The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (51 page)

Surprise had melted into shock and sick disbelief when he was presented to the King of Narkang. The man had been full of worry, the stink of it filling the room, leaving Carel fearful for his few remaining friends. But to learn that Isak was alive— The king’s words had robbed him of the ability to stand; the king’s new bodyguard had had to half-carry him to a chair.

But the grief at Isak’s death, still eating at Carel’s guts, was doubled at what he heard then: his boy, dragged out of Ghenna, scarred and scared and traumatised – Carel’s head had already been reeling when the final punch came, driving the wind from his lungs, emptying his stomach and leaving black stars of pain bursting before his eyes. Remembering that moment even now forced him to stop by the road and drop to his knees, retching, as his heart threatened to burst.

‘
Carel, I’m sorry, but there’s more
,’ the king had said. ‘
He—
’ For a moment even the King of Narkang had been lost for words. ‘
His mind was hurt, Carel. The pain of Ghenna was too much for him. The witch of Llehden had to take memories from his mind to save what was left. He – Isak – he doesn’t remember you. He will not know you if he sees you again. Carel, I’m sorry, but you are lost to him.
’

It wasn’t far, but it took Carel a long time to reach the town, lost as he was in his memories. He found himself resting on the swordstick he used to support himself more often these days. He only caught himself at the river, when the click of the stick’s metal tip on the bridge woke him from his thoughts. Carel stared at the stick, struck by a sudden urge to throw it into the river.

‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ a woman called.

Carel turned and peered through the low light at the speaker. ‘Ardela?’

‘If you’re going to pitch yourself off, best find somewhere higher,’ the former Hand of Fate advised, stepping lightly over to him. She was dressed in men’s clothing as usual, but judging by her battered brigandine and black breeches worn over high boots, this time she’d looted the tent of some Brotherhood man. Short, unruly curls of dark black hair poked out from beneath an ancient wide-brimmed hat that Carel guessed would make the king laugh.

He looked down at the river, some twelve feet down below. ‘You could be right, but I was more thinking of takin’ my life back from this damn thing.’

‘Your swordstick?’

‘I keep finding myself putting my weight on it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s turning me into an old man.’

‘That ain’t the stick, old man – anyways, not as if you’re one o’ those wrecks shuffling around with their white collar stained so bad by wine, folk won’t believe they were ever in the Ghosts.’

Carel straightened up automatically. He was certainly more grey-haired than in his army days, but it had been the loss of his arm that ended his fighting career, not his age. ‘I’m not so old as that.’

‘True,’ Ardela conceded, ‘but any fool can see the weight on your shoulders, so maybe the stick’s not so bad an idea.’

‘Since when did you find such wisdom? Come with the tattoos, did it?’

Ardela automatically looked down at the circles on her palms. They were recently done, and the slow way, as she’d not been present after the battle. ‘I think that’s experience, not wisdom. There are times I’ve needed a stick too.’

Carel looked the muscular young woman up and down. ‘Somehow I find that hard to picture.’

‘Aye, well, I’d have said the same about Legana. First time I met her I thought she was just some mad blind woman out in the forest – a long way from the Hand of Fate I’d heard was the best of us,’ Ardela said with fierce pride. ‘She walks with a stick now; that’s not so much a ruse as the blindfold she uses to shade her eyes, but it doesn’t mean she’s so weak as all that. Any man here’ll come off worst against her, I promise you that.’

‘I’ll not be the one to test her,’ he said, forcing a smile, ‘but I like the thought o’ not being entirely useless. So how does it feel, to walk as silently as the Grave Thief?’

‘No different yet, not till Legana’s back. The magic to link us comes from her; these tattoos are mostly to make the job easier for her; at least that’s what Nai says. Doing it all from scratch, she’d need Mihn there every time and that ain’t so practical for a sisterhood. With the tattoos done and a brand ready, the God part of her can put in the magic easy enough.’

‘Brand?’

Ardela grinned, reminding Carel more than a little of Isak. White-eyes didn’t enjoy pain, he knew that, but the prospect was enough to animate the savage fighter within them and Ardela looked no different there.

‘Aye, that “heart” rune they all got on their chests – came from Lord Isak, I’m told, but it’s the pain of the tattoos and the branding that opens the path for the magic. Don’t understand it much myself, but given some of the shit I’ve seen mages do it makes sense.’

Carel hesitated. ‘So it’s a link to Isak too? To Mihn, to Legana, to Xeliath too, if she’d still been alive?’

‘Guess so, why?’

‘Come on.’ And without bothering to explain, Carel set off to the small compound on the eastern edge of the original town, the large stone house and a pair of barns which had been appropriated by those priestesses and Hands of Fate who’d answered Legana’s call in search of a new purpose. The original owner had died in the Menin advance; King Emin had been glad to offer his new allies the space to make their own. Carel guessed it housed a hundred or more of the sisterhood, a good dozen of whom had been priestesses of the Lady.

The compound was surrounded by a wicker fence the height of a man, and armed women stood on guard at each of the gates. The guard stepped in front of Carel well before he reached it, her spear lowered enough to force him to stop or be impaled upon it. The Farlan veteran didn’t break stride but struck with surprising speed, battering the spear aside with his stick, then stepping inside her guard, he turned into her blow as she struck at him with the butt of the spear, getting too close for there to be any real force in it.

‘Stay your weapon!’ Ardela called from behind him. ‘He’s with me.’

The guard scowled at Carel, her face only inches from his, before growling, ‘Doesn’t mean he’ll be welcome, heretic.’

‘Watch your tongue, bitch,’ Ardela snapped back. ‘Now step aside or I’ll put you down.’

‘What do you want, heretic’s friend?’ the guard said, flushing with anger, but directing her antagonism at Carel. She knew full-well Ardela was one of their best killers.

‘You to get out my way,’ Carel said quietly. ‘I ain’t going to ask again.’

The guard blinked and found the handle of his swordstick pressed against her throat. The rounded pommel was solid brass and he could see she knew how little effort it would take to crush her windpipe, one-armed or not.

Carel eased himself to one side, allowing the guard to do the same and edge out of his way so he could slip through. He wasn’t surprised when Ardela stayed outside while he continued on.

The enclosed area was a hive of activity. The doors of the nearer of the barns were wide open, and Carel could see the small forge inside. Before it were several tables where all sorts of work was being done, but none that interested him. He ploughed on to the other side where he could see a gate leading to the stone-walled courtyard of the main house, and his gamble paid off: the priestesses were taking advantage of the daylight.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ the nearest woman spluttered in outrage. Judging by the wrinkles on her face, Carel guessed she was older than he was, despite the bright copper hair tied back in a plait.

‘Your new recruit,’ he declared, stepping past her. One young woman was stripped to the waist, with just a scarf wrapped crossways over her breasts to cover them. Three copper-haired priestesses were gathered around her, tattoo needles poised. He nodded companionably at the young woman and found himself a stool opposite her, shrugging off his coat as he sat.

‘And to think Cedei told me I’d not get so much as an eyeful round here,’ he commented as he fumbled one-handed with the toggles on his doublet.

‘What in the name of the Dark Place do you think you’re doing?’ hissed the oldest of the priestesses, brandishing a long bone needle tipped with black ink.

‘I want you to tattoo me; I need it done before your Mortal-Aspect arrives.’

‘You’re not one of us – why?’

Carel winced as he tugged his doublet over his maimed arm. The stump underneath looked pale and withered in the dull light of day. It had been a clean cut, made by Eolis when Isak realised the arm couldn’t be saved, but still the swirls of scarring from where he’d cauterised the wound looked horrific to Carel.

‘I’ve got my reasons.’

‘Not good enough,’ the priestess snapped. ‘I’m not wasting hours of work on some ancient veteran just because he wants to rejoin the Ghosts.’

‘Do it,’ Ardela called from the open gate. The priestesses turned in surprise, more than one tensing at the sight of her. ‘You can’t deny Carel – he’s more right to this mark than any of us.’

The priestess shook her head firmly. ‘Our sisters are the only ones who have a right to it. He is no one.’

‘He’s more than you know. The tattoos belong to Mihn and the witch who made them; the Ghosts and our sisterhood are only borrowing that power. Mihn did it out of devotion to his lord, and Carel’s got more claim to that than we do.’

‘Then he can wait for Legana to return – if she sees the right of it, she will decide.’

Ardela moved in and shut the courtyard door behind her. One hand rested casually on the hilt of her plundered Harlequin sword. ‘Man’s clearly got a reason for wanting it now. I’ve spent enough time around those at the forefront of this war to recognise that look in his eye. It’s a reason that goes to the bone.’

‘I do,’ Carel said, a quaver entering his voice as King Emin’s words echoed in his mind, ‘one that’s my own. Your Mortal-Aspect don’t think that’s a good reason, she can take the damn tattoos back.’

The priestess’s expression became pointed. ‘She might yet do that – the spirit of our Goddess flows through our sister’s veins. Neither cares much for the pain of the undeserving.’

‘She can take ’em back with a rusty knife,’ Carel growled, sitting forward to look the priestess straight in the eye, ‘my oath on it, if she don’t think I’m worthy.’

The priestess sighed and glanced at the young woman whose tattoos were unfinished. The woman nodded and reached for her shirt.

‘As you wish. Carel, is it? Well Carel, let’s start with your hands. I’m going nowhere near the soles of your feet till you’ve washed.’

CHAPTER 24

Carel edged forward, his steps uncertain, the tip of his sword pointed at the Kingsguard’s face. The scuff of his boots on the ground and the chink of chainmail were the only sounds he made. The soldier watched his approach from behind a large round shield and waited for an opportunity; his sword he kept close to his body, half-hidden behind the shield. Only his eyes moved, glancing constantly between Carel’s sword-tip and his shuffling feet.

The veteran feinted but was ignored except for a twitch of the shield, then his opponent suddenly moved, trying to swat Carel’s sword away with his own. The former Ghost only just managed to avoid it; once he would have caught the blade and ridden any buffeting, but he had no shield of his own, and that affected the way he now fought. He took a step closer, crowding his opponent and trying to batter down on his arm.

The man responded by turning behind his shield again and driving forward. Carel was forced backwards, his sword-arm caught by the shield, and he heard the ominous scrape of steel over mail across his belly.

‘You’re dead, old man,’ laughed a soldier on the sidelines. ‘Thought you Ghosts were meant to have some skills?’

Carel stepped back, scowling. ‘Been a while since I used one o’ these.’

‘Stop trying to fence with it, then!’ called a voice from somewhere behind him. ‘Fast way to get dead that looks.’

The Kingsguard soldiers all tensed and several had started reaching for their weapons before they caught themselves.

‘Easy boys,’ Carel said, ‘man’s an ally now, remember?’

General Amber was standing behind the dozen young Narkang warriors, all of them in full armour, their faces flushed from sparring. He didn’t bother to confirm Carel’s words; the look on his face was stony and he was also dressed for war. ‘Take your hands off your weapons,
boys
,’ he said at last, ‘less you don’t fancy reaching manhood.’

The Menin looked to his left, in case the Kingsguard hadn’t noticed the bodyguards who followed him everywhere. They carried long axes, using them as unwieldy walking sticks so they were constantly to hand.

‘How’s about everyone here remembers their orders?’ Carel demanded loudly, then turned to the big Menin. ‘Amber, what’re you doing here? Thought you were marching out today.’

He inclined his head. ‘Until I saw your efforts just then, anyway. You keen on getting yourself killed, old man?’

‘Just rusty is all.’

‘Prancing around with a swordstick will do that for a soldier,’ Amber agreed. He held out his hand and Carel, after barely hesitating, handed over his sword. It was a one-handed weapon, naturally, with a thin double-edged blade that tapered to a long point.

‘It’s light,’ Amber commented, ‘but you’re not going to put out anyone’s eye with it.’ He gave Carel an assessing look, stepped to his left side and prodded him in the ribs then shoulder. He shook his head. ‘Just mail? Most soldiers won’t bother slashing at you, especially if you’re as close as you just were. Get some steel bands to cover your ribs – you’re open to sticking there.’

Carel’s eyes went to Amber’s twin scimitars. The general had a long reach with them, but it was a curiously elegant style of fighting that belied the man’s size and strength. They were heavy, slashing weapons and few had the skill to thrust with such swords. ‘You would.’

‘But most likely I’m not who you’ll be facing: I need to stand back and cut faster than my enemy lunges, and so do you.’ He waved a finger in the vague direction of the Kingsguard Carel had been sparring with. ‘Ask any of them: they’d try to close and pin you, then jam something in your ribs just as you got there.’