She thought of killing the scout, but she knew that it would cause too much noise, or that her usual affinity with fire would light up her location as much as the army of lanterns in the distance. She thought then of the spell of confinement that she saw in one of Melgalés’ books, a dangerous spell that she was glad her soul was confined to the Beldarian for.
And so, as the scout cast his eyes north, Thalla cast her net around him. An emptiness opened up beneath the man, a hole into nothingness, which sucked him in before he could even scream. Where it brought him, she did not know. Perhaps it was the Void, or perhaps it was some place better, or some place worse. She did not even know how to undo the spell, or if he would be freed with the passage of time. She had little time or energy to worry about her captive, however, for she knew that more scouts would be sent out soon, and the spell of confinement was more draining than anything else she had attempted before.
* * *
The night marched on, and with it came the army of lights, growing larger and brighter, and becoming more of a comfort to the imprisoned knights, and more of a menace to the Nahamoni. As the night grew darker, and the lights grew brighter, Irons began to pace around restlessly.
“What happened to our scout?” he asked. “At this rate we’ll know who’s approachin’ before he does. Send another.”
And so another scout set out, this time with two accompanying guards. Thalla did not know what to do then, and she thought it would be better to catch them on the way back than cause a commotion now. Her thoughts were short-lived, however, for it seemed that as soon as they disappeared into the blackness, they emerged before her suddenly, and she was so caught off-guard that they seized her and knocked her to the ground.
Then a volley of arrows came through, and several of them pierced the scout and guards, and several more narrowly missed Thalla on the ground. Horsemen drew up close, bearing the banners of Boror, and among them was Herr’Don. Thalla almost did not recognise him, for his clothes were new and clean, and they were a better fit, and better spoke of his royal line. His new cloak was not tattered, but whole, and he no longer looked like a broken man.
It seemed that he did not recognised her, for he said, “You there! What enemies await?”
“At least ... a thousand Nahamoni,” Thalla stuttered in response.
“Let’s give them a little welcome gift,” Herr’Don said, glancing to a man on horseback beside him, whom he called Edgaron, and then to a riderless horse on the other side, whom he did not call at all.
Thalla saw then what he meant, for behind the horsemen were many legions of infantry, and behind the infantry were the Magi of Boror, and behind them were many siege weapons, all illuminated by a myriad of lanterns. Thalla had never seen anything like it, and last she heard of such an army, the King rode with it.
“They have prisoners,” she told them.
“How many?” Herr’Don asked.
“Enough. Ifferon is one of them.”
Herr’Don shook his head. “This is not a rescue mission,” he said. “We march to fight Agon.”
“Then we better rescue our best weapon,” Thalla said.
* * *
The Visage circled Ifferon once again, and his movement and words were as much a form of torture as any of the grisly tools at his disposal. Yet when he stopped and fell suddenly silent, the new fear of pain joined the old fear of everything that had come before.
The Visage lifted up a poker, which he thrust suddenly into the fire, and Ifferon flinched. His wide eyes saw the little embers that leapt out of the furnace, as if trying to escape. The masked man held the iron bar in the flames for what felt like an eternity, turning it slowly, and looking back at Ifferon with those same iron eyes, which thrust through him just as easily.
“There is nothing I can say that you do not already know,” Ifferon said. “And if you want me to do something I will not already do, then your efforts are in vain.”
Another turn of the weapon, and another empty stare. Its emptiness filled Ifferon with the greatest dread, and what he could not see in his enemy’s eyes, he knew he revealed in his own.
“I have nothing I can give you,” Ifferon said.
The Visage drew the hot poker from the fire, like a soldier draws a sword from its sheath. As he did this, Ifferon knew that he would be its new sheath, that the burning embers would be holstered in his heart.
“We all have something to give,” the Visage said as he drew close, and as the hot poker drew closer. “Our lives.”
* * *
The attack came like the suddenness of lightning. Horsemen rode in, followed by swordsmen and halberdiers, and they came without lanterns, while many thousands hung back to distract the enemy with their lights. They clashed with fierceness and fury, and some of the Nahamoni fled in shock and surprise. For those who stood and fought, they were pressed back and destroyed, and as some of the Bororians fell, more lanterns flickered out in the distance, and more troops charged in to join the fray.
Herr’Don dismounted and unsheathed his sword. He held it low, as if he needed no defence, and as he passed by Délin he swung the blade and cut the bonds around the knight’s wrists. He pressed on as Trueblade untied his feet, and he bore down towards Shackles, returning the giant’s evil glare with his own.
They clashed like the angry ocean against the stubborn shore. Herr’Don swung his sword at the giant, who parried it with his granite arms, before returning the blow with his flail. Herr’Don narrowly dodged the studded chain and swiped again at the beast before him, slicing into his belly, and then again across his thigh. Shackles roared out, but the pain only fuelled him, and he began to swing madly at the prince, until finally Herr’Don was struck back several feet. Shackles loomed tall before him, and Irons joined him.
But Herr’Don was not alone, for Délin returned from freeing his fellow knights, and he helped the prince to his feet. Then both of them stood to face their oppressors, sword in hand, with anger and honour driving their blades.
Shackles swung his flail, while Irons stabbed with his dagger and prodded with his poker, but they were large and clumsy, and Herr’Don and Délin moved between them with ease. The prince made short work of the pale giant, slicing here and there at frenzied speed, while Délin parried Irons’ attacks, which hit harder than his twin, until the giant knew why they called him Trueblade.
And so in moments Shackles collapsed to the ground, and the ground gave a tremor, as if it were shuddering from the feel of the giant. Then a louder and fiercer quake followed, and another came as Délin drove his sword through Irons, freeing him from the bonds of life. The ground rolled beneath them, and they thought they heard the sound of rending steel upon the wind, but it was drowned out by the din of battle.
* * *
While the knights fought outside, Thalla freed Elithéa and Geldirana, and they raced towards the tent to which Ifferon had been dragged. They reached it just in time for Elithéa to knock aside the hot poker with her staff, eliciting an audible sigh of relief from Ifferon.
Thalla confronted the masked man, and she cast a bolt of fire towards him, but he dispersed it with an icy touch, and she knew then that he was one of the Magi, that deep beneath his armoured chest there must lie a Beldarian. She had little time to find out however, for as she cast another fiery ball towards him, he disappeared in a shroud of darkness, and the fire continued until it engulfed the fabric of the tent.
The three women hauled Ifferon outside, avoiding the licking tongues of flame that leapt out to taste them.
“Saved from fire, by fire,” Ifferon said, but the ever-present thought of Agon told him that there would be much more fire to come.
* * *
As the battle continued, many slowed their attacks or stopped completely when a large carriage rolled in, adorned with a canopy and numerous flags and banners bearing the royal seal and the colours of the royal house. It was pulled by two majestic horses, one black and one white, and inside it sat Herr’Gal the Ki
ng of Boror, covered in armour and carrying a ceremonial sword.
“All hail the King!” some cried, though none of the knights repeated the words; some instead prayed to Issarí and Corrias, or looked to Délin in surprise.
“So he finally comes to the battlefield,” Délin said. “Perhaps Boror still has some honour left.”
“More than a little,” Herr’Don said as he wiped the side of his blade across his thigh, smearing the blood over his already richly red attire.
“You fought well,” Délin said with a nod.
“You managed well enough yourself,” Herr’Don replied with a grin.
Délin placed his hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder as a token of fellowship.
“I would return the gesture,” Herr’Don said, “but my sword is in one hand, and the other is a little preoccupied strangling ghosts in Halés.”
“I am sorry for the loss of your shield arm,” the knight said.
Herr’Don paused and looked to the ground before looking up again, and Délin caught a glisten in his eyes. “I am not,” the prince said. “It has made the Great even greater. One arm will do, as this Nahamon knows well. Besides, I never used a shield. It was a second sword arm to me.”
* * *
Ifferon could barely find the words of thanks to give to his saviours, but they did not need or want such praise.
“We couldn’t let our best weapon burn,” Thalla said in jest.
“I might have allowed a singe in payment for betraying Ferian secrets,” Elithéa said, but her actions suggested otherwise. Ifferon knew that she was still torn between the sacred fate of her people and the reality that they had succeeded in restoring life to Théos and Corrias. “I only wish we could have sent that evil Magus to the fire instead,” she added.
Geldirana said least, but her eyes said most of all. She looked at him like she had when they emerged from the Black Eyrie. Her intense stare was overpowering, and Ifferon could barely keep her gaze.
“Thalla,” he said. “When did you earn your Beldarian?”
They all looked to her now, like the moon shines a focal light in the blindness of the night. Her face reddened and she looked away, but instead of keeping her eyes averted, as she often did before, she turned back to them and held their gaze.
“Thúalim fell,” she explained. “I took his place.”
Ifferon wondered if this was the natural order of things in the Order of the Magi, but something told him that it was not. He imagined the others were thinking similar things, for all of them were silent, and in that silence there could be heard on the edge of hearing, a faint whisper from the Halls of Halés.
* * *
In time the Nahamoni army had been destroyed or routed, and those that held the knights in bonds became prisoners of their own. The survivors stumbled from the aftershocks, and though they had won this fight, the tremors brought their attention further east, to where their strongest enemy still struggled, and still lay undefeated.
The company reunited, and many were cheerful to see Herr’Don again. Pleasantries were exchanged between the old and new, and in time they all came before the King of Boror and gave their, often very brief, acknowledgement.
“It looks like Arlin still needs Boror after all,” the King said. “It’s lucky Atel-Aher didn’t build a wall around your prison or you’d still be prisoners.”
Délin grumbled, but said nothing. A chorus of grumbles echoed around him.
“So this is the cleric,” the King said, eyeing Ifferon up and down. “Looks like another knight to me.”
“Then our aim is achieved,” Délin said. “Let the enemy be blind.”
“Agon will see through this mask,” the King said.
“Then let us blind him.”
The King looked at the knight harshly. “Look around you, knight. Your army might try to blind him. My army will do far more than that.”
“So then,” Délin said. “What brings you out of your throne room? Has Herr’Don managed to convince his father to defend his people?”
“I did not come for or with him,” the King said. “I cam in spite of him.”
Délin looked to Herr’Don, whose chest heaved and whose mouth trembled just a little.
The King held his head high, as Herr’Don often did. From the darkness around him emerged a metal mask, followed swiftly by a hand around the King’s face. Herr’Gal cried out, and others cried in turn, but as they charged towards him and his attacker, there was a flurry of darkness, and he was gone. His crown tumbled from his head in the assault, and it did not vanish with him, but crashed down upon the ground, where it span for a moment, and then slowed, and then stopped with a clang.
IX – LONG LIVE THE KING
There was chaos upon the plains, as if the battle had erupted anew, but this time the armies battled with their confusion, and their eyes fought with the darkness. The search for the King of Boror was frenzied, like how a mother might search for a child, but instead the massive armies of Boror searched for the one they would call “father,” and the one Herr’Don would not.
The prince joined the search, not out of love, but duty. It would mend no hurt to see the King dethroned, even if that was the very chant of many of Boror’s people. Instead, it would be a new hurt to Boror itself, for the insult was less to who wore the crown, but to the crown itself. It was a symbol, like the entwined serpents of the royal house, and the seizure of the King had given Agon a powerful symbolic victory.
“The night that was our ally in our march is now our enemy,” Herr’Don said. “We need light if we are to make good of this evil.”
And so the archers were gathered, and they shot arrows of fire high into the sky, which rained down into the empty parts of the plains. The sky brightened for a moment, and then darkened again, as if it were the eyelid of a god that had stirred momentarily from its slumber. Then the Magi joined the illumination of the heavens, sending up great sparks of lightning and fire, and some sent up orbs of light, and others sent up strange creatures and birds that glowed and glimmered. Even the foot soldiers did their part, carrying their lanterns here and there, fanning out to cover large expanses of land.
And the search was fruitless, and an hour passed, and then another, until it seemed that every fleeting minute was like a drop of blood from the veins of the King.
* * *
King Herr’Gal rummaged through his garments for something to end the torment, for a dagger to drive through his heart, or a poison to funnel through his veins. Each frantic pat met with nothing to free him, and all the while the Visage continued to prepare another series of instruments, and another round of torture.
And then, as if in answer to his fervent prayers, Herr’Gal found a vial hidden deep within his shirt. He knew instantly that it was one of Daralus’ concoctions, and that it was enough to kill any man. He thought for a moment of trying to force it on the Visage, but he knew he had not the strength to fight the Magus, nor the skill to evade his spells.
So then he resigned himself to the fact that he must take his own life before his torturer did. He thought little of his kingdom then, nor of his people, nor of his son, nor even of the one whom he trained to be next in line; he thought only of his life and his desire to live, and that which conquered that desire: his aversion to pain.
The Visage continued to busy himself with his wicked weapons, and Herr’Gal knew that this delay was part of the torment, the part that played on the mind. Yet it was his moment of opportunity, and so he slipped the lid off the poison vial, and he swamped it down in one fell swoop. Immediately he felt the burn of the liquid in his throat, and then down into the pit of his stomach, and it conjured a new pain to join those the evil Magus had summoned.
And he waited.
The pain rose and fell, like all the pains he had felt so far this night in captivity.
And he waited.
The pain dissipated completely, leaving behind only his other pains, and a new pain of the mind: that the poison was not
enough. It could kill any man, and he knew that he was like any other, with one key difference: his daily dose of poison, and the gradual immunity it gave him.
And so the Visage turned around, with a fresh array of devices, ones that even Herr’Gal did not recognise from those who worked for him in his own dungeons. Each of these the Visage used in turn, tearing from him his fingernails, ripping from him his tongue, and wrenching from him a constant wail, punctuated only by a series of even greater cries. And so it continued, until Herr’Gal begged for death, pleaded for poison, and found none but that which already rested in his veins.
The night was long, as if the sun could do naught but avert its eyes. No one came for him, as if no one cared for him. He yearned for saving from this misery, and as his final moments came, and did not come soon enough, he even thought of his son Herr’Don, and wished the prince could have saved him from this fate.
* * *
The armies of Boror were too late when they found their King, and many suspected that it was not a chance discovery, but a deliberate attempt to break their morale. They stormed the lonely tent, which stood out almost too obviously in the empty plains, and they found their leader dead, bearing all manner of scars, some too terrible to behold. In place of his royal red robes, he wore a garment of blood. Even those who despised him or were highly critical of his rule could not help but pity him and shake their heads when considering his final moments.
Herr’Don could barely stand the sight, and he left the tent almost as quickly as he had entered it. He had been ready for battle—not for this. His firm grip upon the handle of his sword had almost faltered, and his firm stance upon the ground had almost toppled. Ifferon and Délin helped him stumble outside.
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