The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “We have gathered here for the annual bringing in of taxes,” Zarras said. “Always a happy occasion. I welcome you, my people, many of my tenants. I commend you. For you are here to show your loyalty in a time when our lives are threatened.”

  His dark eyes glinted. “In this city, there have been threats. Men have risen who wish to destroy us all. To take over, to plunder you, my people, and to ravish all you hold sacred.” He leaned over the top of his pulpit and swept the crowd with his eyes. “Many years ago a royal family ruled this land. Its descendants have served on the Overlord’s council for centuries. A short time ago, Professor Jarin Huss and his apprentice murdered the last scion of that family. Today we bring them to justice.”

  Shouts and rumbles came from the crowd, and Zarras smiled. “Bring them out,” he commanded.

  There was a shout from the castle gates, and the crowd turned almost as a man. Many gasped. Others cheered.

  Libuse was walking through the crowd, straight toward the platform where Zarras stood. A column of armed men marched behind her, and the Ploughman stood at her side. Many in the crowd bowed as their princess moved past, but her eyes were only on Zarras.

  Stunned High Police parted for her as she climbed the steps of the platform and came face to face with the Overlord. The Ploughman and his men pushed past the soldiers. The High Police said nothing, did nothing. They had been caught completely off guard, and now the threatening looks of the crowd and the weaponry of the Ploughman’s men kept them still.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Antonin Zarras stuttered. His eyes went from Libuse to the Ploughman and back again, as though he wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “I should ask you that, Zarras,” Libuse said. “Is this not a trial to avenge my death? It seems to me that all is not as it seems.”

  Zarras licked his lips. “I cannot say how glad I am to see you alive,” he began.

  “Perhaps we should not tell the people—” Libuse took in all the crowd with a sweep of her arm, “—how you had me arrested. How you intended to kill me. How you are now trying to murder two more of your enemies, enemies only because they work on behalf of this very crowd.”

  A young man in the crowd, a university student from his dress, shouted something in agreement.

  “You are in trouble, Zarras,” Libuse said quietly.

  The Ploughman stepped close to the Overlord. He towered over Zarras, and the Overlord shook as the Ploughman drew his sword.

  “There will be a trial today,” the Ploughman said, raising his voice so all the crowd could hear. “You, Antonin Zarras—you are on trial.”

  The Overlord was white. He stood in silence for a long moment, facing the man he had known as a friend in his youth. “You always hated me,” he said.

  “No,” the Ploughman said. “The only one guilty of hate here is you.”

  The Overlord’s lip curled. “You are outnumbered.”

  “We are well trained.”

  “Who trained them?” the Overlord pressed. “Farmers trained by farmers. Boys trained by old men. You cannot fight High Police.”

  “I trained them,” the Ploughman said.

  “Trained by a madman,” the Overlord said, so quiet that no one heard him but the Ploughman. “Even as a child you were delusional.”

  The Ploughman bowed his head and hefted his sword. “Let the professor and his apprentice go,” he said. “And we will leave you with your life.”

  “I will never let them go,” Antonin Zarras said. “If you kill me they will die instantly, and so will you.”

  “I think not,” a new voice said. Antonin Zarras whirled around, his face livid. It was Jerome who had called out. He stood at the end of the platform with a sword in his hand and the professor behind him.

  For a moment Zarras stood in speechless rage. “Kill them!” he screamed. “Kill them all!”

  He drew his own sword with one swift motion and lunged forward, straight at Libuse. The Ploughman’s staff knocked the sword away and the Overlord fell back. He looked up at the Ploughman in terror.

  “You should have tried to kill me,” the Ploughman said, his face golden with rage. “That I would have accepted. But do not touch the ones I love.”

  “Kill them all!” the Overlord screamed again. The High Police sprang into action.

  And Antonin Zarras died.

  * * *

  Virginia’s skin crawled as the smoke drifted across her. She heard the voice of Evelyn, hoarse and ragged with excitement, shouting commands over the chanting. The smoke was hot with more than fire, and it burned Virginia’s skin.

  A smell like brimstone filled the air and made her sick. She saw.

  The smoke was billowing up in great, black clouds. Wisps of green and blue smoke played through the blackness. Here and there a wisp of smoke took on the likeness of something else: a claw, a gaping mouth, a burning eye.

  She saw the strength draining out of the black-robed men of the Order, their energy leeched to feed the churning cloud of smoke. She watched as the guards in black fell to the ground, crying out for help, until their voices were silenced in a hissing roar.

  And then she saw the creatures rising up all around her, stepping out of the clouds. There was a great black hound, breathing tendrils of green smoke; ravens with burning eyes; creatures like horses with goat’s feet and lion’s teeth. Most horrible of all were beings in the shape of winged men, twelve feet tall, who carried swords and maces, and laughed as they rose up from the flames.

  * * *

  Libuse ran across the platform to Professor Huss and the others. “Come quickly,” she said, motioning for them to follow her.

  They leapt from the platform into the crowd. Jerome carried his master. The crowd parted for them and the Ploughman’s soldiers beat back the High Police. They ran out of the gates and into the streets until they entered the blackened courtyard where Maggie and Nicolas had first met Huss and Jerome. Libuse hurriedly beat out a rhythm on the stones, and the trapdoor opened for them.

  Together they descended into the dark tunnel. Libuse lit the candle that waited at the top of the stairs. Through the damp, dark tunnels they wound their way, taking corridors that Maggie had never seen before.

  At last they reached a place where the ground sloped up. There were no stairs, only ruts carved into the stone to make footholds and handholds. The way grew steeper as they went, and the roof of the corridor came closer and closer. For the last stretch they were forced to crawl on their hands and knees, and Maggie feared that Huss would not make it. He set his jaw and climbed.

  When they reached a dead end, Libuse pushed against the roof with all her might, and it gave way before her. A faint light filtered in from the small opening and was blocked as Libuse led the way out.

  Maggie was last to emerge from the tunnel, and she looked around to see a part of the city she had never imagined existed. They seemed to be inside a very old hall, one that had fallen into ruin over many years. It was built of white stone. Much of the roof was missing. All that remained of the walls were rows of white pillars that held up the roof on either side.

  At first Maggie thought that the hall must once have been a place where nobles gathered to eat and drink, but the more she looked, the more the gloomy atmosphere of the place convinced her that this was not so. It was then that she noticed the white stones, laying on their sides, that filled it.

  “What is this place?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

  “This is the Hall of Kings, burial place of my ancestors,” Libuse said. She spread out her hands to indicate the stones. “Here lie the ancient rulers of Sloczka. At one time this was a place of pilgrimage, but the Empire discouraged pilgrims and allowed the hall to fall into ruin.”

  “Why have you brought us here?” Jerome asked.

  “Because you are in no condition to fight,” Libuse said, “and the Ploughman wished that you both be kept safe until the battle was over.”

  “And you are to stay, no doubt?” Hus
s asked. Libuse lowered her eyes.

  “The Ploughman wishes it,” she said.

  “What if the battle turns against us, and even this place is lost?” Jerome asked.

  “Then it seems to me that there is no more fitting place for me to die,” Libuse said.

  “We could escape back through the tunnels,” Maggie said. “The tunnel leads out to the river.”

  Libuse nodded, and said, “Yes, and if the enemy should come here then you all must try to escape.”

  “What about you?” Maggie asked.

  “If the battle is lost,” Libuse said, “it means that the Ploughman is lost. If that happens, I will not run from death.”

  “Yet you would send us away like cowards?” Jerome asked.

  “For the good of all,” Libuse said. “Someone must survive to continue the fight. You possess such belief—belief in a holy king, in a final end to tyranny. That hope cannot die here.”

  “You can say such things, and yet you do not yourself believe?” Huss asked.

  Libuse looked away. “I am not sure what I believe. Only what I wish I could.”

  From somewhere close by, the sounds of battle reached the ruin. Jerome’s fingers opened and closed on the hilt of the sword Maggie had given him. “I should not be here. It is a shame to hide while the battle rages,” he said.

  “Is it a shame to protect someone you love?” Maggie asked, turning to face him. He looked deeply at her for a moment, and said,

  “No.”

  “The master needs your protection,” Maggie said. “And as you are holding my sword, so do I.”

  Jerome chuckled, a deep, throaty chuckle, and he seemed to stand a little straighter. “You are right,” he said. “Of course you are right.”

  They stopped talking at the sound of a shout, and they turned to see a figure entering the ruins.

  “Get out of sight,” Jerome said. Huss and Libuse obeyed. Jerome stood behind a pillar with his sword drawn, waiting for the figure to come close enough to be identified. He didn’t look like a soldier, but even so, there was no telling whether he was friend or enemy.

  Maggie broke the stillness. “Nicolas!” she called. With a barely noticeable sigh of relief, Jerome sheathed his sword.

  Huss stretched out his hands in welcome, rising from his hiding place near one of the tombstones. “It is good to see you again, boy.”

  “And you, sir,” Nicolas said. He looked embarrassed and Huss chuckled.

  “No need to be nervous,” he said. “We won’t make you explain your disappearance, or anything else you don’t feel like talking about.”

  “What are you doing here?” Maggie asked.

  “Haven’t you heard the shouts?” Nicolas asked. “I came looking for you to tell you—we’ve won! The Ploughman has driven the High Police from the castle. They flee the city even now. The battle is over.”

  Their exclamations of delight died suddenly as a strange sound made its way through the pillars of the burial hall. It was the sound of drums beating in the distance… a slow, ominous beating. A death march.

  Jerome pulled his sword out and held it ready, his brow knitted in concern. Libuse held her spear, her head high, listening. And Nicolas crouched slightly, his own slim sword in his hand. They waited.

  A shadow fell slowly over the hall, covering it in darkness as though dusk had come—hours and hours too early. Maggie felt her heart beating harder with fear, and her eyes strayed to meet Nicolas’s. They had felt this shadow before, this creeping, numbing fear. The ravens and the hound both had carried it with them.

  * * *

  The victory celebration had ended as abruptly as it had begun. The people of the city stood outside the gates of Pravik Castle, their eyes fixed on the horizon where clouds gathered. The rebel soldiers had fallen completely silent. They watched the darkening skies with drawn, bloody swords.

  Evil was coming, and every man and animal among them could feel it.

  The drums beat louder.

  A shadow, deeper than the already dark sky, fell on the street just below them. There was a blinding flash, not of light but of darkness, and for the first time the Ploughman beheld his new enemies.

  He was facing a giant, a creature in the shape of a man with bull’s horns and eyes that burned, and a mouth that grinned hideously. The man-thing held a black mace and an equally black sword, almost invisible against quivering black wings. He roared as he stepped inside the walls of Pravik.

  Behind him came the bone-chilling howl of a hound. The shadows of winged creatures flew over the walls, screaming with hatred and glee.

  Once again, the battle was joined.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  The Peace of Death We Break

  It is only a fool who writes while he is dying. Yet I must… I must. This pen is my only friend, and I do not wish to die alone.

  There is so much pain in dying. I did not know it would feel as it does.

  I am Aneryn. I am the Poet. I am the Prophet. I alone remember…

  The Blackness whispers through the Veil. It threatens such terrible things. But now there are other voices. Is it truly the Shearim I hear? They comfort. But their voices are so faded.

  Gone now.

  The trees are very green. The ground on which I lie is very black, and it is tangled with white roots. It is hard and smells like a thousand days gone by. It smells like my childhood.

  Have I ever been a child?

  I am Aneryn. The Poet. The Prophet. I wish…

  Birds are flying overhead… great white flocks. Perhaps in the end they will take me away with them. But I do not want to leave. I do not want to go.

  It hurts to die.

  I can see a light, very far away. It is opening in the sky and its rays fall on me. They have just touched my fingertips, and now they move toward my face. Perhaps I will not die after all, for everywhere the light touches I am healed.

  I am strong. I am peaceful.

  I am Aneryn, the Poet; I am Aneryn, the Prophet; I am Aneryn, the Strong…

  I have no ink left with which to write. My chronicle is over.

  And I see him now. He is coming.

  * * *

  The Ploughman thought of Libuse as he fought. My courage. His spear made little dent in the armour of the horned warrior, and his horse bucked and threw him to the ground. He rose to his feet with his sword drawn and jumped out of the way of the creature’s crashing mace. He heard shouts. His men were joining him. He watched as the black warrior drove into them and brought them down as if they had been children. The Ploughman watched and gripped his sword more fiercely. Fury boiled in him and he attacked.

  The horned warrior was stronger, but the Ploughman was fast. He ducked and thrust, weaving in and out, moving constantly, a fly annoying a man. All around him his people were falling; the battle was failing and he knew it. But for him, in this moment, there was only one adversary and one fight, one death to meet if he should fail and one victory to gain if he should win.

  At last he stood with his feet firmly planted on the ground and lifted his sword to meet that of the enemy. The impact of the horned warrior’s blade shattered the Ploughman’s sword, and he threw the useless hilt aside and plucked his fallen spear from the ground. As his hand tightened around the smooth wood of the shaft, the flat of the black warrior’s blade caught him in the stomach and sent him flying through the air. He landed on his back on the ground and struggled to breathe, to move, to do anything. The enemy’s sword slashed down. The Ploughman rolled so that the blade caught his arm. The wound burned, but it was not deep… the horned warrior was playing with him.

  A huge clawed hand closed around the Ploughman’s throat and lifted him off the ground like a doll. The horned warrior drew back his sword, preparing to plunge it into his enemy’s limp body.

  As blackness rushed in on him and pain threatened to overwhelm his senses, the Ploughman lifted his spear desperately and aimed blindly for the monster’s head.

 
And a strength not his took him.

  A battle cry rang in his ears—his own voice, but in the echoes of it there were other voices—stronger, golden voices. It was not his strength that aimed his spear, not his strength that threw it; yet it worked through him.

  Childhood delusions.

  The horned warrior roared with pain and dropped the Ploughman. He landed in a crouch on the ground, fingers brushing the bloody earth. He looked up to see what had happened.

  His spear had pierced through the eye of the horned warrior. With one last infuriated cry of pain, the creature staggered and fell. It was dead.

  The Ploughman pulled his spear free and raised it high, screaming his battle cry over the streets of the city. He ran into the thick of the battle, and the earth shuddered at his footsteps.

  * * *

  They felt the hound’s presence before they saw it. They could hear the sound of it breathing, sniffing the wind, and they felt the deepening of the darkness as it drew near. Maggie and Libuse huddled closer to Huss, all three of them crouching behind a white stone while Jerome and Nicolas stood in the open, waiting. The sound of the creature’s approach filled the ruined hall with dread.

  In the blackness of the shadow, the white pillars of the hall seemed to glow with a light of their own, like ghostly moons in a starless sky. A howling rose up from somewhere close. Libuse rose slightly from her crouch, clutching her spear. The thread she had braided into her hair shone silver-white as star fire.

  Nicolas saw it first. He ran forward, screaming defiance to the death that waited to meet him, and drove his sword deep into the hound’s foreleg before it could react to his attack. The hound growled deep and lunged forward without warning. Its teeth sank into Nicolas’s shoulder, and it shook him like a rag.