by R. S. Ford
Two warriors rushed forward, bone-armoured demons desperate for the slaughter to begin anew. Livia flung a spear at one, knocking him back across the battlefield. The other she let come, his sword raised high. He screamed as he brought the massive blade down, but Livia merely raised a hand and caught the blade, stopping it as though it had just struck a stone block. With her other hand she grasped the warrior’s face.
His head exploded in a crimson gout.
Men began to fall back at witnessing the murder. Josten stood his ground; he had come so far to rescue Livia he could not abandon her now. Despite how much she had changed, even though he could see this was not the girl he’d travelled so far to save, Josten could not turn back.
She walked among a bed of corpses, red dress trailing through the blood. Josten took a step towards her and her eyes fell on him. He was a lone figure, defiant amongst the cowering mass.
‘Livia,’ he said.
That thin, red smile wavered on her lips. The piercing black of her eyes softening for a moment.
‘Josten?’ she replied, as though seeing him for the first time.
Then Livia disappeared, her eyes turning to black pits. All that remained was the white-haired witch.
‘Kneel,’ she said.
Josten felt a pull, compelled by an irresistible force. Behind he could hear armoured men dropping to their knees, weapons falling from their grip. Stubborn as he was, Josten remained standing but his grip loosened on his sword and it clattered at his feet.
‘Kneel!’ the woman repeated.
Josten could not defy her.
As he fell to his knees, she moved forward, eyes scanning the prostrate hordes before her.
‘I have returned for you,’ she said, her voice echoing around the silent courtyard. ‘I have come to unite you under a single banner. Whatever allegiance you held before is now gone. Your loyalty now is to me. I am Innellan. The White Widow. In the kingdoms of the Suderfeld I am the songbird Frith. In the Cordral I am Lilith the Masked. All you need know is that I am your queen. Now and always.’ Silence infected the citadel. No one moved as the witch surveyed her army. ‘What say you?’
As one the two armies rose to their feet. Every man in unison bellowed her name. ‘Innellan! Innellan! Innellan!’
Over and over they chanted until the noise of it made Josten’s ears ring. They had lost their souls to this creature. A god that had stolen the body of Livia Harrow.
Josten was powerless but to add his voice to theirs.
55
LIGHT lanced into the cell through a tiny hole near the ceiling. Despite the shade it was still hotter than a Bedouin’s shoe in the cramped chamber. Josten had been sitting for hours in the same spot, but still was drenched in sweat.
Randal sat opposite, hugging his knees, face hidden. They were going to die, and it was pretty clear the tallyman had given up all hope.
Josten couldn’t blame him; he knew there was little point in either of them making any long-term plans, but Josten had been here before. Locked up and waiting for the axe man was something he’d lived through once already. He knew there was always a chance, no matter how bad things appeared.
No need to tell Randal that though.
Despite what they’d been through together, that bastard was the reason Mullen was dead. He was the reason Livia had been taken and the reason Josten was in this cell right now. Who cared if he was suffering? Josten had his own woes, and the main one was the two feet of chain securing him to the wall. If only he could find a way of loosening it he’d be in with a fighting chance at least. But if there was a way to loosen a chain with nothing but hope and a whispered prayer he didn’t know what it was.
Before he could think more on it, a creak of ancient hinges heralded yet more light cutting through the shadows of the cell. Josten braced himself. It seemed there would be no time for him to formulate any plan of escape.
Footsteps echoed through the chamber, but they weren’t the stomping footfalls of any jailer. This tread was light, bare feet padding softly on the stone floor. Josten felt something snatch at his insides as the hem of a red dress came into view. Without thinking he gripped his own knees, as much to stop his hands shaking as to guard against the sudden chill that crept over his moist skin. Clamping his eyes shut wasn’t enough to quell the feeling of dread as she stood in the centre of the cell. It was all he could do to not piss himself.
‘Look at me,’ she ordered.
Josten was powerless against her will, and slowly he raised his head. This was Livia no more. Her features seemed twisted somehow… corrupted. Where before had been an innocent girl now stood a cruel and heartless mistress. And despite himself, Josten felt only the urge to serve her.
Her black eyes regarded him without pity. Behind her, at the foot of the stairs, stood a dark-haired warrior, hand on the hilt of his sword as though this woman might require protection. Josten knew how laughable that notion was.
‘Traitors,’ said the woman. ‘You came here to kill me. To banish me. You are servants of that cunt, Siff.’
‘No,’ said Randal in a panic. ‘We came to save you. We don’t even know that woman.’
Innellan’s smile was cruel, made all the darker by her lifeless eyes. ‘Save me? From what? Ah…’ She tapped the side of her head with an outstretched finger. ‘The girl.’
Innellan squatted down beside Josten.
‘She is still in here,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I can feel her rattling around inside. It’s confusing for me. When I look at the both of you there is great affection. But also great hate. I think she wants to kill one of you. Who could it be, I wonder?’
Josten looked at Randal. They both knew which of them Livia wanted dead, but Josten still said nothing. It was only his word against Randal’s.
‘This is difficult,’ the woman said, rising to her feet. ‘I should kill you both. But she is still in here.’ Sharp fingers teased the side of her temple. ‘Still a part of me, however small. So there will be a mercy.’ She turned to the swordsman, who seemed disinterested in proceedings. ‘Dantar, you will take both of these traitors out into the desert. There you will slay one of them, and release the other. Never tell me who you decide on. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, my queen,’ Dantar replied.
The snow-haired witch turned to leave, but her dark eyes lingered on Josten’s for just a moment.
Was there a flash of humanity in that look? If so it was gone as soon as it appeared, and she swept from the room, the tresses of her red gown whipping up the dirt as she went.
Dantar watched them both closely as a hunched jailer entered the cell and unlocked their chains. Josten and Randal stood, looking at one another while they rubbed the life back into their wrists. One of them was about to die, and it was up to this warrior, Dantar, this killer, to decide which he would execute and which he would set free.
Josten led the way. If this was going to be it, he wasn’t about to tarry. He’d been here before when Harlaw’s men walked him into the woods that day. But there was no Mullen here now to help him. He had no weapon. There was every chance he’d be marched off and murdered, and all on the toss of a coin.
The sun was blinding as they walked out into the courtyard. A path had been cleared, bodies piled to either side, making a road through to the gate and out into the desert.
Josten walked on, with Randal right behind him. No one paid them much mind as they passed through the smashed archway. Once outside, Josten spared a glance over one shoulder. Dantar was following behind them, eyes watching with no emotion. It was clear this was a man with little compassion. There’d be no bargaining with that one.
They took the path south, out past the camp of High Lord Kraden and so far that the tower of Kessel disappeared. They were so deep in the desert Josten couldn’t tell which way was north and for a moment he missed Silver. He could have done with the woman’s fighting prowess now, but it was doubtful he’d ever see her again.
‘This is far enough,�
�� said Dantar, finally.
Josten stopped. He’d been dreading those words.
He and Randal turned to face the warrior. Dantar still didn’t seem interested, though his hand lay firmly on his blade.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Randal.
Josten had expected that. Some men took their execution with a stubborn silence. Others begged. Josten had spotted Randal for a whingeing shit right from the start.
‘I just wanted to save her,’ the tallyman went on. ‘He was the one who wanted her dead.’ He pointed an accusing finger at Josten.
Any other time he’d have been angry at the injustice, but not now. Livia was gone. Whatever that thing was back in Kessel it wasn’t the girl he’d come to save. If he was the one to die then so be it. Josten didn’t care anymore.
Despite Randal’s lies, Dantar didn’t seem particularly swayed either way. His eyes remained fixed on the ground as he slowly drew his blade.
Randal looked around desperately, as though there might be somewhere for him to run to in the open desert. Josten took a deep sigh, waiting for his fate, whatever it might be.
Dantar skewered his blade in the ground and it quivered a little as he looked up at them.
‘To hell with it,’ he said, his eyes now filled with tears.
Without another word he walked past them both, leaving the sword wavering in the ground.
Josten turned back to Randal whose eyes were desperate. Neither of them spoke, but neither of them needed to. Randal was first to move, but Josten was quicker. They both scrambled across the desert floor towards the sword and Josten’s hand closed around the hilt first. Randal’s hand slammed on top of his, stopping him drawing it from the ground. Josten smashed his forehead into Randal’s cheek and he fell with a grunt.
As the tallyman foundered, Josten yanked the blade free. There was no cross-guard, and it was straight as an arrow to the tip. Josten had never held a blade so exquisitely balanced.
‘Wait,’ said Randal, as though he was going to talk his way out of this one.
‘Close your fucking mouth and get on your feet,’ Josten replied.
Randal slowly rose, his cheek fast reddening. He held his hands up defensively, as though somehow they might stop the thrust of a sword. It was obvious he wanted to start pleading all over again but fear kept his simpering mouth shut.
‘One of us had to die, either way,’ Josten said. ‘You knew we weren’t both going to make it through this.’
‘Then do it,’ said Randal, his voice cracking at the end.
Josten felt the sword in his grip. Four feet of perfect steel. It would have been so easy.
He should have done it for Mullen. Should have done it for Livia and however many others, but Josten was tired. The taste for vengeance had withered on his tongue.
‘You saved my life,’ Josten said, remembering the warrior bearing down on him in Kessel. Remembering Randal hacking off his arm. ‘Consider us even.’ Randal stared in disbelief. ‘Now piss off.’
The tallyman paused, as though Josten were tricking him. When the death blow never came, he shuffled away.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he went.
‘Save it,’ Josten replied. ‘Next time one of us will die.’
Randal took off at a run.
Josten watched him disappear into the haze.
Dantar had already disappeared and Josten was left alone in the desert, with nothing but a sword and a shitty sense of direction. He’d travelled so far, risked his life for nothing, and now it looked like he’d end up dead and rotting under a foreign sun.
‘Well,’ he sighed, wondering which way to go. ‘Everyone gets what they deserve.’
EPILOGUE
The Ramadi Wastes, 105 years after the Fall
IT was the blackest night Hansi Alek had known in years. He and his brother Salann walked with torches held high along the northern shore of Devil Sound, the flickering light barely penetrating the dark as they travelled.
It was dangerous for them to be out at this hour. As traders and members of the Penitent Order they were in good standing with a number of cults, but there could be bandits or worse lurking out here in the dark, lying in wait to prey on the vulnerable. And the Alek brothers were no warriors.
‘This had better be worth it,’ whispered Salann.
‘The umma has deemed it necessary, brother,’ Hansi replied. That light in the sky was more than a mere shooting star. The omens have been divined. The entrails have been read—’
‘And we are the fools sent to investigate.’ Salann’s voice quivered, the torch in his hand unsteady in his boy’s grip. ‘This is an errand for warriors. Not merchants.’
‘The holy light was seen, brother. This is an honour we would have been foolish to refuse.’
‘Foolish? Because the umma would have had us whipped? I would gladly have taken a flogging to avoid this. A flogging I will survive. The Ramadi at night I may not.’
Hansi ignored his brother’s whining. The umma’s word was law and the caravan obeyed without question. She had not seen them brought low yet and years under her guidance had only seen them prosper. Even the strongest cults valued the wares traded by the Alek and it was for that reason Hansi had not argued when bidden to find the source of the strange light in the sky. To risk his life on a pilgrimage that was more than likely a fool’s errand.
The pair walked until the mercy of dawn began to creep up over the horizon. Their torches were beginning to gutter as the dim light showed them the endless expanse of the desert to the north and the grey waters of Devil Sound to the south.
‘What’s that?’ said Salann, pointing across the flat waste.
Hansi squinted over the stony ground, his eyes nowhere as keen as those of his younger brother. He could see movement in the shadows, about a thousand yards off.
Salann made to move towards the shape, but Hansi held out an arm.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘We should approach with caution. We have no idea what we face.’
Salann nodded, seeing the sense in his brother’s words, and they both moved carefully, the fire of their torches their only defence against what they faced.
As they moved closer Hansi could see that a creature was fussing something on the ground, and he momentarily wished they had better weapons than torches.
Something barked at them as they drew closer and both men stopped. As his eyes began to focus, Hansi could see a jackal staring at them, eyes reflecting the morning light. At its feet lay the carcass of something... or someone.
‘Away from there!’ Hansi shouted, but the jackal did not move.
As though suddenly possessed, Salann rushed forward, screaming from the bottom of his lungs and waving his torch around his head as though it were the sword of some ancient hero. Hansi was relieved to see the jackal did not stand and fight for its prize, and instead ran off into the desert.
Salann turned with a smile.
‘Very good,’ said Hansi. ‘Perhaps you should consider pursuing the way of the warrior.’
Salann’s smile faded at his brother’s sarcasm.
Gingerly they approached the carcass on the ground, each of them slowing as they drew closer. Salann’s previous bravery seemed to fade the closer they got.
‘What is it?’ he whispered as they reached the corpse.
‘Dead,’ Hansi replied, staring down at the blackened lump of meat.
From what he could see it was human in shape but the extent of its burns were so horrific there was no way to tell any more than that.
Salann gave an audible sigh as Hansi crouched beside the figure. Heat still radiated from it, along with a burnt-meat stink.
‘How did it get here?’ Salann asked.
Hansi looked up. ‘Clearly it fell from the sky.’
‘This is the burning star seen by the umma?’
Hansi almost laughed at the thought. ‘Of course not. How would that be poss—’
The lump of burned meat took a haggard breath.
<
br /> Hansi jumped back as Salann squealed in terror.
Both men watched transfixed as the charred body slowly rose to its feet, burned sinews cracking in the silence of morning. Salann gave the sign of the Cup Bearer to ward off evil, before falling to his knees and touching the ground with his forehead.
Hansi could only watch as the blackened body raised its head to the sky and cried out to the dawn.
The umma had been right. The prophecies were complete.
Gods walked the earth once again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always I have to give a huge thanks to my agent, John Jarrold, for his expert guidance. He will forever be the Obi Wan to my Luke (and occasionally the Vader).
Cath Trechman and all the staff at Titan deserve my undying gratitude for commissioning the novel in an embryonic form, and for being very patient after I decided to completely change the third act... six months before its original publication date. Particular recognition should also go to Gary Budden for his meticulous editing and for not cutting out any of the bad language!
And thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed any of my books. Your contribution means more than you know.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.S. Ford originally hails from Leeds in the heartland of Yorkshire but now resides in the wild fens of Cambridgeshire. His previous works include the raucous steampunk adventure, Kultus, and the grimdark fantasy trilogy, Steelhaven.
You can find out more about what he’s up to, and download free stuff, here: http://richard4ord.wordpress.com.
And follow him on Twitter here: @rich4ord
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