The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (75 page)

His kind didn’t age as quickly as normal humans, yet as each day ended, General Lahk felt the years more heavily: the slow, stiff ache in his shoulders, the dull clunk from his shoulder socket whenever he drew his left arm right back, the gnarled and twisted toes, with every nail ridged and bruised.

Everything hurts,
Lahk concluded, easing back into his chair and ignoring the cold that raised goose bumps on his flesh.
Am I lucky or foolish? I’ve served longer than almost any other – as long as Suzerain Torl, and I don’t envy him his body. I’ve seen the discomfort, and even shitting pains him.

The thought made Lahk look down at his crotch.
The one I always forget.

He took a little more ointment and pushed his penis aside. Even that was scarred, the faint white line down its side marking where a sword had sliced, missing the groin artery, but tearing away one ball, leaving his sack looking even uglier than most: a small, misshapen lump half-covered in hair.

He stopped as the weight of damage drained the strength from him. He’d only once seen disgust on a whore’s face, but the hurt of it remained with him still. The woman he kept in Tirah was cheerfully unbothered by any sort of disfigurement, but it was her presence in the dark of night that made him pay her house bills, not the sex.

Gods,
he thought,
I’ve never even met a white-eye female – and my brother’s been as useless as me when it comes to bringing new life into the Land
. ‘Are we only good for killing?’ he said aloud, though the empty tent never gave him any answer.

My body’s a record of service – sometimes I think it belongs to the army. Maybe one day Quartermaster-General Kervar will ask for it back. Would I complain? No other man can be this damaged. Each time they patch me up and send me back out, because I’m the fool who does not say no, who does not complain or argue. For thirty-five years I’ve been first to be tended by the healers. Any other soldier would have lost his arm or leg and been pensioned out – or be dead of his wounds, more likely – yet here I am, still fighting.

He sat back and reached into the box once again, this time withdrawing a cloth roll. Fumbling a little, he fitted a small porcelain pipe and ivory stem together, then withdrew a tiny black lump from a pouch, placed it in the bowl of the pipe and used the candle to heat it. Finally breathing in the thick smoke, Lahk closed his eyes and waited for the dull aches in his body to fade. He used the drug rarely, only when he knew the pain of old injuries would keep him from sleeping, but they had been riding hard for a week now, through these inhospitable Chetse lands, and his ankle and knee in particular pained him enough that his brother had not been the only one to notice. Others had asked, King Emin and Carel most pointedly.

Lahk bowed his head.
I am not my lord. I do not have his strength.

Memories of Lord Bahl filled his mind. As Lahk had been the bedrock of the Ghosts, the unmovable heart of that entire legion, so Bahl had been for Lahk: his strength and power surpassed the general’s understanding.

Had I known him, had I fought beside him before that day at the temple, I would have never offered myself so readily. He bore the weight of the nation on his shoulders; he suffered the whispers and lies while he served them all. Without him – without a ruler of his ilk – I am lost. Isak wears greatness like a mantle, but see how that incandescence has burned him. I follow him out of habit as much as loyalty. Truth and justice are just words to me. All I ask for is purpose.

The lingering note of pain in his limbs began to dim and his head fogged as the drug started to take effect. He spat on the ground, revolted by the bitter taste – in truth, everything about it revolted him, not least the days when he felt the need for it growing further apart from the catalogue of injuries, seen and unseen, he had accumulated.

He capped the pipe, dismantled it and put it away in the box before slipping his leggings back on again. His movements were slow and ponderous, but that was as he wanted: the smoke drove away the pain and the doubts and allowed a few hours of emptiness in his mind. The lumps were deliberately small, limited by the strength of will some saw as an iron soul. Some things were necessary and therefore they were done. He could make no sense of how others could lie and betray themselves out of doing what they needed to.

The chill in the room was gone now. As he went about the motions of stowing his armour and boots, unable to let himself sleep while it lay in disorder, he muttered the words of prayer he’d been taught so long ago. He couldn’t pray to Nartis, not since that day he was so gravely scarred, but the words of reverence his father had taught him returned without effort. As a boy, Tiniq had always scowled as he mumbled them at their bedside, trusting in his brother’s strong voice to hide his own reluctance. Now Lahk always pictured Lord Bahl as he spoke the words taught to all Farlan under his breath:

‘Give me strength, lord, for all I must do. Give me strength, lord, for the fear I must face. Give me strength, lord—’

He broke off, suddenly aware there was someone else in the tent. His battle-instincts had been dulled, but even as he realised they were there, he felt no panic. It was simply awareness, not fear. The long-knife entered his back cleanly: a quick, professional strike that pierced his great heart and sent the general rigid. He tried to turn, but the person had a firm grip on his arm. As Lahk moved, the knife twisted in the wound and the sharp blossom of agony spread around his ribcage, flowering hot over his skin though the blade was as cold as ice.

He felt his heart stutter, then a flicker of fear as he realised he was dead, but that faded almost immediately. Lahk remained standing even as the knife was removed and driven in again. The first blow had killed him; Lahk knew that with utter certainty, and his life’s blood spilled from his back, but he had seen too much death to fear it now. Battle had been his life, not his pleasure; he had no dreams of glory to follow, no heroic death to seek. He was beyond pain.

Lahk stared at the faded tent cloth, and at last his immovability ended. His killer eased him forward, just a step, to reach the bed and then down he went – sprawled across it, his face perched on the edge looking at the tent wall just a foot away. The light dimmed, the tent grew dark around him and Lahk found himself sinking into darkness. But the darkness was not empty, he felt power there – strength beyond mortal bounds. Something waited patiently for him, and Lahk would face it without regrets.

I come, my lord. I come to serve you once more.

‘Give me strength, lord,’ his killer finished, ‘for the man I must be.’ He withdrew the knife and wiped it on the bed. Once the weapon was sheathed he stood for a while looking down at the body.

‘I’m sorry. You deserved better,’ the killer whispered.

He collected the Crystal Skull from Lahk’s armour and held it up to the weak light for a moment. The shadows in the room swarmed and danced around him, swirling up to meet him even before the killer bent to blow out the candle. Then he left, wreathed in shadow, as unseen by the guards as when he had entered.

Isak sat, unmoving, as Suzerain Torl spilled the news, tears shining wetly in the ageing warrior’s eyes, his grey and lined face crumpled by grief.

‘Dead?’ he asked dumbly.

‘Found by his guards this morning,’ Torl choked. ‘Stabbed in the night, his Crystal Skull taken.’

‘How?’

‘They claim they don’t know. They swear no one entered or left all night.’ Torl’s face hardened. ‘Shinir will find the truth of it, but I’ve known Lahk’s hurscals for years . . .’ His voice tailed off. He looked shaken to his core. Even after all the death and battle he had seen, for his implacable friend to be murdered without putting up a fight tore at the man’s heart.

‘It must be done – it’s better Shinir questions them than Tiniq getting his hands on them. Speaking of Tiniq, has he been told?’

A strangled howl answered his question, and Isak rose and saw the hooded figure of Tiniq, staggering down the pathway between the Palace Guard’s tents. He had a messenger by the throat and was dragging the man in his wake, apparently unaware he still had the man in his grip.

‘Tiniq!’ Isak shouted, and the ranger stopped dead, hesitating for a moment before swinging around to face his lord. Isak and Torl headed out past their guards to meet him. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed with grief.

‘Let him go, Tiniq,’ Torl ordered. ‘He’s not the one to blame.’

The ranger looked down to find the young messenger in his hand still. The man hung from Tiniq’s grip, his knees dragging on the ground, both hands wrapped fruitlessly around the man’s fist. With an effort, the shaking ranger released him and the messenger flopped onto his back, gasping for air.

‘Go with him, Torl,’ Isak said. ‘Lahk was your friend; you should help prepare his body.’

‘Prepare his body?’ Tiniq echoed hoarsely.

‘Funeral rites – he was our greatest general, and we will honour him as such.’

Tiniq shook his head. ‘We wrap the body and bring him with us.’

‘Bring him?’ Suzerain Torl said, horrified. ‘Damn it, man, he was your brother!’

Tiniq advanced on the suzerain, for a moment looking like he was going to attack him, then he started fighting for control. ‘He was my brother, yes,’ he said, ‘and we
will
honour him – he wouldn’t care about a eulogy or memorial. We honour him by following the example he set.’ He looked around wildly at the soldiers drawing closer, hearing the whispers already running through the crowds. ‘You hear me?’ he shouted, ‘you want to honour my brother, you’ll bloody march for him! You think he’d want to lose hours of daylight when there’s an enemy to catch? You think he’ll give a shit about pretty words being spoken over him? There’s the job at hand, nothing more, and your job is to catch and kill the enemy. If you want to honour him, you’ll give him fifty miles this day to make up the ground we’ve lost!’

He voice wavered. With one final glare at Torl and Isak, Tiniq started off again towards his brother’s command tent.

‘You heard him,’ Isak said quietly. ‘We march for General Lahk; we’ll honour him tonight. Go and make sure he doesn’t kill anyone, Torl. I’ll get them ready to march; no man’ll need telling twice today.’

‘The final test?’ Ilumene asked, hurrying forward.

Ruhen turned and smiled. ‘The final test,’ the child in white confirmed as Ilumene joined him. He still towered over the boy, though Ruhen was taller than natural for his years. His composed stillness or smooth, restrained purpose set him apart from normal children – that and the shadows in his remaining eye.

‘It all went as you intended?’

‘All involved passed the test,’ Ruhen replied, ‘and that is all I ever plan for.’

Ilumene nodded in approval. ‘At least some things about that damn white-eye are predictable.’

‘You think him incapable of restraining himself?’

‘All the time? No, but you catch that boy off-guard and his first reaction’ll be to call the storm inside. Don’t give a man time to think and he’ll act on instinct – that’s when you know his true heart, and it tells you he doesn’t suspect our agent.’

Ruhen pursed his lips. ‘Let us not make too many assumptions; they have surprised us in the past.’

‘Aye, well, they’re running out of cards to play. Once our agent performs his task, they’ll be left reeling and unable to stop us.’

‘And then the game will be ours,’ Ruhen finished, savouring the words on his tongue with the ghost of a smile. ‘But until then, it remains at risk.’

It was morning and the Devoted army was ready to march again. Seeded through their ranks were ragged figures in greys and whites, the wild-eyed, exhausted and half-starved preachers and followers who called themselves Ruhen’s Children. Some knelt and muttered prayers, watched by Chetse farmhands and villagers. They all faced Ruhen as they droned devotionals of Venn’s and Luerce’s devising, or keened wordlessly, arms linked with their fellow devout, or gripping the shoulders of the person in front.

‘It is a lesson for us both,’ Ruhen said after a while, gesturing to the masses around them.

‘In what?’

‘In the unexpected. Look at these soldiers, professional, obedient, but unremarkable in many ways. They have no proud pedigree, no great nation to inspire their pride, nothing more than a basic level of devotion and the regimen of training.’

Ilumene followed Ruhen’s gaze. ‘Unexpected, aye,’ he commented as he watched the white clad worshippers slowly clump together.

They had no tents or supplies with them – they were beggars, the mad and the lost, who either had nothing, or had not understood what they might need on their journey. All the way through the central states they had been in lands sworn to Ruhen and the Knights of the Temples, and the local preachers at every village and town had provided basic provisions. The followers who had accompanied them from the Circle City hadn’t fallen away as some had expected; instead, they had swelled in number, and for every one who found the going too hard, or who fell to sickness, a dozen more joined the cause, driven by a consuming zeal.

Advance scouts had negotiated supplies for the army once they’d entered Chetse lands, but the haphazard organisation of Ruhen’s Children fell away. Ilumene had predicted a vicious but necessary culling as only the strongest among them survived, but something entirely different had happened, and now the man and boy watched in silent wonder as men, women and children crawled from the tents of the Devoted, ready to resume their march.

Without orders, the men of the army had taken them in, sheltering and feeding them without complaint. There was enough to go around, they estimated, but it was the care and effort expended that surprised all who saw it.

‘I underestimated them,’ Ruhen said. ‘I had not thought soldiers would embrace my message too.’

Ilumene laughed softly. ‘They didn’t, not really,’ he said when Ruhen turned enquiringly towards him. ‘It’s not that you underestimated them, you just don’t know ’em.’