by Tom Lloyd
More voices took up the call and a fresh wave of horror struck Isak, who reeled until he was steadied by an outstretched hand: the ranger, Tiniq, bloodied and battered, yet strangely more alive and potent than Isak had ever seen him before.
‘What have you done?’ the ranger snapped, his white teeth flashing in the dark. Before Isak could answer, a second shout rose above the clamouring voices of the soldiers.
‘Merciful Death, that’s the Burning Man!’ cried one man in terror. Isak and Tiniq could see the reason for the man’s fear: in the heart of the attacking mob stood a figure twice the height of a normal man, wreathed in flame with his hands outstretched, as though blessing the scrabbling citizens around him. Isak remembered a shrine they had passed with the Burning Man’s face painted on one of the frescos. He wore an expression of sheer agony as fire curled around his head. Isak could see nothing of the figure before him beyond the dancing yellow flames that soon began to spread out to the people around it.
‘Look, with the sword,’ Jachen called, pointing with his own blade at another newcomer to the mob. This one was as tall as the Burning Man, but wearing armour and carrying an enormous sword, skin shining with an inner white light, illuminating gaunt features and grey matted hair falling about the shoulders.
Isak froze; this one too he recognised from the walls of a shrine -probably depicted in the temple behind him as well, standing guard to one side of the entrance.
Jachen found his voice again, almost sobbing with fear as he named the newcomers. ‘The Soldier—And oh Gods, the Wither Queen! Look, they’re all here -all of them, the Headsman and Great Wolf . . . the Reapers have come for us!’
Isak grabbed Tiniq by the shoulder and hauled himself upright, almost driving the ranger to the ground as he did so. Forcing his parched lips apart, he shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Hold your positions; keep the line!’
‘My Lord?’ said Jachen in disbelief, staring at Isak as though he too was a monstrous figure from the Land’s darkest myths. ‘You summoned the Reapers?’
Isak hesitated. I think so -it must have been me, but how was I meant to know? ‘I summoned help,’ he replied flatly.
‘The Reapers?’ Jachen yelled. ‘The five most violent of Death’s Aspects?’
Isak turned back the mob where a panic-stricken howl of fear was spreading through their disordered number. The Reapers; you should have known. Of all the Aspects of the Gods likely to be in attendance as the last people in this city prepare to die, which did you expect to be close enough to incarnate? ‘We’re defending the temples; they are Aspects of Death,’ he said calmly.
‘They’re the Reapers,’ Jachen wailed, almost incoherent in his fear. ‘They kill anything and anyone! The Wither Queen doesn’t stop to check whether her victims prayed to her that morning!’
Isak took a step towards him, Eolis raised and blazing with a fierce light as crackling cords of energy flashed into existence, sizzling from his wrist to the tip of the blade. ‘Hold your ground,’ he repeated, fighting to raise his voice above the frantic screams ringing out all around them. ‘If they want to take one of mine, they’ll have to put me down first.’
‘You’re going to fight the Reapers?’
Isak felt the familiar growl of anger rising inside. ‘I’ll not bloody stand aside and watch if they turn on us. Aspects of Death or not, they’ll fear the Skulls I carry, or I’ll make them do so quickly enough.’
The mobs were in disarray; some were still trying to attack, oblivious in their ferocity, while others were trying to flee the Temple Plaza. Most just stood and stared.
Isak found himself doing the same as a prickling sensation of awe washed over him. Stalking like daemons through a field of wheat, the five Aspects of Death tore a swift and bloody swathe through Scree’s remaining citizens. The Soldier and Headsman were cutting and hacking with a quiet, grim purpose. The Burning Man and the Wither Queen annihilated with a touch of their long, skeletal fingers. The Great Wolf bounded to and fro, its back strangely hunched, more like a jackal’s, and lacking the languid grace of a real wolf. Despite the clamour, Isak could still hear its excited snorts as it chased down those who tried to flee.
The air was filled with people shrieking, screaming, crying, wailing, and there, somewhere on the edge of hearing, Isak thought he heard an echoing laughter. For a moment he thought it had come from inside the temple, as though Death himself was revelling in the most unpleasant sides of himself, but everyone knew Death was impassive. Pleasure didn’t come into this, it was just the act itself.
Isak chided himself at being distracted and returned his attention to the terrible slaughter taking place. Within minutes the Reapers had killed more than his men had managed to take down all evening, but in this Gods-inflicted chaos it was even less of a battle than it had originally been. This wasn’t a desperate fight for survival, it wasn’t the grim repetition of deflect, strike, kill, each soldier trying to control the growing fear inside him as they faced an unstoppable horde. This was different, this was murder, out-and-out butchery, and Isak couldn’t quite believe it of Gods. He could see his own revulsion mirrored in the faces of the men around him.
And in an instant, the folk of Scree returned to their senses and a great wave of pleas and prayers emanated from the mob.
An icy hand gripped Isak’s heart. The minstrel’s magic had been undone, and the savage desires of Gods still gorged upon the minstrel’s victims, thanks to the power he gave them.
The old men of the wagon-train, where Isak had grown up, always said the Reapers taught a man what he was truly afraid of. Take anyone into a Temple of Death and look at the painted images: everyone, man, woman and child, would be able to pick out that one they feared more than the others. Isak had always believed the Burning Man was his; the idea of a man aflame made his skin crawl, but as he looked into the pitiless face of the Wither Queen, even his powerful limbs trembled. The other Reapers destroyed indiscriminately, but she seemed to take more than just life. As she caressed each terrified face with her long jagged fingernails, she looked into their eyes, and it was as if her dead-grey eyes tore the souls from each mortal body, as her loathsome diseases ravaged their flesh in a heartbeat. She bestowed upon her chosen pain of years in an instant, condensed and purified into the purest agony, and it was that pain that killed her victims as much as the diseases themselves.
Isak’s hand shook as the Wither Queen cast her gaze on a crowd of petrified, whimpering civilians. He wanted to howl with fear and guilt. He staggered a few steps back and turned to look at the temple. It was still and silent, the only light within coming from the two torches they had set by the arched entrance that now cast deep shadows over the interior. The high altar at the centre of the building was a solid block of darkness, untouched by the torchlight.
But I never meant this, he thought through a daze as the surging energies from the Skulls howled in his ears and begged to be used. How has this happened? These men have given their lives to defend what, a grand shrine to these daemons? They will have been told it was their duty to defend the glory of their Gods, and now they see the monsters their Gods really are—Or was this truly my fault? Did I do something to make them this way? Did they take something from me when they took the strength to incarnate?
‘Stop them,’ said a voice in his head. The scar blazed hot on his chest as he felt Xeliath’s presence on his shoulder. ‘They are here at your invitation, they are yours to command.’
‘Xeliath?’ Isak said aloud, before realising he had no need. ‘Where are you? Can you see them?’
‘I see them,’ she said, her voice all grim purpose in his head. Her resolve calmed Isak and helped clear his mind. ‘They are feeding off your strength, the power in the Skulls and the fear of your men.’ She gave a small gasp. ‘Isak, there’s so much energy flowing through you - they’re feeding off you like leeches, and as it flowed over your scar, that was enough to drag me here too.’
‘Can you help me?’
‘I
am miles away; we’re guests in a monastery outside your city of Perlir. This fight is yours alone; Gods do not dream, I cannot touch them.’
‘How do I fight them?’
‘Face them down and cut the flow of strength. I can sense some strange flavour in the air around you. Whatever it is, it is anathema to them, I think. Without your help they will run like whipped dogs.’ A suddenly note of urgency entered her voice and jerked Isak back to action. In the distance the screams continued.
Isak grabbed Eolis and used the sword to hold himself upright as the strength left his legs. He was intoxicated by the taste of magic filling his head.
‘My Lord,’ cried Count Vesna, seeing Isak totter. He ran over and grabbed an arm.
Isak looked up drunkenly into his friend’s face. Vesna had removed his helm and Isak could see the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Tears of what, fear? Exhaustion? Or maybe loss for the man he’d once been . . .
And yet still he runs to you, still he is there to hold you before you fall, this man who thinks he’s failed you. He casts off his own fear before he lets you fall, so who is it who has failed his friend?
‘Hold the line,’ Isak whispered, clutching Vesna’s shoulder for support, willing his strength to return. Vesna, there for him despite his own troubles, and so many others: they needed a strong lord, or they were all dead.
Get up, you bastard, Isak screamed in his own mind, get up and face them, or it won’t just be these men here who die. What about the rest of your troops in the city? What about the rest of the Farlan? Do you think Azaer will stop here? No, he’ll continue until Tirah is as much of a husk as Scree.
‘Hold the line?’ Vesna said, looking up to check the wedge of surviving soldiers. Some had sunk to their knees, all were too tired to speak. Only then did the count see the men wavering -fear of what was happening ruling them rather than mere exhaustion -and he immediately started to bellow orders.
Isak looked around. The mobs had stopped attacking them now, and the exhausted troops looked ready to collapse. Only the sight of the Reapers, still wreaking havoc amongst the people of Scree, stopped them from all crumpling to the ground. Vesna’s orders raised heads and steadied a few, and as the remaining sergeants took up the shout, Isak watched their resolve return. He knew it was crucial they stayed in line, for if they ran, the Reapers would slaughter them too. Their only chance was to remain apart from the fleeing mob, separate and in control.
‘They’re running,’ Jachen said dully. His sword hung limp in his hand, tip trailing along the ground. It didn’t look like he’d have the strength to swing it again this night; Isak was ready to pray that none of them would have to.
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Shouldn’t we?’ Jachen asked. ‘No Aspect of Death is noted for its pity, but these—’
‘If you run, you’ll die,’ Isak said with certainty.
‘Then what? We stand here and let them slaughter us?’ Vesna was as tired as the rest, and hadn’t the strength to protest with vehemence. He sounded resigned, as though he knew this was what Fate had in store for him.
‘Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.’
‘You can’t fight the Reapers.’
‘Why not?’ Isak stood straight again, no longer needing the man’s shoulder for support. ‘There was a war once, remember? Aryn Bwr proved Gods could be killed, and he gave the Land the means to do so. They’ll remember; they fought at the Last Battle.’
A collective gasp from the men behind them interrupted them and Isak wheeled around to see the Soldier, sword low and head dipped, advancing towards them. His face was veiled by his lank grey hair, but Isak could see the Aspect was carefully scrutinising the mixed Farlan and Devoted soldiers.
The Aspect wore a patchwork of armour, mismatched steel plates and scraps of chain mail hanging off his emaciated frame. His sword arm - the left, which struck Isak as strange, since most left-handed soldiers were forced to use their right - was bare, apart from a steel band around the wrist. The Soldier’s skin looked as pale as a corpse’s, and as wasted as one of the Wither Queen’s victims, hardly strong enough to wield the long leaf-bladed sword with which he had helped to massacre the mob.
The other Reapers were still dispatching those citizens left in the plaza, chasing them down with unexpected swiftness. The Soldier was oblivious to this as he approached the temple over a carpet of carnage, the bones of the slain snapping under his weight.
‘Keep your positions,’ Isak said calmly. He didn’t bother to raise his voice; an unnatural hush had fallen over the soldiers and every man could hear his words.
‘It feeds on the fear they feel,’ Xeliath reminded him, ‘but remember, you look like a God to them; show no fear and you weaken it.’
With a deliberately unhurried movement, Isak pushed his way past his Farlan guards and jumped over the trench he’d carved in the Temple Plaza. He kept his eyes on the Soldier, like a sane man does on a dangerous dog. Break eye contact and you lose what little control you might have; despite centuries of breeding, it remembers that it was once a wolf.
‘My Lord,’ said Vesna quietly. Isak raised his shield hand in warning and the count fell silent. Whatever Vesna’s objection, it was past the point of making. He’d only intervene now if he thought Isak was in danger -and damn him, he would, as well: Isak had no doubt that Vesna, broken spirit or not, would charge headlong to attack the Aspect of Death if his lord was threatened.
Is this what you do to men? Isak thought as he approached the Soldier. He could feel the pull of its presence now, the aura that Lord Bahl had worn like a mantle of authority, the glamour that Morghien had spoken of, enough to cow men into obedience. Even as he forced himself to face up to the minor God, Isak found himself having to fight the urge to kneel, to lower his gaze and make obeisance, despite the horror he felt in his heart.
Is this how the rest of them see you? Isak asked himself, remembering the battle outside Lomin, calling the storm down onto himself in Narkang, and the images seared into his memory.
This close, he could see that the Soldier was covered with blood; his boots were soaked through and the battered blade he dragged over the ground, careless of its edge, was covered in filth and gore. Isak almost gave up when he realised how much taller than he the Soldier was, but pride kept him going. He wouldn’t falter now; he would meet these consequences head-on.
‘Give him to me,’ the Soldier growled to Isak when they were no more than four yards apart. The white-eye looked confused for a moment, then noted the Soldier’s intent expression, as though the Aspect was looking straight through his flesh and into Isak’s soul. As if to confirm Isak’s suspicion, the Soldier sniffed the air cautiously, savouring the scent on the breeze that drifted towards him past Isak’s shoulder. At the back of his mind, something stirred.
‘He’s mine,’ Isak said simply. He watched the Aspect’s dead eyes for any sign of emotion, but there was nothing.
‘Give him to me,’ the Soldier repeated. ‘His soul is forfeit to Lord Death. We have hunted him for millennia, and no whelp will deny me this prize.’ The Aspect looked past Isak, at the terrified soldiers behind him. A thin smile appeared on its lips. ‘Give him to me or they will all die.’
Isak felt a rising surge of anger, and a sudden contempt. Showing your hand so easily? Threatening them just shows me you’re afraid, otherwise why would you bother? You really are nothing more than Death’s cruel shadow, and you’re frightened of me.
‘They will not die and nor will I give you my chained dragon. You have done my bidding here, and just as I summoned you, I now dismiss you. Your services are no longer needed.’
‘I am your God,’ the Aspect hissed, ‘and you do not dismiss me.’
‘My God?’ Isak echoed.
He took a step forward and carefully removed his helm and hood. There was nothing he needed to hide. The Soldier stayed still.
‘Nartis is my God, and like the one you serve, he does not command me. He made me; he gave me m
y strength and my gifts, but that doesn’t mean he owns me. With these gifts I act as I see fit, and that includes wielding weapons against enemies, of which the Reapers were not the first.’
‘Do you think you can deny me?’ The Soldier’s fury was obvious now, which only confirmed Isak’s hunch. ‘I am a part of you; I am the incarnation of a white-eye’s anger—’
‘Then you are a part of me,’ Isak snapped, ‘but you are not all that I am, and I command the anger inside me. My soul may be stained, I may have been born a creature of anger, but I will not let that make me a monster like you and yours.’
Carefully, deliberately, Isak sheathed Eolis and touched his fingers to his chest. ‘I gave you the power to be here,’ he said in a controlled voice. His fingers warmed as they rested on the Skull, the magic within a living thing. ‘And that power is mine to retrieve when I choose.’
With a thought Isak took hold of the energy gushing out from the Skulls into the plaza beyond. The magic kicked and writhed under his grip, desperate to keep flowing, and for a moment he wondered if he was strong enough to control that vast stream of power. Could he dam it so that these monsters could no longer feed from it? His self-doubt disappeared in a flash as he realised Aryn Bwr was there, guiding his movements. He could feel the last king’s desperation to escape that cruel, hungry gaze and allowed the dead spirit to steer his thoughts and cut the flow as easily as drawing a curtain.
To his immense satisfaction, Isak saw a flicker of surprise cross the Soldier’s face, then the Aspect vanished, leaving only a set of bloody boot prints on the stone ground. In the distance he sensed the other Reapers also disappearing from the city. A smile almost crossed his face, but he caught it in time and made sure he was expressionless when he turned back to the living soldiers outside the temple.
He could see no personal consequence of summoning the Reapers; it hadn’t marked his skin, like calling the storm had . . . but the dead lay in every direction. This was neither the place nor the time to feel pleased with himself.
