The Twilight Herald: Book Two Of The Twilight Reign (66 page)

‘Can’t you guess?’

Purn thought for a moment. ‘That damned vampire gave you my servant? The wretch; Nai never could stop his chattering. I doubt you even had to torture him.’

Isak said nothing. If the necromancer was in the mood to talk, perhaps just to prolong his life another few minutes, there was always the chance he would say something of interest.

‘So you’re aware of my orders,’ Purn continued, his hands starting to slowly move.

Isak reached out an armoured hand and the necromancer’s arms were stretched out and held fast, bonds of magic looped around them. Isak narrowed his eyes. An object hung from Purn’s belt, a slim shard of glass encasing a raven’s feather, or something similar, and glinting in the weak light. With a thought, Isak tore it away from the mage and across the room for Ehla to snatch out of the air.

‘An escape plan?’ Isak asked. The witch nodded, cradling the object in both hands as she inspected it.

‘
A useful little toy, I think I’ll keep this for myself.
’

‘Try anything else like that and I’ll pull your arms off,’ he said conversationally.

‘You’re going to kill me anyway,’ Purn pointed out. There was no panic in the Menin mage’s voice; he sounded as calm as a monk after prayers.

‘But I had intended to do it cleanly,’ Isak said. ‘I promise you, it can hurt a lot more if you annoy me, whether I should be leaving as quickly as possible or not.’

‘A fair observation,’ Purn said with infuriating acceptance. ‘I’ve recently learned not to underestimate a white-eye’s determination. ’

‘Explain,’ Isak commanded, causing the strands of magic to tighten by way of encouragement.

‘You’re here to kill me; at any other time I’d be fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. Today, however, the sun dawned with a blessing for me.’

‘I asked you to explain,’ Isak warned.

Purn gave a thin smile that grew wider as he spoke. ‘Men of my profession often find themselves party to bargains with the creatures of the dark. Upon my death a number of debts were set to be collected, but the Lord of the Menin has done me a great service. My slate is wiped clean.’

‘You still have Death to answer to,’ Isak said.

The necromancer dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand. ‘Every man must answer to Death; that I am in a position to worry about it is more than satisfactory, a boon I could not have hoped for.’ Since his hands were restrained, he dipped his head towards Isak. ‘Lord Styrax faced down one of the greatest of daemons this day -I advise you to remember that when he reaches your lands.’

‘Is he all they say?’ Isak asked, trying to control the trepidation in his voice. Kastan Styrax had defeated a daemon? First Lord Bahl, then a creature of the Dark Place; was there anything that could stop the man? Images from his dreams filled Isak’s mind: a fanged blade driving into his gut, a black-armoured knight who would mean his death.
I know I can’t stop him, I’ve always known that.

Purn laughed. ‘All they say? I have heard soldiers and courtiers sing his praises, but how could they really understand? There is a prophecy that says his standard will fly above every city in the Land, but that does not interest me, and I suspect neither does it interest Lord Styrax. Empty men strive for glory or power, for flags and gold and nations on bended knee. The great care only for the stars and the heavens above.’

Isak glanced at his left hand. Encased in silver, the skin underneath remained a perfect snow-white, unchanged since he’d called the storm down onto him on the palace walls in Narkang. The memory of soldiers fighting on the wall reminded him that time was not on his side.

He stepped forward with grim resolve, Eolis raised. ‘Then when I see your lord, I’ll warn him that those who reach too high end up burned. Give my compliments to Lord Death.’

At General Gort’s signal, the columns of light infantry advanced with flaming torches held high against the darkness, marching down the Bearwalk, the wide avenue that ran almost directly south from the New Barbican. It would take them most of the way to Six Temples. They were exposed and vulnerable on that wide avenue, but Gort was determined to keep a tight grip on his growing fears. That he wasn’t exactly sure what was frightening him was making his imagination run riot.

The Knights of the Temples had taken the New Barbican with a minimum of fuss, and since then they had seen none of the mobs the New Barbican’s defenders had spoken of with such terror -in fact, they hadn’t seen
anyone
at all. They marched through abandoned streets, watching the shadows nervously and feeling increasingly disconcerted.

General Gort felt horribly alone, the only man on horseback at the head of the column and a prime target for even a mediocre archer. Behind him rumbled a dozen carts, guarded by sappers, then General Chotech, his long, curved axe resting on his shoulder, led his ranks of heavy infantry. His men were armed with heavy shields and thrusting spears: at the first sign of the mobs roving the city, they would lock shields and present a spiked wall that even disciplined troops found hard to break through.

The general turned and inspected the troops with him. A legion of infantry and two hundred lancers stretched out along the Bearwalk. The major of the lancers saw him and gave a theatrical salute, prompting a smile. Major Derl was an excellent officer, from Canar Thrit, a city well known for producing fine soldiers. He was experienced enough to know any idle gesture would be noticed by the nervous troops, so Gort suppressed his own fears and gave a cheery wave in return, noting a few smiles before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

‘What have I got us into?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Will a legion be enough?’

His horse twitched its ears at the sound of his voice and he tightened his grip on the reins. The horses were as skittish as the men. Perhaps they too sensed that this was not a place for the living. It was obvious, and not just in the smashed windows of abandoned buildings, or the shadows lurking at the base of every shattered wall, or even the brutalised corpses strewn across the city. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the hellish sight of fire raging unchecked through entire streets and consuming everything in its path, or the broken ruins wrapped in unnatural dark. He felt the sweat trickle freely down his spine. The heat was still a palpable weight on his shoulders, despite the stiff wind that had recently picked up.

General Gort caught Lieutenant Mehar’s eye and the aide obediently stepped closer.

‘What do you make of this place, Mehar?’ he asked. ‘It’s so hot at night you can hardly bear to wear a shirt, let alone armour. You’re a scholar, what are your thoughts?’

Relief flushed Mehar’s face for a moment. Gort suppressed a smile; the young man had been worrying that he was being punished for some failure; unusually, he’d been excluded from most of the general’s meetings over the last few weeks. Mehar was a good aide, and he had a fine intellect, but his devotion to the order made it hard to tell what he would make of discussions about a deal with the Farlan, or the developing quarrel with the Knight-Cardinal. Right now they couldn’t risk finding out.

‘It feels like the Land has been turned on its head,’ Mehar said hesitantly. He was a shy young man of twenty-five winters whose temperament didn’t fit with his large, athletic frame. His father had been barely bright enough to swing an axe, but he had been keen to ensure his eldest son spent as much time studying as trying to fill his father’s over-sized shoes. It had paid off: Mehar loved his books.

‘A natural order has been upset here, sir. I think that’s why the horses were reluctant to pass through the New Barbican gates. What we need to know is whether this discord is the result, or the purpose.’

‘And we’d need a mage to work that one out?’

Mehar nodded unhappily. Their order vehemently disapproved of magic, of any description. It was their greatest weakness in battle, but it was a belief they all held to: magic was an unnatural art, and the province of Gods, not men. Individuals who had the talent were not blamed for it, but they were encouraged to forsake the magic inside them. The order considered magic to be an addiction, one that could be controlled through faith.

‘I just hope we don’t find it out the hard way, sir.’ He took a breath and looked around at the gutted shells of building that lined the avenue. ‘The natural order of things is that of the Gods on high and mankind, their servants. If that has been reversed, what are we going to find at Six Temples?’

Gort paused. ‘Not a comforting thought, Mehar. Not comforting at all.’

Neither man spoke again until they reached the far end of the Bearwalk.

Parties of light infantrymen flanked the main column, half carrying torches, the other half with weapons at the ready. The wavering light illuminated the rubble of an old marketplace, the remnants of broken stalls and shattered awnings.

Gort started at a dark shape that flitted behind the furthest stalls, tall and flowing, with a bone-white face - but in a blink it was gone, and the soldiers marched on unhindered.
The light from the torches
, the general assured himself,
the moon catching a pane of glass
. To the flicker of doubt in his heart he said nothing.

At the end of the Bearwalk stood a large, ornate fountain, and beyond that six smaller streets fanned out, leading to different parts of the city. The fountain itself was old, though its stone looked scrubbed clean; those statues that remained whole -a scattering of cherubic bodies reaching up from the lower bowl, three pike rising out from corners of a central plinth, and a pair of legs that were all that remained of whatever Aspect had fed the fountain -had been scoured by centuries of wind and rain. The broken fragments in the now-dry bottom of the lower bowl made it clear that someone had vented their rage upon the fountain, stopping when the Aspect’s statue had been destroyed.

Gort rode closer to the fountain as his troops spread around it and locked shields, waiting for the light infantry to regroup. His height afforded him a good view: there were not only smashed limbs of stone, but human remains too. The people of this thirsty city had refused whatever succour this Aspect of Vasle might have offered, fouling both fountain and water so no one could drink from it.

Gort lowered his eyes and whispered a short prayer, a lament for the passing. Aspects might be nothing more than local spirits subsumed by a God of the Pantheon, but they remained part of the divine. The waters no longer ran here, so this part of the divine had died.

Mehar appeared at his side, looked inside the fountain then carefully stepped away. He swallowed, and said, ‘Your fears were justified then, sir.’

‘Thank you for your approval,’ Gort snapped, irritated by the young man’s tone. ‘I will be sure to check every other decision I make with you.’

Mehar’s mouth dropped open. For a moment Gort thought he was going to retort, then he shut it again with a snap of teeth.

The general looked away; he didn’t have to explain himself to his aide, and certainly not when they were in the field, surrounded by enlisted men. He waited in brooding silence for the ranks to form up into companies, tight blocks of fifty soldiers ringed by smaller knots of flickering torches held high in the gloom. He shifted in his saddle. The hot night air was responsible for an infuriating itch that had worked its way under his skin, even to the back of his throat, while the stink of rot from the fountain grew heavier.

The clatter of hooves preceded Major Derl as he led his lancers into the plaza and joined General Gort at the fountain.

‘Blood and piss,’ the major growled as he looked over the lip, ‘let’s hope they’ve treated the temples with more reverence.’

‘There’s no reason to suppose they have,’ Gort said. He gestured at the roads leading off the plaza, all dark bar one, where a burning building had collapsed halfway down the street. ‘Which of these takes us to Six Temples?’

Derl looked up at the pedestal where the statue of the Aspect had been. ‘We were told the fountain pointed directly towards Six Temples. Could they have torn it down intentionally?’

‘They tore it down because they’re godless wretches who have forsaken their sanity,’ Gort growled. ‘They are animals, not men. They act as their instincts tell them -they do not have the forethought to lead us into a trap.’

‘Animals can still possess cunning, sir,’ Derl said, before he caught sight of Gort’s furious expression and added quickly, ‘but only the insane desecrate a shrine, of course. Mehar, why have those damned skirmishers not come to report to the general yet?’

Mehar jumped. ‘I will summon them at once, sir.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Major Derl said dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t trust them anyway.’ He stood up in his stirrups and turned to look back up the Bearwalk. Gort did likewise. Halfway up they could see the torches of the cavalry company he’d ordered to follow behind, to protect their line of retreat. They would hold there, with another positioned here, within eyeshot: no great defence, but enough to summon help if required.

One lancer broke off and made his way over, offering a sloppy salute to the general. Gort glared at the insolent cavalryman, but said nothing. The man was so pale, his face drained of energy and slack with fatigue that he looked about ready to fall from his saddle. The dark rings around his eyes were a strange contrast to the feverish glow within.

‘Woren, which road takes us to Six Temples?’ Derl asked.

The lancer looked around at his surroundings as though astonished at being there. Slowly, he raised a finger and indicated two of the streets, wavering between the two. He opened his mouth to speak, but managed nothing more than an exhausted sigh.

Strange
, thought Gort,
the man must be a native of Scree, but is he the only one we could find? He looks touched by fever, or madness, maybe -is this what has happened to the rest of the city?