The Twilight Herald Part 42

Doranei held his ground, unable to go anywhere without colliding with one of the mercenaries. He sensed rather than saw Mikiss join the flow, but of those he'd fought beside, it was only Zhia who recognised he was still there.

She paused at his side, while her brother walked straight past, apparently oblivious, and looked at him. A cruel breath of wind brought her perfume to his nose, a faint, sweet scent of flowers, enough to make him catch his breath, before he was caught in the piercing blue of her eyes.

'Look after yourself, Doranei,' she whispered. He blinked. He couldn't remember her ever addressing him by name before.

'1 don't suppose 1 need to say the same to you,' he croaked.

She reached out finger and touched him on the cheek. 'Perhaps not, but I am glad it crossed your mind. Now go, you should be there when your king finishes this. You will see me again, when you least expect it, once twilight darkens the sky.'

'Twilight has come for all of us,' Doranei replied without thinking.

'Then it will be soon,' she said softly, placing a tender kiss on his cheek before following her brother. Unable to stop himself, Doranei turned to watch her go. Her loose black hair billowed in the wind. She looked a ghostly figure against the night sky.

He jerked awake from his reverie as Coran's deep growl broke the air and the Brotherhood rushed to secure the house Zhia had indicated. One last, fruitless, look around to see if he could work out what had happened to Haipar and he returned to his obligations, sprinting to his king's side.

CHAPTER 31.

King Emin stopped at the foot of the stair inside the wrecked building, seeming to notice his surroundings for the first time. After the Vukotic siblings and Koezh's army of undead warriors had left, the king had been in a daze, seeing everything and nothing while his mind was focused entirely on the encounter ahead. His eyes were cold. Now he looked around at the house itself.

As though prompted by his hesitation, Coran loomed out of a darkened doorway, the steel ridge of his helm almost wedged against the low lintel and a look of murder in his face.

He stood erect, every muscle in his body tight with barely controlled rage as he struggled to contain every natural instinct the G.o.ds had given him. His hands were gripping his long mace so tightly that the weapon shook. He'd sprinted here, along with half a dozen King's Men, but he wouldn't go up the stairs, not until the king had arrived. He didn't trust himself.

From the street they had seen someone staring at them, though the angle was such that only from a distance had Doranei been able to make out that it was Rojak, apparently sitting there waiting for them.

Coran's eyes were fixed on his king, silently begging for the order to kill. The white-eye had a particular loathing for Ilumene. Even before llumene had nearly crippled him, they had hated each other. But it was impossible for any member of the Brotherhood not to hate Rojak, not after the sick little games he'd played for his master, the horrors he had orchestrated.

'You found no one alive in the house?'

Coran shook his head slowly.

'Well then,' the king said to the room in general, though only Coran, Doranei and the mage, Cetarn, were inside. Sebe lingered on the doorstep, his customary grin absent. They were all looking anxiously at the staircase leading to Rojak, and at the king they served.

King Emin slid his axe through a belt loop and kept his sword drawn as he started up the stairs. They creaked ominously under his feet, and he caught his balance as one gave way.

Doranei watched his back as he ascended, his sword tip leading the way. He knew the king would expect him to follow; Doranei had by no means replaced Ilumene as first of the King's Men, but he was certainly a favourite, and his relationship with Zhia had strangely advanced that. The Brotherhood were more than just grey men in the shadows; they were the b.l.o.o.d.y hands of their king when necessary. Now Doranei had stepped away from that; he stood half in the light. The king had taken this as a sign that he was not simply a blade to be wielded, he might have a greater purpose. Without being given the choice, Doranei found himself halfway into Ilumene's shoes. Already they chafed.

King Emin stopped at the top of the stair. Nothing moved. Perhaps Koezh had killed everyone, leaving the corpse of the minstrel as an object lesson in humility.

Doranei peered past his king at a dead acolyte lying across the top step, looking straight at him with one visible, vacant eye. The battered mask was pushed askew, revealing half a face, but a deep cut to the side of the head had made such a mess that it was impossible to make out whether the corpse was male or female. Silvery-grey hair lay in a tangle, a similar colour to that of the dead man still lying in the rains of the abbot's house, but luxuriant and flowing where the other's had been hacked short.

He tested the air again, fighting down the soldier's instinct to just block out the stink. The sharp smell of faeces filled the house, overlay ing everything with its gag-inducing stench, and over that he could make out the softer scent of ash and embers, adding a dry bitterness to the mix. But beneath them all was another, one hardly noticeable, unless you knew to expect it.

Morghien had first described it as overripe peaches left to fester This was the smell that accompanied Rojak wherever he went, the reminder of where he had come from. On the fateful expedition to Castle Keriabral, survived at the end by only Cordein Malich and Morghien, one other figure had walked away from the ruined fortress after the horror had played out, one that was no longer a man. The minstrel who had begged to accompany them so he could see the famous castle. He had spent his days there walking with wonder through the wild peach tree woods outside the castle walls, singing childhood songs to himself. He had been a gentle spirit, and a generous man until a shadow spoke to him one night when the moons were high and the scent of peach blossom was thick on the breeze.

Doranei shifted his weight onto his front foot, antic.i.p.ating the king moving on, but King Emin remained motionless, leaving Doranei trying not to topple into him. Coran loomed close behind them, and the sc.r.a.pe of his boots echoed in the confined s.p.a.ce. Unable to move without colliding with one or the other, Doranei wavered between one step and the next until the king finally moved.

At the top he saw four bodies, two more acolytes, the last of the displaced gentry, and a woman wearing leather armour. Doranei recognised her from the theatre, a dancer of remarkable speed and grace. It was strange to see her lying broken and ruined alongside the ivory-skinned gentry. Both were horribly wounded, and even the acolytes, who were only human in the end, had been brutalised. Doranei knew what it took to kill a man, and this went far beyond that.

Rojak's doomed guards had been hacked apart while the minstrel sat in his chair and looked out over the destruction he had wrought. All Doranei could yet make out of the minstrel was his sweat-plastered black hair that had been pushed to one side, making his skull appear misshapen. Perhaps he was dead after all.

Doranei shook his head, as though that would clear the horror before his eyes. He'd seen this before, this callousness of a man who knew no remorse. Rojak had probably laughed as his followers were cut down, even if he knew his death would swiftly follow. Doranei had seen the tragic remains of Thistledell, the village where the survivors had tried to erase its very existence, out of shame for what Rojak had made them do, and he knew there was nothing sweeter than misery to the minstrel. He doubted even Azaer's purpose mattered to Rojak now; there was only the joy of inflicting fresh horrors upon the Land, lor no reason other than his own amus.e.m.e.nt.

'Won't you come in?' The breathy whisper from the figure in the chair was followed by a rattling wheeze: the laughter of a sickly old man enjoying his final pleasure.

The king didn't reply, but the voice stirred him into action and he stalked across the room while Doranei worked his way around from the other side. Coran went to the top of the stair and stopped, not trusting himself to get any closer unless he was needed. There was a soft hiss and a thud as he allowed his mace to slide through his fingers until the steel-shod b.u.t.t rested on the floor.

The armchair was damaged, grimy grey stuffing spilling from tears in the ancient fabric. Rojak was angled so his right arm rested on the length of the padded rest, his fingers hanging limp over the end. His other hand sat in his lap. He made no effort to turn, but the set of his body was such that the king would appear in his view first.

Remembering himself, Doranei took a moment to check their surroundings again. There were no obvious places for an ambusher to hide, but he made doubly sure, leaning out over the broken stubs of wood that were all that remained of the wall. There were no ledges or crevices to hide on the wall dropped straight down to where half of the Brotherhood stood or squatted in a rough semi-circle around the three steps of the front door, guarding against any surprise attack. As Doranei looked down, both Endine and Beyn glanced nervously up. The blond soldier gave Doranei a coolly professional nod, in contrast to the small mage, who almost fell over with the shock of seeing a face appear.

'Please allow me to introduce myself,' Rojak said abruptly.

Doranei in turn almost pitched forward in surprise but caught himself in time to step around so he could at last see the minstrel's face.

'That will not be necessary,' growled King Emin quietly. He stopped directly in front of Rojak and, after a moment's appraisal, sheathed his sword.

'No? Well you have put your weapon away at least, that will have to suffice as a politeness.'

'I see no need to be polite,' the king said as he reached into his pocket, 'but I don't need my sword with him there, and a cigar would be welcome to mask your stink.' Emin nodded towards Doranei as he reached into the neck of his tunic and withdrew a stiffened leather packet. The King's Man gestured down to his comrades on the ground and by the time King Emin had withdrawn a cigar and stowed the packet away, Beyn had tossed up a piece of wood, alight at one end thanks to Endine's magic.

'How delightful, your dogs do tricks,' Rojak said hoa.r.s.ely. Doranei kept his eyes on the minstrel as he reached out so the king could light his cigar. Rojak's body was rigid, and only his eyes and jaw moved, but Doranei kept his axe ready anyway.

Caution rarely gets men killed, said a memory, the voice of a criminal he'd been apprenticed to as a child.

The firelight brought out more detail, even as it deepened the shadows around Rojak. The skin on his face hung limp and loose, speckled by age and ugly wheals, indicating he was riddled with disease. Doranei held the torch up to illuminate the filthy state of Rojak's clothes. The minstrel had soiled himself, more than once, he thought, and great patches of sweat had stained the once-green tunic, but his eyes still gleamed with ferocious malice. He was both repulsive and pitiable.

'And you must be Doranei,' Rojak croaked. 'Ilumene told me you would be at your king's side; the new favourite, one who could be trusted to be docile and obedient.'

'That Ilumene thinks himself merely disobedient,' the king interjected, 'tells you all anyone needs to know about the man.'

'Undoubtedly true.'

The wheezing chuckle took Doranei by surprise, but he saw no change in his king's expression, which remained fixed and intent.

'I believe Ilumene still harbours a little jealousy towards his replacement for possessing some quality he never had.' Rojak paused for breath, his jaw falling slack, displaying his raw, blistered tongue. 'But what characterises each of us better than our own small faults?'

'Many things,' King Emin replied without hesitation. 'You surround yourself with the broken and the weak, and that is a fault of your own. The weak have nothing but their own failings. Spare us your poisonous, hollow words. They hold no interest for us.'

'Hollow? They are anything but.' Again Rojak laughed, the effort shaking his brittle, rancid frame. After all you have seen in this place of death, and yet still you do not see. You ask me to spare you lies, but all I have is truth, and that is all spoken now. Spoken and recorded; copied, catalogued, translated and a.n.a.lysed; I am the twilight herald and my words for you were done a long time ago.'

'You waited here and let your guards be slaughtered just so you could taunt me one last time?'

'They are unimportant; the service they rendered was at an end.' The whisper was faint now, and Doranei found himself craning forward to catch the words. 'I am here because my quest brings me here, and it amuses me to see the look on your faces. I have pa.s.sed you by a dozen times and more, so close I could reach out and touch your n.o.ble brow; it fills me with mirth to reveal myself only here, when any vengeance you may inflict will only do me a service.'

He tried to lift the hand from his lap, but his clawed fingers failed to move. He gave a gasp of pain. 'Do you see?' he asked through gritted teeth. 'My agony is complete. Your retribution only ends my pain. Ilumene kept nothing private, so I know how that little village's demise affected you both... and now you stand there, powerless.' With a great force of will Rojak managed to raise his hands for a moment. He upturned his palms, like a priest giving thanks. 'Was this how you imagined this moment, with your enemy broken and helpless before you?'

Doranei's throat was dry. He was forced to swallow hard and moisten his lips before starting again. 'I have thought of this moment often enough, and I told Ilumene of it when the memory of Thistledell was still fresh. My mother's family came from there, though I never saw the place until my first mission as a King's Man; my homecoming was to gnawed bones and trails of blood, to the spirits of the trees bloated on the souls of children, and wearing their faces as Ilumene and I killed them.

'Yes, I have thought of this moment, but one thing my king has taught me is that hatred poisons us. I have seen what hatred does to a man, and I will not want to end up that way. The day I arrived in this city, my king told me to ensure that when this day came, it would be about more than vengeance. You say Ilumene is jealous of my qualities. That doesn't surprise me, for though I haven't the strength of body or mind that he has, that is my advantage over him.' He cleared his throat again, aware that the eyes of the two men who had affected his life most were focused on him. 'I understand what it is to be human, and what it is to be lacking. Ilumene has only ever lacked understanding, and that is what makes him less than I, and as empty as you. It didn't take me long to realise that when this day came I would have no words for you because there is nothing to say. There is no justification for what you have done, and no fury of mine, however righteous, could give justice to the innocents you've destroyed.'

'I agree,' said King Emin abruptly. He reached for the dagger at his belt and drew it, looking at the engraved hilt for a moment before tossing it to Doranei. 'It is enough that the end is now.'

Doranei looked at the dagger, Engraved into the pommel were the king's initials and emblem, the worker bee that symbolised both piety and endeavour.

And when we do not recognise the weaknesses in ourselves, let us hope we have friends to save us from them. He tossed the blade back. A flash of surprise crossed the king's face, but instead of arguing, he nodded in acceptance.

'It is enough that it ends now,' Doranei said, as he and the king began to walk back towards the stair where Coran was waiting.

As he pa.s.sed Rojak's chair, Doranei let the burning length of timber fall into the minstrel's lap. The flame gave a crackle as it caught on the stained material.

'Send our regards to the shadow,' he called over his shoulder, certain that Azaer was watching them only too closely. 'When the time comes we will be there to end that too.'

CHAPTER 32.

Isak gave his head a violent shake, almost dislodging his helm in the process, but failing to remove the sweat dripping into his eye. He blinked again, and hissed in irritation, which did even less.

'My Lord,' called Vesna as he barged his way past a pair of Devoted lancers, 'we can't hold out much longer. We don't have the numbers.'

The mob stood some fifty yards away, and whilst they were hardly human any more, showing no sign of noticing the defending soldiers using their last few arrows, some basic instincts remained and they had retreated momentarily from the slaughter. The central phalanx of heavy infantry faced them, ready to return to the killing at a moment's notice, while the remainder were heaping the enemy corpses high, retrieving what arrows and javelins they could and expanding the barricades protecting them.

Still, Isak knew that Vesna was right. There were simply too many of them, and they wouldn't give up, no matter how many died in the process. The weight of armour and weapons was wearing his men down, and they weren't able to kill the mob fast enough to make enough of a difference.

Isak watched an impatient Sir Kelet wrenching arrows out the hands of every man he could reach, not trusting anyone but himself to make every shot count. The white-eye turned to the loitering mob and saw the arrow slam neatly into the chest of a tall bearded man. At that range the knight had his pick of targets and Isak realised he was killing the loudest and most animated; anything to give them a few moments' rest, no matter that it would never be enough. Anything to slow the frenzied return.

'Pull back to the temples?' Isak suggested quietly. 'We'll only have Tori's cavalry to cover our backs.'

The Temple Plaza was quiet enough that he could hear the zip of Sir Kelet's arrows cutting the air, and the sounds of fighting in other areas, but it was strangely quiet. There were no cries of pain or pleas for help. When a soldier was pulled out of the line or hamstrung by a rusty knife and brought to the ground, he was set upon by the mob like rabid jackals. They didn't stop, even when any sane person could see their victim was dead. Those few soldiers who had been dragged back away from the line and managed to struggle free had still found themselves surrounded, and though they'd killed several of their attackers, they'd all been brought down in the end.

'Could you manage a diversion?' Vesna was as out of breath as the men he now commanded. His helm was scored and battered from rocks and the wild blows that had evaded his shield.

'I'm going to have to, aren't 1? There's no sign of General Lahk and we're not going to last much longer. I can't think of anything that'll do us much good right now, and our friend isn't saying anything.'

Vesna looked confused for a moment before he remembered Aryn Bwr. 'Is there no way you can tell if the other troops are coming? I can't believe the general hasn't ordered a pursuit. That they're not here means they must have met opposition on the way.'

Isak nodded. 'I've tried to reach them, but I can't sense anyone. I don't have the skill to scry for them, but I think I would be able to find Ehla or Fernal if they were anywhere close. There's just this huge black cloud covering the entire city.'

'They must be on their way,' Vesna said confidently, 'so we need to buy ourselves time. If we pull back to the Temple of Death we'll need a few units in place there first. The only thing that's keeping us alive here is a strong line, and we won't have time to reform that before they catch us up.'

'So we need that distraction.' Isak looked over to what he could see of the other pockets of defence. The ring of shrines and rough barricades had held better than they could have expected, but the numbers at each picket were thinning fast.

'You,' he shouted to the nearest of a squad of Farlan cavalry who were positioned ready to ride down any unexpected intruders, 'go to Suzerain Tori and tell the other troops we're pulling back to the temples. He's to cover their retreat and then join us.' Isak saw that the torches set as markers down the line to illuminate the weaker points were burning low. The last thing they needed was a breach to go unseen.

He turned back to the count. 'You're right, Vesna, we can't delay. Take as many as we can spare from here and get ready at the temple for when I come running with the rest.'

Vesna raised a hand to cut Isak off and slammed down the visor on his helm. 'Not yet, they're coming again.'

Isak turned, sword already rising as the soldiers began to shout to each other and the clatter of steel rang out. Those men still shifting bodies dropped them and scrambled back. Isak's eyes ran along the main rank; a slanted line of thirty men pressed tight against each other with spears held above their shoulders, with two more ranks behind them, ready to brace and drive. Tight knots of soldiers with spears and axes flanked them, ready to chop at the edges of the charging mob. They didn't have the numbers to hold line all the way across the gap, but this was the widest break in the ring of shrines.

This time the onrushing mob was tighter, and came on at a slower pace, not getting in each other's way so much. Vesna saw the change and barked an order, relayed by sergeants at the tops of their voices. Immediately the rear ranks of the phalanx stepped forward and turned their shoulders into the back of the man in front, ready to take the impact. From his higher elevation Isak saw the leading attacker brandishing a cleaver above his head. He opened his mouth, ready to shout, when an arrow caught him in the throat and spun him around into the man beside him. They both crashed down and were trampled by their fellows, but it didn't slow the rest. Isak guessed they still numbered well over a thousand, even with the many hundreds his men had cut down, and now he saw determination in their eyes instead of the previous wild and all-consuming fury. There was a new focus that chilled him.

A bright light flared in the middle of the crowd. Isak looked over towards Mariq, still perched up on his pillar, and saw the mage with one arm outstretched, his face a picture of concentration. On the ground someone burst into flames, and all those nearby fell away, their hands held up to protect their eyes from the sudden heat.

Isak listened to the mage's laughter echoing over the plaza as he dropped to one knee and placed his hand flat on the stony ground. He knew fire wasn't what they needed here; there were too many attackers to kill each one individually, but he was wearing himself out.

Closing his eyes, Isak took a long slow breath to clear his mind of the sounds of battle. He felt as much as heard the impact of the mob crashing into the phalanx, followed by a collective groan, drowned out by the sounds of sergeants roaring at their men. The ground seemed to react to his touch, a faint tremble rising up from deep below him. A familiar thrill raced through Isak as his senses were absorbed by the immensity of the Land, dulling the aches and cares of his mortal body. For a brief instant he felt his limbs made of rock and earth until his senses rea.s.serted themselves.

He withdrew with a smile on his lips, a faint memory of that greater ma.s.s lurking at the back of his mind, reminding him of the battle in Narkang. He'd killed a mage there by doing just that, tearing open a grave under the woman's feet. It took little skill, nothing that needed formal schooling, only an instinctive understanding of the flows of energy running through the Land. What they needed was an obstacle to protect themselves against pursuit and where a wall would serve, so would a ditch.

Isak reminded himself to breathe again, the needs of the body temporarily forgotten. As his lungs filled, so there was a surge of magic from his Crystal Skulls. Mariq gave a cry of alarm as raw power flooded the area, but Isak ignored him and pushed the surging energy down into the earth. It bucked and kicked like a stubborn colt against his palm as he drove it underneath the straining soldiers. Once he was sure it was under his control, Isak opened his eyes to check on their desperate defence. The mob had spilled over on the right of the line and met Isak's guards, who opened to allow some past before a squad of spearmen plugged the gap. Cut off, the intruders lost their advantage of numbers and were swiftly cut to pieces. The Devoted troops were professional soldiers, but every one of Isak's men had been picked for individual skill as well. A poorly armed and untrained mob was nothing without numbers, and even Major Jachen, no more than a fair swordsman, tore his way through the three men who weni for him.

A ripple of movement caught Isak's eye. The line was weakening; they just didn't have the troops to resist that weight bearing down on their shield-wall and the fighting was so close that many of the front rank couldn't clear the bodies off their spears and had abandoned the weapons completely, keeping their heads low while the second rank backed and stabbed furiously over them. Some of the attackers were quite obviously dead, but there was no place for them to fall. One survivor shrieked up at the grim clouds above, his face obscured by blood after a sword cut had sliced open his brow and a discarded spear in his shoulder. The soldiers ignored him, preferring the noise if it meant he impeded his fellows.

Isak didn't have much time. One by one his exhausted men were falling, and though the damage they were doing would have broken any normal enemy, something unnatural was spurring the mob on. He reached out for the coiled streams of power under their feet and pushed them on towards the heart of the mob. His hand balled into a fist, as though reeling the power out, and he needed his whole enormous bodyweight to anchor it.

The magic fought him every inch of the way, as though desperate to flee from this hallowed ground, but he was too powerful. Once he was sure of the distance, Isak readied himself, visualising what he was about to do. The oversized muscles in his shoulder bunched, driving his fist down harder, before he managed to wrench it sideways. Stones rasped against the silver plates of his gauntlet, then there was an infernal creak that reverberated around the plaza, followed by a sound of rock splitting.

Isak felt the shock run up his arm an instant before the plaza under his knees shook and the ground tore itself apart.

The cries were distant, dim sounds; all he could focus on were the groaning earth and the rampant energies. Though his eyes were closed, yet Isak had a clear picture of what he'd done in his head. His fist had mapped out the long tear in the ground with the skill of a blind man reading a face. He could sense falling bodies and screaming voices, and the roar of soldiers as they staggered forward to the edge of the trench, driven by their own momentum now the weight of the mob had been jerked away.

Isak forced himself to let go of the magic and stood as it fled away from him and up into the night sky. The rush of departing power made him light-headed and he staggered a few steps before the strength in his legs returned.

'My Lord,' yelled Vesna, 'can you run?' The roaring lion visor gave his friend a chilling look; the gold leaf detail on his black armour melted into the evening dark and only the golden helm stood out. He looked insubstantial, almost ghostly. Not quite a man, that was how Vesna had described how he felt nowadays? Isak's aches and fatigue rushed back all in one go as a pang of guilt brought him back to earth.

Before he could impose order on his thoughts a fresh wave of screams cut through the air as the front rank of soldiers almost collapsed to the ground on the edge of the trench he'd created. The men behind them were quick to drag their comrades back while the third rank set about dispatching the attackers who remained. Isak couldn't see into the trench, but he guessed from the cries that not all of the infantry had made it.

'More blood on my hands,' he muttered dismally to himself before he remembered that they were all waiting for his orders. 'Enough of that, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he growled at himself. He couldn't afford guilt now. 'They're all dead if you don't keep going.'

He raised his sword up above his head.

Vesna took that as enough of a reply to his question and roared an order that was echoed by the sergeants nearest him. He ran to Isak's side. 'Isak, what about the others?' he panted, his chest heaving with effort. As he spoke, another order was bellowed and the remains of two regiments of infantry broke, running as fast as they could for the temples.