The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (363 page)

To his left he heard Ebarn shout; the harsh syllables lit up the night and tore into grey-skinned Acolytes with ease. Doranei pushed on to try and reach the beleaguered squad, but before he could, someone shrieking in agony was driven out of the squad’s line by a tall figure, also white-masked, but the height of a white-eye.

‘Our brother’s sword,’ the figure said in a cold, ancient voice. ‘Are you worthy of it, warrior?’ The Jester raised its sword. The acid-etched blade shone weirdly as it reflected the light of Ebarn’s battle-magics as it saluted him in some formal manner. ‘We shall see.’

Doranei made no response but he fumbled at his belt and ran to meet the Demi-God, tossing a pouch of sparkle-dust in front of him as he went. The Jester dodged with alarming agility, and the pouch passed its head. It didn’t touch the Jester, but some of the dust leaked out and a white-glittering path was traced through the dark just past its eyes. Realising that would do no more than make the Jester hesitate for a moment, Doranei pulled his short axe and went on the attack. Sensing him come the Demi God wheeled right, keeping its long sword between it and Doranei. He caught it with his axe and yanked down, but the Jester dropped the tip and let the axe slid harmlessly off, deflecting Doranei’s follow-up slashes as it planted its feet.

Lashing out with unnatural speed, the Jester directed a flurry of cuts at Doranei. The King’s Man barely blocked the first in time, only his training saving him as the next slashed down at his knee. He caught the third and chopped at the Demi-God’s arm, his axe glancing off the scales of its armour. He stepped forward into the fight and tried to rip his sword across the Jester’s wrist, but it was already moving back.

He kept on, knowing attack was his best option. With the sword he’d taken from Aracnan Doranei could strike as quickly as his enemy, though his reactions remained mortal. The light-speckled sword cut through the air so swiftly it felt like it had a mind of its own. The Jester tried to batter it from his hand, but Doranei rode the heavy blows, deflecting the last upwards with the axe following close behind. Again the edge was turned by the Jester’s armour, but Doranei pressed in behind it.

With his sword he engaged the Demi-God’s weapon, then hooked his axe into the back of the Jester’s knee, hauling back and slamming his head into the Jester’s midriff. The Demi-God fell onto his back; Doranei stumbled himself, but caught himself in time and swung down at the Jester’s feet. The scale-armour couldn’t resist his sword and he chopped right through the Jester’s ankle, swinging up almost blindly to deflect the inevitable swipe of an injured warrior.

The Jester was lying supine, and the strike was weakened by panic and pain, and Doranei was able to batter away the weak blow. He threw himself forward and hacked his axe at the Jester’s face, and as he felt it bite he followed up with a stab to the armpit that drove deep inside the Jester’s body, which suddenly went rigid.

Doranei rolled back to his feet and looked around wildly for the next threat, but none of the attackers were going for him.

The remains of the squad were cringing in a small knot behind their shields, back to back, spear-heads wavering. Surrounding them were five Acolytes, identically dressed, each with blood on their long blades. But none were bothering to look at the infantrymen; their eyes were all on Doranei and the corpse at his feet.

‘Reckon I’m worthy, then?’ Doranei shouted at them, not caring whether they could understand him or not. ‘This good enough for you – a dead God at my feet?’

Any response was precluded by a burst of magic from Ebarn, long slivers of white that flew like daggers at the nearest of the Acolytes, tearing bloody ribbons across its chest and slicing through the sword arm as the Acolyte tried to parry.

The Acolyte dropped, dead before it hit the ground, and the others broke and sprinted off into the darkness. Doranei looked at the corpses on the ground. Only one looked to have been killed by the soldiers. He’d taken down two; that left five Ebarn had dispatched.

‘Oh Gods,’ Doranei breathed as the sergeant threw down his spear and started to check on the fallen. One youth’s frantic, pained breaths told Doranei the dismal news; another howled as soon as the sergeant touched him. The rest were already dead, among them the youngest of their squad, his neck sliced clean open. Blood no longer flowed from the wound; too much had already run out down his studded jacket into the dry earth beneath.

‘There’s no time, Brother!’ Ebarn warned, running to his side and pointing towards the next picket. ‘It’s a coordinated attack.’

‘I know,’ Doranei muttered, unable to tear his eyes from the boy’s sightless eyes. ‘I just—’

‘Shift yourself!’ Ebarn yelled, giving the King’s Man a rough shove, and when that didn’t work she hauled him around and made him look her in the eye. ‘It was a quick death and you can’t ask for more. He’s in Death’s hands now, and we need to see to the living!’

Doranei sheathed his weapon and started to run towards the next post where, without a mage, they most likely hadn’t been faring so well. ‘We see to the living,’ he repeated.

The hours passed slowly as the weight of his burden grew heavier, eroding his strength with every moment passing, in the saddle, on foot or by the fire while Carel forced him to eat. Isak could feel it happen, and he could do nothing about it.

Though the hours of each day dragged, the days were somehow racing past. News of skirmishes and blood spilled washed over him: riders from the Menin force brought word of bloody battles fought; dutiful updates came from the king, conveyed by the battered remnants of his Brotherhood, though Isak guessed they were mostly sent to monitor his sanity, or what remained of it.

On occasion he made jokes, little moments of foolishness Carel would scrutinise for meaning. Sometimes the conclusions were good, and the veteran would nod, satisfied, and continue; at others a sadness would take him and he would sit and stare into the fire next to his young charge, an old man hunched against the autumn winds.

Magnificent views went unremarked-upon. Great clouds of green and blue birds filled the sky as they approached the deep lakes that dotted the plain. The fading sun cast gold and copper light over the rusty flanks of the mountains in the distance. One morning he’d awakened surrounded by ghosts in the pale dawn, which slowly revealed themselves to be towering termite mounds twice the height of a man, covering the grasslands for miles: silent, still monuments stretching off into the distance. Isak felt they were oddly fitting as they trudged on, mile after mile, in pursuit of a battle where there would be no retreat from either side.

Isak watched himself just as carefully as Carel, wondering at the damage done. From time to time he would see the monstrous white-eye he had become, shuffling from one day to the next, and it brought a tear to Isak’s eye, but the threatening flood never arrived. The ache in his heart swelled, but never broke. Something inside wouldn’t let him submit, something inside was too broken to submit.

The power suffusing Isak’s body meant his senses were rarely closed to the Land around him. He felt the brief moments of grief Vesna permitted himself, the fatigue that threatened to consume King Emin; it all drifted on the wind and settled like snow on his shoulders, adding to the burden of the black sword.

And yet—

And yet he had realised it was not his sanity that was fail ing. The kernel of self within his broken and brutalised body remained.

The Skull of Ruling kept him balanced, he knew that, and he held it close as hungrily as an addict. The arm of the scales creaked and groaned, but the balance remained. His mind drifted with the tides of the wind, carried by the clouds above and fogged by the heavy depths of soil below, but something remained apart from it all.

My hunger for the end? A white-eye’s need for victory? The daemons left little of me and the witch of Llehden took more, so how much is left of the boy I once was, the boy Carel loved? Did he die in the Dark Place, or when his memories were torn out? Or was he only ever an imagining – a false echo in my mind?

‘Isak,’ Carel called from his side, slapping the white-eye’s boot as he spoke, ‘you going to sit there all afternoon?’ He took the reins from Isak’s hands. More gently he said, ‘The halt’s been called. Time for lunch.’

‘I’m not hungry.’ The massive charger stood patiently while Isak disentangled himself and slid to the ground.

‘That don’t matter. You’ll eat something while I take Toramin to drink.’ Carel slapped a bruised apple in Isak’s hand along with a lump of bread, then took the reins and tugged on them to urge Isak’s horse into a walk. ‘If Hulf gets more’n the core, you’ll both feel the back o’ my hand.’

Isak looked at Carel, a frayed smile on his face. ‘You realise that hurts you more than me?’

‘Aye, I know – you bloody Chosen and your Gods-granted strength.’ Carel spat and loosened the saddle-strap. ‘Still, it hurts me, and it’ll hurt your dog – so why do that to us, eh?’

Isak didn’t answer, but he sat on the flattened grass at the side of the road, ignoring the soldiers around him, and bit into the apple. Out from the muddle of horses and men Hulf bounded, barrelled into Isak and fought his way into his lap with enough force that he would have knocked over a normal man. Isak took another big bite of the apple and offered the remains to the dog, who snapped it eagerly up.

As he ate the bread, Isak ran his fingers through Hulf’s thickening fur and stared blankly down at the dirt road. The dog’s coat had become noticeably thicker in the last month as autumn advanced. The dog’s warm, playful presence was a great comfort, a reminder that Isak was more than ephemeral; it was Hulf as much as anything that kept him in the weary flesh of his body. Lurking at the back of his mind was the sense that he no longer belonged in the Land of the living; the lure of the wind was strong, like he could simply let go and drift away.

Carel fought that with every joke and insult, with his gripes and awkward words of pride and praise, but it was the physical that worked best: Carel’s thumps on the shoulder, Hulf’s feet kicking delightedly in Isak’s lap, the burning muscles when he hacked down a tree for firewood or lifted stones to build a firepit.

‘Isak?’ Vesna was standing over him with his usual look of concern. The ruby teardrop embedded in his cheek seemed to tinge that with an air of despondency, but Isak knew the Farlan hero well enough to dismiss that thought.

‘My friend,’ Isak replied as brightly as he could manage, ‘how are you?’

The question seemed to startle Karkarn’s Mortal-Aspect. ‘Me? I’m fine – I won’t pretend it’s not annoying to have my God root through my mind, but having the bastard’s blood in my veins means I don’t tire easily.’ He gestured at the soldiers all around, men and women from the Kingsguard and Palace Guard. ‘We’re pressing them hard, as fast a pace as the baggage can manage, and it’s taking its toll.’

‘I thought the enemy were getting further away?’

‘They are.’ Vesna crouched at Isak’s side to let Hulf lick his fingers. ‘They’re getting supplied as they travel – for a retreat, someone’s planned it bloody well.’

‘Ruhen always planned on heading this way, his preachers must have struck quiet deals over the last few months. The battle becomes irrelevant if he gets Aenaris to Aryn Bwr’s fortress, to the barrow where Aryn Bwr first discovered the Crystal Skulls.’

‘So do we need to push harder, or get the Menin to delay them?’

‘We have time,’ Isak said. ‘They’ll slow down once they’re out of lands Ruhen controls.’

‘It’s a shame the Chetse won’t try to stop them, but if anyone’s going to have a problem there, it’ll be us.’

‘Aye – what fool invited a Menin army along?’

Vesna smiled. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons, whoever he was.’ He hesitated, as if wary of asking what was on his mind, then said, ‘Isak, do you know what it will take to kill Ruhen? Zhia gave him Aenaris, correct? The Key of Life? If it has the power to create dragons – if it’s the match to Termin Mystt – how can you be sure you can kill Ruhen with it?’

‘Termin Mystt’s more than enough to kill a shadow, a child too,’ Isak said with a frown, ‘more than enough to kill a God.’

‘But he’ll unleash all his power to stop you – power beyond imagination, beyond control – so how does that confrontation happen without tearing the Land itself apart? What will be left? Karkarn has told me something of the Great War, of the Last Battle that ended it all. The City of Ghosts is a place where the balance was broken, where the border between this Land and the place of Gods and daemons was fractured by the magic unleashed. Crystal Skulls alone didn’t manage that; it was the Keys of Life and Magic, wielded by
opposing
sides!’

‘Ifarana was her name,’ Isak said, as though in a trance. ‘She was Life herself. Death too bore a name once, when He was not Chief of the Gods alone but ruler in tandem.’

‘And they killed her for betraying her own kind!’ Vesna hissed, red light flickering in his eyes.

‘Was it betrayal, or compassion? Are you so certain of Karkarn’s memories? Do you believe the other Gods were blame less in a war that saw the creation and obliteration of entire species? Think of the fall of Scree, the fanaticism that swept the Land this past year – the rage of Gods is a blind and savage thing, and only fools trust in it. When I stripped the Menin lord of his name I discovered something I hadn’t expected: the Gods themselves
feared
what I was doing, and what it might mean. And it wasn’t just the drain of their strength they were afraid of. History has taught them the folly of their own rage, my friend; they know that’s a force as uncontrollable as any.’ He leaned forward and gripped Vesna’s arm with his black hand.

The Mortal-Aspect stared down in horror at it, aghast at the hurricane of power he could sense, on the cusp of manifesting.

‘Gods and mortals: we’re no different when rage takes us,’ Isak continued urgently. ‘We can’t be trusted, and we can’t be reasoned with. Our worst comes out and no amount of guilt afterwards can make up for what’s done. History is written by the victors because facing the full horror of such shame tears one’s heart apart.