‘Whatever they might be, they would have to be portable,’ Choss put in.
Tayschrenn nodded absently, already lost in thought. ‘I will work with Nightchill on this. If I can find her. Gods know where she spends her days.’ He inclined his head to Choss. ‘I leave you in good hands, then,’ he said, and walked out, hands clasped at his back.
Choss watched him go, then turned a raised brow on Nedurian, saying, ‘Now that is one odd bird.’
Nedurian couldn’t help but crook a small smile. ‘We’re lucky to have him. He’s extraordinarily powerful, just doesn’t know how to mine it yet. Sort of like a natural archer who hasn’t yet learned how to draw a bow properly.’
‘Breathing,’ Choss said. ‘I’m told it’s all in the breathing.’
Nedurian sat at the table and took up the wine, sipping it while Choss watched, his lips tight. ‘I’ve heard that too,’ he said.
* * *
Iko was reviewing the latest candidates for the guard when news reached her via her own paid palace informants of some sort of incident involving the young king. Bowing out quickly, she set off across the sprawling grounds for the Kan family residences; the location surprised her, though she had noticed that lately the Kan family had been working to increase their influence, considerable though it already was.
As she hurried, she could not help but reflect upon the disappointing quality of this year’s crop of candidates. Years ago none would have even been considered. Was this a sign of their society’s falling dedication to tradition and plain hard work? Or was it a sign that she was now officially one of the veterans, despite her tender years? Yes, tender, she reaffirmed to herself, dammit!
The Kan family guards and retainers at the compound doors hesitated as she approached, but seeing her determined not to slow her pace one whit, they reluctantly opened the doors at the last moment. Within, a long, richly decorated hall led to an equally gilded main reception chamber and here she found the young king before the seat of the honorary head of the extended Kan noble family, the ancient dowager, Lady Serenna.
Between two Kan guards stood one of the king’s tutors, the youngest of them, a brilliant scholar of history, logic and calligraphy, Bahn Throol. The fellow was pale and sweaty, obviously ill at ease.
Iko pushed through to the fore of the gathered crowd of functionaries, petty bureaucrats and Kan family hangers-on. Catching sight of her, Lady Serenna glowered her distaste, then glanced away, dismissing her. She returned her attention to the scholar. ‘Touching the king’s person without his permission is a serious charge,’ she announced, her voice high and thin. She addressed the young King Chulalorn the Fourth. ‘You said he did so, yes?’
From the youth’s flushed face and hunched shoulders Iko could tell he was fairly withering in embarrassment. He nodded his lowered head.
Lady Serenna rapped her camphorwood fan against the armrest of her chair. ‘Speak up! Remember, you are the king!’
The child raised his chin, said hoarsely, ‘Yes.’
‘I was merely adjusting the grip of his stylus—’ the scholar Throol began, only to be cut off by another rap of the dowager’s fan.
‘Quiet! You will speak only when invited to do so!’
Scholar Throol wisely ducked his head.
‘And you struck him for his impudence?’
The young king nodded.
Shocked, Iko pushed aside the last functionary blocking her way and strode forward. ‘You struck one of your tutors?’ she demanded.
The youth spun, his face brightening. ‘Shimmer!’
Lady Serenna repeatedly rapped her fan against her armrest. ‘Quiet – remember your place, Chulalorn!’ She turned a slit gaze upon Iko. ‘This does not involve you, Sword-Dancer. This is a family matter only.’
Since Iko did not owe any allegiance or debt of patronage to the Kan family, she ignored the dowager and instead addressed Chulalorn the Fourth. ‘You must never strike an unarmed man or woman, yes, my king?’
The lad nodded morosely. ‘Yes, Shimmer.’
‘And you must respect those with wisdom and learning – yes, my king?’
‘Yes, Shimmer. I’m sorry.’
‘Do not apologize to me, my king. Apologize to Scholar Throol.’
A choked breath from Lady Serenna brought the lad’s attention to the dowager. ‘A king,’ the old woman fairly snarled, ‘does not apologize.’
Iko crossed her arms, eyed the ancient; she offered a nod of agreement. ‘Perhaps not. However, an honourable man does,’ and she turned her gaze to Chulalorn, waiting.
The lad glanced between her and the dowager, swallowed, and lowered his head. He turned to the scholar, murmured, ‘My apologies, Scholar Throol.’
The tutor paled even further, a hand at his throat. ‘Really – there is no need – my king is most gracious …’
‘Leave us!’ Lady Serenna hissed. She waved the fan to encompass the entire chamber. ‘Leave us! You will now leave us! All of you!’
In a rather undignified scramble the chamber cleared until only the Kan guards, Lady Serenna, Iko and the young king remained. Scholar Throol had been marched out by two of the guards.
The Dowager Lady Serenna sat glowering down at Iko. Finally, she turned her dark gaze upon Chulalorn. ‘Does a king command?’ she demanded.
The lad nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Is he commanded by his underlings?’
Chulalorn blinked, uncertain, shot a sidelong glance to Iko, but nodded once more. ‘No.’
Lady Serenna appeared to relax; she turned her disapproving gaze upon Iko. ‘Sword-Dancer,’ she announced, ‘you failed in your duty to protect my nephew, King Chulalorn the Third. Such incompetence has long troubled me greatly, and makes me doubt your ability to fulfil your duties.’
Iko let her arms fall, suddenly shaken. ‘You have no authority—’
‘This is true,’ Lady Serenna agreed. ‘However,’ and she pointed the fan to Chulalorn, ‘the king does.’
The boy stared, obviously confused.
‘Chulalorn,’ Lady Serenna explained, ‘your personal guards serve at your pleasure. You may choose to dismiss them at will.’
Her ward glanced between them, frowning, until understanding came and his mouth fell open. ‘But …’
‘Be a king,’ Lady Serenna demanded.
Tears welled from the young lad’s eyes and he twisted his fingers together. His pleading gaze begged Iko for guidance, any sort of help, and seeing him tortured like this broke her heart.
She quickly knelt to one knee, saying, ‘I beg permission to withdraw my service, my lord.’
He nodded, quite beyond words. His voice was barely audible as he whispered a cracked ‘Accepted’.
Rising, Iko bowed to the lad one last time then turned on her heel without a single glance to the dowager. She would not give the old lizard the satisfaction.
The doors to the Kan compound closed behind her and she looked up at the sky, blinking back her tears. Stupidly done, Iko, she told herself. So stupidly done.
Dismissed, she no longer had any claim to quarters in the palace, and so she packed what few personal belongings she owned. Her fine mail suit and the whipsword she had to leave behind, as they were possessions of the crown.
Packing, she turned and saw the regent, Mosolan, watching, arms crossed. She offered him a nod that he answered with a long slow regretful shake of his head.
‘I could hire you into the palace guard,’ he suggested.
‘No. I couldn’t bear to stand there …’ She shook her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But they’ve long been jealous of your relationship with the king. I should’ve warned you, I suppose, but,’ and he shrugged, ‘it never seemed the right time.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘They couldn’t allow an outsider that much influence … they just couldn’t.’
She noted that he was merciful enough not to add: And you walked right into it.
‘What will you do?’
She shrugged, clos
ed up her single bag. ‘I don’t know. Join the army, maybe.’
‘You? In the regulars? I don’t think so.’
‘Whatever. I don’t know.’
He pushed away from the jamb, appearing troubled. ‘Listen. Stay in touch. I could use someone on the outside – you never know.’
She knew he was trying to be helpful, but she was just angry. Angry at damned palace politics, at the pathetic dance of influence and favour that she thought she’d been above all this time. But mostly she was just damned furious at herself.
She dipped her head in acceptance. ‘Yes, thank you. It’s just … I’m not sure. We’ll see.’
He extended his arm and they clasped wrists, as veterans, and she headed out across the gardens towards the main front doors to the palace grounds. Along the way she glimpsed a few Sword-Dancers, those off duty, watching from a distance. But none approached, and she knew why.
Dismissal. Shameful dismissal.
Better to die in service than endure such. She reached the tall and ponderous iron-bound doors, one of which the guards pushed open a crack for her.
Without, she paused in what seemed a brighter, and harsher, light. The door thumped shut behind her. The bustle, noise and clatter of the city of Itko Kan assaulted her senses and she winced, blinking, shading her eyes.
She realized that for the first time in her life she had no duties, no calling. No … purpose. Nor did she have anywhere to go. A slim purse of coin was all she now had to her name. She strode forward into the traffic of the city and let it take her where it would.
* * *
Three days after the disastrous attempt to join the Crimson Guard, Gregar was off duty, playing troughs with his squad-mates, when Leah came and set a hand on his shoulder.
‘Visitors for you,’ she murmured, rather subdued.
A quip died on his lips as he saw that their new sergeant appeared quite serious; she also waved Haraj up. ‘You too.’ She motioned them to follow.
‘Who is it?’ Gregar asked.
She gave them a strange evaluative look. ‘You’ll see.’
Gregar shrugged, unconcerned. Anything to break the boredom of this waiting was welcome. All pretence of actively besieging Jurda had long been abandoned, and their presence had lapsed into plain dull garrison duty. Meanwhile, more and more forces gathered; every would-be princeling, duke, petty baron and man-at-arms east of Cawn seemed to want a share of the glory to come – allies and enemies of both Gris and Bloor. And both had more than enough of each.
Beyond the Yellows encampment stood two men wrapped in long crimson cloaks against a cold drizzle. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of wonder, for here were the unmistakable figures of young K’azz D’Avore and the mage Cal-Brinn, of the Crimson Guard.
The Red Prince bowed to Leah. ‘My thanks.’ The girl curtly lowered her head and turned away, probably, Gregar thought, to hide a blush. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ K’azz continued, to him and Haraj.
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Gregar asked, bemused.
The young fellow – perhaps Gregar’s own age, he realized – appeared apologetic. ‘Well, my father was not very complimentary.’
Gregar just shrugged. ‘He was right … we wasted your time.’
K’azz and Cal-Brinn shook a negative. ‘No,’ said K’azz, ‘it was sprung on you and that was not proper. You must forgive my father – he believes every man and woman who has ever picked up a sword wishes to join the Guard.’
Haraj rubbed the back of his neck, almost wincing. ‘He’s probably right.’
Gregar peered about, at the passing soldiers – keeping a respectful distance, but always staring, as the bright red cloaks could mean only one thing. ‘So … what can we do for you?’
K’azz nodded, growing serious. ‘As I said, I’ve come to apologize on behalf of the Guard. I – we,’ and he gestured to Cal-Brinn, ‘want you to know that in declining to abandon your comrades before battle you displayed the very qualities we want the Guard to stand for. Loyalty. Comradeship. Honour.’ The young man shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘Rather than being angered or insulted we should have saluted you. At least, that is how I and many others feel. So, the invitation stands. Who knows, perhaps in the future you may wish to seek us out.’
‘And your father?’ Gregar asked.
‘He will grumble about it,’ murmured Cal-Brinn, ‘but Surat would be in favour.’
Gregar let out a long breath, quite surprised and quite unsure what to say. ‘Well … my thanks …’
‘You will not think poorly of us, then?’ K’azz asked.
Gregar fought a laugh at the thought of his opinion mattering to anyone. He waved a hand. ‘Gods, no. Not at all.’
The young man smiled winningly and saluted with a fist to his chest. ‘Very good. Perhaps we shall see you again.’
Gregar gave an awkward half-bow. ‘Ah, yes. Perhaps.’
The two Crimson guardsmen walked off and all heads at nearby cookfires turned to follow them. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of bewilderment. Gregar scratched his head. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I think he meant it. I think he really admired that you chose to stay with your troop – even though you’re sure to be trampled like an idiot for your trouble.’
Gregar threw a swing at the lad. ‘I’ll just hold you ahead of me. Wouldn’t that work?’
‘I’m obliged to say no, it wouldn’t.’
Back at their camp a worried-looking Leah met them, tapping a hand to her newly issued shortsword. ‘What was that about?’
Gregar and Haraj shared another look, uncertain what to say. Gregar shrugged. ‘Just that we can try again, maybe. In the future.’
The sergeant visibly relaxed. ‘Good.’
‘Good?’
She flinched, sneering. ‘A’course! Good for the company! They expect to see you holding the colours. What else could I mean?’
Gregar rubbed his chin, a touch puzzled by her reaction. ‘Sure … whatever.’
‘Damned right!’ she growled. ‘Anyway, word’s going round. Tomorrow or the next we withdraw from the siege and march east, to the marshalling grounds.’
‘We’re gonna be there for the fight, hey?’ Haraj said.
The young woman’s mouth turned down. ‘Everyone is gonna be there. Shaping into a godsdamned bloodbath.’
Chapter 15
Without pausing to think or breathe, Dancer whipped a blade at the Witch Jadeen. The throwing knife swerved aside before touching her, somehow deflected, and Jadeen raised a shocked brow.
‘You are fast,’ she acknowledged. ‘That would’ve reached me had I not already prepared.’
For his part, Kellanved peered about the apparently otherwise empty natural cavern. He shook his head in disappointment. ‘So … just an old chair, after all.’
The smug, one-sided smile remained on the witch’s lips. ‘No. Far more than that. Unfortunately for you.’ She extended her arms out as if beckoning. ‘Arise.’
The plentiful dust and debris lying about the rough cavern floor stirred at the witch’s call. The small hairs on Dancer’s neck stirred in atavistic dread as shapes began to coalesce from the gathering motes and swirls. Like their namesake, the Army of Dust and Bone, from dust came bone, and five individuals emerged – not skeletal, but each a desiccated, or mummified, corpse. Flesh still clung as a layered tannic-hued veneer over bone. Four wore bulky headdresses of animal skulls and hides, the fifth plain half-rotted leathers; a long heavy blade at his side was clearly worked from one immense shard of brown flint. Dark eye-pits regarded Dancer, empty yet somehow animate with intelligence and awareness.
And despite his lifetime of training, of fighting and self-discipline, Dancer found himself frozen in fascination and dismay at the sight. The manifestation of stories and legends of terror before him now – what could he possibly do? Then the moment passed, and he snapped back into his heightened readiness. They were flesh, dried and hardened perhaps, but flesh all the same. Not ghosts or apparit
ions beyond the touch of his blades – or so he reassured himself.
‘Behold,’ Jadeen announced, ‘the army of the ancient T’lan Imass.’
One of the individuals spoke – a breathless guttural utterance, somehow conveyed perhaps through the magic of its very existence. The words, however, remained unintelligible to Dancer. Puzzlement must have shown on his face, as the same individual waved a hand of dried ligament, bone, and leathery flesh, and spoke again. ‘Well come, traveller,’ he announced. ‘We are the Logros T’lan Imass, tasked with the guardianship of the throne. I am Tem Benasto, Bonecaster.’ Gesturing to each, Tem introduced ‘Ulpan Nodosha, Tenag Ilbaie, Ay Estos, and Onos T’oolan’.
The Bonecaster wore upon his head the skull of an extraordinarily large hunting cat, placed so that his face stared out of the opened jaws, while his hide cape, or wrap, where the hair still clung, bore a tawny hue, suggestive of a lion. Ulpan Nodosha wore the headdress of a gigantic bear, likewise staring out of the gaping jaws, the remaining thick fur brown and black. Tenag Ilbaie, however, bore the largest headdress – what appeared to be a woolly elephant skull, or stylized representation thereof. Ay Estos wore a far more slim and lean wolf’s headdress, the remaining fur of his – or her – hide wrap a dirty grey and white. The last, Onos T’oolan, wore no headdress at all and was all the more horrific for it, his skull half bare of flesh, nose gone, perhaps shorn away, eye-sockets empty, the dried flesh of his lips and cheeks drawn back from stained grinning teeth.
Jadeen waved impatiently. ‘Yes, yes. No need for the full explanation. Onos, step forward.’
He did so, bowing to Jadeen upon the throne.
‘As your first official act in my command – I order you to slay these two.’
The creature’s dried hand creaked as he took hold of the leather-wrapped grip of his flint sword. Dancer drew twinned heavy parrying gauches and pushed Kellanved behind him. Though he frankly thought it hopeless, he still wondered how to slay an apparent undead. The usual killing techniques certainly wouldn’t apply … perhaps dismemberment was the only practical answer. A tall order with his daggers.
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