it was. Randal managed his own bowl, but Silver seemed to forego any food. She simply stood staring at the fortress in the distance, watching as the Legion of Wraak beat themselves against its stalwart facade.
When he had eaten his fill, Josten moved to stand beside the woman. In the firelight her face took on an eerie, almost otherworldly hue.
‘We are almost out of time,’ she said. ‘I can feel it.’
Josten looked out at the army in front of him. ‘All I feel is a knot in the pit of my stomach.’
‘You will not die here, Josten Cade,’ Silver said, still staring through the night. ‘That is not your fate.’
‘I wish that was as reassuring as you think it is,’ Josten replied.
‘I am not trying to reassure you. You will die. Just not here.’
‘Thanks,’ said Josten. ‘That makes me feel so much better.’ He had never been superstitious, and put no store by the mumblings of any old seer, but he had to admit, Silver put him on edge. ‘And just how do you know all this?’
‘You would not be able to comprehend—’
‘You’ve already told me that,’ Josten said, losing patience. ‘I’ve had enough of your cryptic prattle. Who the hell are you?’
Silver turned to face him and he realised his mistake. For a moment Josten felt like a child caught in her gaze, as though she were looking into his soul and could see every bit of him, from his birth to this very moment. All his secrets, all his evil deeds.
‘I have many names,’ said Silver. ‘And I have lived many lives. I have been beggar and queen. I have seen the start of things and I will see the end.’
‘Enough,’ said Josten, mustering as much strength of will as he could. ‘Just give me a straight answer.’
Silver stared, her features hard in the dim light. Then she seemed to soften.
‘Patience, Josten Cade,’ she said, and as she spoke all the fight seemed to leave him. ‘You will see the truth of things soon enough.’
With that she walked off into the darkness.
As he watched her go, Randal came to stand beside him, also watching Silver as she disappeared.
‘What was that all about?’ Randal asked.
‘Not a fucking clue,’ Josten replied. ‘But apparently we’ll soon find out.’
‘If we live long enough,’ said Randal, glancing towards the imposing sight of Kessel. ‘Chances are we’ll be dead tomorrow.’
And despite Silver’s reassurance that he would not die here, Josten couldn’t help but think Randal was right.
50
KALEB had never put much store by vanity, but he had always taken pride in his appearance. That was something he had learned from Avenor.
‘Look impressive,’ the Sword Saint had told him. ‘Intimidate the enemy with your presence and half the battle is won.’
They were useful words. A tenet Kaleb had lived by. He remembered the fear in his enemies’ eyes when he entered the battlefield. Avenor had never guided Kaleb wrong in those hard years of campaigning.
How Kaleb missed his mentor now. How he wished the warrior stood beside him. As it was he had to make do with a few Silent Sons, their mouths sealed shut, eyes mournful as they ministered to him.
He stood in a bare antechamber, the walls dancing in the red candlelight. In front of him was a mirror showing him a man he had not seen for what seemed like years. His hair was cut short, his stubble shaved, body washed and treated with perfumed oils. The thralls had bedecked him in robes befitting his status. He looked every inch the Sword Saint – black tunic embroidered in gold, red sash at his waist, boots polished to a sheen.
A thrall brought forth a new blade. Four feet of straight steel sheathed in a plain black scabbard. The thrall made to tie the belt about his waist but Kaleb stopped him, taking the sheathed sword from his hand, barely noticing as the thrall retreated into the shadows.
Kaleb held the blade in his hand, taking a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship. It was not as ornate as other blades he had seen over the years. There was no adornment. It was a weapon for killing. Plain in the making but expertly forged.
He should have been proud. Should have felt like his former self, but Kaleb knew he was irreparably altered. Livia had shown him something different to his old life. Before her he had been a slave
. Now that he had tasted freedom, had dared to hope he might have another life, his regalia meant nothing to him. The weapon in his hand was more burden than gift. Yet still he buckled the belt about his waist, feeling the weight of the sword at his hip. Where before it had filled him with strength and pride, now it just felt like a heavy lump of metal.
Kaleb stared into the mirror. The warrior that looked back was a stranger to him, a peerless exemplar of the blade, but inside all Kaleb felt was uncertainty.
Livia had offered him a future away from all this. He could have fled with her. Lived a different life, but he had turned his back on that. Now the regret of it weighed on him more heavily than anything he had shouldered before – more than the Circle, the Carpenter and all the wars in the Ramadi.
Kaleb tore his gaze from the reflection and walked away, ignoring the Silent Sons, who watched with desolation in their eyes.
As he escaped along the dark corridors of Kessel he found his head filling with a fug, his legs buckling. He held out a hand to the cold wall to steady himself. This was unbearable. All the hardships he had endured and now he was brought low by doubt. Kaleb fought the feeling, reciting the credo of the Sword Saints, squeezing his eyes shut against the nausea that assailed him.
A few quick breaths and he had gathered himself. Though gripping the hilt of his new blade did not fill him with the pride he had felt in times past, it still steadied him enough to walk out of the main barbican and into the waning light of dusk.
His ears were filled with the sound of the attacking army. It echoed from the plain beyond, the noise rising up and crashing down into the courtyard of Kessel like a tidal wave. Its fury galvanised his thoughts for a moment, filling him with a renewed sense of purpose. Best he focus on that. Best he concentrate on fighting the men who were set on murdering him and everyone in this citadel. That was what Kaleb knew – how to fight. How to kill.
He mounted the stairs to the rampart, passing by the vigilant Bloodguard, seeing the respect in their eyes upon seeing his vestment. It did nothing to allay the feeling that he was a fraud. That he was merely playing a part and that any moment he would be found out.
As he looked out over the battlements he saw the army below, a seething mass of armoured hate assaulting the walls. Their attack looked futile as they smashed themselves into the huge gate but Kaleb knew that there was no futility here. Even water could erode a mountainside given time. With enough strength of will, one man could achieve almost anything. And these were no ordinary men but the Legion of Wraak. They would not stop until Kessel was left in ruins.
The scene reminded Kaleb of days gone, when he had fought against warriors such as these on the battlefield. He realised he no longer regarded them as he had in days past. They were no longer the scum of old, to be trodden in the dust and forgotten. Back then he had been filled with righteous fury. He had faced the enemies of the Brotherhood and destroyed them without mercy. Now the hate he should have felt was replaced by pity. The anticipation of battle was consumed by his apathy. These warriors were slaves, as he had been. Their zeal was born of indoctrination, not choice. Whether they knew it or not they were being forced to besiege this place. Kessel had been built as yet one more testament to every man enslaved in the Ramadi.
In that instant, Kaleb could not have cared if this place fell around his ears.
Let it burn.
A figure approached along the walkway. Kaleb saw his brother Dantar walk with all surety, at peace even in the face of such an assault from their enemies. Kaleb was not surprised – Dantar had never been one to show emotion, even when faced with the most extreme hardship. He seemed to thrive on adversity, to own it and bend it to his will. He was a true servant of the Brotherhood. The epitome of a Sword Saint.
Dantar stopped beside him, looking down at the advancing armies. The light of the fires below illuminated his face, making his animal eyes dance with light. It was the most life Kaleb had ever seen in them.
Though he was reluctant to break the silence, Kaleb could not help himself. He had to know.
‘What has become of Livia?’ he asked.
Dantar did not turn to look at him. ‘Your concern for her is curious, brother. I have spent a brief time in her company and must admit… I was eager to depart.’
‘I can see how she might have that effect. Her language is… coarse.’
‘Indeed. And yet the Blood Regent would have her treated like a dignitary.’
‘Then she is safe?’ Kaleb asked, failing to mask the concern in his voice.
‘For now,’ Dantar replied.
Kaleb felt something grip him inside his chest. His hand tightened on the hilt of his new blade. ‘So the Blood Regent plans to offer her as a sacrifice?’
‘I do not know the Blood Regent’s plans,’ said Dantar. ‘But if the gate falls she is as doomed as the rest of us.’
Kaleb let out a sigh. Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps she would not be offered as a sacrifice after all. ‘Some of us might be deserving of such damnation,’ he said.
‘Why would you say such a thing, brother?’ Dantar turned to look at him now, his brow furrowed.
Kaleb regarded his brother. It was odd to see him so confused. ‘We were bred for this. For war. We were always destined to die in battle. Do we not deserve such a fate?’
Dantar shook his head. ‘We are servants of the Brotherhood. We are no more deserving than—’
‘No. We are not servants. We are slaves, Dantar. Do you not see that? We were raised to die for the Brotherhood. Given no choice. No free will to choose our fate.’
Kaleb’s emotions were getting the better of him but he didn’t care. As he spoke the words he realised they had been a long time in coming.
‘And what would this free will have given us?’ said Dantar. ‘An ordinary life. To live like the cattle and sheep of the south. We would never have lived for the glory of—’
‘We would have had a life worth living!’ Kaleb barked the words, instantly regretting it. He should have kept his emotions in check. Especially now, when he was talking to a man who had shown no emotion in all the years Kaleb had known him. Yet Dantar did not chastise him. Instead he lowered his gaze, staring thoughtfully at the ground.
‘You are not alone, Kaleb,’ Dantar said. ‘I too think about what could have been. I too remember the past…’
Those few words were the last he had thought to hear his brother say. Dantar had always borne an air of confidence and surety. He above all others had been a faithful servant. Unwavering in his devotion.
‘And you too are troubled by it?’ Kaleb asked.
Dantar looked up, fixing him with those eyes that had always seemed feral but now bore more humanity than Kaleb had ever seen.
‘I am haunted by it, brother.’
They regarded one another as the noise of the siege raged below. Dantar seemed to battle with his emotions until he wrestled them back under control. He raised his head, his mask firmly back in place.
‘I experienced it too, Dantar. I was there, remember? I was with you—’
‘Not for everything,’ Dantar said, staring out over the plain once more. ‘There are things I have been forced to bury. But nothing stays buried forever.’ When he said the words it was as though he were talking to someone else. Someone distant.
Kaleb was suddenly reminded of the Circle. Of a day that seemed a lifetime ago when Dantar had challenged…
‘Morghil?’ he asked.
Dantar glanced at Kaleb as though he had uncovered some forbidden secret.
‘I said it is buried,’ Dantar replied. ‘It should stay there.’
‘Tell me,’ said Kaleb. ‘Perhaps I can help.’
‘There is nothing you can do, Kaleb Ap’Kharn. There is nothing either of us can do but serve.’ It seemed Dantar’s armour was back on. ‘The Blood Regent has said that tomorrow we will know the truth. That tomorrow the Brotherhood will ascend. I know you have feelings for the girl. That you want to protect her. For your own sak
e, bury those feelings. It is the only peace you will ever have.’
With that he turned his back on Kaleb and made his way back down from the battlements.
Kaleb watched him go. He could only imagine what horror Morghil had enacted upon his brother. But then they had all faced horrors in Kragenskûl.
As he looked out at the attacking army, Kaleb knew that there would be more horrors to come before the night was out.
51
JOSTEN could anticipate the slaughter to come. He could hear it, smell it, feel it in his gut, the fear and excitement building. Activity in the camp had reached a frenzy. Even wounded men had risen from their torpor, gingerly donning armour, moving towards the citadel as though the gate were about to fall right before their eyes.
At the edge of the camp, High Lord Kraden stood staring wild-eyed at Kessel. Beside him was a smaller man in a plain robe, a serpent tattoo entwined around his right eye. He was speaking to Kraden in what looked like a constant diatribe, as though reciting litanies into the warrior’s ear. Josten was too far away to make out the words, but whatever he was saying seemed to fuel Kraden as he looked on at the siege.
As Josten watched, he got the impression this robed man was more than a mere advisor. It was almost as though he were instructing Kraden, dictating to him even. Kraden nodded at the smaller man’s words, like he was acquiescing to his instruction. It looked ridiculous from where Josten stood.
When the robed man had finished, Kraden moved toward the warriors amassed for battle. Josten was still watching as the robed man turned to regard him, his hairless face and serpent tattoo giving him an unsettling demeanour. Josten couldn’t draw his eyes away, until the man nodded at him, his lip curling into a knowing half-smile. Then he was gone into the night.
To the north, High Lord Kraden bellowed. A wordless war cry of pure hate. This was it. Josten knew they were about to make their final attack.
He turned, seeing Randal sitting staring at the ground. ‘Let’s move,’ Josten said, feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
