The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (86 page)

In their wake came the Ghosts, breathing hard but far more skilled than anyone they faced, and close behind came the swift Sisters of Dusk, spreading out around the ring of soldiers while the Ghosts attacked from within. Vesna found himself on flat pavestones, beyond the main line of Devoted, and a Harlequin leaped forward, twin swords whistling through the air. He caught one on his own blade. The other hammered into his pauldron, but the God-blessed armour turned it. Before he could counterattack, the Harlequin had peeled away and was dancing towards a Ghost. He slashed down at the back of the man’s knee and the Ghost faltered, crying out in pain, but he never even had the time to fall before he was spitted in the side. Vesna whipped a fistful of sparks towards the Harlequin, but the figure jinked to the side with inhuman speed. He lunged forward and was parried, but this time Vesna charged on and crashed bodily into the Harlequin. A blade scraped down his armoured side, and then he had driven it from its feet and they fell together, Vesna’s greater weight driving the wind from the Harlequin’s lungs as he landed on it. He head-butted it, and the white mask it wore shattered and fell away as Vesna stabbed his sword into its belly.

The Harlequin spasmed and cried out, its voice high and feminine, and Vesna felt a jolt in his gut at the sound. He looked down and saw a woman’s small features, her face contorted by pain. He hesitated, even as she moved, stabbing the point of her sword into the joint of his armour and driving him off her, his sword tearing out of her gut in a great spray of blood. For a moment they lay side by side, staring into each other’s eyes, and then a boot stamped down on her neck.

‘Get up, you bastard!’ Daken roared, turning as he shouted to swat away a spear with the butt of his axe. He brought the weapon back around and chopped down into the Devoted soldier attacking him, dropping the man with a crunch.

Vesna felt a sharp pain in his side as he fought his way unsteadily to his feet, and then he felt Karkarn invade his mind quite suddenly, and gasped as the War God turned a weapon and cut clean through a man’s arm. The cold, clear soul of a God washed away the grief threatening to consume him.

Vesna staggered back as the God fled again, too weakened to take control for any longer than that, but the sight of the soldier dropping to his knees and shrieking at the wound brought him back to the fight. His side was on fire, but he found himself able to move and fight still, so he drove the pain from his mind and moved on.

All around him the Ghosts and Sisters were butchering the reeling, shattered remnants of the Devoted defenders; their spirit had been broken by their commander’s retreat and Daken’s mad rush. Those still alive, the few score defending the far side of the stones, were driven off and the Ghosts let them go, glad for any moment to catch their breath after the exhausting ascent through the lines.

‘Emin, go!’ Vesna yelled, pointing towards the black, open stairway between the two tallest stones.

‘You’re not coming?’ the king gasped, running up to him. ‘We’ll need you.’

Vesna pointed back the way they had come, and even from this distance they could clearly see their troops falling to the crazed white monsters of Ruhen’s Children. Even as they surveyed the slaughter, he gestured at a Devoted regiment advancing towards them. ‘You need someone watching your back here. The Ghosts need to make a stand, and me with them. You need men who can walk in the shadows down there – Legana’s going with you, Daken, Doranei, Leshi, Shinir – but my place is here. You can handle that shadow’s Harlequins without me.’

As Emin nodded, Vesna saw a line scored down one side of his helm. The king held out a hand. ‘Karkarn chose his Iron General well.’

The Farlan hero faltered as his mind suddenly conjured an image of Tila’s last agonised expression, the remnants of a shattered Harlequin’s mask surrounding her face. He took the hand. ‘Get it done and get out,’ he said gruffly. ‘We’ll be needing a great king after.’

Emin ducked his head and tore off his boots, the Brotherhood and Legana’s Sisters following suit. Before Vesna could turn back to the fight, another man ran up to him, heaving for breath and covered in blood.

‘Too old for this shit,’ he, tearing his helm from his face and sucking in great lungfuls of air. ‘Cut my boots for me, will you?’

‘Carel, stay here,’ Vesna ordered, but the veteran just spat on the ground and straightened up.

‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’

‘You’ll die!’ Vesna protested.

‘My boy’s down there!’ Carel shouted, ‘and I’m going.’ He started to run the edge of his notched sword over his boots, trying to slice the laces open and get his feet free, but the weapon had blunted and wouldn’t cut properly.

‘Carel, listen to me.’

The old man dropped his sword and grabbed Vesna with his one hand. ‘You listen to me, boy!’ he shouted, ‘I’m going, an’ that’s the end of it! You want to part on bad terms, that’s your choice.’

Vesna stared into his eyes a moment longer, then bowed his head. He pulled his dagger from his belt and bent to slash Carel’s boots open. He dragged them off Carel’s feet and ripped open his leggings so the tattoos were exposed. ‘I don’t want to part that way,’ he said, ‘I’d rather call you brother before the end.’

Unexpectedly Carel embraced him. ‘Aye, brother it is. I never meant those words I said back in Tirah. You know what grief does to a man.’

Vesna nodded, unable to speak.

‘See you in the Herald’s Hall,’ Carel added, breaking away from the Mortal-Aspect and retrieving his sword with a grunt. ‘Put in a good word for me, y’hear?’

With that he was off, half-running, half-limping towards the stairway where most of the Brotherhood had already entered.

‘Goodbye, brother,’ Vesna whispered, filled with sudden certainty that he wouldn’t see the ageing warrior again. He shook himself, then shouted, ‘Right you bastards!
Form line!
’ The Iron General looked around at his remaining soldiers. Some three hundred Ghosts out of the two thousand who’d ridden to Moor-view had reached the top with him. No doubt there were more left back on the slope, still fighting, but three hundred would have to be enough.

‘Well, brothers,’ he called out as they started to get into position, , ‘looks like we’ve found a good place to die. Let’s give the bards something to sing about, eh?’

And all around him, the Farlan battle hymn started up again.

CHAPTER 43

At the centre of the cavern there were more standing stones, each one as high as the pair marking the entrance, set in a circle thirty yards across. They’d not been carved or quarried, and the only markings they bore were the rune of a God, carved on their inside faces, above a small niche. Isak could feel the presence of the Gods here; this place was a lodestone for their spirits.

As he dragged himself towards the centre of the cavern Isak felt the heat on his skin, and he quailed inside, knowing the sight he would soon be faced with. When they had rounded the last of the great pillars even Ilumene had faltered, the leash falling slack for a moment, until Ruhen had gestured and the former King’s Man trotted up to his side again.

A swift-flowing river of fire, ten feet wide, was swirling around the standing stones, high flames leaping like grasping hands from its surface. A single stone slab crossed it. Isak cringed at the memory of Ghenna as the heat and pain of his torments radiated out of his many scars. He dropped to one knee, his arm thrown across his face as though to protect himself, but he could not tear his gaze from those flames.

‘Lit by the River Maram,’ Ruhen announced with delight, ‘holy beyond the Palace of the Gods itself. This is the heart of the Land, the very bedrock of the Gods and the worship that sustains them.’ The boy turned to face Isak and he saw the shadows surge and dance in the mismatched eyes. His pale skin was tainted by grey swirls as Maram’s light showed Azaer’s true self through its mortal vessel.

‘This is the place?’ Isak croaked, fighting for breath. He forced himself to his feet again, standing for a moment with the silver chain dragging at his shoulder, until he dropped heavily to his knees again and prolonged the moment a fraction more. ‘This is where you had Aryn Bwr forge the Skulls?’

Ruhen gestured towards the standing stones and Isak realised each of the niches set below each God’s rune was
were were
large enough to take a Crystal Skull. ‘I merely showed him this place; his decisions were his own.’

‘But you gave him the idea – how to restrict the power of the Gods.’

‘I told him the truth of the crystals he found here, the link each one had to the Gods, how worship and magic flowed through them. How each could be limited, the Last King discovered himself. He saw them for what they were: beings of power who cared little for their creations. He made them care, he made them dependent on their followers, and for that they hated him.’

Ruhen looked at Isak, his face strangely intense. ‘Do you remember any tales of the Age of Myths? The mountains they carelessly tore down, the moon they threw into the night sky? They acted without regard for consequences. The myths speak nothing of the mortals lost when the mountains fell or the waters rose. The Elves suffered, the Tribes of Man suffered, and so Aryn Bwr tried to limit them, to grant the Gods understanding and bring the creation of mortal life full circle.’

‘And for that they cursed him,’ Isak whispered.

‘They did not see it as a gift,’ Ruhen said. ’They could accept no hand but their own shaping their existence.’ He crossed the slab and entered the circle itself. ‘Bring him,’ he commanded.

Ilumene followed eagerly, half-dragging Isak after him, with Tiniq and Venn close behind. Once inside Isak felt a sudden coolness on his skin; the oppression of Maram’s flames dimmed within the circle.

‘Venn – the Skulls.’

The black Harlequin reached into a bag at his waist and withdrew three Crystal Skulls which he placed in the alcoves under the runes of Vrest, Amavoq and Ilit. Tiniq tugged Isak towards the stone bearing Death’s rune and put the Skull of Ruling there, but he kept his hand on it to maintain the link between it and on Isak’s black sword. The Harlequins and Acolytes spread out, outside the ring of fire, keeping a wary eye on the entrances to the tunnels. Koteer, the grey-skinned son of Death, took up position on the bridge itself, making himself a barrier to anyone else’s entry.

‘It is almost time,’ Ruhen said in a quiet, reverential voice. ‘I can feel my children dying.’

He nodded to Ilumene, and the big man let Isak’s leash fall to the ground as he drew his sword. Ruhen followed, the strain clear on his face as he unwrapped the shining crystal hilt of Aenaris and drew it. He reversed the sword and drove it down into the rock until the blade was half-buried, then handed Ilumene the Skull he had been carrying.

Isak recognised it: Dreams had been fused to Xeliath’s withered hand. Once it had been Life’s, the Queen of the Gods, now it was linked to Kitar, Goddess of Fertility.

Ilumene slipped the Skull onto his sword so it fitted around the blade and turned to face Ilit’s rune, and Isak gasped as a burst of magic filled the room like a thunderclap, the shadows receding as Aenaris shone with a bright clear light.

‘Ilit, come forth,’ Ruhen intoned, his small face tight with unaccustomed strain. ‘Ilit, I summon you.’

The light intensified, the air shuddering as though under sudden assault. Isak shied away from the magic that spiralled down into the circle with a great rushing sound. There was a surge of a stormy wind, then a funnel of air appeared from nowhere, spinning tightly into a whirlwind ten feet high before melting into nothingness to reveal the white-robed figure of Ilit, staring imperiously at Ruhen.

The God’s narrow face was sharp, the jutting lines of his nose and brow as solid as his hair was flowing and ever-moving. He carried a golden bow in his hand, and the shining Horn of Seasons nestled in the crook of his arm. Ilit’s piercing, sky-blue eyes focused on Ruhen. His expression was one of rage. ‘This—’

But the God didn’t get a chance to finish his words as Ilumene ran him through, the jewelled bastard sword blazing with light as it drove deep into Ilit’s gut. Ichor spilled down his pristine robe and the God staggered back. He raised his hand to strike Ilumene down, but the grinning warrior twisted the sword in the wound and Ilit faltered, holding still just long enough for Venn to cleanly sever the God’s head.

Isak felt Ilit’s death like an explosion on his skin, a sudden battering of wild magic and life-force torn apart before they dissipated and were absorbed by the rock of the cavern. He shuddered, feeling a hollow pain in his stomach as the Land roiled beneath him, reeling from the sudden, enormous death it had suffered. He retched again as the scent of ichor filled his nose and Ilit’s death-scream crashed through his mind.

‘See my resolve, Gods of the Upper Circle,’ Ruhen intoned, eyes wide and shining bright. ‘See my power and despair. I can tear you all down, each and every one of you.’

He turned to Venn as the black Harlequin wiped the dead God’s blood from his blade. ‘Herald of twilight,’ Ruhen crooned, ‘attend me.’

Venn stopped as though stung by a wasp, his mouth open. A wisp of black mist snaked out like a daemon’s tongue, followed by more and more. Faint trails crept from his eyes and ears too, and coalesced into a shadow slipping out of Venn and becoming a kneeling figure, head bowed before his master.

Isak caught the sharp, sickly scent of rotting peaches on the air and recognised it from Doranei’s accounts: Rojak, the minstrel responsible for Scree’s destruction.

Isak was helpless under the weight of Termin Mystt and the silver chain. He could only watch as the shadow’s lips parted and Rojak spoke silent words to his master’s mortal vessel. Ruhen smiled and looked away. A sliver of white light broke away from Aenaris and dipped down to the flowing flames surrounding them.

The magic gathered up a small stream of fire and carried it up in the air, high above their heads, where it swirled with malevolent intent. Isak’s ears rang with the distant howls of the souls within Maram’s fire, which broke apart at a word from Ruhen and became twelve streams, each one twirling out to encircle the top of each standing stone, crowning them with flame. Isak could sense a greater spell being worked as the power of Aenaris grew stronger yet again. It momentarily blinded Isak with its light as the wreaths of fire hissed and spat on the stones they now bound.