The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (49 page)

And yet I barely sleep, and a shadow covers the sun and bars me from its warmth.
Lord Gesh banked away from the breeze and let it carry him in a wide, lazy spiral towards the high towers of Byora. The red sash across his chest fluttered madly as the air rushed past – Lord Ilit trying to tear off the mark of his place on the Devoted’s ruling council? He guessed not, no matter how frantic a movement it was. So long as the Devoted did not force their laws on the Litse, their patron God could have no complaint that his people were shielded in their hour of weakness.

From where he was he could see little of Blackfang’s tabletop surface. The broken mountain was high enough that it was an effort to climb that far in the thin air, but the Ruby Tower’s peak was still below him as he descended. Gesh heard the beat of wings as his two guards followed him, but he was more intent on the city below. He was above Breakale district now, and he could see a crowd massed around the Stepped Gardens there. Many wore the mismatched, poorly dyed white clothes prevalent among Ruhen’s supporters. As he moved closer he saw neat lines of figures, not in white, formed up like soldiers but without any obvious livery.

New pilgrims? Or does Ruhen now have soldiers of his own to carry this message of peace?
But they weren’t the only crowds in Byora, Gesh saw. Just as in Ismess – and Akell and Fortinn quarters, no doubt – he saw large gatherings at street corners and Ruhen’s burgeoning army of followers praying or singing wordless hymns at the Walls of Intercession that most of the Circle City now saw as the key to their salvation. Ruhen’s followers had dismantled many of the quarter’s temples and put up hundreds of shanties in their places, temporary structures in the main, but enough to house the pilgrims flocking daily to Byora in search of this child the preachers all spoke of.

Lord Gesh descended slowly, letting his great wings be seen by all long before he touched his toes to the ground. Ruhen stood on the highest of the garden’s three tiers, in the centre of the top step, so that everyone in the area could see him. The ground sloped away dramatically, with a dozen steep steps leading between each fifty-yard-wide tier. Alongside the child was Mage Peness, wearing scarlet robes, the three remaining Jesters, and Luerce, the First Disciple. Behind them were five masked Harlequins, Ruhen’s own bodyguard, put in place after an assassination attempt had narrowly failed.

Of Duchess Escral there was no sign, but Gesh was not surprised. She was alive, he had heard, but afflicted with some illness that left her enfeebled. Her place as ruler of Byora had been taken by Ruhen, a wordless and bloodless coup that none objected to. Even the Knights of the Temples acknowledged his primacy.

‘Lord Gesh,’ Ruhen sang out as the slender white-eye dropped lightly to the ground, his bodyguards following suit a moment later. The child, Byora’s saviour, as many called him now, wore a long grey tunic, caught at the waist by a plain belt. His dress was understated for the adopted son of a duchess, functional and neat rather than elegant. He wore only a single pearl at his throat for ornamentation.

‘Lord Ruhen,’ Gesh acknowledged, bowing low. ‘Koteer, Mage Peness,’ he added as he straightened, ‘a fair wind guide you all.’

He gestured to the soldiers he had seen earlier and was about to ask who they were when he realised he knew. They were formed into ten blocks of fifty: too many to be Harlequins, but their steel helms had white-painted faces or white leather masks underneath.

‘Your people, Lord Koteer?’

‘The warriors of our clan,’ the white-masked son of Death confirmed. ‘Our blood and kin.’

There were no large towns or cities in the Elven Waste, so five hundred warriors on top of those who had been working as mercenaries with the Jesters must have left the clan’s home villages poorly defended at best. It appeared the Jesters did not care if there was a home to return to once their business with Ruhen was done. Perhaps these Demi-Gods had a new one in mind, and not one where their mortal followers could accompany them.

Ruhen advanced to Gesh’s side and looked up at the Litse lord with his intense, shadow-laden eyes. Under that scrutiny Gesh felt the fatigue of earlier recede, and a warmth seep into his bones that the sun couldn’t provide.

‘Your people thrive without the shackles of their priests,’ Ruhen said. ‘Already I can feel the strength of the Litse returning.’

Gesh inclined his head. ‘Optimism returns,’ he countered, ‘and that has been rare among my people for decades. It is the only start I could wish for, now our ancient enemy has been defeated.’

‘We have a new enemy, one just as terrible as the Menin, only their hatred is for all who look to the future.’ As the little boy stepped forward to the edge of the upper terrace there was a collective intake of breath from his followers. They moved forward eagerly onto the lawns where the most devoted of Ruhen’s Children sat or knelt in small groups. The soldiers stayed where they were on the lower tier, but the Harlequin bodyguards advanced to crouch on the lowest steps in front of Ruhen, wary of letting even white-cloaked devotees within striking distance.

Gesh found himself standing like an attendant with Luerce and Koteer. All of them were stilled by the upwelling of emotion that broke like a wave and filled the air around them; a great thermal reverence that made Gesh want to open his wings and catch it and draw their wordless prayers into him as a God might.

Gesh kept his eyes on the child. Ruhen looked too small to contain such a force of personality, but he had the immediate attention of every person there. His neat little hands were clasped together as though he was about to begin praying, but he did nothing of the sort as he looked around the gardens. A tiny zephyr danced across the grass between them and swirled around the child to twitch the long hem of his tunic and ruffle his wavy brown hair.

Ruhen half-turned at the touch, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips.

Just that small expression was a soothing touch to Gesh’s heart. He touched his fingers to the pocket where he kept Ruhen’s coin, the one given to him as Lord Celao slowly expired. Though Ismess now lacked priests to complain, Gesh would still not wear it around his neck. His new allies did not appear to care; it was enough that he had accepted it in friendship. Ruhen understood that the Litse were a proud race. They wanted no master but one of their own, and so he did not force one on them.

But here I stand anyway,
Gesh realised,
finding strength in a child’s reflected glory.
He smiled as Ruhen started to speak to the crowds below.
But through him the Litse will be great again. In these dark times, his very frailty makes us all strong.

‘We live in years of hardship, my siblings,’ Ruhen said, and as the people pressed forward to hear better Gesh tasted magic in the air. Mage Peness had his eyes closed and his lips were moving silently. Ruhen repeated his words and this time Gesh heard them as though the child was speaking directly to him, as if they were alone in the cool autumn afternoon.

‘War has drained us all,’ Ruhen continued, ‘and fear in its purest form walks the lonely places of this Land while our Gods lie weak and injured. There is much to fear in this Land – enemies mass on our borders and even together, even united, our armies might not prove strong enough to defeat them.’

Gesh felt a chill at Ruhen’s words, remembering the preachers in his quarter who spoke of an army of daemons attending the enemy. He was not afraid of battle or foolish peasant rumours – no Chosen white-eye would be so weak – but with all that had happened recently, from the collapse of Scree to the waking of a dragon in the Library of Seasons, he wondered what other terrors might accompany this Age. One army of daemons had been faced; how unlikely was it that the King of Narkang had bound another to his service?

Ruhen’s voice comforted him, and Gesh let it wash through his mind. The very fear he mentioned was diminished by a little boy who could speak of it so simply, so honestly.

‘We are servants of peace, all of us, but we must give thanks to those who march out to defend this peace, those who have overcome the fear in their hearts and gone beyond the city walls to face the oncoming threat.’

There was a great murmur at that, many no doubt remembering the day Ruhen faced down the daemons outside Byora, but Gesh was thinking of more practical details. His few remaining troops garrisoned the southern towns and villages ruled by Ismess; the only recruitment there was a legion raised to fight under a Devoted banner. Most of the Litse white-eyes had gone with the Devoted armies; their gift of flight was invaluable for coordinating movements and watching for invaders.

General Afasin’s Mustet troops had taken recruits from Akell and marched to the Narkang border to meet the threat head-on. A modest force of Byoran and Imess soldiers had accompanied them, enough to escort the half-dozen mages who were unwelcome within the Devoted ranks.

‘This army of the devoted has fought the fear that clouds hearts. In the service of peace, of the Gods themselves, they drive fear from their minds and think only of serving the innocent and weak.’

Ruhen’s voice remained calm, Gesh realised; he never displayed the grand passion an orator would normally use. He spoke to each person individually, leaving righteous fury for those who sought to manipulate their audience. Instead Ruhen’s words were personal, a conversation where one side need only listen, and recognise the wisdom of what they were hearing.

‘This service of peace is a calling none can deny. Those of us blessed by the Gods with wisdom must guide others; those with health must minister to the sick; those blessed with strength must support and protect their brethren.’

Gesh nodded absentmindedly. His own forces might be weak, but an army from Embere was now camped outside the Circle City, ready to defend it. He felt the truth of Ruhen’s words in his bones, cementing in his heart his decision; he had taken the right path by allying the Litse with the child. All the while something tugged inside at him, some deep compulsion that he was not doing enough for his people.

Gesh’s thoughts turned to the bow Ilit had gifted him with, the good it could do to the armies protecting them. He was strong – the greatest warrior of his people. Though he knew his place was in Ismess, the urge to leave and follow the Devoted army momentarily took his breath away.

He opened his eyes with a slight gasp – he hadn’t even realised he’d closed them – as the desire washed over him. Looking around him he saw others doing the same, nodding heads and faces awakened to action.

A massive force from Raland – fully thirty thousand battle-ready troops, Knights of the Temples wearing Telith Vener’s device as well as the Runesword emblem of their Order – had been not far behind the Embere Army, and they were now headed to Tor Salan to recruit the city’s ruling Mosaic Council. The entire Order of the Knights of the Temples had answered the call, and Gesh’s heart swelled to be numbered among such men.

Duke Chaist, Telith Vener’s hated neighbour, had not felt the same; he had broken out in quite a sweat at the sight of so many battle-ready Raland troops appearing at short notice, apparently – but the pressure had in the end forced them to put aside their petty arguments. These bickering children, who switched the focus of their bullying and slyness as easily as breathing, were now united under a more noble banner than the Runeswords they carried.

All around the Stepped Gardens Gesh saw movement. The Harlequin guards crouched, hands on sword-hilts, but the people struggling to their feet were not advancing on Ruhen – it was quite the opposite. As Gesh fought the sensation to move himself, white-cloaked disciples and common folk alike began to turn towards the gates of the city.

‘Against faith,’ Ruhen was declaring, ‘fear can have no sway. Those who face the darkness are the most blessed of the Gods – they walk without fear, shielded by the faith of those they protect.’

From the assembled crowds came cries of urgency and desperation as more and more people left, some even picking up loose stones that they might carry as weapons to smite the Narkang heretics. Gesh shuddered and shook himself, trying to fight the mad mood crawling over him, until he was forced to embrace the magic inside him again and open his wings. The reminder of his own strength, the power and will of Ilit that flowed through his bones, cast aside the fervour or spell – he could not tell which – and he saw with fresh eyes the effect on those assembled.

Several of the nearest disciples were lying on the ground, frothing at the mouth or convulsing with apoplexy; many more knelt with arms outstretched, reaching out as though Ruhen truly stood just before them, speaking to them alone, and they could embrace his words. Gesh took a step back as the little boy looked down at the arrayed people, savouring the effect he had had upon them.

‘Face them down, my brothers and sisters,’ Ruhen said softly, almost tenderly, to renewed howls. ‘Let faith sustain you, let faith protect you. Face them with the strength of peace in your hearts – face the heretics and sweep them from this holy Land of Gods and peace.’

As the screaming intensified, Gesh could stand it no more. He leapt into the air, as desperate as the rest to leave that place.

Amber rode towards the castle with no regard for the soldiers attempting to block his path. Behind him was a troop of twenty Menin soldiers, in full armour and caked in dust from the long ride. A cold wind blew from the south and stretched out the banner carried by the man behind him. The black flag had the Menin rune at its centre, with their former lord’s Fanged Skull on one side, on the other a golden bee to signify their new master.

Amber could see the confusion on the faces of Kingsguard; probably the only reason why blood hadn’t yet been drawn. He had marched the remaining Menin legions hard all the way from Farrister, not giving anyone, least of all himself, time to pause. There was dissent still, he could hear the whispers abruptly cut off when he came into view, but the king’s choice had been no real choice at all.

‘Major,’ shouted a voice over those of the young soldiers demanding he stop, and Nai trotted out into the road. The necromancer – perhaps
former
necromancer, Amber reflected, thinking the king would likely not stand for that continuing – was dressed in functional black like a proper member of the Brotherhood now, and carried an edged mace slung over one shoulder.