by Tom Lloyd
‘We’ve just killed a God?’ Sebe moaned as Doranei retrieved his sword, trying not to look at the sticky mess coating the blade.
‘An insane one, if that makes it any better,’ Zhia said soothingly, looking around for any further dangers. Her strange sword was dripping blood onto the remains of the minor God: rich, red blood that certainly was not ichor. ‘The High Hunter was as crazed as the abbot.’ She gave him a wolfish grin. ‘Don’t worry; the first one is always the hardest.’
Doranei ignored that last statement. ‘You killed the abbot.’ It wasn’t a question; the evidence was dripping onto her toes.
‘Oh yes, I know a few little tricks, and once he realised I had a Skull too he simply raised his shields against me.’ She shook as much of the blood off her sword as possible. ‘He forgot that shields to stop magic cannot stop steel, and his reactions were as slow as one might expect of an elderly monk.’
‘It was really that easy?’ Doranei asked in disbelief.
‘Not entirely,’ Zhia admitted, ‘but it was always going to be very quick, or slow and completely awful for everyone within half a mile.’ She gave a cold laugh. ‘And, of course, he wasn’t my first.’
The conversation ended as they saw one of the acolytes still on the ground, a huge gash pouring blood just below his ribs. Mikiss stood a yard away from the injured man, his attention alternating between a bloodied tear in his sleeve and the widening pool on the ground, as though he couldn’t decide which fascinated him the most. Another acolyte, almost identical in both dress and build, was kneeling at the injured man’s side. He had drawn a long dagger and for a moment Doranei wasn’t sure if it was to threaten Mikiss.
Then the kneeling man put the dagger at his friend’s throat, wrapped his hands around his friend’s and drove forwards. He watched as the legs spasmed once, then went still, waited a moment longer, then let go of the dagger, still buried in his friend’s neck, and slid the mask up over the pale cropped stubble of his head, revealing a young face, still with puppy-fat cheeks, and a flattened nose that looked like it had been more than just badly broken. The tribesmen from the Waste didn’t resemble any of the original seven tribes; the dead acolyte’s skin was grey, as though dusted with ash. Doranei thought this no tribal custom, but a sign of how the Waste changed its inhabitants. They had been luckier than many; Doranei had spent a little time in the Waste, long enough to know that humans didn’t survive there unchanged. It was for good reason that there were no cities on those verdant plains where once the ancient Elves had built their civilisation.
‘Zhia,’ he said suddenly, dragging his eyes away from the dead. The vampire was crouched down in front of the dead Aspect of Vellern; she turned her head and gave him a quizzical look. ‘Can you sense the minstrel? He must be here somewhere. ’
‘Why are you so certain?’ She finished cleaning her sword on what looked like a wing and sheathed it, then stood up.
‘Because he will not—’ Doranei stopped dead. ‘Where’s the Skull?’
She nodded towards what was left of a cellar entrance. ‘Down there, with the abbot.’
‘You didn’t bring it with you?’
Zhia scowled. ‘I told you, I do not care for it, and frankly, I’m disappointed in your king for wanting it so badly. Aryn Bwr gave it to his son because he knew Velere lacked the strength and majesty to rule after the war. It is a gift for the weak.’
‘And what if it falls into the hands of the powerful?’ Doranei asked angrily. The kneeling acolyte jerked his head at his tone, but Doranei ignored him.
‘I hadn’t thought you such a fool,’ Zhia snapped in return. ‘Your friend Rojak has orchestrated all this destruction, and still you don’t see?’ She swept her arm out wide to take in the ruins of the city in the distance.
‘You think he’s lured us here?’ Doranei almost shouted his reply as he felt the smoulder of frustration and anger inside him suddenly ignite. ‘Do you honestly think he would sacrifice the Skull of Ruling and hand it to his greatest enemy before an ambush?’
‘I think we have all been blundering in the dark,’ Zhia spat, shooting a warning look at Mikiss, who’d begun to edge towards Doranei. ‘I think Rojak has been ten steps ahead for months, perhaps years, and underestimating him will get you killed. And yes, I think you have walked into an ambush.’
‘Then what in the name of Ghenna’s deepest pit are you doing here?’ Doranei yelled, his temper boiling over.
Zhia’s face softened and, quite unexpectedly, she smiled at him. ‘Your simple-mindedness is rather endearing,’ she said. ‘I’m here because I knew you’ll follow your king wherever he goes, and he will not be dissuaded in his pursuit.’ She reached out and tenderly ran a gloved finger over the exposed skin of his cheek. ‘And because I seem not to have learned from past mistakes I find myself trailing along after you.’ Zhia paused and gave a sad smile. ‘Still, I doubt there’s much left for me in the way of punishment this time round.’
She stepped away and pointed out over the wreckage to the south. Doranei followed her finger and looked through the waning flames to see a group of figures advancing on them. ‘Here come your Brothers,’ she said breezily, drawing her sword once more. ‘I presume Rojak will consider that his cue.’
Doranei’s anger had been supplanted by dread as the truth of her words sank in. Rojak had been the architect of this horror, and who could say how far his plans had run?
He staggered back, his ankle catching a splintered beam with enough force to drive a long splinter through the leather before breaking off. Doranei stared down at it as though he’d never seen such a thing before, his mind momentarily fogged. Inside his boot he could feel the sharp scratch of wood against his skin. The splinter - as long as his little finger and almost as thick - hadn’t pushed into his flesh, but he could distinctly feel it scrape over his unbroken skin.
He broke out in a manic grin as he bent down to tug the piece of wood from his boot. He inspected the hole it had made. ‘And I bleed so easily,’ he muttered to himself, ‘far too easily, in most cases.’ Holding the splinter up to his face, Doranei examined it. ‘But you, my friend, somehow you couldn’t manage that,’ he said, flicking the piece away into the crackling pyre.
He watched the curling flames dance as it was consumed, the heat making the air above waver indistinctly and stinging his eyes. He blinked furiously as he tried to clear his sight. He’d seen something beyond the flames, but what? A random shadow the heat had shaped into something more? Or—
‘Oh Gods,’ he breathed as his eyes focused again. Through the flames, staring back at him, was a massive eye. Gleaming gold in the firelight, the eye bobbed and wove through the darkness as it watched him. Oh vengeful Death, Doranei thought, hypnotised by the movement, that’s a long way to move a head. That’s a long bloody neck.
Haipar saw it too and immediately leaped forward over the flames, her body morphing into her animal self, and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Without warning the eye snapped sideways and lunged forwards, the shine of another appearing as the creature turned to face Doranei. His hand tightened around his weapons as the head came close enough to the fire to be visible. A tapering muzzle opened to reveal long dagger-like fangs and rows of smaller teeth. Its head was crowned by fat, stubby horns.
Oh piss and daemons. Doranei scrambled backwards, almost falling over the fallen acolyte behind him. ‘Wyvern!’ he yelled, finding his voice at last.
The moment balanced on a knife-edge, the air charged with expectation as Doranei readied himself for the creature to leap through the flames. Distantly he heard Zhia spit harsh syllables he couldn’t understand and the air shuddered with the impact of the spell. The fires ahead of him suddenly surged up bright and fierce into the night air, the heat striking him like a mailed fist. He raised an arm to protect his face as a reptilian shriek rang out.
‘Haipar’s out there,’ Doranei yelled, but the only response was laughter from behind him -Mikiss -and he turned to see the vampire raise his a
xes expectantly. He gave the King’s Man a comradely nod, his canines now elongated and gleaming in his smile. Doranei felt a small shiver; Mikiss had looked about to turn on him as he argued with Zhia, but now they were friends again? A soldier who couldn’t depend on those beside him never lasted long.
‘I can’t help Haipar if she wants to fight on her own,’ Zhia said calmly, her hands tracing shapes in the air as she continued to weave her magic. ‘A wyvern means Mistress is working for Rojak now; I wonder how many of the Raylin I employed are now against us.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose that will make much difference, even if they were all here.’
‘Zhia!’ Doranei had to shout to get her attention. ‘However many are out there, so is King Emin and my Brothers. We have to help them.’
‘And so we shall,’ she replied almost dismissively, ‘but I don’t want to act prematurely.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, but his voice was drowned out by an ear-splitting crack echoing around the street. Doranei turned back, unable to see anything through the flames but certain he recognised the sound of one of Cetarn’s favourite spells. ‘Do you hear?’ he cried in dismay. ‘They’re being attacked. Zhia, please!’
A greenish glow pulsing with energy surrounded Zhia as she put her hand to the Skull she carried. ‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ she said softly, before raising her voice to a shout that made Doranei’s bones tremble. ‘Koezh!’
The wall of fire winked out in an instant. Doranei blinked at the darkness, blind and afraid as he sensed movement all around him. Another whip-crack sound rang out from somewhere to his right and as he took an involuntary step forward, something flashed towards him. Without thought he stepped aside and lashed out with his sword, which caught something, though his night-blindness obscured all detail. An inhuman snarl came from behind him -one of the vampires he guessed, but the sound was so savagely animal he could not tell whether it was Mikiss or Zhia - and a figure darted forwards, striking out at whatever he’d found.
Doranei didn’t hesitate to follow; he’d done his share of sewer-fighting, combat in the dark where blows were guided by sound, following shadows moving in darkness. Something scraped down his chest and Doranei wheeled and struck again. He was rewarded with the splash of blood, or something like, on his face. He hacked upwards with his axe to catch any downward blow, and felt the blade bite. It was the opening he needed; stepping forward he thrust the point of his sword forward at chest height. Wherever on the enemy it had struck, it went in deep and was wrenched out of his grip.
Doranei let it go and sank silently to a crouch, chopping down at some movement at his feet in case it wasn’t just the kick of a dying man’s leg, but the edge only clattered against stone and made him gasp at the impact running through his hands. Nearby he heard a short laugh, someone who was enjoying this as much as Doranei wasn’t.
‘Not bad,’ Mikiss said in his heavy Menin accent, stepping out of the gloom to look Doranei in the face. All around the darkness began to resolve into shapes as detail returned, figures running past, paying them no heed. He looked down at where he thought the corpse would be, but had to adjust his gaze to several yards further away.
‘Not bad at all,’ Mikiss continued, ‘you couldn’t even see it like I could, and you’re the one that dealt the final blow.’
Doranei’s eyes widened as he saw the twitching body of the wyvern on the ground, the hilt of his sword protruding from its mouth. Gods, I drove my hand in there? The head was at an angle, and the hilt rested against the wicked curved tip of its upper fang. Someone was looking down on me with a kind heart; a few inches to either side and all I’d have caught would have been one of those teeth in the back of my hand.
Mikiss was clearly thinking the same thing as he tugged the sword from the wyvern’s head and offered it to the King’s Man. ‘A perfect strike,’ he said. An uncertain expression crossed his face, wavering between fearful and awestruck.
For a moment Doranei caught a glimpse of the man Mikiss must have once been. He gave a brusque nod in reply and turned his attention to the figures streaming past. Over the thump of boots on the ground he heard weapons clashing and screams of the dying, but he could see little other than the flood of soldiers filling the street, charging towards the sounds of battle with grim intent. Haipar was nowhere to be seen.
They were a ragged bunch, looking more like heavily armed savages. Doranei turned to look at Mikiss, about to ask why they were being ignored by the newcomers, when one slowed to look at them standing over the body of the wyvern, his jaw hanging open in a lopsided grin. His tattered leathers and rusting mail hung loose on his body. His baldric was drawn tight, as if that was all that was holding him together. His tightly stretched skin was filthy - no spare meat on this one . . . or any of them, Doranei now saw as he looked more closely.
These men were all lean, verging on withered; they looked fragile, but they carried their massive swords and axes with ease. It was their faces that made the King’s Man blanch. Doranei looked closer at the man who had slowed to look at the wyvern and saw one side of his face had been brutally shattered at some point, his ear was a mangled mess and there was an unnatural indentation in his neck. No man could still be standing with an injury like that. No living man.
What was it Zhia had called her brother’s troops? The Legion of the Damned? A soft groan escaped Doranei’s lips. ‘Gods, is there anyone actually alive in this city?’
Mikiss broke out into a fit of laughter, dropping one of his axes and reaching for Doranei’s shoulder for support as his body shook. The fingers dug hard into his shoulder, pushing through the stiffened leather and mail as though they were not even there. Doranei winced as he was driven down onto one knee and his sword slipped from his hand as his fingers opened of their own accord.
‘Be careful, pet,’ the vampire hissed in his ear, his laughter ending suddenly. ‘Your life is in our hands.’
‘Ahem,’ said Zhia, behind them. Doranei felt Mikiss flinch at the sound of her voice, but the grip did not lessen. ‘My hands, I believe, not yours.’
The fingers dug harder for a moment as a scowl passed over Mikiss’ face, but he released the King’s Man and stepped away, not about to try facing Zhia down. Doranei felt her hands under his arm, but he shook them off and rose of his own volition.
‘What’s happening here?’ he said in a daze. ‘I thought you said they would make matters worse?’
‘Worse?’ Zhia repeated. ‘This place is dead; there is no worse to be found here.’ She pointed towards where Doranei had seen men fighting a few moments earlier. Someone was lying on the ground, surrounded by Koezh’s men. Doranei took a long look before he realised the white face he saw was a mask identical to that worn by the Jester acolyte who stood not more than three yards away. Looking around, he saw more, half a dozen dead in a circle where they’d tried to defend themselves against overwhelming odds. Doranei looked around. The acolyte he had been fighting alongside a minute ago was nowhere to be seen, vanished into the night.
‘Rojak cannot have been expecting this,’ Zhia said. ‘His ambushers were horribly outnumbered. I’m sure the Jesters will have retreated immediately, but any of Azaer’s other followers who failed to leave at once are most certainly now dead.’ Her face took on the cold expression of a woman who’d lived to see every horror the Land could conjure. ‘This ends, here and now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come with me.’ Zhia turned away.
Doranei retrieved his sword again and ran after Zhia as she walked through the smoking devastation, entirely at her ease, moving swiftly, though without haste or urgency. The crowds of soldiers parted before her, though Zhia showed no sign of even registering their presence as she headed for a tight ring for soldiers who stood with weapons raised defensively, eyeing the mercenaries, who were looking at them with ambiguous intent.
This cannot be normal, even for her, Doranei thought as he trotted along behind.
In the dim lig
ht Doranei had to get closer before he recognised faces in the crowd, though he had already spotted the slumped shapes at their feet that indicated casualties. Clearly the damned had not been the only ones fighting, even if they had ended it swiftly.
Zhia changed direction before she reached King Emin’s group to approach a man fully suited in black armour, her brother. His longsword was still sheathed; whatever resistance Rojak had been able to muster, it had not taxed Koezh enough to draw his weapons, not even the dagger at his hip. Doranei had felt Zhia’s unnatural strength, so he knew the vampire was far from defenceless. Black-iron gauntlets and a punch to shatter stone -would even Coran force this famous swordsman to draw? He took a moment to study the armour. If they ever faced the Menin in battle, that would be how Kastan Styrax appeared because he had stripped an identical suit from Koezh’s corpse.
As Zhia reached him, Koezh stopped his silent inspection of the Narkang soldiers and turned to greet his sister, removing his helm to reveal his smooth face, untouched by years, and the glittering sapphire eyes, so like and yet unlike Zhia’s. Neither spoke, but Koezh gave his sister the briefest of nods. What was more surprising was the grunt of acknowledgement Koezh favoured him with. This was still the stuff of uncomfortable dreams; that he could be on nodding terms with such a man -such a monster. He recalled the last time they’d met -was it really just a handful of nights ago? -when he had sat just a couple of feet from Koezh, unable to pay any attention to the repellent play on stage because his attention was fixed so firmly on the terrifying siblings. He found Zhia Vukotic completely captivating, to be sure, but Koezh Vukotic was said to be the closest a man had ever come to the greatness that was Aryn Bwr, and it was those similarities that had condemned the Vukotic tribe to rebellion and heresy. That remarkable ruling family had been closer to the Elves than to their own people. He shivered.
‘King Emin,’ Zhia called, ‘I have a gift for you.’
