The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (201 page)

Lord Chalat might have been deposed and turned mad with fanaticism, but his power was undiminished. The Chosen of Tsatach was well known for walking into battle wreathed in flame and directing great torrents of fire towards the enemy. They couldn’t match him for raw power, so three members of Larim’s new coterie had been ordered to do nothing but deflect his attacks throughout the battle, blunting his efforts to break the line.

Amber breathed deeply. The air felt cold in his lungs, as though evening was drawing in, but he knew it was no later than midday. Assuming there were no breaks in the line, they’d be defending for another hour, he guessed. The Menin didn’t have enough cavalry to counter-charge, and they needed to wait for the right moment before committing their reserves.

The minotaurs and Bloodsworn had loaded the right flank specifically to encourage the Farlan to attack the left. The main bulk of reserves were infantry, so they needed the Farlan close. If Lord Chalat broke through the centre, they would have to deploy the reserves and hope their cavalry would be enough to screen five legions of infantry from the waiting Farlan behind.

‘Come on, you bastards,’ he whispered, ‘take the bait.’

‘They’re redeploying, my Lord,’ General Lahk said, standing up in his stirrups. ‘Going to turn to the right flank.’

Isak looked back at the ongoing battle. His stomach was a tight ball of fear and nerves, and he knew he was clinging to the false hope that the departure of the wyvern meant Lord Styrax was absent. No plan, however brilliant, survived contact with the enemy, after all. The whole reason Isak had raced to the Circle City was to catch his enemies unaware - to act contrary to expectation.

‘How can you tell?’ Isak asked after a few moments. ‘You can’t hear the orders from here.’

‘Look over there, to the extreme right,’ Vesna advised. He pointed past the copse of ash trees that was the only cover bigger than a house anywhere on the whole Menin line. ‘The cavalry units there; they’re not penitents, they’re the Siul legions.’

‘And they’re engaging directly,’ Isak said, thinking aloud, ‘not trying to draw out pursuit.’

‘They would only do that if ordered,’ Lahk said, ‘which means Chalat wants to suck in some of the infantry units on that flank before he charges.’

Isak couldn’t help looking back at Byora; the Ruby Tower was easy to pick out at this distance. He had seen enough battles now to know that nothing would happen immediately - no matter how well trained the men, it takes time to react when the smallest unit involved is a division of five hundred.

‘Are you there, shadow?’ he whispered to himself, ‘staring out of Ilumene’s eyes - or that little boy, maybe? Are you afraid yet? You thought you were safe here, and now you realise it’s luck, not artifice, that will keep you alive.’

‘Starting to move, my Lord,’ Lahk commented. ‘If the enemy has a trick up his sleeve, he’ll use it now.’

Isak turned back. ‘Torl’s going to be damn lonely on that left flank, isn’t he? He’s got to hold, or they’ll get rolled up by the minotaurs and Bloodsworn.’

‘Don’t worry about Torl, my Lord,’ Vesna said. ‘They won’t get around him, and they’ll have a hard time catching him. Remember, he usually rides with the light cavalry. He knows their tactics better than any Farlan alive.’

Isak suddenly went very still as a chill ran down his spine. For a moment his head swam, as if the Land had unexpectedly shifted around him, and nebulous grey swirls passed across his vision as the air went cold in his lungs. For a moment he thought it was Azaer’s presence reaching out to him, but then he heard a familiar laboured breathing at the back of his mind. It was no shadow; it was the Soldier, Death’s hand on the battlefield.

Now he could feel them at his sides, closer even than Vesna and Lahk. The Headsman was on his left, waiting with terrible patience; the Soldier on his right was so close the fingers of his sword-hand ached for Eolis. In the shadows of his peripheral vision the Great Wolf took slow, stalking steps, while the Burning Man stared hungrily towards Lord Chalat.

‘Leave them, you cannot help them,’ came a whisper in his mind, a voice he had barely heard in months. Aryn Bwr, the last king of the Elves had stayed hidden in the deepest recesses of Isak’s soul, hemmed in by the Aspects of Death tied to Isak’s shadow who so dearly wanted to claim him.

‘The moments slip by, one by one,’ replied the Headsman. Isak could feel the finality of each word like the vibrations of a tolling bell. ‘Your time is coming. Your last refuge will soon be no more.’

‘Turn to Byora,’ urged Aryn Bwr, desperation creeping into his voice. ‘Forget the priests who would murder you in a heartbeat. You came for the shadow’s disciples and now they are within your grasp.’

‘The last grains are falling,’ the Headsman intoned, ‘and we come for you, heretic’

Isak shook his head, trying to drive away the nagging voices. ‘Gods damn you all,’ he growled, one hand on Toramin’s neck, aching to feel living flesh instead of dead souls. He blinked and the images of the Reapers faded away from his perception as they stepped back, content to wait once more.

‘My Lord?’ Vesna asked, trying not to sound concerned.

Isak looked at him. His friend again had his fingers pressed to his wrist, almost as though taking his own pulse - as though reminding himself he was still alive.

‘I’m fine, it’s just the voices in my head.’ He tried to sound amused, but it failed and he fell silent again. He rested his hand on the emerald pommel of Eolis for comfort.

‘My Lord, the fens!’ Lahk roared and as they turned, the mist over the fens was suddenly swept up and away and Isak felt an icy hand close around his heart. The fens were as they had been in his memory. There on the ground, about half a mile from the copse of tall ash trees, were dark blocks of soldiers rather than grass-choked patches of water. They were already marching, three legions of infantry advancing in a line as cavalrymen made their way around them to encircle the attacking Farlan.

‘My Lord,’ General Lahk continued, ‘we have no choice now! They’re outnumbered; if we sit and watch they’ll be massacred and we’ll be next.’

‘The last grains are falling,’ came the mocking singsong whisper at the back of his mind.

Isak felt his body go rigid, every muscle tensing as the enormity of the decision crashed down on top of him. The clatter of voices and weapons faded to nothing and he was left in silence, staring out across the untended fields. All he was aware of were the heaving clouds above and the cold taste of mud on the breeze.

The scent of the grave filled his mind. His fists clenched so tightly that his hands shook like an old man’s, but still Isak did nothing but stare over the drab fields where he would die.

Oh Gods, is it really true? I can’t… The thought died unfinished. It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it; the problem was that he could. What he couldn’t do was disbelieve, though he had tried for months, hoping and praying, ignoring his instincts in favour of the preferable alternatives: possibilities that were all perfectly plausible, even likely…

It changed nothing, for the fact remained that he knew it was coming. The Reapers in his shadow could sense it; they were licking their lips in anticipation of the spirit that would be released when Isak died.

He could not escape it. He could not run, or pretend or delay. The sands of time had run out; he could not abandon his fighting men and turn home again, for they would be slaughtered and that would give the enemy the reason to march north, confident that Isak would do nothing but cower at home.

The Farlan would be broken by a leader who betrayed the men he marched with. He had to give the order, and trust in a quiet little man to save him. He had to ignore the terror and pain and put his entire trust in a man whose whole life was centred on failure.

‘Isak!’ Vesna bellowed, grabbing his arm in a desperate attempt to get a reaction.

Isak flinched, staring wild-eyed at his friend for a moment before obeying the burn in his lungs and gasping for breath like a man emerging from deep water,

‘Go,’ he said, his parched throat making the word an unintelligible mess. Isak coughed and swallowed his fear. ‘Sound the attack,’ he croaked.

I’m frightened.

Kastan Styrax turned the page as his eyes drifted over the words without even registering their meaning. All around him a heavy silence reigned. There was only one other person in the Fearen House, an elderly woman who seemed oblivious of events beyond the library. The fact that Styrax was dressed in a full suit of armour had prompted a puzzled frown when he first entered the building, but it had been momentary.

Had she recalled the provenance of the armour - forged by Aryn Bwr, stripped from the corpse of Prince Koezh Vukotic -that might have sparked her interest, but he guessed she was not sufficiently engaged in the Land’s events to make the connection. He’d discovered that even the sounds of a man moving in heavy armour were not enough to disturb a rather deaf academic.

A few minutes more, Styrax thought with anticipation, and I might just capture your attention.

Without warning the great doors of the main entrance crashed open. Styrax heard Kiallas gasp in shock, but he didn’t look up. He knew who it would be, just as he knew what he was about to say. Brisk footsteps approached the desk, a man determined not to run for his lord, no matter how urgent the news might be.

‘Lord Styrax,’ Larim said, in carefully measured tones. In the stillness the white-eye mage’s deep voice carried all around the room, echoing up from the tiled floor.

‘Lord Larim,’ Styrax acknowledged. At last he lifted his eyes from the book and looked directly at Larim. The man wore the patchwork robes of Larat’s Chosen, but unlike his predecessor, he had no objects of power sewn into the cloth. Here and there were patches that were encased in silver frameworks, charms of all sorts, but they were all minor, defensive. ‘You bring news?’

‘Your wyvern has been loaded and awaits your order.’

‘Excellent,’ Styrax said with a smile. ‘How fares the battle?’

Larim shrugged. ‘They attack, we defend.’

Styrax could see the man was surreptitiously trying to identify the open book on the desk and he smiled inwardly. Clearly Larim hadn’t realised they had been playing red herrings with him, carefully choosing which books he would see whenever he was in the room.

How disappointing of you, Larim. Even Amber caught on to that one. Today he had picked a book almost at random to read. He had finished his research and solved the puzzle of the heart, so now he was simply waiting for the rest of the Land to fall into place around him.

‘A little more detail, if you please.’

Larim’s white eyes gleamed as he fought the urge to retort. The Chosen of Larat remained, at heart, as aggressive and argumentative as any white-eye. The more power they gathered, the less willing they were to accept the authority of any other man.

‘My coterie tells me they have prevented Chalat from breaking the line. The reserves have joined the battle. Lord Isak’s army has not yet engaged; they are stationed in battle order outside Byora.’

‘They will have to join the battle soon,’ Styrax said confidently. ‘Without them Chalat’s troops will be slaughtered.’

‘Why would he hold back?’

‘Why indeed?’ Because there’s something in Byora he wants - that can be the only reason we’ve been promised support from the lovely duchess, and why she will provide it. Our friend the shadow feels the pinch. ‘Go and join General Gaur,’ Styrax said after a moment of thought. ‘I will be along presently.’

‘As you command,’ Larim said icily. He bowed briefly and strode out through the still-open doors. Styrax looked out for a moment and saw the darkening colour of the clouds above the cliff-wall.

‘Isak Stormcaller,’ he said softly, ‘let me educate you on how a master does it.’

He waited a few minutes to ensure Larim was well on his way out of the valley before closing the book. To his mage’s senses the library felt dull and dormant; the air was so dry to the taste that there was barely even a flicker of anticipation in his stomach for what he was about to do.

Are the years catching up with me, or does this lack the sense of occasion I felt on Thotel’s Temple Plain? he wondered. He stood and looked around the room, ignoring Kiallas’s suspicion look. Gesh, the greatest of the winged white-eyes, had abandoned him for the first time since he had arrived at the library. He was busy overseeing their defences, Styrax imagined, leaving the older but no-less-haughty Kiallas as chaperone. So much the better; Kiallas was by far the stupider of the two.

‘Kiallas,’ he began, noting the slight widening of the eyes, ‘have you ever wondered about the puzzle of the heart?’

The white-eye stared at Styrax for a time, then shook his head. ‘I do not waste my time with childish games.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ Styrax agreed, ‘the duty of the guardians of the library is too solemn for that. I would appreciate it, however, if you would indulge me.’ He gestured towards the column in the centre of the library and as he did so, he saw the Litse’s hand tighten on the shaft of his javelin.

With exaggerated care Styrax’s hand went to a sheath on his belt and he pulled out a trio of stilettos, which he fanned out in front of him. Styrax watched the Litse’s face; Kiallas obviously realised it would be foolish to raise the question of what was and wasn’t allowed in the library in terms of weapons.

‘Please take one,’ he said, offering them over hilt-first. Cautiously Kiallas did so, and Styrax walked over to the black stone column. The golden half-sphere at the top gleamed with a warm yellow light, attesting to the purity of the gold that had been used. Styrax knelt down and pointed with one armoured finger to a rune.

‘Do you see this rune? Could you put the tip of that knife to the cross-piece?’

‘What is all this?’

‘I’m going to solve the puzzle, of course, but it requires three daggers to be used at once and I have only two hands. It would be a little undignified if I have to take my boot off,’ he said with an apologetic smile, pointing at his armoured foot.