by Alex Janaway
Michael roared. It was his turn to stagger.
The one-handed Nidhal let go his grip of the weapon.
Michael looked at the wound. The pain was fierce. But it wouldn’t stop him. The shortsword was still sticking out of Immayuk’s stomach. He reached out and pulled it free. The Emperor charged at him again, holding his sword at hip height, like a spear. Michael waited before whipping his shortsword up, turning the blade as it closed. The Emperor’s momentum carried him forwards, Michael grabbed the back of his shirt, pushing him on, and he careered into a wall. Michael looked at the one-handed Nidhal. The warrior swayed on his feet but had retrieved his weapon, gripping his sword tight. A brave one.
Michael charged. The Nidhal tried to cut but Michael was too fast. He made it quick, a deep cut across the throat.
As he stepped away a white-hot lance of fire seared across his back. He howled again. He turned and just stopped the sword that was coming at him. The force drove him to his knees. A second blow, he blocked it. The Emperor, enraged, tried a third time. And Michael blocked again.
There was something wrong. All his strength was ebbing away. A fourth time and the blow was too strong. He lost his grip. The sword dropped out of his hands.
He scissor-kicked the Emperor’s legs. The Emperor fell with a cry and a deep ‘Whump’.
Michael forced himself up. It was the damn knife in his chest. He took hold of it with his left hand and pulled hard. He shouted as he did so, fresh blood spurting freely down his front. He could feel the heat of the wound on his back, the wetness spreading around his waist. He had no idea how deep. Clutching the knife, he advanced on the Emperor who was scuttling backwards, his arse still on the floor. And from behind a guttural battle-cry. Michael turned once more – faced another Nidhal charging him with a spear. It took him in his left side, went clean through. Another scream issued from his lips. He drove the knife down, into the neck of the Nidhal, once, twice, three times, blood spurting, jetting upwards from the severed artery. The Nidhal let go of the spear, collapsed in a heap.
Where was the Emperor?
There he was, backed up, watching in morbid fascination. Michael looked down at the spear. It was just about half-way through. There was only one thing for it. He reached, gripped the end and started to force it in and through.
He grinned at the Emperor.
‘What? This? I’ve had worse,’ he spat out, defying the pain threatening to overwhelm him. He reached behind, pulled it the rest of the way until it was free from his body. His legs almost went, but he willed himself to stay upright.
The Emperor shook his head. ‘Why?’ The confusion had returned. Michael pitied him. The man really didn’t know.
‘Why?’
Michael hefted the weapon, took it in both hands and levelled it. He rolled his shoulders.
‘Because I am a good man.’
He charged.
The Emperor raised his arms.
The spear took the Emperor below the sternum as Michael slammed into him. The air was driven from his lungs and his arms jarred painfully with the force of impact. Breathing heavily Michael stepped back. The Emperor was pinned to the wall, a line of blood running from his open mouth. He stared at the shaft jutting out from his body. His hands closed around it but they had no strength. He looked back at Michael. He tried to speak but nothing emerged. His head dropped.
Michael closed his eyes. Gods of Old, receive his soul.
He understood. The Emperor was a broken man, his mind had been shattered. There was no cure. No way back from that. He was not the person he might have been. Sometimes there was no healing. No redemption. Michael’s breath was now ragged. The pain was nagging yet starting to lessen. He knew what that meant. He couldn’t hear any sounds of combat.
Michael went for the doorway and leaned against the frame as a wave of darkness threatened to engulf him. He pushed off, forcing each staggering step. His right arm swung free, he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t use it. There were bodies ahead. Several in the corridor. A whole pile littered the area around the landing. Where was Yarn?
There she was, sitting with her back against the landing wall, facing the stairs. An arrow was in her left shoulder. Yarn’s armour was bloody. Her face too.
He swayed drunkenly over to her, using the wall for support, his hand clenching the hole in his side.
She glanced up and grinned. In the light of the landing torch her teeth looked stained.
‘Look at you.’
‘Look at you,’ he grunted. He leaned against the wall and slid down it until he touched the floor, his shoulder butting up next to Yarn’s. His teeth were gritted all the way. He didn’t think he’d be getting up again.
‘How’d it go?’ she asked.
‘It’s done.’
‘Good. So–’ She coughed, a hacking sound. Something gurgled in her chest. ‘So am I.’
‘You and me both.’
‘Sorry. I couldn’t stop them all. One got by me.’
‘That’s the one did for me,’ he said, pulling his hand away from the wound. What was the point? There was another hole on the other side.
She grunted. ‘We did what we he had to do.’
‘I reckon so.’
Michael closed his eyes. ‘What happens know?’ he asked.
There was no answer. He opened his eyes once more. It was a struggle. He turned his head and looked at Yarn. Her eyes were closed. He couldn’t hear her breathing. He studied the bodies around her. She’d done well. Taken at least ten out. He coughed. Better than he’d done.
‘So what now?’ he asked of no one at all.
Now there was no Emperor, no Empress, no Llews. The Empire of God Kings was over, there could be no more Imperial religion. No more slaves to another’s will, no more Gifted. Bar one. And maybe now she could live her life free and at peace. Michael closed his eyes. He smiled.
Ellen was free. And that was good.
CHAPTER 86 – KILLEN
Killen breathed in the night air. The odours of the town played in his nostrils, the freshness of the sea with tinges of cooked meat wafting from somewhere close by and the faintest whiff of wine. It was quite something. He savoured it as familiar memories surfaced of his life before. Times spent at leisure, faces of friends, family, lovers. Oh yes, one in particular, who had led him to this point. He had not thought of her for a while, he had been too busy trying to stay alive. And yet if it had not been for her, for his stupid decisions, he wouldn’t be standing right here, looking out across islands, vineyards and a sparkling expanse of water. Funny how the world turned. He raised his wine bottle. ‘Here’s to you all.’ And especially to all the Erebeshi that had helped him get here, Rashad, Hassan and all the others. ‘Here’s to you.’ He took a long deep drink. He was damned well not going to get maudlin. They wouldn’t want it. So with another lift of his bottle, ‘Here’s to all our bloody camels who seem to be bloody indestructible!’ And surprising even himself, he smiled at the reunion he’d had with Bajin, not that the little shit had given him much of a welcome. But damn if he hadn’t been pleased to see the fleabag.
He sighed with contentment and carried on with his stroll. He realised he was weaving a little bit. How much wine had he had? There was that bottle back at the tavern. Or was that two? He stared at the bottle. ‘Bugger it,’ he mumbled. Like it really mattered. He just wanted to make sure he gave his friends a good memorial. All his remaining scouts had been there, Owen’s bunch and his Highlanders too. Even Owen had shown his face for a couple. That was good, good that they had all been together. Precious few of any of them left. Nice of Cade to make it an open bar too. Nice gesture.
He gazed around, trying to get his bearings. Where was he? On a street running next to the water. ‘Lovely,’ he said, looking at the large houses. ‘Had me one of those once.’ There was a light a little further on, a torch burning, casting light on to the road. He wandered towards it. As the light became clearer, he saw shapes, two forms prostrate on the pavement. Bodie
s.
‘Shit!’
He dropped the bottle, it thunked rather than smashed as he drew his sword. He knelt to inspect the dead guards. Both Nidhal.
‘Shit.’
He stood. Looked up at the house. There were lights on the first floor. More light spilling from under the front door. He drew his sword. His wine-haze cleared a little. He opened the door and it swung inwards. His blade dipped a little when he saw the gathered bodies.
‘Shit.’
He stepped inside, wary but also aware that there was no sound anywhere in the building. That told him he had missed any action. He stepped over dead Nidhal, worked his way around those lying on the stairs and on to the landing. He took a moment to inspect the scene.
He spent just a moment to check whether the Emperor or Immayuk were alive. Then he returned to the landing.
He was surprised at how calm he was. He titled his head and gazed at Michael and Yarn. He had only seen the Gifted once but, looking at the armour, the Plainsfolk features, yes, it had to be her. And it was the damnedest thing, the pair of them sat like that, together. He approached, checked for life just in case although it was clear they were gone. He shook his head. It was the damnedest thing. They both looked entirely at peace. Hells below, Michael was actually smiling.
‘What happened here?’ Killen whispered.
He sheathed his sword. The Emperor was dead. But who did the killing? He put both hands on his head. It made no sense. It wasn’t the Nidhal so Yarn was the likely candidate. But all of this? By herself? And Michael too? And why the hells was he smiling if he’d failed to protect the Emperor?
It made no damned sense.
He had to find Owen.
CHAPTER 87 – ELLEN
Ellen entered Gantak’s hovel-tent and collapsed on to the blanket after having spent the best part of the night and early morning acting as intermediary between Owen, the remaining members of the council and Arluuq. The Nidhal was full of rage and barely in a state to listen to any of the entreaties that she’d tried. She could hardly blame him. In the space of just a few days he had lost both his brothers. The only positive was the utter confusion caused by the discovery. Questions were asked, and the answers were hard to find, and harder to swallow. But she knew the truth, knew it as soon as she’d arrived at the house and gone inside. In the light cast by a dozen torches she’d seen her friend and Yarn. The two people that had cared for her more than anyone in her life. She knew exactly what they’d done. And why.
She rolled over and looked out across the Nidhal encampment. The place felt … what was the word? Febrile? They were still in mourning for the lost Father and now Immayuk and his followers too. They wanted justice. In the confusion of the discovery of the slaughter, it was difficult to understand who to blame. They knew who their enemy was, the elves. But as word came in regarding Yarn’s escape from her prison, it became clear that the cause of some of the spilt Nidhal blood was human. Or Gifted. And now they did not know how to respond. At least that was something. Arluuq was still working it out in his head but she suspected Gantak already had a handle on things. They were missing one piece of the puzzle. Something that had been changed. All thanks to one of the marines. She’d already found Sergeant Fenner at the scene. He was chewing something as he’d regarded the two bodies, his face thoughtful, his thumbs hitched into his belt.
‘Those Nidhal on their way, aren’t they?’ he asked her.
‘Right behind me. I ran here.’ They were still rousing themselves. She on the other hand had been awake, sitting by the fire, playing with her powers.
He nodded. ‘You want to give me a hand?’
‘Huh?’
He looked behind her and indicated the stairs. Two marines stood by the door. Outside Owen and Killen were debating whether to summon the council.
‘I reckon we got a couple of minutes to changes things around.’
‘What do you mean?’
He was already getting his arms under Yarn’s shoulders.
‘Grab her legs,’ he commanded.
Ellen did so without argument, something was telling her just to follow his lead.
‘Alright, pull, I’ll push.’
Together they arranged Yarn’s body, so it was laid at Michael’s feet. Fenner went searching and found Michael’s shortsword, placing it in his hand.
The marine stood up. Down below there was the sound of shouting, an approaching mob.
‘There you go, what does that look like to you?’
Ellen paused. Yes. Of course. ‘Like they killed each other?’
‘Close enough. The Nidhal thought a lot of the Father. No need to change that.’
No, he was right.
‘Leave this to me,’ he whispered, and turned to walk downstairs. ‘General? Major? It looks pretty clear to me what happened,’ he announced loudly.
They both bought into the lie. And in turn the Nidhal accepted it. As Fenner had said, Michael was respected. Why tarnish that with the deaths of so many Nidhal by his hand?
Ellen finally found time for a tear. She’d even held it together when Weguek had approached her, sorrow clear on his craggy face, and had enveloped her in a hug. But now, in the shadows, she let her emotions run free. There was almost an inevitability about what had happened. That Michael should be the one. That Yarn would be there at the end. The Emperor would have enforced his doctrine on generations to come. A return to older rituals and expectations. A time when people were enslaved to a religion that took, never gave. Yarn had told her that. She had spoken of the histories that she herself had read in the libraries of the monastery of Nostrum, now long-gone. Burnt to ash. But Yarn had remembered and swore to end it.
You did it. But it cost you everything.
And what of her? She was the last. But maybe that wasn’t true. Because Michael had given her something, something wonderful. A future. A chance to be something else. Perhaps she wasn’t the last. Perhaps she was the first.
She imagined Michael, rolling his shoulders, nodding in his thoughtful way, a slightly pained expression on his face, like every notion was new to him.
Ellen smiled, a tear fell from her eye, ran off her nose and landed on the blanket.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER 88 – OWEN
Owen sat in his small office staring at nothing. The door was open and outside the day was bright and cool. A horse was led by. It snickered, pulled back a little, and flicked its head. The woman leading it gave it some gentle admonishment then equally gentle encouragement, and the beast carried on. Owen blinked. Finally, something had broken his chain of thought. He reached out a hand, placed it on the table in front of him and started drumming his fingers. He looked at the map that was still laid out, a crude drawing of the territory and the dispositions of troops. Damn but that battle had seemed like a lifetime ago. And from their victory? He had felt elation, relief and a sense of … justice? But something else had emerged. He felt a tremendous sense of loss. It was deep, way deeper than he could have imagined. And it was abiding; there would be no getting over this, no way he could just bury it away somewhere. So much he had found. And so much of it he had lost again.
And now, after last night’s events? Call them what they were. Murders. He felt adrift. His anchor of certainty lost. There’d been a path laid out. A time of consolidation definitely, but perhaps a continued, lesser campaign? As he had suggested, he could use the Plainsfolk and the eagles, and go after the retreating elves. He wished he could use the Nidhal, but they weren’t in any mood. And Owen did not dare ask. He wasn’t that brave. No, he didn’t have them. Nor did he have much else to use. Come on, Owen. It’s all changed again. The Emperor is gone. How could he ask for permission to carry on the war when the man was dead? There was no one to give him that authority. But did he need it? He was the General after all, wasn’t he? He snorted. General of an Empire that did not exist. How could it? He was back to being what he was. Head Man. Head Man of what? A town that also no longer exi
sted. There were still those who would follow his lead. And plenty who wouldn’t.
There was someone else whose words carried more weight than his own. Cade. And he was damned sure that the path he wanted to follow was not one that she would go down. She had her own agenda and it didn’t involve war. She wanted to settle down, build a future for herself, feather her nest. And looking at who was left standing in the Council, they all looked strangely like her closest confidants. Odd that. He started to drum his fingers. Real odd. He blew his cheeks out and came right back to where he had started, the notion that had put him in this funk. Surely, she hadn’t engineered this whole thing? Surely, she hadn’t let Yarn out and sent her after the Emperor? Would she? He shook his head. Michael would never have agreed to that. But … And the same problem came back. He’d seen Michael, before Fenner had wisely moved him. He’d seen the two of them sitting there, shoulder to shoulder. Enemies don’t do that in death. Comrades do.
He stopped drumming, splayed his fingers and slapped his hand down on the table-top. It didn’t matter whether Cade had a hand in all of that or not. All that mattered now was what he was going to do about it. There were only two leaders left standing. Her and him. And two different ways of looking at the world.
He stood.
He walked out on to the parade square and onwards towards the bridge gate. It was open and unguarded. He passed through it and walked across the bridge. He stopped at the midway point and placed his hands on the railing. He looked east, gazing into the sky. The sun was already on its westward trajectory, befitting the autumn day. He scanned the skies. It took him a few seconds but there he was, wheeling high. Arno was enjoying himself. It was nice to see him fly free. And Owen realised that for the first time in a long time, Arno truly was. Free to fly without threat or necessity. That, in all of Owen’s thoughts, was one he could take pleasure from. But the smile that evoked swiftly turned to a frown. Because if Owen wanted to carry on, to make the decisions, to get the people behind his plans, then he would have to move quickly.
