Queen of Fire

Verniers’ Account

“Did she know?”

I watched the harbour as we drew near, its vastness testimony to Alpira’s origins as the greatest trading hub of the lower Boraelin. It stretched in a broad curve some three miles long, piers and moorings beyond counting, and many ships, more than was usual in fact. As we drew closer I noted most were warships, an army of labourers at work on every vessel, steel plating hammered onto hulls and mangonels hauled into place.

Empress Emeren calls her fleet to the capital, I deduced. For what purpose?

“My lord?” Fornella prompted. Her rapidly greying hair was tied up today, drawn back from her features, which remained handsome despite the growing number of lines. With her plain dress and tightly wrapped shawl she conveyed the appearance of a comely matron, those ashore perhaps mistaking her for the captain’s wife. The thought provoked me to a short laugh.

Fornella frowned in annoyance but refused to be diverted. “She did, didn’t she? She knew about you and the Hope.”

I shrugged, giving a slight nod. She glanced at the captain and edged closer. “Pay the pirate to take us away from here.”

“We have a mission to perform, Honoured Citizen.”

“Not at the expense of your life.”

“I gave my life to the Emperor. The law decrees I now offer it to his successor, along with my wise counsel.”

“You really imagine she’ll listen?”

“I know she will. What she does afterwards is more of a mystery.”

We docked at one of the minor berths near the northern edge of the harbour, the captain being obliged to pay double the normal mooring fee to a harassed junior port official.

“I’m on official business from the Unified Realm and the Meldenean Isles,” the captain growled. “That’s got to be worth a discount at least.”

“You’ve also got a hold full of spice,” the young official replied. “And space is at a premium.” He handed the captain a chit for the berth then held up his hand in expectation.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, moving to the captain’s side.

The young man stared at me for a long moment, retreating a step with rapidly paling features. “You are Lord Verniers,” he breathed.

I was accustomed to a certain notoriety in the better-educated corners of the empire, but it was usually confined to politely spoken compliments or requests for attendance at various learned functions. So the sight of the pale-faced bureaucrat stumbling backwards along the gangplank before turning and running along the wharf was somewhat unnerving, his return a short time later even more so, since he was accompanied by a squad of soldiers. They proceeded towards the ship at a run, the young official trotting in their wake and gesticulating wildly as he called to the surrounding stevedores. “The traitor! The traitor returns!”

“I think, Captain,” I said, hefting my bag of books and making for the gangplank. “You had best be on your way.”

“Ship Lords told me to keep you safe,” he said, though his shrewd eyes betrayed a deep concern at the commotion unfolding on the wharf.

“And I am grateful for your efforts.” I extended a hand, expecting him to ignore it. Instead he gripped it tight, grimacing in regret.

“Luck to you, honoured sir,” he said in surprisingly good Alpiran.

“And you, honoured sir.” I glanced at Fornella, seeing how fearfully she eyed the approaching soldiers. “I should be grateful if you would take her back to the Realm.”

“No.” Fornella took a deep breath and moved to my side, forcing a smile. “We have a mission, after all.”

We waited on the wharf, watching the captain hound his crew into frantic motion as they hauled oars to push them back from the quay. The sailors soon set to work rowing themselves towards open water in accordance with the bosun’s urgent drumbeat.

“What was its name?” Fornella asked. “The ship.”

“I never thought to ask.” I turned as the soldiers came to a halt a short distance away. They were conscript infantry judging by their armour, half a dozen youths under the command of a less-than-youthful sergeant.

“Your name?” he demanded, striding forward, hard eyes intent on my face.

“Lord Verniers Alishe Someren,” I replied. “Imperial Chronicler…”

“No,” he growled, moving closer with his hand on his sword. “Not now you aren’t.”

They took us to the harbour-master’s station, a sturdy building equipped with a few cells for sundry smugglers or excessively boisterous sailors. Thanks to the excitable port official a crowd had begun to form on the wharf by the time the soldiers closed in around us. “If I am liable to arrest,” I said to the sergeant, “I have a right to hear the charge.”

“Quiet!” he snapped, face flushing as he eyed the gathering throng on the quayside. “It’ll be all I can do to get you clear of here without this lot stringing you from the nearest mast.”

I could hear them now, despite the thickness of the walls that surrounded us, a classic baying mob. The words “Hang the traitor!” and “Avenge the Hope!” seemed to be the most salient amongst their chants.

“‘It is only in the Alpiran Empire that the rule of law is truly respected,’” Fornella quoted in a faintly bitter voice. As ever her memory for my writing was aggravatingly accurate. “‘Justice being applied equally regardless of station. All, from the meanest, most beggared subject to the Emperor himself, can expect equal treatment before the law.’”

She paced back and forth, prowling the cell and wincing at the occasional upsurge in the mob’s fury. “What can you have done to arouse such ire, my lord?” she asked, her tone more than a trifle sarcastic. “Perhaps offended the Empress in some way?”

“You didn’t have to stay,” I pointed out.

She sighed and sat down next to me on the mean wooden bench, tracing a hand through her hair and issuing a groan of annoyance at the grey tresses coming away in her fingers. “Where else is there for me to go?”

I watched her hold the hair up to the light from the small window, thinking they resembled tarnished threads of copper and making a mental note to write the observation down later, should I be afforded the opportunity. “Is this what happens?” I asked. “When you are denied the blood of the Gifted?”

“To the best of my knowledge no other recipient of the Ally’s blessing has undergone this particular trial. Some have been killed of course, assassinated or fallen in war, such is the nature of Volarian politics. But, once blessed, none have tried to exist without feeding.”

She opened her hand and let the hair fall to the floor, pausing a moment to flex her fingers in the shaft of sunlight, a faint smile on her lips. “Strangely, I find I don’t miss it at all. Mortality, as it transpires, has its compensations.”

A clattering of locks and the tramp of boots told of a visitor. I rose to regard the tall figure coming to a halt on the other side of the bars, an imposing fellow with handsome if somewhat weathered features and close-cropped hair that now had more white in it than grey. “Hevren,” I said, taking note of his uniform and the star embossed onto the centre of his breastplate, the crest of a Cohort Commander. “Promoted at last, I see.”

“Lord Verniers.” His tone was neutral, though his eyes betrayed a deep caution as they tracked from me to Fornella. “Who is she?”

“Fornella Av Entril Av Tokrev,” she said, getting to her feet. “Late of the Volarian Empire and now ambassadress on behalf of Queen Lyrna of the Unified Realm.”

Hevren returned his gaze to me. “Named a traitor and now you appear in company with a Volarian. I must say, my lord, I do begin to question your vaunted wisdom.”

Named a traitor… For all its falsehood the accusation still stung. All I have given, all the years of service, and this is my reward. “Might I know who has slandered me so?”

A spasm of anger flashed across his face and he stepped closer. “You are named traitor by Empress Emeren herself,” he grated. “And I therefore advise you to exercise great care over every word you speak.”

There was a time I would have retreated from such a man; these brutes always did make me excessively nervous. But it seemed constant exposure to their kind had dispelled much of my former timidity. They were just men after all, men who could kill, as could I. “The particulars of the charge?” I asked, meeting his gaze.

My absence of fear seemed to give him pause, his anger fading as he moved back. “All in due course, as dictated by law.” He paused, regarding me with grim reluctance. We had never harboured any affection for one another but there had always been a mutual respect of sorts, however grudgingly offered. “All you had to do was watch him die, Verniers,” he said. “Would it have been so hard?”

It’s said the Merchant Kings of the Far West possess palaces so vast they resemble cities, sprawling over many acres and housing innumerable servants. However, greatness is not measured only by size but also wealth, and I have never been able to conceive of any building that could outshine the Alpiran Imperial Palace in sheer architectural opulence. It stood atop a tall hill, its steep slopes rising from the broad waters of the Tamerin River, crowned with a building born of a time when modesty and restraint were not chief among Alpiran virtues. It was essentially a great six-pointed star of a building, the wings extending from a circular centre topped with a dome, and it was the dome, of course, that captured Fornella’s immediate attention.

“Do your Emperors like to blind their people?” she enquired, shielding her eyes. The midday sun was high overhead and the dome blazed bright enough to conceal its shape. I had always thought it best viewed at sunset, when the orange glow would play over the silver surface like a candle-flame, flickering towards extinction as night fell. Sometimes Seliesen and I would ride out beyond the walls, watching the spectacle from a hilltop. He said he had a poem in mind which might do justice to the sight, but if he wrote it, I never knew.

Hevren had brought two full companies of cavalry to escort us from the docks, though they proved only just adequate to prevent the gathering mob from making good their screaming threats. It was not the threats that pained me though, it was the faces I saw as we rode along the narrow channel Hevren’s men forced through the throng. Face after face contorted in hate, men, women, children. Whatever lies had been voiced against me had clearly gained near-universal acceptance. I knew then that, regardless of what transpired here, my home was now lost to me. It wasn’t just that these people would never accept me, more that I would never forgive their gullibility. A phrase Al Sorna had once spoken came back to me as we cleared the crowd and made for the palace at the trot. He had been quoting Janus at the time, relating the tale of his king’s machinations in the prelude to invasion: Give them the right lie and they’ll believe it.

Hevren veered from the road to the main gate as we neared the palace, leading us to the north-facing wall and a much-less-ornate entrance: the Soldier’s Gate, reserved for guards, servants and the occasional Imperial prisoner. I had rarely ventured to this end of the palace and was struck by the absence of formality, or the clean orderliness that ensured a life of untroubled ease for the honoured members of court. This was all bustling workshops and stables shrouded by a haze rich in the mingled odour of food and dung. Before my journeyings I might have wrinkled my nose at such a place, but now it stirred no more than a vague unpleasantness; my senses had been assailed by far worse in the course of the preceding year.

We were greeted by a man I recalled from Al Sorna’s trial, a beefy fellow in plain black clothing, bearing a set of chains in his meaty fists. Seeing little point in protest I climbed down from the saddle and proffered my wrists, expecting some growled threats from the gaoler as he snapped the manacles in place. Instead he greeted me with a deep bow and an expression of grave respect.

“My lord, long have I wanted to speak to you in person…” He trailed off, raising the chains with an embarrassed wince. “But not like this.”

“Leave it, Raulen,” Hevren told the gaoler.

“But he’s to be taken directly to the Empress, Honoured Commander.”

“The security of the Empress is my concern. I’ll convey Lord Verniers to the cells in due course.”

The interior of the palace is easily navigable thanks to its straightforward construction; all corridors lead to the centre where the Emperor, or rather Empress, holds court. However, the inordinate length of those corridors does leave ample time for contemplation or awkward conversation. “I was wondering,” I ventured to Hevren. “Regarding Emperor Aluran’s passing…”

“He was near eighty years old and grew more frail every day,” Hevren stated in a clipped tone. “There is no mystery or suspicion to be probed, my lord.”

“And his final testament?” It was tradition for the incumbent Emperor, once the impending end of his reign had become apparent, to compose a testament, praising those who had served him in life and offering guidance to their successor.

“Your legacy was generous,” Hevren said. “Lands on the northern coast, an annual pension, plus several rare volumes from the Imperial library. Whether you’ll be permitted to keep it…”

“I have no interest in my legacy,” I said. “Only in his guidance for the Empress.”

Hevren walked in silence for a time, his visage becoming notably more grim as we neared the entrance to the Imperial courtroom, great mahogany doors near twenty feet high. “It consisted of just one sentence,” he said. “‘Forsake all luxury.’”

“Hevren.” I stopped, forcing him to a halt, the surrounding guards part drawing their swords. I ignored them and stepped closer to the commander, speaking in low earnest tones. “She has to hear me. Whether I am condemned or not. She has to hear my words and the words of this woman.”

“I am a soldier,” he stated, turning as the doors were hauled wide. “Not a counsellor.”

He stood, gesturing for me to continue, his stance respectful rather than threatening. I glanced at Fornella, who stood eyeing the revealed throne room with naked trepidation. “It’s my head she wants,” I told her. “When she takes it try to make sure she listens.”

The Imperial throne room takes the form of a circle, ringed on all sides by thick marble pillars to support the great dome above. There are no seats save the throne, positioned atop a raised dais in the centre, the dais itself formed from solid cylindrical blocks of diminishing diameter, creating six steps where the Imperial counsellors stand. The status of each counsellor is denoted by the position on the dais; senior military officers typically occupy the lowest step whilst lawmakers and scholars could expect to stand on the second or third tier. I had been unique in being the only Imperial historian ever to ascend to the fourth step. Only the Hope or those whose advice was most cherished by the Emperor could expect a place on the fifth tier. The sixth step was always left vacant, a reminder that the ruler of the Alpiran Empire must ultimately bear the weight of power alone.

My eyes briefly tracked over the counsellors, finding some faces I knew, all either unwilling to meet my gaze or staring in unconcealed, if somewhat forced, fury. I was surprised to find two counsellors on the fifth step, and one a soldier. Horon Nester Everen, High Commander of Imperial Forces, had always been a difficult man to read. Partly because of the habitual scowl he wore, but more so in recent years due to the extensive burns he had suffered in the final assault on Marbellis, scarring the left side of his face from brow to neck. The attitude of the other man on the fifth step, however, was much more easily discerned. Merulin Nester Velsus, the Imperial Prosecutor, had never regarded me with much affection, or I him. He had always struck me as a man engaged in a perpetual quest for the weaknesses of others, as if in confirmation of his boundless capacity for judgement. Seeing the new depth of his enmity, I deduced my current predicament fulfilled long-held suspicions.

However, my attention was soon fully captured by the figure seated at the top of the dais. My last glimpse of her had been in Linesh on returning from the Isles. She had descended the gangplank to the wharf and strode off alone without a backward glance. We hadn’t exchanged a single word during the voyage and watching her pace the deck, face set in constant, unyielding spite, had convinced me there would never be any scope for accommodation between us. I had lost my hate but she clung to hers. It was then the decision came to me. My scholarly curiosity, rekindled by Al Sorna’s tale, yearned for answers to the many tantalising questions left in his wake. I would return to court, deliver my account of events in the Isles to the Emperor, and take ship to the Unified Realm. In time, of course, I came to regret making such a rash decision. Though, as I looked upon Empress Emeren I, I suspected it would have made little difference to my current circumstance.

Her face was set, the fine features impassive, composed and free of animosity. But she couldn’t keep it from her eyes, the way they bored into me, seeming to gleam with anticipation, told me that, whatever pretence to impartiality she might make, my fate had already been decided.

“Uncle Verniers!” I started at the joyous shout, my gaze snapping to the boy scampering from behind one of the pillars. Iveles had grown in the months since I had last seen him, taking on a lankiness that told of early-arrived adolescence, though he still retained a boyish spirit. He ran towards me, uncaring of the surrounding guards, a toy soldier in each hand, wrapping his arms around my waist, gazing up at me with eyes so like his father’s I found myself momentarily robbed of words.

“Did you bring me something from the northlands?” he demanded before speaking on with only the barest pause. “Bad people came to kill me and Mother but one turned into a good person and let us go and Hevren fought them and the villa burned…”

“Iveles!”

The Empress had risen to her feet, face still composed, though only barely. The guards had all drawn swords, save Hevren, who crouched to gently disentangle the boy’s arms from my waist. His face tensed in stubborn refusal and his arms tightened, attempting to hold on.

“It’s all right, Iveles,” I told him, placing my hands on his shoulders to gently push him away. “I’m sorry, but I forgot your present. I did bring a story though, one I hope to tell you soon. Now go to your mother.”

The boy shot Hevren a resentful glare then turned and ran to the dais, scampering up the steps to his mother’s side. Watching how she drew him into a protective embrace, her eyes still fixed on me, I realised her detestation was at least partly inspired by the closeness I had always enjoyed with her son. Appointed the boy’s tutor in Imperial history by the Emperor, we had spent many hours together, and, though I tried to dissuade him from it, he had come to call me uncle. “You and father were like brothers,” he said. “So you will be my uncle. I don’t have any others.”

The Empress smoothed a hand through the boy’s hair, speaking softly. “But I want to stay!” he protested. The Empress’s tone became harder and Iveles gave a sullen pout before stomping off to the rear of the dais, his rapid footfalls echoing through the chamber as he sought other amusements.

The Empress sat in silence for a time, regarding me with practised detachment before turning her gaze to Fornella, her mouth twitching in momentary disgust. “Lord Velsus,” she said to the Imperial Prosecutor. “The prisoner has the right to hear the charges levelled against him.”

Velsus bowed to her before turning to me, producing a scroll from the folds of his robe. “Lord Verniers Alishe Someren, Imperial Chronicler and First of the Learned, is hereby charged with treason,” he read. “Be it known, as established by credible testimony, Lord Verniers conspired with the Imperial Prisoner Vaelin Al Sorna to effect his release and evade just punishment for his crimes. Be it also known that Lord Verniers did conspire with agents of a foreign power, to wit the Volarian Empire, to injure the person of the Empress and her son Iveles.”

So there it was, not one lie but two. I cannot truly account for the icy calm that possessed me then, much as I remain unable to explain the presence of mind that allowed me to sink a knife into the base of General Tokrev’s skull. It could be that there are occasions when fear becomes redundant. “Credible testimony?” I enquired.

Lord Velsus blinked and I deduced he had been expecting some outraged protestation of innocence, no doubt to be shouted down by a well-prepared, and suitably theatrical rebuttal. He recovered his composure quickly, however, and gestured to the guards at the door. “Bring in the witness.”

I was expected here, I realised as we waited in silence. The trap is too well laid.

The witness was duly led in, a young woman in a plain dress, her colouring typical of the northern empire, dark hair and skin of an olive hue save for a cluster of livid red stripes on her neck. She was clearly overawed by her surroundings, hands clasped together and head held low, her eyes alighting on me for only a second before she snatched them away.

“State your name,” Lord Velsus ordered.

The young woman had to cough twice before she got the words out, her voice coloured by a barely suppressed quaver. “Jervia Mesieles.”

“That is your married name, is it not?” Velsus enquired.

“Yes, my lord.”

“State your birth name.”

“Jervia Nester Aruan.”

“Quite so. Your father was formerly Governor of Linesh, was he not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“In fact, he held stewardship of the city at the time of the Hope Killer’s occupation. An occupation many believe led to an outbreak of the red plague, during which you yourself almost perished. Is this not so?”

Jervia’s hands twitched and I surmised she was fighting an impulse to touch the marks on her neck. “It is so, my lord.”

“However, you were saved by the intervention of the Hope Killer, who called for a healer from his homeland. So, it would be fair to say your father considered himself in the Hope Killer’s debt, would it not?”

Jervia closed her eyes, raising her head and drawing a breath. When she opened them and looked at me I saw the unmistakable apology they held. “It would, my lord,” she said in a laboured tone, the voice of a reluctant actress.

“It is said,” Velsus went on, “your father was given a gift by the Hope Killer shortly before his arrest. What was it?”

“A sword, my lord.”

The Imperial Prosecutor’s gaze swept the assembled advisors, brows raised in surprise. “He accepted a gift of the Hope Killer’s sword, the very blade that had been stained with the divine blood of the Hope himself. A man of more noble spirit might have found such a gift an intolerable burden on his honour, but given your father’s ineptitude in defending his city and failure to take the honourable course in the aftermath of defeat, hardly surprising. Tell me, was there anything unusual about this sword?”

Jervia took another ragged breath. “Yes, my lord. The blade had strange markings upon it, and sometimes… sometimes Father would take it out, at night when he thought no one could see. He would draw the sword and the blade would glow with a strange, white fire. It… did things to Father, changed him, somehow…”

She faltered as I laughed, her face suddenly bleached white and eyes moistening.

“Forgive me, honoured lady,” I said. “Please continue.”

Velsus rounded on me, face twisted in anger, finger pointed in accusation “Mark well this man’s humour, my lords! See how he delights in his own evil!”

He turned back to Jervia, calming himself with an effort that made me suspect this was not all theatre. “You have seen this man before, have you not?”

“I…” She looked down at her clasped hands, white now and shaking. “Yes… Yes he came to see Father, the night before the Hope Killer was brought to the city.”

“You witnessed their meeting?”

“I did, my lord. I wasn’t supposed to, but I knew a hidden place in Father’s study where I could hear his meetings. I was worried, you see. The sword had changed him so much, and with the Hope Killer’s return I wondered what he might do. Father told Lord Verniers he intended to return the sword to the Hope Killer. Lord Verniers became very angry, calling Father a traitor, saying he would have the Emperor send guards to arrest him… But Father showed him the sword, and he became quiet. Father said with this sword the Hope Killer was sure to prevail in his duel in the Isles, if Lord Verniers voiced no objection to its use he would receive a great reward.”

“I see. And the nature of this reward?”

“Knowledge. The Hope Killer would relate the story of his life and the reasoning of mad King Janus in starting the war.”

“A rich reward indeed, to be cherished by any historian.”

Velsus levelled his gaze on me, his aspect the unwavering focus of a leopard eyeing cornered prey. “You did travel with the Imperial prisoner to the Meldenean Isles, did you not?”

“At the Emperor’s order,” I said.

“Quite so, but also, I recall, at your own request. And during the voyage did the savage keep his end of the bargain? Did he tell you his sorry tale?”

“He related what I believe to be a partially accurate account of his role in the invasion.”

“And you gave him the sword.”

“Governor Aruan gave him the sword. A plain weapon of little distinction, I might add.”

Velsus gave a dismissive wave. “The Northmen were renowned for their ability to conceal their magics. And on arrival at the Meldenean capital, having received your reward, did you feel no obligation to warn the Hope Killer’s opponent that he now faced a foe rendered invincible by unnatural means? And in doing so did you not ensure the Hope Killer would prevail in the duel, a contest that by all accounts lasted barely a second, thereby robbing our murdered Hope of all justice?”

“There was no warning to be given.” I glanced at Jervia, her head now lowered, face drawn in abject misery. “I do not know what threats have forced lies from this unfortunate woman. And it grieves me to see her distressed on my account. But if Al Sorna was made invincible that day, it was not by such a mundane thing as his sword.”

Velsus descended the steps, moving with measured deliberation as he advanced towards me. “See how he wriggles on the hook, my lords. See how he squirms and gives voice to yet more falsehood. This vile man, picked out and ascended to high station by the Emperor’s grace, and yet willing to sell himself like the cheapest whore for the words of a savage. Were that his only crime, it would be perhaps forgivable, upon receipt of due punishment naturally, for all men are weak and liable to seduction. However, my lords, it transpires this creature has an even greater crime to account for.”

He turned back to the dais, pausing to address Jervia with a few curt words of dismissal. She raised her gaze to me as the guards led her out, tears flowing freely as she mouthed, “My father,” eyes rich in appeal for understanding. I replied with the barest nod, even managing a small smile before she was led from the throne room.

“I humbly call upon the Empress Emeren I,” Velsus intoned, bowing low before the dais. “To graciously consent to bear witness in this matter.”

The Empress waited a moment before standing, an action that required all others present to kneel. I duly sank to one knee, gesturing for Fornella to follow suit. This was one piece of etiquette we could not afford to ignore, disrespect of the Imperial person being punishable by instant death.

I noted how Emeren’s eyes lingered again on Fornella, seeing the brief moment of calculation before she turned away. A wrinkle in her scheme, I decided. An unwanted complication.

“As all here will know,” the Empress began, “shortly before my Choosing, an attempt was made on my life and the life of my son. Many trusted and beloved servants died in this attack and my son and I escaped death by only the narrowest of margins. My attackers were a Volarian woman and a servant of the same fanatical heretic sect as the Hope Killer himself. It became clear to me in the course of my ordeal that these assassins had received intimate intelligence regarding my home, for how else could they gain access with such ease? Before I was rescued by the brave intervention of Commander Hevren, the woman spoke to me.” She raised an arm, the finger pointed at me, straight and unwavering. “Naming this man as the source of her intelligence. Apparently, he wanted me to know of his involvement, as befits a man mired in jealousy and hatred.”

I met her gaze, seeing only triumph. Beloved Emperor, I thought. What have you done to us?

I sighed and rose, keeping my gaze locked on hers, refusing to look away even as Hevren’s sword blade pressed against my neck. It stopped as the Empress raised a hand. “I will not spare this traitor a trial,” she said. “Our people deserve truth and the observance of law.”

“If you intend to kill me,” I said, “then do so, and spare me your farce of a trial. I only ask you first listen to my account of the conflict in the Unified Realm, to be verified by this woman, for it is of grave import to this empire.”

It was barely a smile, just a slight curl to her flawless lips, but I saw then a woman experience perhaps the sweetest moment of her life. “Lord Verniers, I have already heard far too much from you.”

CHAPTER ONE Vaelin

As before, the first thing he noticed was the change in the air, the sulphuric taint of the mountain top replaced by something altogether sweeter. The damp chill was also gone, transformed into the warm caress of sunlight, leavened by the gentle brush of a summer breeze. But this time the sounds were different, no creak of forest branches or birdsong, but the clamour of many hands at work. The ground beneath the memory stone had also changed, carved rock replaced by smooth tiles of freshly hewn marble. Vaelin raised his gaze, finding that they in fact no longer stood atop the mountain but on a raised platform in the centre of a newly risen city.

Everywhere men worked amongst scaffolding, hauling ropes or carving stone, teams of tall shaggy-footed draught horses hauled huge wagons laden with blocks of granite and marble. The air was filled with calls and songs as the men worked, the absence of any whip-cracks or chains a clear sign these were not slaves. If anything they all seemed cheerful in their labour. His eyes alighted on the tallest structure, a narrow, rectangular tower near fifty feet high, its walls covered in scaffolding, but he could see the red marble and grey granite beneath. His gaze shifted to another building closer by, the walls in place but the roof not yet complete. It was a sizeable structure, larger than those surrounding it. A mason sat in a sling suspended over the lintel, his chisel leaving a line of symbols in the stone, symbols once ascribed meaning by Brother Harlick: library.

“The Fallen City,” he said aloud, a glance at the southern landscape confirming it. The ages might erode a city but not the mountains.

“Quite so.” Erlin stood nearby, hands enfolded in his cloak as he regarded a tall figure standing a short way off, head lowered as he read an unfurled scroll. “And the man who built it.”

The man lifted his gaze from the scroll, Vaelin moving to view his face, somehow knowing what he would see. He was bearded with a heavy brow, though not so aged and lined as his statue would later depict him, younger even than the painting on the Wolf People’s cave wall. But still there was a gravity to his expression as he surveyed his newborn city, eyes narrowed, occasionally flickering in suppressed frustration.

What could he find to dislike in such an achievement? Vaelin wondered, glancing around at the burgeoning elegance on all sides. “He is king of this place?” he asked Erlin.

“I doubt such a word had any meaning here.”

Vaelin gestured at the toiling workers. “But these men do his bidding.”

“And seem happy doing so, don’t you think? I see only what the stone shows me, brother. But I’ve seen nothing that would indicate this man commanded through fear or force of arms. Search the entire city, you won’t find a single sword.”

A raised voice caused the bearded man to turn, his teeth suddenly bared in a bright smile as a young woman ran to his side. Once again, Vaelin was unsurprised to note her resemblance to the woman from the cave paintings: green-eyed and dark of hair. She shared a warm embrace with the bearded man, fingers entwining in automatic intimacy as they kissed. She drew back with a laugh, turning and extending her hand, speaking words Vaelin couldn’t fathom, though her tone was rich, joyous even. A narrow-faced young man moved into view, approaching to within a few feet of the couple, smiling a tight, reluctant smile. He was subtly different from the figure depicted in the cave, younger and without the sardonic twist to his mouth, but still recognisable. The woman laughed and reached out to draw him closer, presenting him to the bearded man, who ignored the young man’s hand to enfold him in an embrace.

“Brother and sister,” Vaelin realised, his gaze switching between the woman and the young man.

“I think so,” Erlin said. “The first time all three were together. But far from the last.”

Abruptly the memory shifted, the buildings and the people gone to swirling mist around them, as if they stood at the centre of a vortex though there was no sensation of wind. Soon it slowed, the mist coalescing into the city once more, though now the buildings were all complete. Spring had come to the mountains and the air was fresh, the city lively with people; parents with children, lovers walking hand in hand. Music seemed to rise from every quarter, a man with a harp of some kind singing from a rooftop nearby, a cluster of singers a few streets away adding their own voices. There were also knots of people engaged in animated discussion, gesticulating at each other with scrolls and odd devices Vaelin took to be some form of sextant.

“Put more than one philosopher together and you’ll birth an argument,” Erlin commented. “A truism I’ve observed the world over. In fact, I once saw one argue with himself, it got quite violent in the end.” He moved to the edge of the elevated platform, extending his arm in a broad sweep. “I think that’s why he built this place. A haven for thinkers, artists, scholars. In all my travels, I’ve never seen a city like it.”

An angry voice drew Vaelin’s attention to the approach of the dark-haired woman, striding ahead of the bearded man, hands moving in emphatic, negative slashes. Her brother followed behind at a distance. They were all older than before, though perhaps by only a few years. The younger man’s timidity seemed to have vanished, the weary amusement on his face an echo of what he would later depict on the cave wall.

The woman went to the memory stone and Vaelin saw it now had a twin, identical in shape but not in colour, for this stone was black, its surface free of any flaw or vein. Something black, Vaelin recalled Wise Bear’s deep unease as he touched the space where this thing now stood.

The woman paused to regard the black stone, her face briefly transformed into a mask of confusion before turning back to the bearded man, pointing at the stone, voice raised in emphatic tones. He sighed, moving to stand opposite her with the stone between them. He spoke softly but his words were no less certain than hers, and also carried an unmistakable note of refusal. The woman began to rail at him, handsome features marred by a deep anger. She calmed a little as her brother came forward, moving close to the stone, though Vaelin noted how he put his hands behind his back. He spoke for a short time, shrugging often, his sister evidently annoyed by his apparent lack of concern. Eventually she threw up her hands in an exclamation of angry defeat and strode away.

Her brother and the bearded man exchanged rueful glances but no more words. After a short pause the bearded man extended a hand to the stone, letting it hover over the smooth surface, Vaelin seeing the involuntary shudder in his fingertips. The younger man spoke, just a few short words, but all humour had vanished from his face and the tone was sharp, almost commanding.

The bearded man hesitated, a brief spasm of anger twitching across his features. Then he laughed, withdrawing his hand and moving back, patting the young man on the shoulder before walking away at a sedate pace. He descended the steps to the street below, exchanging good-natured greetings as he moved through the throng, every face around him rich in respect and affection.

The young man watched him go then turned back to the stone, fingers tracing over his chin with brow furrowed in thought. After a moment he brightened and began to walk away, but paused on reaching the steps. His back straightened as if in response to some unheard alarm and he turned, eyes tracking across the platform until they came to rest on Vaelin.

“He sees me,” Vaelin said.

“Yes,” Erlin said. “I always wondered what made him pause at this point. Hopefully, now his next words will make some sense.”

The young man walked forward slowly, his expression one of cautious amazement. He came to within a few feet of Vaelin and stopped, reaching out as if to touch his cloak, though the fingers slipped through the material like mist. He drew back a little, his lips fumbling over a question in a language not his own. “You… have… name?” he asked in heavily accented but discernible Realm Tongue.

“I have many,” Vaelin replied. “Though I suspect you will know me by only one.”

The young man’s brow furrowed in bafflement. “I… Lionen,” the young man said. “I seee you… before.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “In dreams… In waking… Hear your tongue… Learn it.”

“You have the gift of scrying,” Vaelin said, elaborating in response to another baffled frown, “You… see what is to come.”

“Sometimes… Sometimes it… changes. You, always same.” His gaze went to the black stone. “So too this.”

“What is it?”

Lionen’s face tensed in consternation and Vaelin realised he was fumbling for words to describe something even he didn’t fully understand. “A box,” he said finally. “Box full… of everything, and nothing.”

“Your sister fears it.”

Lionen nodded. “Essara sees great danger in this. Her husband great… use.”

“And you?”

“I see you, and it.” His gaze tracked to Erlin. “And him… But he is not him when he touches it.”

His face clouded and he turned towards the city, now bathed in a faint orange glow as the sun began to descend below the western mountains. “In your time… this place is gone, yes?”

“Yes. Brought to ruin many ages before.”

Lionen lowered his gaze, features dark with sorrow. “I… hope I see it wrong.” He took a breath and straightened. “If… I see you again. Bring… happy words.”

“Wait.” Vaelin reached for Lionen as he began to walk away, though of course his hand made no purchase. “You have knowledge I need. We face a great danger…”

“I know,” Lionen replied with a shrug. “I… face danger too.”

Vaelin caught a glimpse of his face before the memory broke apart once more, his half grin returned for an instant, then sublimed into mist as the vortex swirled.

“What did he mean?” he demanded of Erlin.

“I wish I knew, brother,” the ancient man replied. “But I suspect we have now ventured far beyond the limits of my knowledge.”

This time the vortex coalesced into a scene of chaos, the city burnt and tumbled around them, accompanied by the screams of thousands in torment. Vaelin ducked instinctively as a thunderous tremor shook the stone beneath his feet, his gaze immediately drawn to the tower, standing tall and glorious in the night sky, but only for a moment. The ground shook again and the tower fell, its stone flanks bent like a bow as it tumbled to earth, shattering the houses beneath in an explosion of stone and flame.

Vaelin went to the edge of the platform, drawing up in shock at the horrors unfolding below. A woman staggered through the streets with a headless child in her arms, face blank with madness. A portly man in a long robe ran past her, screaming in fear, chased down and dismembered in seconds by a group of men in red armour, laughing gleefully as their swords rose and fell in a joyous frenzy.

Vaelin’s eyes roved the dying city, finding scenes of slaughter and torment everywhere, Sella’s words from years before coming back to him, They had lived in peace for generations and had no warriors, so when the storm came they were naked before it.

It raged on for an hour or more, the city tumbling down around them as its people died. The men in the red armour were inventive in their cruelties, delighting in the screams of those they raped or flayed, though apart from their laughter they were mute killers, going about their bloody work with no words exchanged.

“What are they?” Vaelin asked in a whisper.

“In time the people who will build the Volarian Empire will call them the Dermos,” Erlin said. “Imagining them the product of some fiery pit beneath the earth. When they’re done here they will cross the ocean to assail every place they can find where humanity resides, birthing legends and gods in the process.” Erlin pointed to something in the smoke-shrouded streets below. “Their onslaught will continue until the one who commands them falls.”

The figure moved through the carnage without seeming to notice it, stepping over corpses and striding through pooled blood in a steady, untroubled stride. The red-armoured men moved aside at his approach, not in respect, for they made no bows or other show of obeisance, but as if in answer to an unspoken command. Once he had passed they would return to their ghastly amusements without a glance in his direction. His face became clear as he neared the platform steps, pausing to gaze upwards, brow so deeply lined now it appeared scarred, the glow of a thousand fires flickering on the grey of his beard.

He grimaced as he began to climb, his legs stiff and back stooped from the effort. On reaching the platform he paused, issuing a loud, weary groan, then glanced back at the chaos below. The expression on his aged face was one Vaelin knew all too well. The one who commands them, he thought, seeing the hungry malice that twisted the bearded man’s features.

“He did this,” Vaelin realised aloud. “He destroyed his own city.”

“And a great deal more besides,” Erlin said as the bearded man moved to the centre of the platform, halting before the black stone plinth, looking down into the void of its surface. He stood there for some time, until the screams and the last thunderous rumble of destruction faded, leaving only the continuing roar of the flames.

The bearded man raised his visage to the night sky, eyes closed as he extended a hand to the stone. His malice seemed to have vanished now, leaving a depth of weariness Vaelin found almost pitiable. Where before his hand had trembled, now it shook as if afflicted with palsy, the bearded man’s mouth opening in a silent scream…

Abruptly he whirled away from the stone with a shout, chest heaving and features livid with rage and another expression Vaelin knew well; the twitching, bright-eyed mask of a prideful man unwilling to acknowledge his own defeat.

A large troop of red-armoured men ascended the steps at a run, bearing several long wooden beams. The bearded man moved away from the black stone as his servants moved in. They placed the beams under the plinth’s wide, mushroom-like top and lifted it up, bearing it away quickly, seemingly uncaring of the weight as they proceeded down the steps and through the corpse-choked streets below.

The bearded man lingered for a moment, eyes narrow as they scanned the platform. There was also a slight smile to his lips, a faint glimmer of humour in his eyes. He knows I see this, Vaelin decided, the freezing chill of realisation coursing through him as he saw the malice return to the bearded man’s face, his smile lingering as he turned and descended the steps without a backward glance. No more than a great stone head waiting for the ages to turn him to dust… The Ally.

“Did you know?”

“I had suspicions.” Erlin raised a hand to the memory stone. “But these memories are so ancient. So many lives have been lived since, a thousand kingdoms risen and fallen, spawning countless mysteries.”

“Lionen said you would touch the black stone,” Vaelin pressed. “But not be you when you did. What did he mean?”

“I think he meant we have much to think on.” Erlin extended his other hand to Vaelin. “Nothing else will occur here, though I once waited the best part of a month to confirm it. Wait long enough and perhaps you’ll see the Lonak arrive.”

Vaelin sighed, casting a final look at the still-smouldering ruins before moving to take Erlin’s hand, then drawing back in alarm as it turned to dust before he could grasp it. The vortex returned in a heartbeat, taking Erlin with it. There seemed to be a new ferocity to the swirling dust now, the colours changing, a more complex dance to the spiral of chaos. It faded as quickly as it had come, revealing the mountain top above the Lathera village. Except now he was alone and it was night, the clouds above turned into a roiling orange roof by the glow from the fire mountains. Their fury seemed brighter now, his eyes picking out a gout of molten rock amidst the flame and smoke, a small tremor pulsing through the rock beneath his feet.

“So,” a voice said. “Do you have happier tidings for me?”

Lionen walked towards him from the cluster of dwellings. He was older, his long hair mostly grey, his face still lean but also lined. He paused a few feet away, frowning as he took in Vaelin’s appearance. “Ah. It has only been moments for you, has it not?”

Vaelin nodded. “My friend…”

“This memory is not for him.” Lionen turned, extending a hand towards the dwellings. “I was about to have supper. Would you care to join me?”

“Your knowledge of my language has improved,” Vaelin observed, following Lionen to one of the larger dwellings. He noted the others were all silent, the windows absent any light.

“I have had many years to study it. And several others, though I find it my favourite. Less flowing than Seordah but more poetic and functional than Volarian.” Lionen stood aside at the door to his house, gesturing for Vaelin to precede him. Inside the air was warm, the chamber sparsely furnished with a low wooden bunk and some scrolls stacked in the corner. A small iron pot steamed over a fire, the smoke escaping into a narrow channel in the roof.

“I would offer you some stew,” Lionen said, taking a seat beside the fire. “But it would be a redundant gesture.”

“I can feel,” Vaelin said. “But not touch. Why?”

“The stone captures place and the time, but they are unchanging. As is our conversation. It has already happened, even though for both of us it appears to be happening now. What has happened cannot be changed, and so you cannot touch it. Change is the province of the future.”

He lifted the lid on the stewpot, tasting a sample with a small spoon. “Quail with wild thyme and mushrooms,” he said. “Pity you can’t have any. I’ve had a great deal of time to perfect the recipe.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Fifteen years since I built this miniature city. I had companions then.”

“What happened to them?”

“Some left, bored with my inactivity. Others disappointed by my lessons and seeking wisdom elsewhere. The remainder I sent away. I find youth tedious these days, they’re always so terribly earnest.”

“The stone outside, you carved it, filled it with your memories.”

“And more besides. The stones were not simply repositories for memory. They were also a means of communication, each one connected to the other. A useful innovation for a civilisation that spanned half the world.”

“All brought down by your sister’s husband?”

“Yes. Whilst I roamed the ice searching for the impossible, he had other work in mind.”

Vaelin recalled the cave paintings, the three visitors who became two. “Your sister died saving the ice people. You brought sickness and she healed them, though it cost her life.”

“She was a healer. She saw it as an obligation, though we begged her to stop.”

“Is that what changed him? Made him hate what he built?”

“Essara’s death may have darkened his soul, but I suspect his first steps along the path to what he is now were taken long before. It was the disappointment, you see, the constant dissatisfaction. He tried so hard to build his perfect world, a civilisation that would see humanity ascend to something greater. But people are still people, however comfortable their surroundings. They lie, they feud, they betray and however much you give them, they always want more. Without my sister’s influence it grew harder and harder for him to keep giving, keep guiding in the hope they would one day fulfil his great vision. And so, having proved themselves unworthy of the world he had crafted for them, he resolved to bring it all down.”

Lionen took a bowl and began filling it with stew, from the aroma Vaelin judged his liking for the recipe to be well-founded. “Tell me,” he said, settling back, bowl in hand, “did the Eorhil woman find the stone I left for her?”

Vaelin recalled Wisdom’s tale of her journey to the fallen city, the meeting with the shade of Nersus Sil Nin. “She did, with help from a blind woman who shared your gift.”

“Ah, the blind woman.” Lionen smiled fondly as he ate. “Often seen in my visions, but never spoken to. Such a comely thing in her youth, I should greatly have liked to meet her.”

“You crafted the stone that gave Wisdom her name,” Vaelin said. “Knowing she would find it one day.”

“The vision changes, sometimes she finds it, sometimes she doesn’t. I suspect the blind woman saw the need to give destiny a small nudge. I journeyed back to the city after my time on the ice, finding long-rotted corpses and destruction, a scene my gift had never revealed to me for it has always cast my sight far into the future. The black stone had gone and the memory stone lay shattered, though I was able to pull enough knowledge from the fragments to divine who had done this thing. I spent years amidst the ruins, lost in grief, diverting myself with learning the language and lore revealed by my gift. One day it brought a vision of the Eorhil woman holding a perfectly square stone fashioned from the same material as the memory stone, except such an artifact did not exist in this fallen city, so I made it. I recrafted the memory stone, chiselling away for the better part of a year until it was just a small cube, and into it I poured all the knowledge revealed by my gift. I hope it made her happy.”

“It made her… of great use to her people, and mine. For which I thank you.”

Lionen gave an affable shrug and returned to his meal. “What were you looking for?” Vaelin asked him as the silence grew long. “Out on the ice where you took your sister’s body.”

“A legend. I know to you my people are little more than myth, but in this time we have our own tales, old songs from the days when the earth was young. I’ve seen much that would suggest this world is far more ancient than we could ever comprehend, a mother to countless wonders. I went in search of one, a being the people of your time would term a god, said to have the power to return the dead.”

His gaze grew distant and he resumed his meal, eating in silence. Vaelin wondered if this meeting was so familiar to Lionen he had become wearied with the repetition. It occurred to him that his gift was truly a curse, filling his mind with visions of a future so distant and removed from this time but holding a terrible truth, robbing his own age of meaning.

Another tremor shook the ground, stronger this time, causing the shutters on the windows to rattle and shaking Lionen from his silence. He scraped the last of his stew from the bowl and rose, taking it outside. Vaelin followed, finding him tying it to a length of rope strung between two dwellings. “It’s a long climb down to the river,” he said. “The wind will scour it clean. An empty gesture, but I’ve always found habits hard to break.”

“Did you find it?” Vaelin prompted. “This god of legend?”

Lionen’s gaze shifted to something beyond Vaelin’s shoulder. “I think you know what I found, oh Shadow of Ravens.”

He knew what he would see, even though it had made no growl this time, and its approach had been silent. It was not so large as before, its shoulders level with Vaelin’s waist, though he had long suspected it could assume whatever size it chose.

The wolf trotted closer, nose close the ground as it sniffed the stone around Vaelin’s feet, reminding him of how Scratch would search for a scent. “He can smell you, though you are but an echo cast back from times to come,” Lionen said. “It would seem he wants to be able to find you again.”

The wolf sat back on its haunches, long pink tongue sliding over its lips as it yawned, green eyes regarding Vaelin with placid affection. “He followed you from the ice?” he asked Lionen.

“Yes. I found him so far north I suspect I stood atop the entire world. He was bigger then, every inch the god I expected to find. He came close, sniffed at Essara’s body, used his teeth to pull away the shroud covering her face. For one mad second I thought he was going to eat her, but instead he licked her face, just once… And I heard her voice.”

Lionen’s face clouded and he started back to the memory stone, Vaelin following with the wolf padding alongside. “You have more questions for me,” Lionen said. “Please make them quick. Time grows short.”

“The black stone,” Vaelin said. “What is it? Why did he take it?”

“I told you, it’s a box. One we opened together, and this world is the result.”

“You said Erlin would touch it, but not be him when he did. What did you mean?”

“The ancient man told you he was nearly taken before, when he came close to death and touched the Beyond. You know the Ally uses others to wreak his havoc in the world, souls captured and twisted to his purpose. Why do you suppose he didn’t send one of them to steal Erlin’s body?”

Lionen halted before the stone, smiling faintly. “The last one ever to be carved, by my own hand. The stone itself comes from but one mine, deep in the mountains found in the place you call the Northern Reaches. We also found the black stone there, just one huge nugget of it with very singular properties. It was his idea to carve it, of course, though my sister argued against it. ‘Such power should not be placed in human hands,’ she said. He laughed and held her close, saying, ‘All power should be in human hands, my love. For how else can we transcend humanity?’”

“Power,” Vaelin said. “He is drawn to it.”

“As a vulture to a corpse. And what greater power is there than the ability to defeat death itself?” There was a weight to Lionen’s words now, a grave intent in his eyes, the meaning all too clear.

“I will not do that,” Vaelin stated.

“Then watch your world die as I watched mine. The land that surrounds us is barren, and so it is for mile after mile in all directions. Small villages survive here and there, a few towns that somehow weathered the storm, the attentions of what they called the Dermos. In time they’ll grow, build kingdoms and then an empire, forgetting their legends and making themselves ripe for his purpose with their endless greed. For now, he waits. I can feel him, coiling in the Beyond, plotting, planning. Not yet strong enough to capture me when I pass, though I’ve little doubt he’ll try.”

“You killed him,” Vaelin said. “You’re the reason he is in the Beyond.”

“How else would I have gathered followers in such a barren land? With the wolf’s help I sought out those that could help me, a band of brave warriors and those possessed of gifts they barely understood, all grieving over family or lovers lost to his onslaught. The Volarians will call them the Guardians in time. Together we killed him.”

Lionen gestured to the stone, casting an urgent look to the east as the ground shook again. “It’s time.”

“Something is about to happen,” Vaelin said.

“A long-promised ending.” Lionen turned to face the fire mountains, Vaelin seeing their fiery glow grown even brighter, the blanket of cloud above now a deeper shade of red. “An eruption fifty miles from here is about to cast forth a cloud of hot ash that will descend upon this mountain faster than any man could hope to run. It will settle, concealing this place from human eyes for centuries, though eventually the elements will strip it away, and my bones with it. The only vision of my own time I was ever permitted, my own death.”

“You have seen my future?” Vaelin asked. “You have seen what happens to my people?”

Lionen glanced over his shoulder and smiled. It was a smile of genuine regret, rich in sympathy and absent any irony. “I have seen enough to pity you, Shadow of Ravens.” He turned back to the fire mountains as the ground shook once more, the force of it making him stagger.

“You need to kill his creatures,” he said. “Trap them in their stolen bodies and kill them. Without tools in this world his need to act will be even greater, the lure of power impossible to resist. The black stone resides in the arena in Volar. When it’s done, take him there. One touch and it gives. A second and it takes.”

A booming roar came from the east, accompanied by a huge gout of lava, ascending in a fountain of fire before streaming down the flanks of the mountain that had birthed it. The mountain top shook, sending Lionen to his knees, the sky above turning black as the fire mountain’s glow diminished, a thick fog vomiting forth from its sundered summit and sweeping down its slopes with impossible speed.

Next to Vaelin the wolf gave a soft but urgent whine, nuzzling his hand and pressing him closer to the stone. He reached out to it, though found he couldn’t look away from Lionen, now kneeling with his arms spread wide, the burning ash sweeping towards him in an unstoppable black tide.

“My sister spoke my name!” he cried out as the ash crested the mountain top and swallowed him. The heat was unbearable, the ash choking as Vaelin pressed his hand to the stone…

… he blinked, the instant change in the air making him gasp. His eyes went to the spot where Lionen had been kneeling a second before, embracing his death. The stone was bare, without the faintest sign of his passing.

“What did you see?” Erlin asked, his brow creased in an uncertain frown. “It kept you. It must have shown you something more.”

What greater power is there? Vaelin looked away, finding the confusion in Erlin’s eyes hard to bear. I will not do that. He moved back from the stone and started towards the steps. “As you said, we have much to think on.”

Lorkan blinked into existence and slumped down beside Vaelin, ignoring the agitated murmur from the Sentar. Astorek’s wolves also began a distressed chorus of whines until he calmed them with a look. “I’d guess about five thousand people,” Lorkan said. “All crammed into the guts of that mountain.” He pointed to a steep-sided peak little over a mile away, a jagged scar visible in the rock a third of the way up its flank. “I didn’t go too far in, but saw enough to know they’re in a grim state, plenty recently wounded, some dying. Perhaps half are children. The older ones don’t seem to be getting on, sitting in different groups and glowering at each other.”

Vaelin had been angered to discover Dahrena had flown once more in his absence, returning to the camp to find her slumped next to the fire with Cara and Kiral pressed close on either side. “No more of this,” he said, sinking to his haunches before her, smoothing a hand over her ice-chilled brow. “Even if I have to drug you unconscious.”

“Oh don’t grumble,” she murmured with a smile, lips pale and eyes dim with fatigue. “I think I may have found some allies.”

“Did any see you?” Vaelin asked Lorkan.

“A little boy started pointing and screaming when I tried to go farther in. Assuming he was gifted, he was the only one amongst them.”

“We should go alone,” Erlin said. “A large party will arouse too much fear.”

“Fear can be useful.” Vaelin turned to Astorek. “Tell your father to bring the full host to this valley.”

He waited until midday then guided Scar towards the mountain at a walk, coming to a halt at its base. He gazed up at the jagged scar in its side, now revealed as a cave mouth, dark and silent, not even a tendril of smoke emerging to betray its occupants, though he had little doubt they had seen his approach.

He relaxed his grip on Scar’s reins, allowing him to nibble on the sparse grass of the valley floor, eyes fixed on the cave mouth. He had no real certainty of achieving his aim. Pertak had laughed when Erlin related Vaelin’s request for an alliance. The Lathera chieftain had a fresh scar on his jawline and a newly dug grave had appeared outside the walls of his settlement. He kept one hand close to the pouch on his belt and moved with the hunched, narrowed-eyed pose of a man in constant fear of attack. His laughter though, was entirely genuine.

“Let the southern goat-fuckers die,” Erlin translated as Pertak stomped back to the settlement, still chuckling. “Then their seams will be ours to mine.”

The first of them appeared after a wait of several moments, a single kilted figure standing at the cave mouth, staring down at Vaelin with axe in hand. Vaelin raised both arms, showing his hands to be empty. Several more figures resolved out of the blackness of the cave, growing in number until perhaps six hundred people stood regarding him in silence. Vaelin lowered his arms and waited, hearing the growing tumult raised by the approach of the Wolf People. The spear-hawks came first, calling out their pealing cries as they glided into the valley and wheeled above, then the wolves, several packs numbering well over a hundred individuals. They loped forward to surround Vaelin, drawing an involuntary shudder from Scar.

Vaelin peered at the face of the first figure to appear as the Wolf People marched into the valley. He was too distant to fully make out his features, but Vaelin judged him to be the oldest tribesman present, possibly a chieftain. However, judging from the mismatched symbols and colours adorning the clothing of his companions, he doubted this man would be able to speak for all those who had taken refuge here. Nevertheless, he clearly commanded some form of regard, exchanging a few short words with the others before starting down the slope. Some of his companions followed immediately, all wearing similar colours and symbols to his own. The others lingered for a short time, exhibiting a fractious disunity as they exchanged shouts and threatened each other with raised weapons. Their disagreement proved short-lived, however, and soon all were following the older man to the valley floor.

Vaelin kept his eyes on the leading figure, not turning to witness the Wolf People coming to a halt at his back. The man walked towards him without undue haste, though there was a definite purpose to his gait. He halted twenty paces away, the other tribesfolk lining up on either side. Vaelin took hold of Scar’s reins and trotted him forward, stirring a ripple of unease throughout the small throng, though they made no move to oppose him.

He halted Scar a few yards short of the possible chieftain, looking into his face and seeing the besmirched, near-maddened gaze of a man who had lost much of his world in the space of a few days. Kiral had advised her song told of rage and confusion among these people, but sounded no note confirming they were on the right course. “My song grows darker and less tuneful every day,” she said. “Ever since we found the endless man. I doubt I have any more certainty to offer.”

But looking into the pain behind this man’s eyes, Vaelin saw all the certainty he needed. He had seen this face many times during the march towards Alltor. The face of the tortured, the raped, the widowed… and the vengeful.

His Volarian was poor, but Erlin had coached him on the correct pronunciation. “We go south,” he said, patting his chest and pointing to the southern end of the valley. “Kill Volarians. Come with us.”

CHAPTER TWO Lyrna

Aspect Arlyn’s face betrayed no recognition as he regarded Nortah, nor any emotion at all as his gaze shifted to Lyrna, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Bound, Lyrna realised. Like Brother Frentis or the Kuritai. The Aspect reached over his shoulder to draw a sword of the Asraelin pattern, the steel bearing the signature flame-like markings of an Order blade.

“Aspect!” Nortah said again, taking a forward step, sword arm now limp at his side. “Do you know me?”

The Aspect’s gaze switched back to Nortah, the long features giving a faint tic of remembrance. “I know you, brother,” he said in a soft, reflective tone. “You died.”

He raised his free hand, paused a moment in expressionless consideration, then gave a barely perceptible flick of his wrist and the Arisai surged forward, manic joy on every face, swords moving in a blur of expertly wrought carnage. At first the Queen’s Daggers recoiled from the assault, Lyrna finding herself crushed between Davoka and Iltis as the surrounding ranks compressed, but the pressure slackened as they voiced another savage roar, rallied and fought back.

She struggled to turn, catching a glimpse of Nortah in combat with the Aspect, face drawn in reluctance as he fended off Arlyn’s blows. “Sister!” Lyrna called to Davoka, holding her spear above the thrashing ranks, eyes watching hawk-like for an opportunity to use it.

“The flasks!” Lyrna forced her way to the Lonak’s side, grabbing her arm. “Do you have the flasks?”

Davoka blinked at her in momentary bafflement then nodded, patting the small satchel at her side. “Only two.”

“Stay by me.”

She slapped Iltis’s shoulder to get his attention and pointed to Nortah, now backing away under a furious assault from the Aspect, dodging thrusts from the surrounding Arisai as he did so. Iltis nodded and began to push through the ranks of soldiers. As they neared the edge of the formation the Lord Protector was obliged to sidestep a thrust from an Arisai, the red-gauntleted hand holding the sword flashing into the space between him and Lyrna. She hacked down with the hatchet, the blade biting through the grieve to part sever the wrist. The Arisai collapsed at her feet, looking up with a grin, rich in lust and admiration. Lyrna’s hatchet came down again, shattering his skull above the eyes.

Iltis cleared the outer ring of soldiers and forced the Arisai back with wide sweeps of his sword. Lyrna held out a hand to Davoka who instantly filled it with a flask, the stopper already removed. Another Arisai slipped past Iltis, sword raised level with his head for a short, expert stab at Lyrna’s throat. Her hand jerked reflexively, casting a stream of dark liquid from the flask directly into his eyes. The reaction was instantaneous, the Arisai’s sword falling from his grip as he arched his back and howled, hands scrabbling at his face, fingers digging into the flesh. Watching him collapse to writhe on the temple floor, Lyrna had the satisfaction of seeing that all vestige of a smile had vanished from his face.

Nortah was only a few feet away now, forced to a crouch by the weight of Aspect Arlyn’s blows, all delivered with a blurring fury whilst his face remained a pale mask. A trio of Arisai charged into Iltis’s path, the combined assault forcing him to a halt, cuts appearing on his sword arm and forehead. Lyrna stepped to his side and swept the flask from left to right in a wide arc, the Mahlessa’s compound spraying forth to spatter onto the Arisai, most of the liquid falling onto their armour but enough finding exposed flesh to send them screaming to the stone floor.

Beyond them Nortah was now on his back, scrabbling away as the Aspect loomed closer, blade flashing. The Lord Marshal fended off the blows with typical efficiency, but Lyrna noted how he still restrained himself, failing to thrust at the openings left by the Aspect’s relentless assault.

“Aspect Arlyn!” He paused at her call, sword drawn back and sparing her only a short, incurious glance, but it was enough. The flask was empty save for a few droplets on the nozzle. She put all her strength into the throw, the flask turning end over end to collide with the Aspect’s face. For a moment she thought it hadn’t worked, that all the compound had been exhausted, but then saw a single glistening bead on his cheek, his face transformed into a wide-eyed, frozen scream. He sank to all fours, his sword clattering to the stones, shuddering as he fought to control the convulsions.

One of the Arisai gave a regretful chuckle and rushed forward, blade poised to strike at the Aspect’s back, then doubled over as Nortah’s sword stabbed up to pierce his breastplate. The Lord Marshal surged to his feet, sword moving in a silver blur as more Arisai closed in.

“Rally to Lord Nortah!” Lyrna called to the surviving Daggers. There were no more than thirty now, but all still fighting and willing to follow their queen’s commands. She held out her hand to Davoka, taking the second flask and casting the contents at the Arisai as they surged anew, felling a dozen or more and causing the others to reel back. The sight of their comrades’ screaming convulsions seemed to denude their humour, many smiles faltering, and their laughter fading. Pain makes them human, Lyrna decided, moving to stand with the Daggers, now formed into a greatly diminished circle, only one rank thick. Nortah stood in the centre, crouched at the Aspect’s side, face livid with concern.

“My lord!” Lyrna snapped. “To your duties if you would!”

Nortah shot her a glance of barely concealed resentment then rose, moving to her side. “If Your Highness has any brilliant stratagem for this circumstance, I am keen to hear it.”

“Kill the enemy,” she said, tossing the empty flask aside and hefting her hatchet.

The spectre of a grin played over his lips for a second and he nodded. “What it lacks in subtlety it gains in directness, Highness.”

The Arisai edged closer, eyes fixed on Lyrna, wary for any sign of another flask. Their fallen comrades had stopped writhing and lay in rigid stillness, each face a rictus mask of agony, frozen in death. At least I taught them how to fear.

Her gaze was abruptly drawn to the temple’s southern quadrant by a rising blossom of orange flame, accompanied by the faint tumult of combat and curiously, the yapping of enraged dogs. Any elation she felt at the sight, however, was negated by the sheer number of Arisai standing in her way; the Empress had been wise in sending an ample supply.

Another gout of flame erupted beyond the Arisai followed by some kind of commotion, too distant to make out but she discerned a certain discord in the rear of their ranks. She saw one of the Arisai who had been edging closer come to a sudden halt, standing with his sword held up before his face, turning the blade in apparent bafflement. He blinked, brow furrowed in deep confusion, then, without pause, turned to the Arisai on his left and slashed the blade across his throat. One of his companions immediately cut him down, only to draw up short himself a second later, his face also taking on the same baffled expression. This newly confused Arisai abruptly launched himself into the midst of his comrades, slashing wildly with his sword, killing three before he too was hacked down.

“What is this?” Nortah breathed. “Your Lonak elixir, Highness?”

“No.” Lyrna’s gaze returned to the rear of the Arisai host, seeing the enemy ranks parting as if sliced by an invisible blade, allowing a trim figure to stride through, ignored by the surrounding Arisai, who all seemed to be wearing the same identical expression of utter bemusement. Aspect Caenis strode clear of the Arisai, offering Lyrna a stiff bow, blood streaming from his nose, eyes, ears and mouth, before turning his full attention to their enemies.

Off to the right another Arisai drove his sword into the belly of the man next to him, then another and another. The discord rippled through the red ranks like a wave spreading out from a pebble tossed into a pond, but birthing a storm instead of a ripple. Soon it seemed every Arisai in sight was fighting his neighbour, hacking at each other with a ferocity that belied their baffled expressions.

Caenis stood aside, gesturing at the path he had carved through the enemy ranks. “Go!” Lyrna ordered the surviving Daggers. “Escape this place.”

But they stayed, unwilling to leave without her. She went to Caenis’s side, seeing how he shuddered, the blood flowing in thick streams and his skin bleached white as snow. “Come, Aspect,” she said, taking hold of his hands.

“I… regret I must… abide here a while… Highness,” he replied, a red torrent escaping his mouth to cover his chin.

“Brother!” Nortah rushed forward, reaching out to grab at Caenis’s arms but the Aspect staggered away, reeling into the whirling mass of maddened Arisai, lost to sight amidst their fury, now rising to an even greater pitch of self-destruction. Nortah started after him, restrained only by Iltis and Davoka at Lyrna’s shouted instruction. She ordered the Daggers to gather up the still-unconscious Aspect Arlyn and led them through the battle to the temple steps, Nortah screaming in fury as Iltis and Davoka dragged him along in her wake.

Outside there were more bodies littering the steps and the ground beyond, Arisai and Realm Guard, plus a few in the unarmoured garb of the Seventh Order. A young woman with honey blond hair knelt at the side of a plump sister, tears streaming down her face, a brace of bloodied darts clutched between her knuckles. The plump woman was plainly dead, the steps beneath her covered in blood though her body showed no sign of injury. A dozen hunting dogs surrounded them, all sunk low to the ground and uttering piteous whines. Nearby Trella Al Oren stood amidst a dozen blackened bodies, her face streaked in blood and soot. A burgeoning dust cloud rose to the east, the dark shapes of many horsemen visible at its base, blue cloaks and green — the Sixth Order and the North Guard racing to the queen’s rescue.

Nortah was still straining against Iltis and Davoka, spouting rage-filled curses at them as he fought to return to the temple. Lyrna turned back, seeing how the Arisai’s fury continued unabated for several minutes then abruptly stopped, retreating from one another as if in answer to some silent command, gazing at the carpet of corpses covering the temple from end to end.

“Enough!” Lyrna said, striding to Nortah and delivering a hard slap to his jaw. His struggles ceased and he gaped at her, eyes momentarily so devoid of reason she wondered if he had been rendered mad. “He’s gone,” she told him, trying to gentle her tone. “See to your regiment, my lord.”

The Lord Marshal slumped, moving back from Davoka and Iltis, his eyes tracking over the remnants of the Queen’s Daggers now numbering barely two dozen souls. “Of course, Highness,” he muttered in a tone both caustic and weary. “My mighty force is yours to command.”

He pulled away and began to organise his survivors into some semblance of order. Lyrna turned as Brother Sollis reined in nearby, leaping from the saddle to hurry to where Aspect Arlyn lay between Murel and Alornis, his face betraying both shock and relief.

“Highness!” Brother Ivern drew up close by, staring down at her with an appalled concern that made her consider her appearance, liberally spattered with blood from head to toe and holding a reddened hatchet. “Do you require a healer?”

“No, thank you, brother.” Her eyes went to the North Guard, galloping to form a cordon between her and the temple. To the east more dust rose above a dense mass of running infantry, the banner of Al Hestian’s Dead Company visible through the haze.

“Where is the Battle Lord?” she asked Ivern.

The young brother’s expression became grim. “Wounded, Highness. It’s bad. There were Kuritai hidden among the Free Swords, at least a thousand of the bastards.” Lyrna noted the bloody bandage covering Ivern’s hand. “They took some killing, I must say.”

She nodded and turned to the temple, watching the remaining Arisai forming themselves into well-ordered ranks once more. She couldn’t see their faces but the sound of their laughter was clear enough. One-half compelled to kill the other and it’s all just a fine jape.

“Find Lord Al Hestian,” she told Ivern. “He is to ring the temple to prevent the enemy’s escape. Have your brothers convey word to the other regiments to follow suit. Then bring me Lord Antesh.”

They tried to break out before the Realm Guard were fully in place, a tight wedge of five hundred Arisai launching themselves at Al Hestian’s regiment whilst the remainder split into smaller groups and attempted to escape to the south. Al Hestian’s dead men stood firm however, their line buckling under the impact of the charge but failing to break, their Lord Marshal taking position in the centre of the first rank. Lyrna heard later how he had used his spike to impale one of his men who turned his back on the enemy. After a quarter hour’s savage fighting, with the Realm Guard moving to outflank them, the Arisai retreated in good order, having lost about half their number. The smaller groups were continually assailed by the North Guard and the Sixth Order, cut down by the dozen until they too began to fall back. The Arisai formed a dense defensive square as they retreated, moving like a single laughing beast as it ascended the steps to dissolve into the confines of the temple.

“Give the word, Highness,” Lord Adal said, his usually handsome features rendered ugly by a lust for retribution. The Arisai seemingly had no notion of surrender and he had lost many North Guard in containing their escape. “We’ll scour the place clean for you.”

“If I may, Highness.” Lyrna turned to find Al Hestian pointing his bloody spike at the river. “Our cavalry should cover the hidden causeway and the northern bank. It’s their only remaining line of retreat.”

She nodded. “Lord Adal, join with the Nilsaelin horse. You will guard the causeway whilst the lancers shield the northern bank.”

The North Guard commander gave a reluctant nod. “And the assault, Highness? I would still beg the honour of leading it.”

Lyrna scanned the army, the Realm Guard and Nilsaelin infantry drawn up in good order, Antesh’s archers forming up at their rear. The cavalry patrolled the flanks in a wide arc sweeping around as far as the river to block all avenues of escape. All done with but a few orders and no formal plan. What a deadly instrument we built, she thought. Scarred and dented enough for one day.

“That won’t be necessary, my lord,” she told Adal before turning to Al Hestian. “The army will hold in place. Send word to bring up the ballistae.”

The Arisai continued to make small-scale sorties as the ballistae were hauled into place, a few having retained enough horses to mount a charge to the west, attempting to break through the cavalry screen only to be met by Renfaelin knights and cut down to a man. Lyrna also received reports of others attempting to swim the river, the few making it to the far bank providing welcome sport for the waiting Nilsaelin lancers.

Alornis reported the ballistae ready by late afternoon. As ever, working with her devices seemed to bring some animation to her features and she stood by, watching with a faintly prideful expression as the last engine was trundled into place alongside its fellows. The small corps of artisans who served the ballistae worked their various levers and windlasses until every one was armed and ready, the crossed bowstaves all drawn back, waiting.

“At your discretion, my lord,” Lyrna said to Antesh. The Lord of Archers nodded and lifted his bow above his head. The archers, arrayed immediately behind the line of ballistae, all raised their bows to a high elevation, strings drawn back behind the ear for maximum range. Antesh lowered his arm and the arrow storm began. The sky was still light enough to follow the dark mass of arrows as they rose and fell onto the temple, a black rain continuing unabated as Lyrna had ordered every possible shaft scavenged from the battlefield. She could see the blood still glistening on many of the arrowheads launched by the longbows. The archers seemed tireless, many grunting with the effort of drawing and loosing at such a rate, but their faces all set in determined hatred. Apparently slaughtering so many Free Swords hadn’t been enough to sate their vengeance.

Lyrna used her spyglass to scan the temple, seeing an Arisai fall as he attempted to run for one of the pyramidal god-houses, pierced by three arrows a foot short of shelter, two of his comrades falling onto his body a heartbeat later. They are already mad, she thought, the spyglass settling on an Arisai who shook his head in amused resignation as he regarded the two shafts protruding from his breastplate. Can they be maddened further?

The answer was not long in coming, a great shout of joyous abandon rising from the temple before they came streaming forth. All cohesion had been forgotten now and they simply charged at the line of ballistae in a disordered red tide. Lyrna waited until the leaders had cleared the steps before giving the order for the ballistae to loose, the range having been narrowed to less than fifty paces. The effect was remarkable, the leading Arisai cut down by an invisible scythe, those following tumbling over the bodies or spinning from the impact of the second volley. In some cases a bolt would pierce an Arisai with enough force to continue on through to claim one of his comrades. Despite the losses however, the Arisai’s charge retained sufficient momentum to come within twenty paces of the ballistae, at which point Antesh’s archers moved forward, lowering their aim and unleashing another arrow storm that halted the red host completely.

“Highness,” Al Hestian said, “I believe the time is right.”

She nodded and he gestured to the cluster of buglers nearby, sending them running towards the opposite flanks of the army, the call for a charge of cavalry pealing forth. Antesh walked the line of archers barking orders to cease, though some continued to loose with frenzied disregard for orders and had to be forcibly restrained. Fortunately, both archers and ballistae had stopped by the time Fief Lord Arendil led his knights from the left flank and Brother Sollis the Sixth Order and the Realm Guard cavalry from the right. The surviving Arisai met them with what could only be described as matchless valour, leaping to bring riders down, cutting the legs from under the horses, fighting to the last, voicing their joyous mirth to the end.

Count Marven drifted in and out of wakefulness as she sat with him, holding a damp cloth to his burning brow when his distress blossomed into weeping panic. Brother Kehlan had been free with redflower in treating the Battle Lord, his face grim when Lyrna questioned the wisdom of giving him so much.

“His spine is shattered below the neck, Highness,” the healer replied. “If he were to live, he wouldn’t walk again. And he won’t live.”

“I…” Marven coughed, eyes suddenly wide as they found her face, “I killed a Kuritai, Kerisha. Did they tell you?”

Kerisha, she knew, was the name of Countess Marven. “Yes, my love,” she said, working the cloth over his brow and along his cheek. “They told me.”

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, suddenly wary. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m not angry,” she said. “I am proud. Very proud.”

“You’re… only kind when you’re angry,” he muttered, easing a little. “A tongue that could cut silk, the Fief Lord always said… The queen, though.” He paused to smile in fond reflection. “You might have met your match in her. However, I think she’ll be amenable now… That castle you always wanted…”

“Yes,” Lyrna assured him. “I’m sure she will.”

“The boys…” His voice grew softer, eyes dimming as his head sank farther into the pillow. “You were right… No soldiering for them… There’s gold in the Reaches, lots of it… We’ll send them there…”

He slept for a time, untroubled by the whimpers and cries of the wounded crowding the tent. Messengers and captains came to her throughout the night, all turned away by Murel and Iltis. She stayed and watched Count Marven until the swell of his chest had stopped and all colour faded from his face.

“Murel,” she said, the lady moving to crouch at her side. The flesh around her left eye was a deep shade of purple and she bore a three-inch row of stitches across her cheek. “Make a note. A grant of land for Countess Kerisha Marven of Nilsael and sufficient funds for the construction of a castle.”

“Yes, Highness.” Murel hesitated, gaze intent on Lyrna’s face. “You must sleep, my queen.”

She shook her head. Sleep meant dreams, and she knew what they would show her. “Ask Brother Kehlan for something to keep me awake. And tell Brother Hollun I require a full account of our losses.”

The blond sister named herself as Cresia, standing with head lowered as the body of her Aspect burned behind her. Lyrna had watched them say their words, these few survivors of a greatly diminished Order, each stepping forward with a story of kindness, wisdom or courage. Lord Nortah was also there, along with Brother Sollis and many of the Sixth Order. The Lord Marshal had faltered during his words, a tale of their time in the Martishe Forest, left unfinished as he fell silent, staring at the body on the pyre as if in incomprehension. “He never got to meet his nieces and nephews,” he said finally, voice faint and empty of feeling. “For he was my brother, and I know they would have loved him.”

“By any measure Aspect Caenis was a great man,” Lyrna had said. “A greatness revealed only recently, but bright enough to outshine us all. It will be known forever more that this man never faltered in his course, never shied from the hardest duty and gave everything in service to Realm and Faith.”

There were other fires to light of course, more words to say. Murel, Iltis and Davoka waited at Benten’s pyre and the plain was liberally dotted with more. In accordance with tradition soldiers from the same regiment were being committed to the flames together, meaning there were dozens of fires, rather than thousands.

“Your Order has made its choice then?” she asked Sister Cresia.

The young woman hugged herself tight, hair covering her lowered face like a veil. “Yes, Highness. Though I begged them to choose another.” Her hair parted as she lifted her face to regard the pyre, Aspect Caenis now just a dark shape amidst the flames. “I can never be him. He was… great, as you said.”

“War has a tendency to rob us of choices, Aspect. Get some rest. Tomorrow I shall require an accounting of your numbers.”

“There are twenty-three of us left, Highness,” Cresia told her. “The Seventh Order was never overly numerous, perhaps four hundred souls at its strongest.”

“You will rebuild, in time.”

Cresia lowered her gaze once more and Lyrna had little difficulty discerning her thoughts. Another battle like this and there will be nothing left to rebuild.

The early-morning sun played over the river’s churning current, raising a fine mist from the waters. Aspect Arlyn stood alone on the bank, his red armour gone now, a tall figure in a blue cloak no doubt taken from the body of a fallen brother. Brother Ivern stood nearby, bowing with a weary smile as she approached. Lyrna wondered if he was there as guard or gaoler.

“Has he spoken?” she asked.

“A little, Highness. He asked after Aspect Grealin, and Lord Vaelin.”

“What did you tell him?”

Ivern seemed puzzled by the question. “Everything. He is our Aspect.”

She nodded and moved to the Aspect’s side, Brother Verin keeping within ten feet of her as ordered. Arlyn turned to her, dipping his head in the shallow bow he had always offered to her father and brother. His expression was sorrowful, as might be expected, but she also discerned a judgemental cast to his gaze, one she knew he had never been shy in showing to Janus.

“Highness,” he said. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of King Malcius.”

“Thank you, Aspect. Though we have all suffered losses.”

His eyes flicked to Brother Verin. The young Gifted had seen much since taking ship with her and was less inclined towards displays of nerves, though he still squirmed a little under the Aspect’s gaze.

“I have learned caution in dealing with those who have met the Empress,” Lyrna said.

The Aspect nodded in placid acceptance and turned back to the river. They were parallel with the point where the Arisai had made their crossing, the current more disturbed here than elsewhere, churning white where it met the bank. “How was it made?” Lyrna asked. “The causeway. Lady Alornis considers it quite the feat of engineering.”

“With brick, bone and blood,” he replied. “Three thousand slaves labouring for ten days at my command. The river is swift, as you see, and the Arisai found much amusement in the whip. By the end there were barely five hundred slaves left.”

“The Empress’s stratagems are clever, but costly, it seems.”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “This was my stratagem, Highness. Conceived at her command, naturally. But the whole notion of attacking you here was mine.”

“I know you were not responsible for your actions. Our enemy employs many vile devices.”

“Indeed. A compulsion towards unreasoning vengeance being chief among them.”

“I make no apology for securing the future of the Realm.”

“Is that your intent, Highness? If so, the Empress would be greatly surprised.”

Lyrna folded her hands into her gown, unwilling to let him see how they clenched in suppressed anger. “If you have intelligence on the enemy’s designs, I would hear it.”

“She would come to me sometimes, down in that cavern of horrors where they carved their binding into my flesh. She asked questions mostly, testing my knowledge of history, my experience of command. I expected her to force from me every secret I held regarding the Faith and the Realm, but it soon became apparent she knew more than I did. It also became apparent that she is quite mad, an inevitable consequence of centuries spent in service to the Ally.” He lowered his head for a moment, eyes closed and breathing suddenly shallow. “Even a brief exposure is the harshest trial.”

“What will she do next?”

“Formulate another plan to kill you, I expect. She seems to find you greatly irksome. ‘I have birthed a thousand vengeful souls, but none so troublesome as this fire-breathing bitch.’”

“How many more Arisai does she have?”

“Perhaps seven thousand. Plus another eighty thousand Varitai and Free Swords.”

Lyrna glanced at Verin’s hands, confirming he gave the sign for truth. Though she has hidden lies in truth before, and I failed to see it. She said, “I had assumed there would be more.”

“The war in the Realm swallowed the bulk of their best troops and discord grows in every corner of the empire. New Kethia has fallen to a slave rebellion, inspiring revolts across the provinces. She also seemed preoccupied with some mission to the north. She had me execute a senior general for questioning the wisdom of sending more troops there.”

A mission to the north… Vaelin. He made it across the ice. A small smile played over her lips. Of course he did.

“Tell me more,” she said, “of this discord.”

CHAPTER THREE Vaelin

The tribesman’s name was either Hirkran or Red Axe; they seemed to be interchangeable given the frequency with which Erlin used them. “He’s lost three sons to the Volarians,” he reported. “One taken as a slave years ago, the other two in the last week.”

“He’s chieftain of these… Othra?” Vaelin asked.

Erlin shook his head. “Red Axe is an honorific, a title given to the tribe’s principal warrior. ‘Champion’ would be a better translation. And the Othra are but one of six tribes sheltering here. Every chieftain died in the fighting. He doesn’t speak for all.”

“Does he know if the others will fight with us?”

Erlin related the question to Hirkran, who cast a stern glance back at the cave where the gathered tribesfolk lurked in the shadows, all eyes apparently intent on this meeting.

“He isn’t sure,” Erlin translated. “Some won’t simply because the Othra will. Some will stay here and piss themselves forever.”

“Can he guide us to the Volarians?”

Hirkran gave a long pause before answering, his gaze fixed on Vaelin. “He will but first he insists on being named leader of the army.”

Lorkan, who stood nearby with his cat, gave a derisive snort provoking the tribesman to a snarl, starting forward with an upraised axe. Vaelin stepped deliberately between them as the cat crouched, teeth bared in a hiss. He had noticed Lorkan’s courage had increased considerably since acquiring the beast.

“He has a reason for asking this, I assume?” he asked Erlin as Hirkran continued to glower.

“These people respect only strength. If he is not named leader, they will see him as merely vassal to a foreigner, meaning he’ll face an instant challenge from a younger rival. You could call it a ceremonial title if you like. These are their lands, Vaelin. Diminished as they are, they still deserve your respect.”

Vaelin looked at the ragged figures shifting in the gloom of the cave, younger folk clutching weapons whilst the children gathered around the elderly. Each half-shadowed face bore the dirt and grime of days spent fighting for life; many were plainly exhausted and slumped by the pain of recent wounds. But he saw there was still a defiance in their eyes, even the youngsters. They might have been beaten, but were hardly defeated.

“Tell me what to say,” he told Erlin.

Hirkran tracked a winding course southward along a tall ridge, six of his warriors scouting ahead. Vaelin followed with Erlin, Kiral and Astorek. The scouting mission could have been avoided if he had agreed to let Dahrena fly once again but one look at her still-wan features caused him to voice a stern refusal.

“I would remind you, my lord,” she grated, “I hold no formal rank in this army and am, in fact, free to do as I wish.”

“And I am free to employ any one of the several methods at my disposal to render you unconscious without injury,” Vaelin replied. “You will stay here and rest, my lady.”

She had scowled and walked away, Mishara providing clear illustration of her feelings with a brief hiss before bounding off to pad alongside.

They had covered perhaps eight miles when Hirkran called a halt, Vaelin noting how Astorek’s wolves had taken on a more cautious gait, keeping low among the craggy spine of the ridge and pausing frequently to sniff the air. They were clearly a disconcerting presence for Hirkran and his people, though from their carefully observed indifference, he discerned outward displays of fear were seen as a great disgrace.

Hirkran lowered himself to a crouch and made for the edge of the ridge, Vaelin crawling alongside. Below them the ridge fell away in a steep cliff, affording a fine view of the valley ahead. It was broad with a flat plain in the centre perhaps a half mile wide, divided by a shallow river. The Volarian host was encamped in a circular perimeter of dense pickets and neatly arranged tents. It seemed the Witch’s Bastard was an efficient general.

Hirkran said something in a terse murmur which Erlin translated as an obscene curse involving the invocation of various ethereal entities as well as an inventive and cannibalistic form of genital mutilation.

“Why would they eat those?” Kiral asked with a distasteful grimace.

“To absorb the strength of an enemy,” Erlin said. “And symbolise the end of his line. The tribes put great stock in having children. An infertile man or woman is seen as a curse and subject to exile, or worse if they’re unwise enough to linger.”

The huntress cast a disgusted glance at the surrounding warriors, muttering, “Savages.”

Hirkran spoke again, gesturing at the Volarian encampment.

“Our leader demands the army be brought here for an immediate attack,” Erlin said. “One he will lead personally. This must be done quickly or the spirits will judge us weak and refuse to help.”

“They expect their gods to help?” Vaelin asked.

“They don’t have gods, as such. They believe these mountains are possessed of souls of their own, either kindly or vindictive according to whim. When the storms come they are angry, when the winter is kind they are pleased. But they always take a dim view of cowardice.”

“And we will be happy to honour them with our courage. But first I must ask what he has seen of these invaders. Particularly those that lead them.”

Hirkran’s face darkened and he looked away before voicing a series of short, grunted answers. “When they came we thought it would be as before,” Erlin related. “They come, we fight them, they steal children, they leave. Sometimes the children can be bought back for copper or fire metal. Mostly not. This time they took children and killed them. They killed everything, even the wild goats and elk. We fought…” Hirkran’s face took on a mask-like quality, as if the horrors he had witnessed were beyond expression. “We fought so hard… But they were so many, much more than had come before. We did not see who leads them, though the Rotha spoke of seven red men with powers that rivalled the spirits, but they are notorious liars.”

Powers that rivalled the spirits. “Are there any Rotha here?” Vaelin asked, gesturing to the other warriors.

Hirkran spat and made a disgusted noise. “Back at the cave. Their stench dishonours us.”

Vaelin nodded and moved back from the edge, causing Hirkran to bark a question at Erlin. “Where are you going?”

“To muster the army for our mighty leader’s attack. Where else?”

The Rotha were led by a stocky woman of middling years with a deep matrix of decorative scars carved into the flesh around her eyes. “Mirvald,” she stated when Erlin asked her name, going on to add a few other titles which apparently indicated her status. “She’s a mix of counsellor and shaman, said to have the ability to hear the word of the spirits.”

“She saw the seven red men?” Vaelin asked.

Mirvald eyed Vaelin closely for a second before replying. “The Rotha were the first to feel their wrath. The Seven came to their settlement alone. Because they were strangers the warriors tried to kill them, but were themselves killed. The Seven are not like other men. They move and fight as one, as if each hears the thoughts of the others. Even so the Rotha would have prevailed had they not had other powers. One could kill with a single touch, another had the power to freeze a man’s heart with fear. They killed many Rotha, and then their army came and killed many more.”

“Thank her for her knowledge,” Vaelin said.

The woman inclined her head at Erlin’s words then asked a question of her own. “How do you intend to defeat the Seven when others could not?”

Vaelin glanced over to where Wise Bear held counsel with the other Gifted, all gathered round as he imparted another lesson from his bottomless well of knowledge. “Tell her we have powers of our own. If she would see them, she should come with us.”

Erlin listened to her reply and forced a placid smile. “She will, but only if you name her leader of the army. Her people won’t come otherwise.”

“We already have a leader.”

“I suspect it won’t matter if you name two. The tribes rarely speak to each other except to exchange insults. I profess myself amazed they’ve managed to spend more than a day here without finishing what the Volarians started.”

“Very well.” Vaelin gave a weary nod and bowed to Mirvald before turning back to Wise Bear. “I await her wise commands and, with her permission, will now consult with my captains.”

“How do we find them?” Marken asked. “Hidden in such a host?”

“The Rotha woman said they move as one,” Vaelin said. “I suspect if we find one, we find them all. Even so it will be no easy task in the midst of battle.”

“My song may guide us,” Kiral said. “But the tune is so uneven now…”

“No.” Vaelin shook his head to clear red-tinged memories of Alltor. “Singing during battle is best avoided.” He turned to Astorek. “Could your mother’s spear-hawks find them?”

“Commanding a beast becomes difficult when the killing begins,” he said. “The sound, the scent of blood, makes them either fearful or hungry. It requires great concentration to ensure they attack the enemy and not our own people. To maintain enough focus to seek out a particular prey would prove difficult, perhaps impossible.”

“I can find them,” Dahrena said, her tone soft but certain. “Their souls are like black pearls in a sea of red.”

“You have flown enough during this enterprise,” Vaelin stated.

“There is no other way, as I suspect you know, my lord. Besides”—she reached for Cara’s hand—“I have friends to share the burden.”

“More than one,” Marken added, moving to her side. “Doubt my old bones are fit for fighting in any case.”

“So you see, my lord.” Dahrena met his gaze with a bright smile. “Our course is set.”

“Remember, they need to be taken alive,” Vaelin told Astorek. “Until Wise Bear touches them, they must not be killed.”

The Volarian nodded as his wolves moved to take up position alongside Vaelin and Scar. The army had mustered to the north of the ridge, marching through the night to arrive before the onset of dawn. Dahrena would remain atop the ridge with Cara and Marken, their cats prowling the cliff-top with twenty of the Wolf People’s most trusted warriors.

Vaelin went to Dahrena, the others retreating to a respectful distance. Her anger seemed to have dissipated and she clasped his proffered hands without demur, returning his kiss and letting it linger.

After a moment he drew back, speaking softly, “I have asked too much of you…”

She put a hand to his lips. “No more than you ask of yourself. We came to make an end, and I hunger for it. I want to go home, Vaelin. I want to go home with you and that can’t happen until this ends.”

He touched his forehead to hers and clasped her hands once more before moving back and striding towards Scar and the wolves.

The Witch’s Bastard had chosen his campsite well; the only cover was provided by the shallow river running through the valley floor. He led Scar at a walk through the waters, the banks just high enough to conceal his tall frame. The wolves moved ahead, keeping to the sides. The predawn gloom was fading fast by the time he paused a mile short of the camp and requested Alturk take his Sentar in a wide sweep around the Volarians.

“Lorkan will go with you,” he told the Tahlessa. “Carve a hole in their picket line.”

“Can’t wait,” Lorkan said, forcing a smile, his new-found courage now plainly faltering despite the presence of his cat.

“The first break of dawn,” Vaelin told Alturk, extending a hand. “Not before.”

Alturk stared at his hand for a moment before briefly clasping his forearm. “My son’s name was Oskith,” he said. “It means Black Knife, he was aptly named.” He glanced over at Kiral, crouched in the current and playing a hand through her cat’s damp fur. “As was my daughter. I would have her know this.”

“Then live and tell her yourself.”

“That would make me a liar. Last night I sang my death song to the gods.”

Alturk rose from the water and crept up the riverbank at a crouch before disappearing from view followed by the hunched, shadowy forms of the Sentar. Vaelin saw Kiral watch them go, seeing the knowledge in her eyes and realised he would have nothing to tell her if Alturk fell. Few secrets can be hidden from the song.

A short way on he bade the tribes folk to halt, and, like Alturk, make their attack at the first break of dawn, striking at the camp’s northern edge. They were clumped together in their tribal groupings, obliging him to visit each one with Erlin. The six newly risen chieftains were all now under the impression they held ultimate command of this army and Vaelin thanked them all for the honour of allowing him to make the first attack.

He led the Wolf People on through the chill current, stopping when parallel with the main body of the camp. Whale Killer paused at his side with an affable smile before proceeding at the head of the warriors. They would circle around to the camp’s south-facing perimeter, like Alturk making their attack at the first sign of the sun ascending above the eastern mountains.

Vaelin’s gaze tracked the length of the river, now crowded with wolves, Astorek and the other shamans crouched among them, each strained face telling of the effort required to prevent a betraying explosion of snarls to the proximity of so many disparate packs. The wolves fidgeted but were mostly still, Astorek’s most of all. They had remained close to Vaelin for the entire journey, their gazes rarely leaving him.

He turned to Erlin and Wise Bear crouched nearby. “You will take no part in this,” he told Erlin, noting the hatchet gripped in his fist.

“I’ve fought on many occasion, brother,” Erlin replied. “It could be I’ve seen more battles than you.”

“Even so, remain in the rear. If the day goes against us, take yourself off, perhaps circle the world one more time.”

“And watch it fall to ruin as I do?” Erlin shook his head. “I think not.”

“You will be needed.” Vaelin met his gaze, feeling the guilt surge anew. I will not do that… “Stay in the rear.”

He turned to Wise Bear before Erlin could speak further. “Are you prepared?”

The shaman glanced to the east where the peaks were starting to take on the golden hue that heralded a new day. The sky was clear today, the air possessed of a pleasing freshness, coloured by a faint floral tint from the heather that covered the valley floor. “The green fire not seen here,” the shaman reflected with a faint note of regret then sloshed through the river to where Iron Claw waited. The great bear issued a low rumbling growl as Wise Bear climbed onto his back and turned him towards the bank.

Vaelin beckoned to Lord Orven and hauled himself onto Scar’s saddle. “If all goes well, there should be a decent gap in their ranks,” he told the guardsman. “Concentrate on the Varitai if you can.”

“I shall, my lord.” Orven gave a salute, standing straight as the current flowed about him. “At this moment I’d trade everything I own for a horse.”

Vaelin grinned and reached over his shoulder to draw his sword. “I expect there’ll be plenty to choose from when we’re done.”

He kicked Scar into motion, splashing free of the river and waiting as Astorek’s wolves took up position in front, the other packs swarming from the banks to close in on either side. Mishara padded through the throng and sank to her haunches at his side. Vaelin looked down to meet her gaze, wondering if Dahrena saw him through her eyes. Mishara merely blinked and licked her fangs before turning her attention to the Volarians.

The camp sat about three hundred paces distant, silent beneath the pall birthed by the dead fires of the previous night. Vaelin could see the pickets moving through the morning haze, their gait leisurely and free of any alarm. He waited as the sun grew warm on the back of his neck and his shadow faded into view on the ground ahead, a long dark arrow pointed at the Volarian host.

Nortah’s words came back to him as he took a firmer grip on Scar’s reins, You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?

He gave a soft laugh and kicked at Scar’s flanks, the warhorse issuing a shrill, joyous whinny as he spurred to the gallop. The wolves surged forward with them, keeping pace with ease and voicing a collective growl no doubt birthed by the excitement of their shamans. Vaelin saw the pickets start to react, running to form a ragged line as discordant bugles sounded throughout the camp, men stumbling from the tents and scrambling to gather weapons and armour.

Naturally it was the Varitai who reacted first, two full battalions, probably kept awake to guard against a surprise attack, forming up to bar his path with their customary efficiency. They stood in two ranks, the first kneeling and presenting a hedgerow of spears. However, for all their unconscious discipline, even they were not immune to the sun. Vaelin saw many lowering their heads as the sun rose free of the mountains. It caused a certain ripple in their ranks but was not enough to disrupt them; for that he required something more.

The first spear-hawk streaked past his ear, close enough to feel the wing-tip brush his skin, dozens more following on either side an instant later. They struck the centre of the Varitai line in a tight black swarm, streaking out of the blinding sun too fast to dodge or duck. The centre of the Varitai’s line became a roiling mass of thrashing birds and men, the hawks rising from the melee trailing blood and flesh from their steel talons, hovering for a brief second then diving back down. By the time the wolves joined the struggle the Volarian ranks had already been broken.

Vaelin took Scar directly through the chaos, seeing a Volarian officer dragged down by a trio of wolves, his throat torn out in short order. The Volarians had formed more battalions beyond the Varitai, Free Swords standing in much-less-well-ordered ranks. They seemed younger than the Volarian soldiery he had fought before, many youthful faces betraying shock and outright terror at the sight of the horde of beasts wreaking havoc before their eyes. The bulk of the wolves tore into them without pause, the closest battalion falling to pieces under the onslaught in the space of a few seconds. The neighbouring formation fared better, forming itself into a tight defensive circle and managing to cut down many of the wolves that assailed it. They had no answer to the spear-hawks, however. Having dealt with the Varitai, their shamans re-formed their flocks and sent them against the Free Swords, streaking down in a black rain as the wolves continued to attack, running forward in pairs to fasten their jaws on the legs of the Volarians and drag them from the ranks.

Vaelin caught sight of a battalion commander on horseback nearby, sword raised high as he rallied his men, veteran sergeants running to his side and barking orders. He angled Scar towards the commander, Astorek’s wolves loping ahead to bring down his horse. The man leapt clear as the horse screamed amidst a welter of blood, coming to his feet in time to turn and take Vaelin’s sword full in the face. He galloped on to scatter the partly rallied men, cutting down a sergeant who unwisely chose to stand his ground.

Vaelin reined Scar to halt, glancing around to find Iron Claw pounding an unfortunate Volarian to death with his massive paws, Wise Bear appearing almost comical as he bounced on his back. Beyond him Vaelin caught glimpses of a vicious fight as the tribesfolk tore furiously at the northern perimeter. The tumult arising from the south and west indicated the plan had worked, at least initially. The Volarians were now assaulted on all sides and their ranks broken in the east. But the camp was not overrun and they were still fighting, too many regiments were formed and moving with the automaton rhythm typical of Varitai. This battle was far from won.

He looked to Mishara, finding her standing stock still, low to the ground and nose pointed at the centre of the camp where the densest mass of Varitai could be seen. He wheeled Scar about and spurred him to a charge, hearing Iron Claw’s eager growl as he followed, the wolves soon striking out ahead, ignoring the wounded or dazed Free Swords wandering about.

The spear-hawks re-formed once more, circling the Volarian centre in a dense mass. They were fewer in number now, but their ferocity seemed undimmed as they rose and fell in a ceaseless, deadly spiral, raining blood as eyeless men staggered from the ranks, Free Swords screaming and Varitai lashing out at thin air in dumb obedience to their conditioning.

Vaelin saw them then, a knot of men at the heart of the Volarian ranks, flickering glimpses of red amidst the roiling black. He angled Scar towards them, the wolves massing around him to tear a hole in the wall of Varitai. He struggled through it, parrying spear-blades and hacking down any who strayed too close.

The first two red men appeared before him as he slashed his way clear of the throng, both mounted on tall warhorses and wheeling in a tight circle, their swords blurring as they cut spear-hawks from the air. Vaelin charged straight for them, the closest whirling towards him, face livid with hate-filled recognition. He spurred his horse to the left whilst his companion went right in a coordinated attack. Vaelin leaned low, half-hanging out of the saddle as they closed, parrying the stroke from the left as the other missed by inches. He regained the saddle and wheeled, hauling Scar to a halt as the two red men turned for another charge. They paused, seemingly puzzled by his immobility, staring back as he waited, meeting their gaze in turn, fixing them.

Iron Claw reared up with a bellow, both claws raised high. The red men tried to spur their horses aside but too late as the claws came down, digging deep into the spine of both animals. They screamed and thrashed as blood fountained, the red men rolling clear of the carnage, coming swiftly to their feet before being brought down by Astorek’s wolves. They struggled in silence, each held fast by four wolves, their jaws clamped on each limb. They stared up at Vaelin with all the malice he remembered, malice that turned to outright terror as Wise Bear climbed down from Iron Claw’s back.

They begged and screamed in unison, both uttering the same pleas and guttural exhalations as the shaman knelt and pressed his hands to their foreheads. The shuddering ceased in an instant, both red men falling silent, then blinking in confusion as Wise Bear removed his hands and retreated. They gaped at each other then at Vaelin… then the wolves.

“Brother…” one said, looking up at him in white-faced entreaty.

Vaelin turned Scar about as the wolves did their work, deaf to the brief screams rising above the chorus of snarls. Mishara was at his side once more, nose pointed to a dense mass of battling figures near the western edge of what remained of the camp. A brief survey confirmed most of the field was now in their hands. The southern flank had been completely shattered under the weight of the Wolf People’s numbers. He could see the warriors moving through the mist, long spears held low, bunching occasionally to deal with small clusters of resistance. To the north the tribesfolk had surrounded what appeared to be the remnants of the Volarian cavalry, a few hundred mounted men hemmed in and trying vainly to break free. He watched rider after rider falling to the mountain people’s flailing axes, their ingrained disunity seemingly forgotten now.

“My lord!”

Vaelin ducked instinctively at Orven’s shouted warning, something flickering past his head too fast to see. He dragged Scar about to face three men running towards him through the haze, each lightly armoured and bearing a sword in each hand. Kuritai.

Orven blocked the charge of the leader, crouching low to sweep his sword at the slave-elite’s legs. The Kuritai leapt the blade easily and whirled in midair, his blade aimed at Orven’s neck. The captain, however, was no novice and parried the blow, jabbing his own sword into the Kuritai’s face, then bringing the sword up and around in a swift and near-perfect riposte that left the man staggering with a gaping throat wound.

He turned to engage another as the third dodged past them and made for Vaelin, leaping with twin swords raised high. Mishara met him in midair, fastening her fangs on his head and bearing him to the ground, shaking him until his neck gave an audible crack.

Vaelin spurred Scar forward, seeing Orven being hard-pressed by the remaining Kuritai, the twin swords delivering a swift and complex pattern of blows that forced the guardsman to his knees. Vaelin was still ten feet short of them when the Kuritai sent Orven’s sword spinning from his grasp and raised his blades for the final blow, then abruptly stiffened, head snapping up as Lorkan blinked into view, arm extended to thrust a dagger into the base of the slave-elite’s skull.

The Gifted withdrew the blade with a distasteful grimace and looked up at Vaelin as he trotted closer. His face was streaked with blood from a cut somewhere in the dark mane of his hair, obliging him to continually wipe it from his eyes.

“You have to come,” he said, swaying a little as he pointed his bloody dagger to the raging struggle nearby. “It’s Alturk.”

The wolves went ahead of him, tearing apart the ragged Volarian line of wounded and part-blinded Varitai, allowing him to charge through with Wise Bear and Iron Claw close behind. He saw Alturk twenty yards ahead, war club whirling as he spun and dodged amidst a circle of red men. The Sentar were attempting to come to his side but were being held back by a company of Kuritai, Lonak and slave-elite locked in a vicious struggle as the Tahlessa fought hopeless odds. But still he lived, cuts on his arms, face and legs, but he remained standing as the red men danced.

Vaelin urged more speed from Scar but the warhorse was tiring now, foam covering his flanks and mouth, his stride laboured and shuddering with effort. Vaelin watched as Alturk dodged a sword and brought his club around to slam into his assailant’s side, deliberately avoiding the killing blow to the head as Vaelin had instructed. The red men, however, had clearly allowed the blow to land to draw Alturk forward, two of them dancing closer to slash at his legs. He sidestepped the first stroke but not the second, the blade biting deep into his thigh and sending him to one knee, teeth bared in a grimace.

Another red man leapt and delivered a kick to Alturk’s jaw, sending him sprawling. The red man landed nimbly astride the Tahlessa’s prostrate form, a wide smile on his lips as he raised his sword. Alturk spat blood into his face and the red man stepped back, smile vanished into a snarling mask of malice.

Scar collided with a Kuritai, sending him spinning, Vaelin rising high in the saddle as the red man lunged at Alturk, then collapsed as an arrow sank into his leg. Another red-armoured figure darted towards the Lonak but drew up as Vaelin closed, sword raised too late to counter Scar’s flailing hooves, taking a kick to the chest and flying backwards.

The remaining red men closed on Vaelin, moving with uncanny speed. Another arrow streaked from the surrounding turmoil to take the leader in the leg. The others paused, crouched low and eyes scanning for enemies. Kiral came into view, walking forward at an almost leisurely pace as she loosed arrows from her stout flat bow, each of the red men falling as the shafts found their legs.

The wolves moved in as Vaelin dismounted, running to Alturk’s side where Kiral was already crouched. The red men screamed and railed as the wolves took hold of their limbs and Wise Bear slid from Iron Claw’s back. He walked from one to the other, crouching to touch his palm to their heads, their cries falling silent one by one. He paused at the last one, drawing back with his squat features tensed in confusion.

“Can’t…” Alturk grunted and clutched at the wound in his leg. “Can’t you even allow me a decent death?”

Kiral slapped him, a hard smack to the cheek, berating him in her own language. Vaelin’s knowledge of Lonak was poor but he did catch the word “father” amidst the angry torrent. Alturk’s anger faded as she continued to rail at him, tearing a strip from his buckskins and moving to bind his wound.

Vaelin rose and went to where Wise Bear stood over the remaining red man, the wolves’ teeth having silenced the others. The shaman frowned, shaking his head in confusion as the red man stared up at him, spread-eagled in the wolves’ grip, sweat covering his face, blood flowing freely from his nose and the corners of his eyes. Vaelin felt it then, a sudden doubling of his heartbeat, a tremble seizing his limbs.

The power to freeze a man’s heart with fear, he recalled and found himself laughing. “Fear,” he said, crouching next to the red man and capturing his gaze. “In truth it’s a small thing, and an old friend.” He drove the pommel of his sword hard into the man’s temple, leaving him sagging and barely conscious. Wise Bear shook his head, muttering a curse in his own tongue then crouching to press a hand to the red man’s brow. He stiffened for a moment, a chilled gasp escaping his chest, then lay still.

Vaelin turned away as the wolves finished the task, watching the last of the Kuritai fall to the Sentar. Somewhere behind him the tribesfolk were singing some kind of victory song, the tune was discordant but they all seemed to know the words.

“My lord,” Lorkan said, appearing as his side, a bloody rag pressed to his head. “I feel this an opportune moment to resign from your service. For this is an experience I should not like to repeat, regardless of Cara’s opinions.”

“Accepted, good sir,” Vaelin told him. “And with thanks for your service.”

He turned as Mishara gave a sudden hiss, her hackles rising as she turned and began sprinting towards the ridge where they had left her mistress.

Vaelin’s gaze tracked over the corpses of the red men. Four, and the other two. Six. But Mirvald said seven…

He ran to Scar and leapt into the saddle, heels thumping hard into his flanks as he spurred to the gallop.

The ridge was wreathed in cloud and rain as he halted a near-spent Scar at its base. He had seen the clouds descend as they rode towards the ridge, far too fast to be anything other than Cara’s work. Mishara was several yards ahead and quickly disappeared into the curtain of rain as lightning flashed somewhere up ahead.

Vaelin hurled himself up the ridge, seeing bodies lying amidst the rocks, the Wolf People’s warriors, all seemingly cut down in seconds. He found Marken’s cat next, slumped and lifeless, the hulking Gifted himself lay a few yards on, bearded features slack and unmoving in the lashing rain.

Vaelin tore his gaze away and forced himself on. The smell reached him first, burnt, acrid, cloying. The stench of recently seared flesh. Cara came into view as he crested the ridge, a small, still form sitting in the rain, pale features staring with wide eyes at something nearby, something blackened and charred but somehow still moving, the part-melted remnants of red armour sticking to the roasted flesh as it twitched.

“Didn’t see it,” Cara said in a whisper. “We shared… I couldn’t see… It happened so fast…”

Vaelin crouched next to her, seeing the blood streaming from her nose, turning pink and dissolving in the torrent. He touched his hands to hers. “Enough,” he said. “It’s done.”

She blinked at him, then sagged, the rain dwindling to drizzle as he caught her. “Lightning,” she murmured. “Didn’t know I could.”

“Cara.” He lifted her chin. “Where is Lady Dahrena?”

Somewhere up ahead he heard Mishara voice a plaintive, forlorn call.

“I’m sorry,” Cara said, voice small and choked. “It happened so fast…”

He rested her back against a rock and rose from her side, moving away and following the sound as Mishara continued to voice her mournful cry.

She was slumped on her side next to the rain-wasted remnants of the fire he had built for her the night before, still wrapped in furs. There was no blood, no sign of any injury at all. One who could kill with a single touch…

He sat next to her, drawing her small, limp form into his arms, teasing the silken hair back from her ice-chilled forehead. “I want to go home,” he said. “I want to go home with you.”

CHAPTER FOUR Reva

She landed hard, rolling with the impact to absorb the shock, but still it left an aching burn in her legs as she surged to her feet, sprinting towards the nearest beast-handler. She was grateful for the crowd’s bloodlust, their roaring excitement at her appearance robbing the handler of any warning until she was nearly on him. He turned just before she whipped her manacles across his face, teeth shattering and lips shredded by the impact, his scream a shrill gurgle as he collapsed to his knees, the chains slipping from his hands.

The three dagger-teeth he had been guiding towards their prey immediately whirled at the sudden loss of restraint, hissing at Reva and crouching to spring. She dived towards the handler, snatching the whip from the strap on his wrist, snapping it at the nearest cat, forcing it back. She raised her gaze, finding the Shield and Allern standing unmolested in the centre of the arena, the two other handlers staring at her in wide-eyed shock. The Shield reacted first, sprinting forward to hack down the nearest beast, the short sword cutting through its neck as its companions howled and lashed their claws at him. He danced back on nimble feet, though not without suffering a trio of parallel scars on his chest.

The fallen handler’s cats lunged at Reva, dragging her attention away. She struck with the whip again, then ran forward, leaping over a slashing claw. She whirled as they pursued, the whip cutting the air with a vicious crack. The dagger-teeth recoiled once more, then paused as one, as if in answer to some unspoken but shared understanding, turning to regard the wounded handler, now attempting to stumble towards a door in the arena wall, hands held to his face as he trailed blood across the sand. The cats gave an identical hiss and bounded after him, one leaping onto his back and bearing him to the sand, whilst the others savaged his legs, their long fangs piercing flesh and bone with appalling ease. His screams were short and the cats soon fell to contented feeding, ignoring Reva completely.

She turned to see Allern attempting to keep the three cats facing him at bay with short jabs of his spear. Their handler, however, was considerably distracted by Reva’s charge, blanching and dropping his chains before sprinting away. He made it to within ten feet of a door before a volley of arrows from the Varitai archers on the upper tiers streaked down to pin him to the sand.

Free of restraint, his cats began to circle Allern, moving in a whirling dance of slashing claws and teeth-baring lunges, seeking an opening as he spun, his spear moving in a blur. Reva sprinted towards the nearest cat, the whip snaking out to wrap around its leg, pulling it back as it thrashed and howled. Allern saw his chance and speared the beast in the shoulder, though the force of the thrust sent the spear-blade through the animal, stuck fast amidst bone and sinew. Allern cursed, trying to draw the weapon free, the two other cats closing in for the kill.

Reva’s whip cracked once more, forcing them back. “Leave it!” she told Allern, pushing him back from the corpse. “Take this.” She handed him the whip then placed her foot on the haft of the spear, stamping down to snap it in two. She rolled the dead cat over and took hold of the spear-blade, drawing it clear of the carcass in a gout of blood.

“Keep them back!” she ordered Allern, turning to see the Shield now on his back, legs raised to hold off the cat snarling atop him, jaws snapping, its terrible fangs within a whisker of his face. The surviving handler loosed his remaining cat and retreated, gazing wildly about, knowing to flee meant death but clearly wanting no part of this suddenly equal struggle. The freed cat circled the struggling pair in a rapid scrabble, sliding to a halt near Ell-Nestra’s head, tensing for a strike, jaws widening as it leapt… Reva’s broken spear-blade took the cat in the side in midair, its limp form colliding with the dagger-tooth atop the Shield, forcing it to rear back, leaving just enough room for Ell-Nestra to thrust his sword up into its neck.

He rolled free as the corpse came down, dragging the blade from the body, then crouching as the handler’s whip left a long red stripe on his upper arm. He turned to regard the plainly terrified beast-master with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

The handler stared at him in terrorised indecision; fighting or fleeing meant the same fate. Reva spared him further consideration, leaping to plant both feet in the centre of his face, sending him senseless to the sand. She knelt to retrieve his whip and a small dagger protruding from his boot.

“May I say, my lady,” the Shield greeted her with a bow, “how very fetching you look today. Red is truly your colour.”

She grunted and ran towards Allern. “You’d have a better chance with these beasts.”

Allern had driven the two surviving cats to the edge of the arena, chest heaving as he swung the whip, containing every rush and lunge they tried to make. Reva used her own whip to snag one around the foreleg, dragging it down so the Shield could finish it with his sword. She killed the last one herself, taunting it into a charge, dodging to the side, then leaping onto its back, the dagger stabbing down beneath its shoulder blades, again and again until its struggles ceased and a final piteous hiss escaped its snout.

As she rose from the corpse the exultation of the crowd descended like a deluge, the tiers above a sea of joyous faces, screaming in admiration and, she saw with disgust, naked lust. Men leered at her, women bared their breasts, and a torrent of flowers cascaded onto the sand. One landed near her feet, an orchid, the petals a pale shade of pink that darkened to deep red at the edges.

“Pick it up!” the Shield hissed at her and she noted he had a clutch of flowers in his hands. “You too, lad!” he called to Allern. “Pick them up, quickly!”

Reva knelt and retrieved the orchid, noting how the crowd’s feverish adulation rose to an even greater pitch.

“A sign of their favour!” the Shield shouted to her above the tumult before casting a cautious glance at the Empress’s balcony. “Hard to ignore for those who orchestrate these spectacles.”

Reva looked to the balcony, seeing the Empress’s slender form still seated on her bench, face veiled in shadow. She seemed utterly still and Reva wondered if she had slipped into another vacant episode. She also doubted that the Empress held any regard for the traditions formerly observed here. She hates them, she remembered, glancing at the crowd. What does she care for their favour?

She saw the Empress raise a hand to cast a casual flick at Varulek, the black-clad striding forward to order the trumpets sounded once more. This time the crowd’s obedience was not so instant, the exultation and lust taking longer to fade, leaving a simmering murmur that continued even after the Empress rose and moved to the edge of the balcony. Reva’s spirits sank at the expression she saw on her face. No fury or frustration, just warm, and sincere, affection. Her lips moved in a silent endearment, easily read, “You truly are my sister.”

She found Lieza pacing when they returned her to the chamber, the girl starting in surprise and relief as Reva stepped inside and the door slammed shut. Lieza came forward with a tremulous laugh, drawing up short at the sight of the blood that spattered Reva from head to toe, though she seemed more shocked by what she held in her hands.

“Where you get that?” she asked.

Reva glanced down at the orchid. She had kept hold of it as the Empress decreed the spectacles had concluded for the day and a dozen Kuritai trooped into the arena. Allern and the Shield were shackled and led off to another door, though not before the young guardsman sank to one knee before her, gazing up with near-frantic devotion. “The Father has blessed me, my lady!” he called as they dragged him away. “In allowing me to fight with you this day!”

The Shield was notably less enthused. “We won no victory here,” he said over his shoulder. “You know that, I assume?”

“We’re alive,” she replied. “And you’re welcome, my lord.”

Reva wondered why Varulek hadn’t taken the flower from her. The Master of the Arena had been silent on their journey back to the cell, his expression more tense than before and his eyes continually straying to the flower in her grasp. “Did I spoil the story?” she asked him as they came to the chamber door. “The legend had a different ending, I suppose.”

“Morivek and Korsev stood at the entrance to the fire pits and held back the harbingers for a day and a night.” The black-clad stood back as the Kuritai removed her shackles with their customary caution. “Morivek, the eldest, fell mortally wounded and beseeched his brother to flee. But Korsev stayed, possessed of such a rage that he killed every harbinger to emerge from the pit and, seeing his brother now dead, cast himself into the bowels of the earth, seeking yet more vengeance, never to be seen again. Though, as with any legend,” he added as the door swung open, “the tale changes depending on the author.”

“In the arena,” she told Lieza, holding out the orchid. “Take it if you want.”

The girl shrank back, shaking her head. “Not for me.” She glanced again at Reva’s bloodied form and moved towards the far end of the chamber. “I make you bath.”

Reva sat on the marble steps as the water gushed from the ornate bronze spigot in the wall, massaging her wrists as the steam rose. “I wash that for you,” Lieza said, pointing to Reva’s bloodied clothing.

“You are not my slave,” she said.

“Not free either.” Lieza shrugged. “Nothing else to do.”

Reva stood, staring at Lieza in expectation. The girl seemed puzzled for a moment then laughed and turned her back. Reva kicked off her shoes then removed her blouse and trews, leaving them piled on the floor as she stepped down into the water, sighing at the soothing warmth.

“Who you fight?” Lieza asked, grinning a little as she knelt to retrieve the clothes, gaze still averted.

“Cats with big teeth.”

“You kill them all?”

“All but three.” Reva recalled the sight of the three surviving cats, busily gorging themselves on the body of their fallen master, fangs and faces red from frenzied feeding. Despite the horror of the spectacle she couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity. For all their fury these were wretched creatures, continually starved, brutalised and denied the role the Father had ordained for them. This is what they do, she decided. Twist the world out of shape according to cruel whim.

She spent a few moments unpicking her braid and sank under the water, working her fingers through the tresses to dislodge the matted blood. The bath was deep, allowing her to fully submerge herself, sinking down until her feet touched the tiled bottom. The feel of hair on her fingers stirred memories of Veliss, how she loved to comb her hair, shape it into one of the thousand designs she knew. Veliss, Ellese… So far away and most likely lost for good.

A disturbance in the water caused her to resurface where she started at the sight of Lieza sinking naked into the bath. “What are you doing?” she demanded, looking away.

“Clothes need washing.” The girl reached for Reva’s piled garments and dumped them into the water, a faint smile on her lips.

“Do it later.”

“Not your slave.” Lieza’s smile broadened as she reached for a cake of soap and began to scrub at the clothes. Reva turned away, moving to the edge of the bath, wanting to climb out but knowing the girl’s gaze would follow her if she did.

“Your people have no respect for each other,” she muttered. “No regard for life, or privacy either it seems.”

“Privacy?” Lieza asked.

“Being…” Reva struggled to translate the concept, finding it harder than expected. “Being alone, keeping secrets. Protecting modesty.”

“Modesty?”

“Never mind.” She heard Lieza stifle a giggle as she returned to scrubbing her clothes. “Not so afraid now, I see.”

“No, still afraid. Comes like a…” Reva heard her splash at the water.

“A wave?”

“Yes. Wave. Big wave when I try to kill the Empress. Smaller wave now.”

Reva found herself turning in involuntary surprise, then averting her gaze again at the sight of Lieza’s breasts protruding just above the water. “You tried to kill her?”

“With poison. Didn’t work. Kept me with her.” Lieza’s tone darkened. “Found me… funny.”

“Why did you do it?”

“My master… not just my master. Father also. My mother a slave. She die when I’m little. He raised me, loved me. Couldn’t free me, the law. Didn’t like the Empress and said so. She gave him the three deaths, took all his slaves as her own.”

“I regret your failure. Though, on behalf of my queen and people, I thank you for the effort.”

“Queen is also word for Empress, yes?”

“I suppose, though they are very different.”

“Your queen not cruel?”

Reva recalled the sight of the queen sinking her dagger into the Volarian’s chest back on the ship, her instant and complete change of demeanour as his body was thrown over the side. “She is fierce in her dedication to our cause, it being just.”

“You think she win this war?” Lieza’s tone held a distinctly dubious note.

“With help.” Reva felt her eyelids grow heavy, the heat of the water and the strain of her recent exertions combining to overwhelm her. She turned back to the edge of the bath, resting her head on her arms. “There is a man, a friend of mine.” She found herself smiling. “My elder brother, in any way that matters. If I can survive here long enough for word to reach him, he will come for me.” She closed her eyes, voice fading to a whisper. “Though I would not have him risk any more on my account…”

She let it fade away, the arena, the Empress’s fond smile, losing herself in the water’s warm embrace, letting it seep into her, soothing, caressing…

She jerked awake, Lieza’s hands vanishing from her shoulders as she reared back in alarm. “You… tense,” she said. “I know how to make it go away.” She raised her hands, flexing the fingers, then slowly reached out to trace her nails through Reva’s hair.

“Don’t.” Reva took hold of her hand, hating the electric thrill provoked by the feel of her skin, gently pushing it away. “Please.”

“I not your slave,” Lieza said. “I willing…”

“I can’t.” Reva fought down a wave of self-reproach at the regret in her voice. “There is someone, someone who waits for me.”

She pushed herself to the steps and climbed out of the bath, moving to the bed and covering herself with a sheet. She slumped against a pillar, keeping her gaze from Lieza, who she knew would be staring after her, sinking to the marble floor with a whisper, “Loyalty is all I have left to give her.”

She awoke in darkness, Lieza slumbering next to her, still naked and absent any coverings. She had washed her own clothes after finishing with Reva’s and left them to dry. “No other place to sleep,” she said, hovering by the bed after dimming the lamps.

Reva turned onto her side, facing away. “Then sleep.”

Lieza groaned as Reva rose, eyes tracking to the near-invisible door, realising she had been woken by the sound of the lock turning. She rose from the bed, tossing a sheet over Lieza’s distracting form and retrieving her still-damp clothes. She managed to drag them on by the time the door opened to reveal Varulek, standing with oil lamp in hand. Reva blinked in surprise as she realised he was alone and the tunnel behind him free of Kuritai.

Careful, she cautioned herself against the instinctive impulse to rush the black-clad. He would not come here defenceless.

So she stood in silence as he entered, his gaze sweeping across the chamber, pausing only slightly at the sight of Lieza’s partial nakedness. His face was tense with well-controlled but palpable fear, the face of a man forcing himself to unavoidable duty, an expression she knew well.

“I have something to show you,” he said, voice kept to a whisper.

Reva said nothing but gave a pointed glance at the empty tunnel beyond the door.

“If you find no interest in what I offer,” he said, following her gaze, “killing me would be the greatest favour.”

A blow to the temple to put him down, another to crush his larynx and prevent him screaming. Cover his nose and mouth as he chokes to death. Wake the girl and find a route out of this place of horrors. All so easy. But there was something in his gaze that gave her pause, another expression she also knew well, having seen it so many times at Alltor. Hope. He sees hope in me.

“The Father takes a dim view of betrayal,” she said, reaching for her shoes. “And so do I.”

The lamplight was meagre, forcing her to keep close to him as he led her along the tunnel to a small door, working a heavy iron key in the lock and hauling it aside. The stairwell beyond was narrow, the steps and walls roughly hewn and lacking the precision evident in every line of the arena.

“This father you speak of,” he said as they descended the stairs, “he is your god?”

“The only god, who made us so we might know his love.” She stifled a cough at the mustiness of the air, growing thicker by the step. The air smelt of little save dust, but had the close, cloying feel unique to places rarely visited.

“Ah,” Varulek said in recognition. “The Alltorian heresy, expunged in the Cleansing. So the followers of the Six Books found a new home in your Realm.”

“Ten Books,” she corrected. Though I promised them an eleventh. “Are you saying my people came from this land?”

“The Cleansing forced thousands to flee across the ocean. Questers, Ascendants, Acolytes of Sun and Moon. Though your people were among the most numerous, along with the Servants of the Dead.”

Servants of the Dead. “The Faith. The Faith originated here too?”

“It blossomed just before the Cleansing. Some say it caused it. In the space of barely twenty years thousands had forsaken the gods, preferring to grovel to the dead, begging a place in their imagined paradise beyond life. Such devotion was anathema to a Ruling Council intent on fostering absolute loyalty to the empire. The Servants of the Dead were the first to feel their wrath, though they resisted well, led by a man named Varin. In time though, they were forced into exile, taking ship to a damp land across the sea, where more followed in time as the Council sought to wipe away all vestige of what they termed irrational belief.”

“You killed your gods,” Reva said, recalling the Empress’s words.

“No.” They came to the bottom of the stairwell, Varulek crouching to unlock another door, pushing it open on squealing hinges. “We hid them.”

The space beyond the door gave a long echo as he stepped inside, though the absolute blackness prevented any estimation of its size. He paused next to the door, holding the lamp to a torch set into the wall, moving away as the flames blossomed. Reva followed him in, the chamber gradually revealed as he moved from torch to torch. Her gaze went immediately to the statues, three figures, two men and a woman. They were life-sized, and posed as if frozen in a moment of discussion. The woman leaned forward, hands raised and seemingly addressing both men at once. The taller of the two men stood stroking a bearded face, his brow deeply furrowed as if in sombre reflection. The other man was clean-shaven with narrow handsome features and appeared to be in mid-shrug, regarding the woman with a half smile, his expression one of affable disagreement.

The three figures stood around a plinth of some kind, flat-topped with a circular indentation in the centre. It seemed completely unweathered by age, its lines clean and free of chips or scars. It also contrasted with the three statues, being carved from some form of black stone, whilst they had been hewn from a kind of grey granite.

“The gods?” she asked Varulek.

“The gods are too divine to be captured by a mortal hand, in word or in stone.”

She frowned at his tone, hearing a faint echo of the priest’s rantings in the terse note it held. “These are the Tyrants,” he went on, gesturing at the three figures. “Progenitors of the Dermos. Once they ruled all the world with vile magics, casting down any who dared speak against them, a triumvirate of tyranny. In time the gods brought them down, banishing them to the fire pits beneath the earth where they spawned the Dermos. No, these are not the gods.” He moved away, going to a wall to play the lamplight over the stone. “This is where you’ll find them.”

Reva moved to the wall, finding the stone to be rough, shaped by unskilled hands into a vaguely flat surface, and marked with tiny indentations from end to end. Peering closer she saw the indentations were symbols of some kind, arranged into clusters, neat at first but becoming more irregular as they progressed along the wall.

“Scripture?” she asked Varulek.

“Only a few in every generation are chosen,” he said. “Those with the strength and will to contain the essence of the gods, their hands guided to impart their wisdom and guidance, chipped into stone whilst life and strength remain. Though, inevitably, a blessing of such power has a price.”

He moved along the wall, the light revealing yet more scripture, every cluster and symbol becoming less uniform until they were nothing more than vague scratches on the stone. The work of a madman scrawling in the dark, Reva concluded, deciding it best left unsaid for the moment. As he moved past her she noted again the tattoos covering Varulek’s hands, finding an unmistakable similarity to the wall markings.

“What does it say?” she asked. “You can read it can’t you?”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the wall. “Though I doubt there is another soul in all the world who could.” He moved to the far end of the wall, where the markings were most coherent. “‘The Tyrants return,’” he read, finger tracking over the first cluster. “‘Hidden behind the face of a hero, unseen Dermos, set free upon the earth. Even this refuge will be lost to the gods.’”

This refuge. “The arena,” she said, “it remained a shrine, even after they banished the gods.” Her gaze returned to his hands. “You are a priest.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging her insight. “Perhaps the last. The secret charge of my family for generations, as is this arena. My ancestors had charge of this temple long before the Council rose with its pestilent notions of rationality. We were wise enough to make a show of throwing off our piety, amongst the first to swear loyalty to Council and empire, the first to accuse others. Building trust that lasted all the ages. So complete was the destruction of the gods we were able to reclaim the symbol of our true allegiance.” He held up his hand, splaying the fingers to display the tattoos. “The Council thinking it no more than a tradition of those charged with maintaining the arena. She knew differently of course.”

“The Empress knows what you are?”

“She knew long before her ascension. She came here years ago, when she wore a different body. ‘You have a secret,’ she told me, commanding that I bring her here or face denunciation. Knowing one word from her would be enough to secure my execution, I complied. And she laughed.” His mouth twisted in rage and shame. “She mocked this divine place.” He calmed himself with an effort, pointing to the plinth between the three statues. “But she stopped when she saw that.”

Reva angled her head to study the plinth once more, finding little remarkable in it save for the precision of its construction. It was free of any markings, anything that might indicate its purpose. She moved towards it, stepping between the woman and the bearded man. A font, perhaps? She leaned closer, extending a hand towards the indentation in the centre.

“Do not touch it!” His voice was barely more than a whisper but held such a depth of warning her hand instantly froze.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I do not know. Nor did any who came before me. But it is the most implacable commandment instilled in every member of my family since we undertook our divine duty: do not touch the stone.”

“Did she touch it? When she came here?”

He shook his head. “I had hoped she might, but no. She knows too much. But she was not alone when she came here. There was a young man, red-clad, barely older than you. Also, plainly besotted with her. ‘If you love me,’ she told him, ‘touch the stone.’ And he did.”

Varulek moved closer, playing the torchlight over the surface of the plinth; the black surface gleamed. Centuries down here and not a speck of dust, Reva saw. “What happened to him?”

“She didn’t want me to see, commanding me to stand at the door. But I saw the boy shudder, crying out as if in both pain and pleasure. She leaned close to him, whispering some question I couldn’t hear. The boy’s reply was faint but filled with awe, holding his hands up, hands that glowed with some strange light, flickering like lightning. She told him to touch it again, ‘see what other gifts it brings,’ she said. And he touched it once more. This time, he gave no cry, becoming very still the instant his hand touched the stone, as still as these statues, giving no answer to any whispered question. I saw her smile, a smile of great satisfaction… then she killed him, stepping closer to break his neck. ‘Give that to your beasts,’ she told me, pointing to the corpse. ‘I shall come back one day, some years from now I expect. Or much sooner if I learn your tongue has been loose.’”

“No other has seen it?” Reva asked. “None of her… fellow creatures.”

Varulek shook his head. “Only her.”

Keeping secrets of her own. Reva remembered the Empress’s whispered offer, When my beloved comes to me, we will bring down the Ally and all the world will be ours… What is she plotting? Reva sighed in frustration, wishing she could ask for Veliss’s counsel, she would reckon this in an instant. As would the queen.

“I can offer no insight here,” she told Varulek. “But if you can somehow convey a message to my queen…”

“An impossibility. I am bound to this place by more than duty. To stray outside the precincts of the arena by a single step would mean the three deaths.”

“Then why show me this?”

“This is not what I want to show you.” He returned to the wall, holding the torch close to a barely discernible cluster of symbols near the end, just before they dwindled into utter obscurity. “Here,” he said, beckoning her closer, his finger tracking over the marks. “‘Livella will be made flesh when the Fire Queen rises.’”

“Livella?” She remembered Lieza saying the name that morning, in a voice laden with fear. She found herself drawing back from the sudden intensity of Varulek’s gaze.

“A great warrior of legend,” he murmured. “Favoured by the gods with skill and strength beyond that of any woman. She journeyed into the pits and fought the Dermos themselves, killing three. One with a sword, one with a spear, and one…” He handed her the torch and moved away, going to a shadowed corner of the cavern and returning with something wrapped in a threadbare cloak. She saw how his hands trembled with excitement as he drew back the cloth, revealing a stave little under five feet in length, the wood pale and shiny from use, decorated on either side of the central span, one side showing crossed swords, the other crossed axes.

“And one,” Varulek went on, breathless now with mingled awe and fear, eyes shining in the torchlight. “One she killed with a bow fashioned from wych elm.”

CHAPTER FIVE Frentis

“Your vengeance is hard indeed, brother.”

Fleet Lord Ell-Nurin’s expression betrayed a mingling of disgust and judgement as his gaze swept over New Kethia, taking in the ruined houses evident in every quarter and the smoke rising beyond the south-facing walls. Corpses were still being consigned to the pyre, a task that had occupied fifty freed folk for six days now. “Your people certainly have a talent for destruction.”

“Justice, as ordained by the queen.” Frentis could hear the hollow note in his voice. The sight of the grey-clad girl lying dead in her mother’s arms was yet to fade. So many years of battle and death, so many faces forgotten, but he knew this image would never dim.

“And the city is not destroyed,” he added. “Any damage will be restored according to the queen’s design, in time.”

“A task dependent upon a successful outcome to this war.” The Fleet Lord’s gaze went to the harbour, crowded with Meldenean ships and captured Volarian prizes, many more vessels anchored in the estuary beyond. They had arrived the day before, the sight of so many masts on the northern horizon provoking the newly freed populace to panic. Frentis had managed to calm them, though not before several hundred had fled the city with their bundled spoils. He arrayed his own people at the dockside in a thick defensive formation with archers on the surrounding rooftops, then ordered Draker to begin a cheer at the sight of the Red Falcon sailing into the harbour.

“I believe we have sufficient space to carry your entire command,” Ell-Nurin said, gesturing at the fleet. “I have to say there wasn’t much heart in the enemy when we caught up to them. Seems their admiral committed suicide rather than face the Empress’s wrath. Most gave up without a fight.”

“Carry my command where, my lord?”

“Volar of course. The queen will expect reinforcement.”

“Most people now bearing arms in this city were slaves up until two weeks ago. The others joined me to win freedom, not acceptance to the Realm. The Realm folk we freed will come, I’ve little doubt of that. The Garisai too, though many will expect payment. Perhaps two thousand swords in all. The others have suffered much, more than I would ever have asked them to.”

“They may have seized a city and slaughtered their masters, but lasting freedom will only come through victory. As I’m sure you’ll explain to them.” There was a hardness to Ell-Nurin’s voice, a reminder that he held rank here.

Frentis sighed and gave a slow nod of assent.

“Very good. This”—the Fleet Lord turned to a young woman standing amidst his entourage of captains—“is Sister Merial. You will give her a full report of your operations, and any useful intelligence gathered, for onward conveyance to the queen.”

Frentis frowned at the woman, finding her perhaps a year or two shy of his own age, dressed in clothing he assumed had been chosen for its plainness. She was also palpably uncomfortable in the presence of so many Meldeneans, though they seemed inclined to provide her with ample space. “Seventh Order?”

“Quite so, brother.” Ell-Nurin leaned closer. “And, however tempting it might be, you really don’t want to touch her.”

“Nine thousand more, y’say?” Sister Merial spoke with a strong Renfaelin accent, largely devoid of honorifics and rich in dubious inflection. “Of these terrible red men.”

“They’re real enough,” Draker growled. “Plenty of us with the scars and burns to prove it. Got one on my arse if you want to see it.”

“I think I’ve seen sufficient horrors recently.” Merial gave Draker a broad but empty smile and accepted a bowl of goat stew from Thirty-Four.

They had occupied the unfortunate governor’s mansion, though much of it was rendered uninhabitable due to the mob’s attentions. Frentis camped in the main courtyard, the rest of the army that had followed him from Viratesk taking up residence in the extensive gardens. He had been surprised and gratified by their discipline, keeping to their companies and taking a comparatively small part in the looting that continued to preoccupy the newly liberated populace. Perhaps a dozen fighters had disappeared in the aftermath of the city’s fall, and a few more had asked his permission to leave, either to return to distant homes or in frank admission they had seen their fill of war. He told them all the same thing, “You freed yourselves the moment you joined me. Queen Lyrna thanks you for your service.”

“So the queen marches on Volar?” Illian asked Merial. “Despite losing so many at sea?”

“Not a woman to be easily dissuaded, the queen.” Merial took a bite of stew and favoured Thirty-Four with an appreciative grin. “Better ’n that slop the pirates dish out, when they’re not bein’ overly free with their hands.”

“When do we sail?” Illian asked Frentis, a keen eagerness shining in her eyes.

Will she ever grow tired of it? he wondered. “At the discretion of the Fleet Lord. He holds rank here.”

“Fuck his rank,” Lekran muttered around a mouthful of stew, speaking in his laboured Realm Tongue. “Don’t know him.”

Frentis turned back to Merial. “You say the queen believes Lady Reva dead?”

She nodded. “Gone to the bottom along with half her heretic followers.”

“No, she lives. In Volar.” He shuddered at the memory of the previous night’s dream, the surging joy as she drank in the sight of Lady Reva battling the dagger-toothed cats. “Though for how much longer I can’t say.”

Merial frowned at him, a line of suspicion appearing on her brow. “You know this, brother?”

“I do. Beyond doubt.”

Her frown deepened as she angled her head, eyes tracking over his face. “I sense no gift in you…”

“I know it,” he said, an edge colouring his voice. “And the queen should know it too.”

She gave a cautious nod and returned to her meal. “Allow a girl to fill her belly first, then I’ll have a word with my darlin’ husband.”

“What husband?” Draker asked with a bemused frown but Merial just grinned and kept eating.

Later she sat apart from them, taking on a concentrated stillness, eyes close and face devoid of expression. “Don’t like this, brother,” Draker murmured, moving to Frentis’s side and eyeing the sister with obvious distrust. “Dark ain’t s’posed to be seen.”

“The world changed when Varinshold fell,” Frentis told him. “Now none of us have anywhere to hide.”

Sister Merial gave a sudden jerk, her back arching and eyes flying open, a small but distinct gasp of shock escaping her lips. She slumped forward with a groan, hands covering her face, slim shoulders moving in jerking sobs.

“Don’t like this,” Draker muttered again, moving back to the fire.

Frentis went to Merial, now hugging herself, face set in forlorn misery. “Sister?” he prompted.

She glanced up at him then looked away, hands tracing over her tear-streaked face as she rose, walking from the courtyard without a word. He waited a while before following, finding her perched atop a podium in the gardens. The statue it once held had been torn down and hauled off during the riots, no doubt destined for the smelter, bronze being a valuable metal. Sister Merial suddenly seemed very young, legs dangling over the edge of the podium as she raised her still-damp face to the sky. She spared him a brief glance before returning her gaze to the stars.

“They’re different,” she said. “Not all, just some.”

“The Maiden’s arm points home,” he said.

She nodded, lowering her gaze. “Aspect Caenis is dead.”

He winced as the pain hit home, a slashing stroke of instant grief. Sagging a little, he went to the podium, resting his hands on its heavily chipped edge. “Your husband told you this?”

“Brother Lernial, whom you’ve met I believe.”

“I didn’t know the Seventh Order were permitted to marry.”

“’Course we are. Where d’you think all the little brothers and sisters come from? We’ve always been more a family than an Order, ever on the hunt for new blood though.”

He sighed a weary laugh. “How did it happen?”

“A battle. The details are vague, my husband’s gift is a tad erratic, ’specially when coloured by so much grief. A rather terrible encounter, from what I can gather. Your red men are a ghastly lot indeed. It seems the queen secured victory in the end, so I doubt they number nine thousand any longer.”

Caenis… He had seen him only once at Varinshold, a brief exchange at the gates of the Blackhold. “Many trials await us, brother,” he had said. “I can only wish you well.”

Caenis, who had laboured to tutor him on the Order’s history, with only marginal success in the end but still he cherished the lessons. During his ordeal in the pits he had occupied the time between combats by delving into memory, attempting to recall Caenis’s many stories, knowing they somehow kept him anchored in the Order, kept him a brother and not a slave.

“The Aspect and I were brothers once,” he told Merial. “I learned much from him.”

“As did I. He was my master, y’see. We’d meet in secret, whenever the Order could spare him. He taught me so much, the Faith, the mysteries…” She raised her gaze once more. “The stars.”

He touched his hand to hers for a second. “I grieve for your loss, sister.”

“I told my husband,” she said as he turned away, “about Lady Reva, and everything else.”

“Did you divine anything regarding the queen’s intentions?”

“Only that they are unchanged.” She turned to the city spread out before them, fires flickering amidst the many ruined buildings, the pyres still burning beyond the walls. “On to Volar,” she murmured.

“Who were they?”

He stands in the street outside the baker’s shop, looking down at the girl and her mother once more.

“How can you be here?” he asks.

She moves into view, wearing the face he remembers, the face she wore when they killed together. “You dream, I dream.” She nods at the mother and child. “Did you know them?”

He sees then that the face is not truly the same, the cruelty, the madness not quite gone, but diminished, as if this shared dream somehow strips away much of her waking self.

“No. They died when the city fell.”

“Always so intent on drowning in guilt, beloved.” She moves closer, stepping over the corpses that carpet the street to cast an incurious glance over the lifeless mother and daughter. “It’s always the way with wars. Battles rage and the small people die.”

An old, long-stoked anger builds in his breast. “Small people?”

“Yes my love, the small people.” Her voice carries a note of weary impatience, like a tutor lecturing a child on an oft-forgotten lesson. “The weak, the petty, the narrow of mind and purpose. Those, in fact, who are not like us.”

His rage builds, stirring words he had longed to utter during their journey of murder, unchecked now by any binding. “You are a pestilence,” he tells her. “A blight upon the world, soon to be wiped away.”

Her face betrays no anger as she looks up, only a faint smile, her gaze sad but also rich in knowledge, reminding him of just how old she is, how many corpses she has seen. “No, I am the only woman you will ever love.”

He finds himself drawing away, though also unable to take his eyes from her face. “I know you feel it,” she says, following as he retreats. “However deep you bury it, however much rage you stir to drown it. You saw the future we could have shared, we were meant to share.”

“A vile illusion,” he says in a whisper.

“Our child will never be born,” she says, implacable now. “But we will make another, heir to a dynasty so great…”

“Enough!” His rage is enough to give her pause, the heat of it sending a ripple through the ground, threatening to tear this dreamscape apart. “I never wanted any part of your insane plots. How could you imagine I would ever surrender myself to your ambition? What madness drives you? What twisted you into this? What happened on the other side of that door?”

Her face becomes utterly still, eyes locked on his, not in anger but naked terror.

“You dream, I dream,” he tells her. “A girl, lying in bed, weeping as she stares at her bedroom door. Do you even remember it when awake? Do you even know?”

She blinks and takes a slow, backward step. “There were times I thought of killing you. When we travelled, sometimes I would take my knife and lay it against your neck as you slept. I feared you, although I told myself it was only anger at your many cruelties, your practised hatred. Somehow I knew my love for you would kill me, and so it proved. But I have not a single regret.”

She reaches for him, and he doesn’t know why he lets her touch him, why he allows her hands to trace over his own, why he opens his arms and welcomes her into an embrace. She crushes herself against him, and he hears the restrained sob in her voice as she whispers in his ear, “It’s time you came to Volar, beloved. Bring your army if you like. It doesn’t matter. Just make sure the healer is among them. If I do not see both of you in the arena within thirty days, Reva Mustor dies.”

The leader of New Kethia’s former slaves named himself as Karavek, apparently the name of the master he had beaten to death during the first night of riots. “He stole freedom from me, I stole his name,” he said with a thin smile. “Seemed a fair exchange.”

He was a large man, somewhere in his fifties, with grey-black hair sprouting in an unkempt mass from his once-shaven head. However, despite his size and fierce appearance his voice told of an educated past and a mind keen enough to fully appreciate the reality of their circumstance, unalloyed by the glow of recent triumphs.

“Volar is not New Kethia,” Karavek said when the Meldenean made his formal request for alliance on behalf of Queen Lyrna. He had arrived at the governor’s mansion in company with a dozen fighters, all bristling with weaponry and regarding Fleet Lord Ell-Nurin with a naked suspicion that bordered on hostility. “This city is a village in comparison.”

“There are many still in bondage there,” Frentis said. “As you were.”

“True enough, but I don’t know them and neither do my people.”

“The queen has granted all in this province a place in the Unified Realm,” Ell-Nurin said. “You are now free subjects under her protection. But freedom carries a price…”

“Don’t lecture me on freedom, pirate,” Karavek growled. “Half the slaves in this city died paying that price.” He turned to Frentis, lowering his voice. “Brother, you know as well as I how precarious our position is. Any day now the southern garrisons will march to reclaim this city for the empire. We can’t fight them if our strength is off dying in Volar.”

Victory at Volar will end this empire, Frentis wanted to say but felt the words die on his tongue, knowing how hollow they would sound. “I know,” he said. “But myself and my people must sail to Volar, with any willing to join us.”

“We rose because of you,” Karavek said. “The Red Brother’s rebellion, the great crusade birthing hope in the hearts of those condemned to a life in chains. Now it seems just a diversion so your queen faces fewer enemies on the road to Volar. And if it falls, what then? Sail away leaving us to face the chaos of a fractured empire?”

“You have my word,” Frentis said. “Regardless of my queen’s intentions, when our business in Volar is complete I will return here to help in any way I can.” He glanced at Ell-Nurin. “And the queen has given assurance that, should your position here prove untenable, her fleet will carry your people across the ocean where you will be granted land and full rights in the Unified Realm.”

Karavek straightened at this, narrowing his gaze at the Fleet Lord. “He speaks true?”

Ell-Nurin maintained an admirably placid expression as he said, “Only a fool with no regard for his life would dare to speak falsely in the queen’s name.”

The rebel leader grunted, running a hand through the shaggy mess of his hair, brow knotted in consideration. “I’ll speak to my people,” he said eventually. “Should be able to muster a thousand swords to go with you. I trust your queen will appreciate the gesture.”

“She is your queen now,” Frentis reminded him. “And she never forgets a debt.”

The freed Varitai were encamped in the ruins of Old Kethia, along with a large number of grey-clads who found the former slave soldiers more welcoming company than the newly freed denizens of the city itself. A few dozen had been chased into the ruins by a mob in the immediate aftermath of the city’s fall. Their pursuers’ bloodlust abated somewhat at the sight of seven hundred Varitai drawn up in full battle order, Weaver standing at their head with his arms crossed and face set in stern disapproval. Even so the mob had lingered for a time, their fury still unquenched, and the matter might have degenerated further but for the arrival of Master Rensial’s mounted company. Since then a steady stream of beggared Volarians had made their way to the ruins, more trickling in from the south every day, having found life in the wilderness too great a trial.

“Will the Varitai come?” Frentis asked Weaver as they sat together in what he assumed had been the old city’s council chamber. It was a rectangular structure comprising six rows of ascending marble benches around a large flat space. The roof had vanished but the massive pillars that once supported it remained, though standing at perhaps half their former height. The floor was covered in a vast mosaic, the tiles faded in the sun and pounded to fragments in many places, but still complete enough to convey a sense of accomplished artistry, a greatness brought low in the fury of war.

“They have a new name now,” Weaver said. “Politai, which means unchained in old Volarian. And yes they’ll come, there being so many more of their brothers to free in Volar. I shall ask them to leave enough men here to guard these people though.”

“I’ve obtained assurance from Karavek they’ll be left in peace, provided they don’t venture into New Kethia.”

Weaver gave a slight nod, his eyes roving the ruin. “Did you know, the people of this city would choose their own king? Every man who owned house or livestock was given a single black stone every four years. A vase would be placed before each of the candidates who would stand there,” he pointed to the head of the chamber, “and each man would reach his hand into every vase, keeping his fist closed whenever he drew it out, so none would know into which vase he had dropped his stone.”

“What if you dropped two stones?” Frentis asked.

“A great blasphemy punishable by death, for this was a rite as well as a custom, ordained by the gods. All shattered and lost when the Volarians came of course, but Queen Lyrna found it interesting. From a historical perspective.”

“Do you truly hold her memories?”

Weaver gave a small laugh and shook his head. “Her knowledge, her insight you might say. They are not always the same as memory.” He turned to Frentis, his humour fading quickly. “You dreamt again.”

“More than a dream. We spoke. She wants me to bring you to the arena in Volar. For what purpose I can’t imagine. But I doubt she means you well.”

“And if you don’t?”

“She holds Lady Reva, makes her fight in the arena. I’m certain she’ll face worse if we do not come.”

“You care for her?”

“I barely know her. But my brother sees her as his sister, which makes her my sister. I do not wish to tell him I turned my back on a chance to save her. But I can’t command you in this, nor would I wish to.”

For a time Weaver said nothing, his face gradually clouding into an expression so troubled it seemed his youth had vanished. “When I was a child,” he said, “I didn’t understand the nature of my gift. If I saw a wounded creature, a bird with a broken wing or a dog hobbling on a twisted leg, it seemed such a wondrous and simple thing to restore them with a touch. But for a long time everything I healed became a shadow of what it had been, an empty-eyed husk plodding through life and often shunned by its own kind. I didn’t know why until I came to understand that my gift doesn’t just give, it takes. Those I heal are opened to me by the touch, everything they have is laid bare and there for the taking. Their memories, their compassion, their malice… And their gifts. Although I try to stop it, something always comes back, bringing with it the temptation to take more, to take it all.

“I first met your brother years ago, when my mind was… less clear than it is today. I had occasion to heal him, Snowdance being so hard to restrain.” Weaver looked down at his hands, spreading the nimble fingers. “His gift was great, brother, and the temptation stronger than ever. So I took, just a little. If I had taken it all…” Weaver shook his head, shame and fear mingling on his face. “The song is faint,” he continued, “but if I listen hard enough, I can hear it, and it guides me, tells me where I need to be. It led me to follow him to Alltor, guided me to the queen when she needed healing, and to the ship that brought us to this land. And now, brother, it tells me to go to Volar, and its tune is far from faint.”

He patted Frentis’s knee and got to his feet, casting a final glance around the council chamber. “They also killed children here,” he said. “To seal the people’s choice with a blood offering to the gods. The sacrifice would be chosen by lot, their parents considering it a great honour.”

He turned and started up the steps. “I should speak to the Politai, they’re becoming ever more insistent on explanations.”

CHAPTER SIX Vaelin

The red man’s lips had been part seared away, exposing teeth and gums in an obscene grin. Vaelin couldn’t escape the sense of being laughed at, the Witch’s Bastard enjoying his final triumph.

A series of gurgles came from the ruined face, spittle and blood spraying as the red man’s lidless eyes stared up at him. Was he begging? Taunting? Vaelin crouched, leaning close to try to discern some meaning amongst the choking babble. The red man jerked and convulsed, tongue sliding over his teeth as he attempted to shape the words. “O-one… left. Stiiillll… one… moooore… leeeeft.”

“Where?”

“K-kuhhhh… killlll… meeee…”

Vaelin stared into the thing’s bloodshot eyes, unable to read any expression as the surrounding flesh had been seared to the bone. “I will.”

The thing choked, tongue twisting behind the teeth as it fought to shape an answer. “Alpiraaah…”

Vaelin rose and went to Wise Bear and Erlin. “He says there’s another,” he told the shaman. “Far from here. Will it matter?”

“Matter to what?” Erlin asked.

Vaelin gave no response, keeping his gaze on Wise Bear, who glanced uncertainly at the ancient man before replying. “Other one stay in body it stole, won’t matter.”

Vaelin glanced back at the wasted, blackened thing lying amongst the rocks, various tempting notions flickering through his head. Let it linger until the last second. Have Astorek set the wolves on it. Take a hot blade to its eyes…

Cara’s sobs drew his attention to the far end of the ridge where Orven’s guardsmen were constructing the pyre. She sagged in Lorkan’s arms, face buried in his chest. The Sentar stood nearby in respectful silence, their numbers halved in the struggle with the Kuritai, Kiral standing beside Alturk. The Tahlessa leaned heavily on a spear, sweating with the effort.

“Finish it,” Vaelin told Wise Bear, jerking his head at the blackened thing and moving towards the pyre. “I leave the manner of its passing to you.”

He sat on the cliff edge as the fire dwindled behind him and the sun dipped below the mountains. Out on the valley floor the tribesfolk were still picking over the Volarian dead. The aftermath of victory had seen them instantly revert to prior allegiances and the different groups squabbled over the spoils, threats and curses echoing across the valley, each chieftain no doubt stating a claim to the collected loot as leader of the army and architect of victory.

He hadn’t said any words as the fire blossomed, watching Dahrena and Marken’s fur-wrapped bodies wreathed in flame and smoke as the others said their peace. Even Alturk managed a few terse words of respect for those fallen in a common cause. They drifted away as evening fell, Cara still crying and making him wonder if she would ever stop.

“Why won’t it matter?”

He looked up at Erlin, seeing the cautious but determined set of his features. Vaelin returned his gaze to the valley and the dead, stripped and pale in the gathering gloom. They were spread out in a vague teardrop shape, bulging at the river and narrowing to the west where the survivors had attempted to flee. As far as he knew none had escaped, the victors having no tradition of offering quarter to the vanquished. The dead hadn’t been counted either, the Wolf People were content in the knowledge of a secure future and he doubted the tribesfolk could count past ten. Sixty thousand? he wondered. Seventy?

“What else did you see in the stone?” Erlin persisted.

“You have had centuries on this earth,” Vaelin said. “Gaining many lifetimes’ worth of knowledge. And yet you have never before made any effort to bring an end to the Ally. There must have been chances before now. You said others sought you out. Why take a stand now?”

“Before I always knew it would be hopeless, probably fatal.”

“Well now it is certainly fatal. That’s what the stone showed me.”

Erlin sank down at his side, turning to the valley, the tribesfolk’s squabbles still audible in the gathering dark. “My gift, it will draw him.”

“Yes.”

“How will you do it?”

“The choice is not mine to make.” He got to his feet, turning his back on the valley and moving to the pyre. The flames had died away, leaving only a fading pall of smoke rising from the ashes. He knew if he peered close enough, he would see her bones and closed his eyes against the temptation. She would never want you to torture yourself.

“You’re saying I can leave?” Erlin asked. “You will simply allow me to walk away from here?”

“In the morning I set out for Volar, where I believe we will find the ending we seek. I hope you will join me. If you do not, I will understand.”

“What awaits us in Volar?”

He watched the thinning tendrils of smoke rise into the night, twisting in the air until lost amongst the stars. Is she snared? he wondered. Did he catch her as he caught me? Does he torment her now, twisting her into the same thing that killed her?

“A box,” he told Erlin. “Full of everything, and nothing.”

There were more than enough horses for all, though the Sentar would have greatly preferred their stout ponies to the taller and more placid Volarian cavalry mounts. “At least they’ll make good eating when the snows come,” Alturk commented as he severed the stirrups from his horse’s saddle, casting them aside with a contemptuous grimace.

Vaelin had spent much of the morning dealing with the tribal chieftains who seemed to be labouring under the collective delusion they would now be obliged to fight the Wolf People for possession of lost territory.

“We don’t want your lands,” an exasperated Astorek told them, repeating the words in Realm Tongue for Vaelin’s benefit. “My people are already returning to the tundra.”

Hirkran said something, maintaining a rigid pose in an ornate Volarian breastplate, axe in one hand and looted short sword in another. “He wants to know what tribute we demand,” the shaman explained to Vaelin.

Vaelin found himself fast wearying of these folk; their endless feuds and unalloyed suspicion now seemed so unutterably petty. “Stay away from your people as they march north, and mine as we march south.”

Hirkran narrowed his gaze and spoke again. “He says they garnered much in the way of gold and jewels from this field,” Astorek said. “And doesn’t believe you would simply ride away without trying to take it.”

“Then”—Vaelin’s hand went to his sword as his weariness turned to sudden anger—“he can fight me and I’ll prove it by piling all the gold on his corpse before I leave.”

Astorek’s translation was clearly unnecessary judging by the way Hirkran bridled, uncrossing his arms and adopting a crouched stance with a challenging growl.

“Enough!” Kiral stepped between them, surprising Vaelin by addressing the tribesman in a fluent but harsh torrent of Volarian. Hirkran’s aggression lessened in the face of her tirade though his eyes narrowed further, his face taking on an expression of grim understanding. He voiced a brief snarl as Kiral fell silent, his eyes flicking momentarily to Alturk before he backed away, still crouching, as if expecting an attack at any second. He uttered a soft, intent sentence at Kiral then abruptly turned and walked away, calling to his warriors.

“What did you tell him?” Vaelin asked her.

“That their weakness and disunity has been noted by my father.” She gestured at an oblivious Alturk. “A great warlord who will return with all our tribe to claim these mountains, for they are unworthy of the riches offered by the spirits.”

Astorek gave an appreciative chuckle. “If anything will unite them, it’s that.”

Kiral inclined her head with a smile, her humour fading as she looked at Vaelin. “My song indicated you would have killed him.”

“Your song was right.” Vaelin turned away and started towards Scar. “We ride within the hour. Astorek, please convey my thanks to your people and assure them of the continued friendship of the Unified Realm. I’ve little doubt my queen will send ambassadors to formalise our alliance in due course.”

“From what Wise Bear tells me,” Astorek called after him, “if your mission fails, our victory here will prove no more than a respite from greater dangers.”

Vaelin paused, turning to offer the shaman an impatient nod. “Hence my keenness to depart.”

Astorek glanced first at Kiral, then at the burgeoning dust cloud beyond the ridge where his people were breaking camp. “Then I will go with you. I… feel the wolf would want me to.”

Vaelin felt the faintest flutter of humour as he saw Kiral carefully avoid his gaze. Is he answering a wolf’s call? Or a cat’s?

“You will be welcome,” he told him, resuming his stride. “Please be brief in your farewells.”

The journey through the mountains was rich in grim sights testifying to the destruction wrought by the Witch’s Bastard. Murdered tribespeople littered the heather, burnt settlements became a common sight as did the bodies of Volarian soldiers lashed to wooden frames, the flesh of their backs flogged down to the spine. From the frequency of such sights it was clear the red men had led a reluctant army, displaying little imagination in maintaining discipline.

“Even Tokrev wasn’t so cruel,” Astorek said as they neared a row of a dozen flogged men, a cloud of crows rising from the frames as they approached.

“I found his cruelty more than sufficient,” Vaelin replied. He spied a settlement ahead, charred and mostly ruined but still possessing some intact roofs. “We’ll shelter there tonight. Lord Orven, scout the hills in a five-mile radius. Victory or no, this remains enemy territory.”

Erlin came to his fire when the night had grown fully dark. Vaelin had sat apart from the others since the march began. The Sentar were rich in new stories and, though he barely understood a word, their evident relish in recounting the battle roused him to unwise anger. This is what they came for, he chided himself. Another story, the Mahlessa’s gift to her bravest warriors is the chance for a richer tale.

“Astorek and Kiral are missing,” Erlin said, sinking down opposite him, hands spread to the warmth. “Haven’t seen either since nightfall.”

Vaelin glanced at the blackness beyond the part-tumbled walls of the dwelling he had chosen, a place he would have shared with Dahrena, as Kiral and Astorek now shared another. “I suspect they’re safe enough.”

“She told me of a compound she carries,” Erlin said, face tense as he stared into the fire. “Some ancient Lonak concoction that can instill pain, enough to bring a man to the point of death if used in sufficient quantity, or purge him of an unwanted soul.”

Vaelin nodded. Lyrna and Frentis had left him in no doubt of the power contained in the Mahlessa’s compound, though he had yet to see it for himself.

“The Ally had a gift,” Erlin went on. “The nature of which we do not understand, but it was powerful enough to bring down an entire civilisation. A gift he may well bring with him should he be drawn back from the Beyond.”

“I know,” Vaelin said. “But we have come to a point where I believe we have little option but to trust the words of the seer. You will touch the black stone in Volar, but it will not be you.”

“How do we know it will end this? How do we know it won’t simply make him stronger? You saw him in the memory stone, he wanted to touch it.”

“But he also feared it, enough to have it secreted away for centuries.”

Erlin’s hands trembled as he held them to the fire, Vaelin frowning at the grin that played over his lips. “I’m afraid, brother. All these years, so much seen and heard and tasted. And yet I still want more. My nameless wife was often heard to call me selfish, usually before she threw something.”

“You have saved many,” Vaelin reminded him. “Two of them children who grew into the brave people who ride with us now.”

“Just more selfishness, I’m afraid. If I saved enough, I imagined they would eventually fight the war for me, bring down the Ally, and spare me the trials of battle.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance. “What would your queen do, if she were presented with this particular dilemma?”

“She would act for the good of the Realm.”

Erlin grunted a laugh. “You mean she would have had me tied in a trice and force-fed the Mahlessa’s compound until the Ally was safely caged in my flesh. Should you prevail in this struggle, don’t you worry what she might become? I’ve seen many a monarch, brother, but none like her.”

“She is not the Ally. Nor will she ever be.”

“Are you so certain? You saw him in the city he built, the way his people loved him. And yet somehow his power grew to a point where it became absolute, and there was no one to stop him.”

“Lionen stopped him. He killed the Ally and sent him to the Beyond.”

Erlin lowered his hands, drawing them back to cross his arms. “We could wait, delay until we reach Volar…”

“His creature still has possession of a body in Alpira. If we delay, it might die, and the Ally could send it for you.”

Vaelin watched Erlin’s face for a moment, seeing the faint tic below his eye, the bulge of his jaw as he clenched his teeth. No notion of how many years he’s lived, witness to every wonder this world can offer, subject of myth and legend, now just a scared man shivering in a ruined hut.

“If it should come to pass that you can’t get him to the stone,” Erlin said, “I require your promise you will not kill this body. You will use the compound to return him to the Beyond.”

“You have it. I will preserve you.”

“Me?” Erlin bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. “I doubt there will be any me left when he’s done, brother.” He rose, still hugging himself tight and moving away with a stiff gait, his parting words little more than a whisper. “Give me tonight. We’ll see it done in the morning.”

He had Alturk see to the binding, the Lonak made strong rope and the Tahlessa’s knots were unlikely to loosen. “Room enough to breathe only,” Vaelin told him as he drew the rope tight around Erlin’s chest.

Kiral came forward as Alturk finished the final knot, Erlin wincing with the strain as he knelt, chest roped from shoulders to waist and his arms secured behind his back. Kiral took a deep breath as she undid the stopper on the flask. “I…” she began, crouched next to Erlin, her voice faltering. “This will… hurt. I’m sorry.”

He gave an impatient bob of his head. “So I’m told, my dear. Best get it done quickly then.”

She rose, placing a thin reed into the flask. “One drop to cast them out,” she said in a murmur, presumably reciting a lesson from the Mahlessa. “Two to draw them in.”

Erlin’s eyes flashed at Vaelin as she stepped closer. Words were irrelevant, the meaning clear in his moist gaze. Do not forget your promise.

Kiral drew the reed from the flask, the tip gleaming with something dark and viscous, then lowered it so two drops fell free to land on Erlin’s exposed skin. Vaelin had expected screams, but instead Erlin stiffened, teeth clenched together and neck bulging, his face transformed into a red mask of purest agony. After a second he collapsed, writhing on the ground as foam bubbled from his mouth, legs drumming the earth. The convulsions continued for a full minute until Erlin finally lay still, all animation seeming to seep from his limbs, his head lolling slack on his shoulders.

For a moment Vaelin was certain he had killed him, that this great design had been revealed as the desperate ploy of a grieving fool… But then, Erlin blinked.

He rolled upright, remaining on his knees, sparing a brief glance at the ropes that bound him before raising his gaze. His expression was curious, inquisitive, lacking malice or anger as his eyes tracked across them, lingering on Vaelin, whereupon he smiled. It was a genuine smile, warm, even appreciative, as was his voice when he spoke, Erlin’s polyglot accent moulded into something stronger, the tone deeper, “Thank you.”

He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky, smiling yet wider as the air played over his skin.

“Kill it!” It was Kiral, standing well back from the bound man, face bleached to near whiteness as her cat crouched at her side, fangs bared. “This is wrong!”

“The decision is mine,” Vaelin told her. “Regardless of your song.”

“We should never have done this.” Her hand moved unconsciously to the knife in her belt. “My song screams it.” She started forward, drawing her knife.

“He needs to be taken to Volar,” Vaelin said, stepping into her path. “And I will take him there.”

“You don’t understand,” she hissed at him. “This entire journey, every life taken and lost, every battle fought. We have done everything it wants, taking it closer to its goal with every step.”

Vaelin turned to the bound man, now regarding him with placid features, free of fear or protestation. “We will make an ending, you and I,” he said, and began to laugh.

“What was your name?”

The bound man didn’t turn at Vaelin’s question. He sat at ease on the saddle he had been tied to, continually preoccupied with the passing landscape as Vaelin rode ahead leading his mount, eyes bright and wide as if trying to capture every detail. “My wife called me husband, my children called me father,” he said. “The only names I ever truly needed.”

Vaelin frowned in consternation. The idea of this thing fathering offspring was both absurd and appalling. “You had children?”

“Yes. Two boys and a girl.”

“What became of them?”

“I killed them.” The Ally looked up at the sky, a faint expression of wonder on his face as he spied a lone bird wheeling above, one of the broad-winged vultures common to the mountains.

“Why?” Vaelin asked.

The Ally’s face darkened a little as he turned to him, puzzlement and anger mingling on his brow. “A father’s duty is often a hard one, but cannot be shirked. A truth you will never discover, for which you should thank me.”

“So you intend to kill me?”

“You killed yourself the second you opened this body to me. The girl is right, this particular circumstance suits my purpose very well.”

“How? How does it suit your purpose?”

“You know I won’t tell you that, regardless of what tortures you might inflict on this flesh. Fear not though, the answers will not be long in coming.”

They rode in silence for much of the day, Orven’s guardsmen scouting ahead whilst the Sentar guarded the flanks and rear. Kiral kept close to Astorek, both staying far back along the line of march with his wolves close on all sides. From the continued paleness of her complexion Vaelin deduced her song hadn’t abated. Lorkan and Cara were less afraid, regarding the Ally with a wary curiosity, though so far only Vaelin had spoken to him.

“Why don’t you ask me?” the Ally said eventually, his eyes lingering on clouds gathering to shroud the late afternoon sun. “Surely you want to know if I caught her.”

Vaelin gripped the reins tighter, Scar issuing a faint snort as he sensed his rising anger. “Did you?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“Oh yes. And greatly diverting she was too, if tiresomely stubborn. I could see why you loved her, such a bright soul is rare. Had I the time, no doubt I could have shaped her, crafted a dream rich in all the necessary temptations. I did the same for your brother, Caenis was it?”

Vaelin came to a halt, the Ally’s mount bringing him closer until he was no more than a sword length away. He stared into the Ally’s blank, uncaring gaze, his hands trembling.

“He had a suitably heroic death,” the Ally said after a moment. “Saving your queen from one of my servant’s delightful traps. He would have been of great use, his gift being so strong, but thanks to you, all lost. Along with that woman you loved so dearly. Had you left me there, you might one day have heard their voices again, but now they are gone, vanished to nothing like any other soul. You did that when you brought me here, for without me there is nothing to hold them.”

“You’re lying,” Vaelin said, finding he had to force the words out. “Something held you in the Beyond. It could hold them too.”

“The Beyond,” the Ally repeated with a caustic sigh. “What a ridiculous name. Still, I suppose you had to call it something. My people never thought to name it, as if in denying it a title, they could wipe away the crime of creating it.”

More lies. The Beyond is surely eternal. Caenis and Dahrena will be bound there forever… The notion stirred a fresh welling of grief, and yet more unwise anger. The sword felt heavier on his back now, a constant temptation.

Vaelin turned Scar about and kicked him into a walk.

“We didn’t know, you see,” the Ally continued, his tone reflective but also cheerful, an avuncular uncle relating past mischief to a curious nephew. “We imagined ourselves so wise. And why would we not? The marvels we crafted on this earth would have left your primitive mind reeling. But that is the eternal dilemma of curiosity, its boundlessness. Having conquered much of one world, a conquest won without battles or blood I might add, why not seek out others? The stones were the key of course, as they were the key to everything in our world of wonders. Dug from the earth and shaped, and only with the shaping was their power revealed. The power to store memory and knowledge, preserving our wisdom for all the ages, and, it transpired, the power to reach between worlds.”

“The black stone,” Vaelin said, refusing to turn.

“Yes.” The Ally laughed in surprise. “I clearly don’t give you enough credit. Yes the black stone was to be our greatest achievement. I imagine you must be burning to know what it is.”

“I know you made it, and feared what you had made.”

“What did Lionen tell you? That it was a box to lock me in, perhaps?”

Vaelin glanced over his shoulder, finding the Ally’s gaze more intent now, his cheerfulness displaced by calculation. So he doesn’t know everything. “He told me your wife’s death had driven you to destroy the world you built, and he killed you to prevent that.”

“True enough, though I suspect it was more a matter of primal hatred. He didn’t give me a quick death, you know.”

“I saw what you did to your people. You had much to atone for then, and yet more now.”

“Atonement? I have spent countless years without pain, pleasure or the knowledge of anything that might be called human sensation.” He reclined in the saddle, shrugging in his bonds. “Please, feel at liberty to inflict whatever torment you like upon this flesh. I’ll take it all and ask for more.”

“What is the black stone?” Vaelin demanded, the sword shifting on his back as he rounded on the Ally. “If it is not a prison, what is it?”

The Ally glanced over at Lorkan and Cara, riding just within earshot. “In my time there were none like them. None who were born with a gift, with the power burned into their souls and passed through the bloodline for generations. Our gifts came only from the black stone.”

Touch it once and it gives… “There was no Dark in the world,” Vaelin said in realisation. “You unleashed it.”

The Ally’s face betrayed a mix of scorn and amusement. “How little you know. There has always been power here, in the water and the earth, ancient and capricious, but beyond the reach of human knowledge. The stones brought something new, something different, a gift of power from across the chasm that divides the worlds. We took it and built wonders…”

The Ally trailed off, glancing around at the Lonak and the Gifted, his expression darkening into contemptuous disdain. “And this world is our legacy,” he went on. “Did Lionen tell you when he first received his visions he thought he was seeing the past? Some long-forgotten age of barbarism where people killed each other over mere superstition. Then he saw the ruins of my city and knew he looked upon the future. A future we built together.”

The Ally didn’t speak again, remaining apparently content in his bonds, riding without protest and accepting the food spooned into his mouth with a grateful smile. Vaelin asked many questions during the first two days of silence but gave up when it became plain this thing had nothing more to share.

They left the mountains behind ten days later, proceeding into the plains beyond. It was pleasant country, dotted with small, forested gullies and, the farther south they travelled, plantations and villas of varying size and luxury. Some showed signs of recent abandonment, others were littered with bodies and part destroyed by fire or deliberate vandalism. Vaelin initially suspected the Witch’s Bastard of having vented his malice when he led his army north, but it soon became clear this destruction arose not from oppression, but revolt. Time and again they found black-clad bodies hanging from the archways of partially destroyed villas, often families who had met an identical fate, the corpses showing signs of torture.

“The red men conscripted their Varitai on the way north,” Astorek surmised after surveying a particularly large villa that had been reduced to its foundations by fire. “The slaves rose and they were defenceless.”

“Why kill the children?” Cara asked. The villa had burned but its owner had not, his body lay spread-eagled and eviscerated in the forecourt alongside a woman and a small boy, both recipients of the same treatment.

“A lifetime of rage is not easily tempered,” Astorek said. “Children born into slavery are taken from their parents and sold, those permitted to live that is.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” Cara murmured. “Nothing about this dreadful journey has been right.”

Vaelin saw the Ally regarding the burnt remnants of the villa with an incurious eye. His demeanour over recent days had been one of boredom, reminding Vaelin of the privileged nobles he had seen suffering through the banal entertainments of the Summertide Fair. He grows impatient for his end. As do I.

Another week’s travel brought them to the first town they had encountered, a walled collection of somewhat mean houses rising from the green fields like an ugly growth. Astorek struggled to place its name but did remember being garrisoned there with his father’s regiment before they proceeded north to their fateful encounter in the mountains.

“The men got drunk and started a brawl with the townsfolk,” he recalled. “Knives were drawn, it got very ugly. The next day Father had one hanged and ten flogged. Oddly the men didn’t seem to mind that much, I think that was the only time he might have won some respect.”

“Stinks worse than the Merim Her hovels,” Alturk commented. “Our numbers are small. We should go around.”

“The Northern Road begins here,” Astorek said. “It’ll take us to Volar. We can pick it up to the south.”

The townsfolk, however, proved unwilling to let them pass. As they neared the road a motley group of about three hundred people emerged from the town gates to place themselves astride it. As Vaelin drew near he saw they wore a variety of clothing, black and grey with the occasional flash of red, and all were armed, though not particularly well and their line was distinctly ragged.

A large man stood at the head of the mismatched host, bare muscular arms crossed and staring at Vaelin with stern defiance. He wore a red tunic and black trews, his meaty wrists liberally festooned with bracelets of gold and silver.

“Tell him he’s in our way,” Vaelin said to Astorek as they closed to within fifty paces of the townsfolk.

Astorek called out to the large man, receiving a loud, and prolonged tirade in response, the man waving his braceleted arms about and pointing in various directions.

“He says he is king of this land for as far as the eye can see,” Astorek related. “He has killed many men to win this city and will kill many more to keep it.”

“What does he want?”

“Tribute and obeisance, if you want to use his road.”

“He’s a slave?”

“A Garisai if I’m any judge. It appears this province has undergone a political transformation recently and, amidst chaos, the strongest are likely to gain authority.”

“Tell him we have seen many murdered children in these lands. I would know if he is responsible for that.”

The large man spat contemptuously on the ground as Astorek related the question, gesticulating with even more fury and pointing at Vaelin in obvious challenge. “He has wiped the cursed blood of the masters from these lands, their seed will never again rise to trouble them. He is master here now, and demands his due.”

“And he’ll have it.” Vaelin climbed down from Scar’s back, approaching the large man with a swift stride. The new-made King’s heavy features tensed in puzzlement then outright alarm as Vaelin drew his sword. He dropped into a fighting stance, short swords appearing in both hands from sheaths hidden beneath his tunic, displaying considerable poise in his stance, one sword held low, the other high.

Vaelin sent a throwing knife between the twin blades, the steel dart sinking into the large man’s eye socket up to the hilt. He staggered, his blades moving in an automatic counter that rebounded from Vaelin’s parry with a clang before Vaelin brought the Order blade up and round in a blurring arc. The blade made it perhaps two-thirds of the way through the Garisai’s thick neck, obliging Vaelin to withdraw it and deliver another blow to sever the head from his twitching corpse.

He raised his gaze to the ragged host of risen slaves. Instead of surging forward to avenge their fallen king, they had retreated several paces, each face displaying a gratifying level of shock and dismay. Vaelin turned and beckoned Astorek to his side.

“Translate every word as I say it,” he told him before addressing the crowd, “I hereby claim this province in the name of Queen Lyrna Al Nieren of the Unified Realm. Until such time as she makes provision for fair and just governance, you will conduct yourselves as free citizens of the Realm, refraining from murder and thievery. If you do not, the queen will be swift in making judgement, and”—he paused to nudge the large man’s head with the toe of his boot—“she is not so forgiving as I.”

He flicked the blood from his sword and returned it to the scabbard, walking back to Scar. “Now get out of the way.”

The land grew more populous farther south, but no less troubled. They would often catch sight of people on the road ahead, weighed down with goods, either their own or the product of looting. Most would flee at the sight of a large group of mounted warriors, scattering to the surrounding fields where, incredibly, some slaves continued to labour. Not all would flee however, some, mainly the old or those burdened with children, would shuffle to the side of the road and stare in dumb fascination as they rode by, the young ones shushed to silence as they pointed at the strange men. Nor were all so cowed, they endured many insults from the dispossessed, those who had lost everything to marauding slaves seemingly had little left to fear. One old man in a torn black robe assailed them with missiles drawn from a pile of horse dung, his face a mask of unreasoning fury as he spat unintelligible insults. Alturk rode forward to stare down at him, war club resting on his shoulder until the old man finally collapsed, sinking onto his odorous munitions as he wept.

“These people are very strange,” Alturk said, trotting back to the column. “Seeking out a good death then falling to tears when it’s offered.”

They covered two hundred miles over the next week, at no point encountering a single Volarian soldier, though they did find evidence of battle. They lay strewn across the road, perhaps over a hundred bodies, mostly men but women too, Astorek judging them as a mingling of slaves and free folk from their garb. Many had died in mid-struggle, hands still clutching throats or knives, one young woman lying with her teeth clamped onto the forearm of the black-clad who had killed her.

“If this continues for much longer,” Astorek said, “your queen will have nothing left to conquer.”

“Except land,” said the Ally, the entire company starting at the sound of his voice. He cast a dispassionate eye over the carnage before adding, “Land is the only true wealth in a world like this. Your queen will do rather well out of it all, I expect. Pity I can’t let her keep it.”

“You might speak differently,” Vaelin told him, “if you had met her.”

He couldn’t dream. Every night he lay down and slept, falling into slumber with barely a pause, and each time his sleep remained free of dreams. He had dreamt every night in the Emperor’s dungeon, of Dentos, Sherin, even Barkus. At the time he had thought it a torment, well-earned torture fulfilling a desire the Emperor resisted. Now he knew it as a blessing. Dahrena was gone, truly and completely, and he was denied even the delusion of a dream, the brief, precious lie that she still lived, even though the waking would be hard, when the knowledge descended like an axe blade as he reached for the cold, empty place beside him. Still, he yearned for it.

“She spoke of you.”

Vaelin rose from his bedroll, avoiding the Ally’s gaze. The hour was early and the sky not yet bright enough to see well, rendering the Ally a slumped, shadowed form on the other side of the still-smoking ashes of last night’s fire. “Don’t you want to know what she said?” he asked.

“Why choose now to speak again?” Vaelin countered. “Is it because we draw nearer to Volar?”

“No, just honest boredom. Also, you primitives are proving more diverting by the day. I may have bequeathed you an age of ignorance but you do make it interesting. Tell me, why didn’t you keep that man’s head? Presumably there was some ritual significance in taking it.”

“Can you really be so ignorant of us? You have orchestrated havoc in this world for centuries. How can you know so little?”

“I see only through the eyes of those snared in the Beyond, and even then the visions are often dim. Death does things to a soul, stripping away much that gives it substance. There was a philosopher in my time who argued that the sum of a soul is merely memory, the soul itself no more than metaphor.”

“Evidently he was wrong.”

“Was he? Haven’t you ever wondered why it is only the Gifted who reside in the Beyond? Can it be only they are worthy of soulhood and all these other unblessed condemned to slip into nothing when death claims them?”

“Life has taught me to be tolerant of mysteries, especially those with no answer.”

The Ally laughed, soft and sincere, then shuffled closer. His features became clear as he leaned forward, his gaze intent and questing, seeking understanding. “I am the answer. The Beyond is not the eternal domain of the dead, it is the result of folly and pride, it is a scab covering a seeping wound, eternally corrupted and corrupting. To exist there is to know the chill of death for all eternity, to feel yourself slowly ebb away until you are nothing but formless consciousness, shorn of memory but aware, knowing nothing but that endless cold.”

“And yet, somehow, you retain enough reason to plague us.” Vaelin rose, moving to the Ally’s side, crouching and leaning close to voice his demands in a harsh whisper. “What is your gift? What awaits us in Volar?”

The Ally said nothing for a moment, Vaelin seeing the calculation return to his gaze. “She spoke of how much she loved you, how you mended a heart torn by grief. Though she worried over the woman you loved before her, fearing when this war was done you would seek her out. But mostly she worried for the child you made together. She hoped for a girl but knew it would be a boy, a boy who might one day be tempted by his father’s martial ways…”

The Ally reeled from the blow, blood and teeth erupting from his mouth. Vaelin was only dimly aware of the feel of his fist pounding Erlin’s features into bloody ruin, or the torrent of hate that spilled from his mouth, and he never felt Alturk’s war club clip the base of his skull, sending him into the deepest sleep.

And this time the dreams came.

CHAPTER SEVEN Lyrna

“Lord Lakrhil Al Hestian is hereby appointed Battle Lord of the Queen’s Host.”

She had called them to the temple’s tallest tower, far above the smouldering pyres that littered the plain. The dark red mass of slain Arisai could be seen, stripped of weapons then piled near the riverbank and left to rot. “These men had no souls,” she said when Brother Kehlan made a tentative suggestion some form of observance might be appropriate. “One cannot honour what does not exist.”

She scanned the faces of the captains, seeking sign of dissent, but whatever feelings they might have harboured towards the elevation of a man named a traitor were kept well hidden. They know me too well now, she surmised, oddly dismayed by their timidity. Only Lords Nortah and Antesh exhibited any clear reaction. The Lord Marshal gave a silent and weary shake of his head. He and Al Hestian had a tendency to ignore one another with the kind of rigid indifference that told of deep mutual enmity, the spike protruding from Al Hestian’s stunted right arm a constant and inescapable reminder of a long-unresolved grievance. The reaction of her Lord of Archers was more pronounced, his face tensed in suppressed anger.

No desire to follow the butcher of Greenwater Ford, Lyrna surmised. How fortunate I have another card to play.

“Lord Marshal Nortah will assume command of the Dead Company in his stead,” she went on. “The Queen’s Daggers are hereby enrolled in the Mounted Guard under command of Lord Iltis.”

She turned to Al Hestian, “Battle Lord, your report on the state of the Queen’s Host, if you please.”

“Our full losses amount to little over fifteen hundred men, Highness,” he replied. “Plus three hundred wounded and unable to fight. Three regiments besides the Queen’s Daggers were so badly mauled I must advise they be merged into one. However, our losses may be considered slight in comparison to the enemy. More than thirty thousand slain and a thousand captured, the remainder fled and in no state to fight again. Count Marven deserves great credit for such a victory.”

One of the Nilsaelin twins spoke up, the one with the red-enamelled breastplate though Lyrna still found it of little help in distinguishing between the two. “Our noble grandfather will ensure his memory is honoured the length and breadth of Nilsael. My brother and I will personally fund the construction of a statue in Meanshall.”

Lyrna pushed away the image of Marven’s bleached, panicked face, weeping as she pressed the cloth to his burning brow. He would rather have just gone home to suffer his wife’s cutting tongue.

“A thousand prisoners?” she asked Al Hestian.

“Indeed, Highness. I intended to ask what you wanted done with them.”

“The river’s deep and fast-flowing,” Baron Banders pointed out. “Spare us the effort of cutting so many throats.”

The other captains exchanged nods and murmurs of agreement, though she noted Nortah’s grimace of disgust. “No,” she said. “They are to be preserved. Wounded are to be cared for and food provided. I understand from Brother Hollun most hail from this province.”

“They do, Highness,” Al Hestian confirmed. “They’re an uncommonly poor lot for Volarian soldiery, I must say. Few veterans among them, most little more than boys conscripted barely two months ago.”

“I believe there is a town several days’ march along our road, I assume many will hail from there.”

“Urvesk, Highness. A sizeable place from all reports. I was going to advise we bypass it, the garrison is unlikely to be numerous enough to threaten us and a siege would cost time and lives we can’t afford.”

She shook her head. “No. We will march there with all dispatch. Please make the army ready to move by dawn tomorrow. We’ve lingered here too long.”

She dismissed them and stood regarding the view as they trooped down the winding stairwell, though, as expected, one decided to linger. “You have words for me, Lord Antesh?” she asked without turning.

He moved to stand at a respectful distance, though his darkened visage told of a simmering anger. “I cannot command my people to follow that man, Highness,” he stated. “When they hear of this…”

“Lady Reva would have followed him,” Lyrna said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Lady Reva had a soul blessed by the Father himself. I do not, neither do my archers. When we lost her… we lost our heart.”

“Then you will no doubt rejoice to hear you have a chance to regain it.” She turned, meeting his gaze squarely. “I have sound intelligence from the Seventh Order that Lady Reva lives and is captive in Volar.”

She watched his face transform from dark anger to pale shock, soon followed by hope. “This… this has been confirmed?”

“Speak to Brother Lernial, he will provide assurance. Then I assume you will wish to share this joyous news with your people.”

“I… yes.” His head jerked in a bow and he backed away. “My thanks, Highness.”

She turned back to the view as his rapid footfalls echoed up the stairwell, stumbling occasionally in his haste. “They really think their god talks to her?” Murel wondered allowed.

“Who’s to say they are wrong.” Lyrna’s gaze tracked to the markings on the flat surface that topped this tower, the mass of meaningless symbols carved centuries before.

“Wisdom tells me,” she said, “that each tower in the temple was allocated a priest upon construction, one said to have been touched by the gods. It was their lifelong mission to carve whatever insight the gods had imparted to them into the tower, from the lowest step to the very top. A lifetime spent etching their visions into stone, forbidden any other task, never allowed to venture from their towers. Little wonder they were insane by the time they finished, their messages no more than the scrawl of gnarled and maddened hands. And when they were done…” She went to the edge of the platform, her slippered toes protruding into space as she raised her arms, the wind whipping her gown and hair. “They would fly and the gods would reach down and snatch them from the air.”

“Highness?”

She turned to see Iltis moving closer, reaching out a tentative hand to draw her back from the edge. She lowered her arms and waved him away with a small laugh. “Worry not, my lord. It’s not my time to fly, I still have so much to do.”

She had Al Hestian send the North Guard ahead to Urvesk with orders to make themselves as conspicuous as possible. The Nilsaelin cavalry were divided into companies and dispatched north and south with the mission of freeing all the slaves they could find, though Lyrna fully expected their talent for looting to be given free rein. They had been cautioned to spare the free populace where possible and send them east with a full appreciation of their queen’s intent. Accordingly, as they marched away from the temple and the dusty plain into the verdant hill country beyond, the horizon on either side was marked by tall columns of smoke rising from villas burned in the Nilsaelins’ wake. From their reports it seemed many in this region had been told not to flee since the invaders would soon be crushed by the Empress’s invincible forces.

By the fifth day many companies had returned, somewhat burdened by sundry valuables, but also trailing a collection of freed slaves, soon growing to more than a thousand over succeeding days. Lyrna made a point of personally greeting as many as possible, finding most to be young and prone to addressing her as “Honoured Mistress.” Their older brethren were apparently too steeped in lifelong fear to accept this new queen’s offer of freedom.

“Some of them wept when we burned their master’s house, Highness,” a baffled Nilsaelin captain told her. “A few even tried to fight us.”

She had Nortah take charge of their new recruits, with Wisdom’s assistance since the Lord Marshal spoke no Volarian. “It’ll take months to turn this lot into soldiers,” he told her as she toured his makeshift training camp. They had paused in a broad valley ten miles short of Urvesk, taking up residence in a plush villa the Nilsaelins had been thoughtful enough to spare for her comfort.

“You turned former slaves into fighters before, my lord,” she pointed out.

“They had only been in chains for a few days, weeks at most. And their hatred burned bright enough to overcome a lack of skill and discipline.” He gestured at the recruits labouring under the tutelage of sergeants from the Dead Company, who seemed intent on compensating for a lack of shared language with volume. “Most of these have known nothing but bondage.”

“I’m willing to wager their hatred will burn bright too,” Lyrna said. “When sufficiently roused. Keep at it my lord. We move on in three days.”

The city of Urvesk lay close to a fork in the river that ran alongside the road, birthing a smaller tributary snaking off to the north. It reminding her vaguely of Alltor with its high walls; however, the similarity faded at the sight of the many gaps, and the sprawl of mean housing that spread beyond them to the edge of the river. The price of stability is unpreparedness, she decided as Lord Adal galloped towards her.

“The place grows less populous by the day, Highness,” the North Guard commander reported. “They’ve been fleeing north or east in a steady stream since they first caught a glimpse of us. No sign of any soldiery beyond some sentries on the walls, perhaps two hundred at most.”

“Thank you, my lord. Please rest your men.”

“Highness, I…” He hesitated, a keen entreaty in his eyes. “I had hoped to lead the assault.”

What is this man’s hunger for glory? she wondered. She greatly valued him as a captain, being one of the few true professionals in the army, but grew ever more concerned over his desire to place himself in peril. Accounts from the battle of the temple were rich in reports of his reckless valour, though he contrived to emerge from it all without a scratch. “There will be no assault, my lord,” she told him. “Conserve your courage for Volar.”

She turned Jet and cantered to where the prisoners had been arrayed, just over a thousand grey-faced men and boys standing shackled in four loosely ordered ranks. “Are there any officers here native to this city?” she called in Volarian.

They shuffled in fearful silence, many not daring to raise their heads, one boy near the front weeping openly.

“Speak up, you filth!” Iltis barked in Realm Tongue, making his meaning clear with a vicious crack of the overseer’s whip he had secured from somewhere.

A man with a bandaged face in the third rank slowly raised a hand and was soon dragged from the throng by Iltis.

“You are an officer?” Lyrna asked the prisoner as Iltis forced him to his knees before her.

“A captain,” he said in a wheezy voice. The bandage on his face covered his right eye, dark with dried blood, his complexion telling of a man moving closer to death with every step. “Called from the reserve to fight the Empress’s glorious war of defence.” He gave a bitter laugh and Lyrna divined he fully expected to die in the next few moments.

“Get up,” she told him. “My lord, remove his chains.”

She guided Jet closer as the one-eyed captain stared up at her in bafflement, seemingly uncaring of the blood that seeped from his chafed wrists as Iltis removed the manacles. “You will go home, Captain,” she told him, pointing to Urvesk. “And tell whoever holds charge of this city that your comrades here will be freed, for I do not come to this land for slaughter, but justice. In return the city will release every slave in bondage and open its gates to me. If they do not, I will kill ten prisoners every hour until they do. If reason still does not prevail, they will find themselves drowning in ash and blood when I send my army through their ragged walls.”

She nudged Jet closer still, leaning down to stare into his one good eye. “Ask them if they really want to die for the Empress.”

By nightfall over three thousand slaves had emerged from the gates. Lyrna watched the last of them troop out and waited, concealing a sigh of relief as the gates remained open. Did you ever manage this, Father? she asked the old schemer’s ghost. To take a city by words alone.

“I should go ahead with the Realm Guard, Highness,” Al Hestian suggested. “Ensure a proper reception for your entry.”

It would be so easy, she thought, eyes still fixed on the open gates. So many wooden houses, so much fuel, the flames would light the sky for a hundred miles.

“I shan’t be entering the city,” she told Al Hestian. “Send as many men as you think fit to ensure they haven’t contrived to retain any slaves and secure additional supplies for my new subjects. No looting on pain of execution. Leave them sufficient stocks to guard against starvation, and their horses. I’m keen for word of our actions here to spread. Be sure the army is ready to march by dawn.”

She glanced at the prisoners huddling together in the gloom, shivering as much in fear as from the oncoming chill. Like all those souls I left to drown in the bowels of the slave ship, she thought, hands clutching her reins until they ached. It would be so easy…

“Release this lot an hour before we march,” she ordered, wheeling Jet about and galloping back towards the villa.

They covered a hundred miles in three days, the Battle Lord insisting on a pace that saw many soldiers collapsing at the end of a day spent on what many now referred to as the “blood road.” The march had made Lyrna intimate with the varying moods of her army. The Nilsaelins were the most vociferous grumblers, issuing a collective groan of relief and exhaustion at the conclusion of the second day. The Realm Guard were the most disciplined on the march though also the most fractious in the evenings; fistfights over card-games or petty disputes were still annoyingly common. The Renfaelins were by far the most cheery, their encampment rich in song and laughter most evenings, providing a stark contrast to the muted efficiency of the Cumbraelins, though their relative quietude had assumed a grim determination since the temple. They marched at a faster pace than all the other contingents, Lyrna having acceded to Lord Antesh’s request to lead the column, and would often be two or three miles ahead by nightfall. Also, judging from the way they would cluster around the few priests among them come evening, news of Lady Reva’s survival seemed to have birthed a resurgence of piety.

“I find myself ashamed, Highness,” Antesh said on the evening of the third day. She had sought him out during her nightly tour of the camp, finding the Cumbraelins more respectful than usual, their bows deeper though their ever-cautious gaze still lingered.

“Ashamed, my lord?”

“After the storm, when we thought Lady Reva lost, I doubted the Father’s purpose in bringing us here. At Alltor everything had been so clear, she seemed to shine with His love. But if He could take her from us, how could He bless this endeavour? I thought perhaps it might be punishment, a judgement on our willingness to ally with you. Now I see how foolish that was. She would never have guided us along a false path.”

Hearing the certainty with which he coloured every word Lyrna resisted the impulse to ask if, in fact, her Lord of Archers worshipped a goddess rather than a god. “She is a truly great soul,” she said. “I long to see her again.”

She inclined her head and moved away but Antesh reached out, his hand stopping just short of her sleeve. “Highness, if I may. I know you have no belief in the Father, in truth I doubt you have much truck with your own Faith either. But know, although you may not feel his love, he gives it nonetheless.”

Lyrna found herself beset by the unfamiliar sensation of not knowing what to say. She had never been comfortable around displays of devotion; her infrequent meetings with the late Aspect Tendris had been a considerable trial, as had her exchanges with Aspect Caenis, though he had provoked as much pity as discomfort. Lives dominated by the spectres of ancient dreams, she thought. But it never seems to make them happy.

“Be sure to thank him for me,” she told Antesh, putting an edge of finality into her tone and turning away.

“There was one other thing, Highness,” he said, moving to her side, then drawing back as Iltis gave a huff of warning. “Lady Reva,” Antesh went on, “I worry she might become hostage to our intentions. By all accounts this vile Empress of theirs will not baulk at putting her to death should we attack Volar.”

Won’t your World Father reach down and save her? Lyrna smiled to cover her annoyance. “I will not allow that to happen.”

“So you have a stratagem? Some means of securing her release?”

“Indeed I do.” Take the city and trust in the girl’s deadly abilities to ensure her own survival. She extended her hand to forestall his next words. “Please assure your archers there is no greater purpose for me than securing the Blessed Lady’s life, even at the risk of my own.”

Antesh hesitated before sinking to one knee and pressing his lips to her hand. “I shall, Highness.”

The following days saw the rolling hills flatten into undulating farmland, much of it dominated by fields of redflower, stretching away like an endless crimson carpet broken by the occasional villa or small town, most showing signs of hasty abandonment. This region also held another singular distinction in the poles with which the Empress had chosen to adorn the road.

“Little wonder they won’t fight for her,” Baron Banders commented, squinting up at one of the rotting corpses dangling above. “Could be we’ll have a clear road all the way to Volar.”

Lyrna gazed ahead at the long procession of poles disappearing into the distance, discerning a faint pall of dust rising above the horizon. “I doubt the Empress intends our passage to be an easy one.”

Al Hestian had sent the Sixth Order ahead that morning and Brother Sollis soon returned to report the approach of a host some seventy thousand strong. “About half Varitai, by my estimation,” he said. “They’re a more ragged lot than we’re used to. I suspect the Empress has commandeered every privately owned slave soldier in the region. The Free Swords don’t seem much better, old men and boys mostly. However, their cavalry is another matter, keeping in good order and patrolling the flanks with keen eyes. We were lucky to return without being seen.”

“No Kuritai or Arisai?” Lyrna asked.

“None that I could see, Highness.”

“The temple taught us a hard lesson,” Al Hestian said. “We can expect them to have hidden their elite among the fodder.”

“In any case it’s suicide,” Nortah commented, shaking his head. “There are well over a hundred thousand souls in this army now, and growing by the day.”

“If our enemy is intent on their own destruction,” Lyrna said, “I am more than happy to oblige. Battle Lord, you will wish to make your dispositions.”

Al Hestian sent the Nilsaelin horse and North Guard galloping off before his main battle line was fully in place, ordering them to engage as many Volarian cavalry as they could. The Realm Guard cavalry were kept back to secure the flanks of the infantry, which he arranged in a surprisingly compact formation. The lead grouping consisted of just three regiments, standing in close ranks with the rest of the Realm Guard arranged behind and Lord Nortah’s Dead Company, flanked by the loosely ordered mass of barely trained slaves, forming a rear-guard with the Nilsaelin foot. Out in front he placed the Renfaelin knights and Cumbraelin archers.

“I assumed Your Highness wished this matter concluded quickly,” the Battle Lord stated in response to her cautious observation that this order of battle was beyond her experience.

“Quite so, my lord,” she said, watching him ride off with his flag-men and signallers, wondering if she shouldn’t ask Davoka to stay at his side throughout the battle, ready to kill him should this stratagem reveal itself a great, and perhaps deliberate folly. She pushed her misgivings away at the sight of Al Hestian riding along the flank of the army she had given him, seeing the total absorption on his face as he cast his expert eye over their ranks. War is his art, she realised. His one remaining passion. Like Master Benril’s statues or Alornis’s sketches.

Her gaze went to the Lady Artificer, moving among the line of ballistae arranged on a low rise on the left of the army’s line of march. She had voiced a strident objection when Al Hestian advised the engines would not be required for his assault, calmed only slightly at Lyrna’s suggestion they be employed to guard against a counterattack. Enlivened only by the prospect of blood, Lyrna thought, her gaze tracking Alornis’s slim form as she moved from engine to engine.

Lyrna had placed herself at a short remove from the ballistae, under close escort by the remnants of the Queen’s Daggers and the Seventh Order’s most gifted members. The rise offered a fine view of the unfolding drama. The Volarians were approaching in reasonably good order, their front line composed almost exclusively of Varitai, with the Free Swords behind. A large plume of dust rising from the redflower fields beyond their left flank told of a fierce battle already raging between the North Guard and the Free Sword Cavalry, the Nilsaelin lancers streaming towards the struggle at full pelt. A three-battalion contingent of Volarian cavalry could be seen arcing round on the right, presumably with the intention of threatening their rear, but a series of flag signals from the Battle Lord’s attendants soon sent the Realm Guard horse in pursuit, the opposing mass of riders meeting in a headlong charge some three hundred yards short of the rise. Lyrna saw Alornis pacing about amongst the ballistae, face set and fists clenched in frustration as not a single Volarian horseman emerged from the melee to provide a welcome target.

A familiar hissing sound drew Lyrna’s attention back to the main body of the army, allowing her a brief glimpse of the first Cumbraelin volley descending on the centre of the Volarian line. It seemed to shudder from the impact, its pace slowing but still keeping on despite the continuing arrow storm, Lyrna’s spyglass revealing the blank faces of Varitai marching blithely forward as their comrades died around them. She had expected Al Hestian to halt the army and let the Cumbraelins do their work for a time, but the sounding of multiple bugles told of a different intent.

She lowered the spyglass as the Renfaelin knights spurred into a charge, thunder rising from the earth as they accelerated, a cloud of shredded redflower ascending in their wake, rendered oddly beautiful in the sunlight. The Cumbraelins immediately ceased their arrow storm and began to form ranks for their own charge. Discarding bows and drawing swords and hatchets, moving in a more coordinated fashion than their maddened charge at the temple to fall in alongside the leading Realm Guard regiments.

Lyrna lifted her gaze to watch the Renfaelin charge strike home, a spectacle she hadn’t witnessed before though her father had often spoken of it. Imagine an arrowhead of unbreakable iron, but fashioned by a giant. She heard Murel issue a curse of amazement as the great wedge of steel and horseflesh struck home, the impact birthing an instant tumult of screaming men and horses mingling with the harsh, discordant notes of colliding flesh and metal. She saw several knights fall, tumbling with their horses in a tangle of armour and flailing hooves, but for the most part the knightly host retained its cohesion to skewer the Volarian line, tearing all the way through to the Free Swords and the open country beyond.

More bugles sounded and the entire mass of Al Hestian’s infantry increased its pace to a run. The comparative cohesion of the Cumbraelin contingent evaporated as they ran, covering the remaining distance to the Volarian line in a frenzied sprint of flailing swords and hatchets, tearing into the already disordered mass of Varitai. The leading Realm Guard regiments struck home seconds later, halberds rising and falling in a practised display of disciplined slaughter, stripping away any remnant of order in the Volarian ranks, which buckled, fell back and disintegrated.

Ever more petals rose from the field as the battle became a rout, obscuring much of the unfolding carnage in a haze of drifting scarlet. The cavalry battles on either flank raged on for a time but soon the Volarian horse could be seen fleeing east as they discerned the fate of their infantry. The spyglass revealed the sight of Lord Adal leading the North Guard in pursuit of the escaping riders, despite the foam covering the flanks of his horse, green cloak streaming behind as he spurred it on, reddened sword extended straight as an arrow.

As her gaze returned to the centre of the battlefield she found a dense cluster of Free Swords had formed amidst the onrushing mass of Realm Guard. The spyglass revealed mostly fearful men, fighting with the kind of ferocity that was only born of survival.

“Send a rider to Lord Al Hestian,” she told Iltis. “I am keen to secure more prisoners…”

“Ah, Highness…”

She turned at Murel’s half-whispered words, the sight that greeted her making her wonder if some new enemy hadn’t appeared in their midst, so disordered were the ranks of the Realm Guard, thousands of mostly unarmoured figures struggling through their lines. The slaves, she realised, catching sight of Nortah on horseback, vainly attempting to hold back his recruits as they charged towards the surviving Free Swords. The first hundred or so were cut down in seconds, but the others came on as if maddened, uncaring of the swords that slashed and hacked their unprotected flesh. She saw a man claw his way through the Volarian ranks with his bare hands, tearing at faces and necks, seeming not to feel the blade that sank into his chest as he bore its owner to the ground, prizing his helmet away to fix his teeth on the flesh beneath. His fellows piled into the shallow gap he had rent in the Volarian line, the Free Swords’ desperate courage turned to panic by the savagery of the onslaught. Some ran to the Realm Guard, empty hands raised high and sinking to their knees. Most were not so fortunate.

Justice, Lyrna thought as the last speck of Volarian black disappeared in the seething mass of former slaves. Many were now waving captured weapons, or even severed limbs and heads in celebration as the petals continued to fall. We are not the only hungry souls here.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

The young woman elected to speak for the freed slaves was in truth possessed of a certain delicate beauty, her features smooth with skin a pleasing olive hue, marred somewhat by the bandage that covered her partly severed left ear. She wore a mismatched variety of captured armour and weapons, standing with arms crossed, glowering at Lyrna in open defiance, the lack of any bow or honorific rousing Iltis to issue a threatening rumble as he started forward. Lyrna calmed him with a touch to the arm and gestured for the woman to continue.

“My back is not so pretty,” she went on. “My first night in the pleasure house I cried, greatly displeasing the red-clad who had paid a handsome sum to take my virginity. My master had me flogged every day for a week then sold me to a pig farmer. The pigs ate better than I did and the farmer didn’t care if I cried when he pawed me. Would you like to see my back, Great Queen?”

“I grieve for all you’ve suffered,” Lyrna told her. “My wrists were once bound by chains so do not imagine your pain is unknown to me. Nor should you imagine that I care for the enemies we kill. However, if your people are to march with us, they must regard themselves as soldiers, bound by the orders of those who command them.”

“We have no intention of trading one master for another,” the woman returned, though her tone was more cautious. “And we are grateful for your coming. But there is much to account for, and we have only just begun.”

“You’ll have your accounting. When this war is won give me the name of the master who flogged you and I’ll see the same done to him, and the pig farmer. Have your people make lists of the wrongs done to them and I’ll ensure every soul receives justice. But until then I must ask that your people conduct themselves as soldiers and not a mob. You will be paid the same as any soldier in my Realm Guard, but service requires discipline. Lord Nortah is a fine commander who will not waste your lives, you would do well to heed him.”

“And if we do not want to serve you?”

Lyrna spread her hands. “You are free people and may go where you wish, taking with you payment for service already rendered plus my thanks and friendship.”

The woman thought for a moment, her stance marginally less closed. “Some will leave, some will stay,” she said. “Many, like me, were stolen from their homelands years ago and will wish to return.”

“I will make no effort to prevent them, even provide ships to carry them home when our task is complete.”

“You’ll make an oath to this, in front of all of them?”

“I will.”

The woman nodded. “Come to us this night, I will ensure they listen.” She gave an awkward half bow and went to the tent flap.

“You didn’t give me your name,” Lyrna said.

“Sixty-Three,” the woman replied, a faint grin playing over her lips. “I’ll resume my own when I go home. And don’t worry about the pig farmer, his hogs ate better than ever the day I left.”

It’s beautiful. She had reined Jet to halt beside Aspect Arlyn and Brother Sollis, waiting with the Sixth Order atop a low hill, all sitting in silent regard of the sprawling city in the distance. The sky was clear today and the unconstrained sun played over the panoply of marble, making it gleam before painting a glittering shine on the waters of the Cut of Lokar to the south. The absurdity of her mission became clear as she took in the myriad towers and countless streets; the destruction of such a city would be the work of years and she doubted even Alornis could conceive of a device capable of birthing a conflagration great enough to bring it down.

“No enemies to report, Highness,” Brother Sollis said. “No sign of any defensive works in the suburbs either. There are some fires raging farther in, large numbers of free folk seen fleeing to the north. The slaves flee in our direction.”

Lyrna nodded. She had ordered the release of the few hundred prisoners captured two days before, having been provided with fulsome descriptions of the dread queen’s intentions. It seems sufficient numbers had fled back to Volar to bring about the desired effect.

“Highness!” It was Brother Ivern, raised up in his saddle and pointing to the south. It took a moment for her to recognise the dark shapes dotting the waters of the Cut. She used the spyglass to pick out the Meldenean battle flags flying from the thicket of masts, all clustered in an arc around the harbour, dozens more visible farther downriver, the unmistakable sleek shape of the Red Falcon among them.

She beckoned to one of the Queen’s Daggers. “Ride to the Battle Lord. He is to proceed to the centre of the city forthwith, destroying any opposing forces he should encounter. Tell him I believe our newly freed subjects would be best kept in reserve.” She turned to Aspect Arlyn. “Aspect. I trust you recall the route to the arena.”

“I do, Highness.”

“So then.” She spurred Jet into a gallop, descending the eastern slope amidst a flurry of crimson petals. “Courtesy requires I greet the Empress, and I should not like to keep her waiting.”

CHAPTER EIGHT Reva

“Where did you get that?”

Reva found herself reaching involuntarily for the bow. The design was unfamiliar, axes and swords in place of the stag and the wolf, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable. A bow of Arren.

“You know this weapon?” Varulek asked her, his eyes shining with the same intensity.

“I once owned its twin, which now rests at the bottom of the ocean. They are heirlooms of my family. Fashioned for my grandfather by the finest bowsmith in Cumbraelin history, lost in the wars that built the Realm.” She met Varulek’s gaze, tightening her grip on the bow. “Where did you get it?”

“It is my family’s charge to serve the gods, and the scripture they left us. As masters of the arena our reach has always been long, and our pockets deep. Volaria is rich in merchants and traders who appreciate the virtues of discretion. Twenty years ago one of them brought this bow to my father. He was well paid for his trouble.”

Reva’s fingers traced over the carvings, recalling the feel of her own bow, the way it had always seemed to fit her so well. Antesh had told her each one had been decorated to reflect the varied interests of her great grandfather. The one she had carried through Alltor had provided evidence of his passion for hunting. This one, it appeared, showed a keen interest in war.

“What would you have me do with this?” she asked Varulek.

“Your spectacle will be a great trial. Jarvek and Livella. I will not lie to you, the chances you might survive it are slender, but should you do so, I can hide this bow in the arena at a place within range of the Empress’s balcony.”

“There are archers on the upper tiers. I’ll be dead before I draw the string.”

“The arena has its own Kuritai, they answer to me. Plus there are some Free Sword mercenaries with grudges to settle, the Empress’s purges have left few families in this city untouched.”

“If I kill her, I will only be loosing what’s inside, and it will surely find a new shell.”

“Your queen approaches. The Empress’s latest scheme to defeat her failed. I was witness to her reaction to the news, and it was a bloody sight. She’s now scraping together what strength she can, but the best troops are off in the north, facing a new threat, and the empire seethes with rebellion. No help will come from the provinces. Your spectacle will take place three weeks from now, and your queen marches closer every day. Should you kill the Empress in front of thousands, she could find a new body but it will not matter. Who would follow her? Your queen may well find a city in chaos, ripe for the taking.”

“And you will no doubt expect a reward when she does.”

“You worship a god, but she does not, and yet she permits your worship. When Volar falls she will be Empress, an empress willing to tolerate a return of the old gods.”

She’s more likely to tear this charnel-house down around you. Reva’s gaze tracked over the bow once more. Uncle Sentes would have seen the Father’s hand in you, as he saw it in me. It occurred to her that this event, should it ever become known, would form the key verse in the Eleventh Book. The Blessed Lady and the Bow of Arren, a gift from the Father. The storm couldn’t kill her, the arena held no terrors for her and, with the Father’s love to guide her aim, she sent an arrow into the black heart of the Empress herself.

“I will do this,” she told Varulek, handing back the bow. “But if I do not live, you will ensure this thing is burned and no mention of it ever made to my people.” I’ve told them enough lies.

“Owwwww!” Lieza squealed, rolling on the floor and rubbing her knee. For such a finely made person she remained aggravatingly clumsy and mostly devoid of coordination, despite two weeks of constant training.

“Get up,” Reva sighed. “Let’s try again.”

“You too quick,” Lieza grumbled, getting to her feet. She pouted at Reva’s insistent frown and assumed the crouch she had been taught, bent almost double, one hand touching the floor. The information Varulek had provided about her upcoming spectacle had left Reva in little doubt that attempting to train the girl in combat would be unlikely to aid her chances of survival, but the ability to dodge a charging opponent might.

Reva met her gaze, forcing a smile. This time Lieza wasn’t fooled, springing to her right, rolling and coming to her feet, just beyond the reach of Reva’s flailing arm as she flashed past.

“Better,” she said. “But the thing we face will have a longer reach.”

“You really think you can kill it?”

If I get my hands on the bow quick enough. “We have a chance. Remember what I told you. There will be chaos, when it happens you run for the western exit. Do not wait for me, do not look back.”

Lieza blanched, hugging herself as the fear returned. It was less frequent now, but still had occasion to leave her shivering and tearful. Reva had grown accustomed to waking with the girl’s slender form pressed against her, tear-stained face nestling into her shoulder. She hadn’t yet found the will to push her away.

Lieza started as the locks on the door rattled for the first time in days. Their food was provided via a slot in the base of the door, the only means of gauging the passage of time as they had been left alone since Varulek’s surreptitious visit. When it swung open she was dismayed to find the black-clad absent. Instead two Arisai stood there, grinning as they bowed, unconcealed lust in the gazes they directed at her and Lieza.

One of them spoke, deepening his bow and gesturing at the corridor. Lieza swallowed before providing a translation. “She wants to see you.”

Think nothing. Feel nothing.

She knew she was asking the impossible of herself; how could any living mind think nothing? But still she found the constant refrain a comfort, placing her faith in the Empress’s patent madness, the hope her mind was too clouded to allow her gift free rein.

To her surprise the Arisai led her from the arena and out into the broad parkland that surrounded it. The Empress was overseeing some form of modification to a life-sized bronze statue standing on a plinth opposite the main entrance, a team of slaves moving quickly at her shouted instruction. Most of their work seemed to be focused on the statue’s head, working feverishly to hammer iron pegs into its bronze neck. Nearby a dozen Arisai stood guard, a kneeling man in their midst, naked, slumped and chained.

“Ah, little sister,” the Empress greeted her, pulling her into a warm embrace. “And how does the morning find you?”

Think nothing. Feel nothing. “What do you want?”

“We haven’t had occasion to speak since your delightful demonstration. I wouldn’t wish you to think I harboured some anger towards you. Sisters shouldn’t fight.”

“We’re not sisters.”

“Oh but we are. I’m quite convinced of it. I was meant to have a sister, you see. But she died before she could be born.” The Empress’s gaze snapped back to the slaves and the statue. “Hurry up!”

Their efforts instantly became frantic, hammers moving in a blur as the last of the iron pegs were pounded into place. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he?” the Empress asked as the slaves secured ropes around the statue’s head. “Not to your taste, I know. But still, I assume you can still appreciate the aesthetic qualities of male beauty.”

Reva glanced at the bronze face, now partly obscured by a net of ropes. He had certainly been a handsome man, strong-jawed with a narrow nose, though his expression was even more stern and commanding than the plethora of heroes the Volarians erected in every spare corner of their city. He wore the armour of a senior officer, though it seemed more elaborate and ornate than others she had seen.

“Savarek Avantir,” the Empress said. “The greatest military commander in Volarian history. And my father.”

The slaves hurriedly hitched their ropes to a team of horses and began flailing at their flanks with whips. The iron pegs in the statue’s neck fell free as the rents they had forced in the metal widened, the bronze giving a whining groan of protest until the head finally came loose, falling onto the plinth with a loud clang.

“Conqueror of the southern provinces,” the Empress went on, moving to the plinth and laying a hand on the metal head. “Victor of sixty-three separate engagements. One of only two citizens to gain the red by virtue of martial merit rather than property, creator of the Varitai and Kuritai and the first to receive the Ally’s blessing. A fellow of singular achievement, wouldn’t you say?”

“Did he kill as many people as you?”

The Empress’s mouth twitched in a smile as she caressed the head. “More than both of us combined, little sister. And we have killed so many, have we not?”

Think nothing. Feel nothing. “If he took your Ally’s blessing, where is he? I thought your kind lived forever.”

“Even the Ally’s gift is no defence against a skillful blade.” She turned to regard the man kneeling amidst the Arisai. “Nor it seems, sufficient reward to ensure good service.”

She waved a hand and the Arisai hauled the kneeling man upright, dragging him forward. He seemed to be absent any injury but sagged as if wounded, head lolling and limbs slack. He made no sound though the stench arising from the dark stains that covered his thighs spoke of bowels loosened by fear.

“Allow me to introduce General Lotarev,” the Empress said as the Arisai allowed the stinking man to slump to his knees before her. “Commander of the Third Volarian Army, whom I elevated to the red and promised the Ally’s blessing should he fulfil his boast of bringing that golden-haired bitch before me, preferably in chains though a corpse would have done. In the event his heroic troops fled the field with such alacrity I’ve little doubt some have reached the eastern shore by now.”

She crouched down, taking hold of the unfortunate general’s hair and jerking his head back, revealing a face twitching in unalloyed terror, bleached bone white and the eyes betraying a near complete loss of reason. “Why did you come back, Lotarev?” she asked him, her tone not unkind, though since she spoke in Realm Tongue, Reva doubted the man could comprehend a word. “What did you imagine your reward would be? Was it duty? All those years of service don’t fade easily, I suppose. The capital in peril, you racing to bring me warning regardless of the risk to your own neck. Hoping for a statue of your own, eh?”

She leaned closer, speaking softly, her hand cupping his unshaven chin. “Don’t you understand? The blond bitch can slaughter every soul in this city and rend it to dust, and I suspect I’ll laugh at the spectacle. No, I just wanted her.” Her other hand tightened in his hair, jerking the head again and drawing a fearful whimper. “She once took something from me, you see. I owe her a considerable debt.”

She released him, rising and turning to the headless statue with a contemplative air. “Still, your dutiful service shouldn’t go unrewarded. I’m minded to spare you the three deaths and give you the statue you hunger for. Fashioned by the expert hand of my own little sister.”

One of the Arisai came to Reva’s side, proffering a broad-bladed axe, the others dragging the general around until he knelt before her, head bowed.

Reva ignored the axe, fixing her gaze on the Empress. “No.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “How terribly uncharacteristic. The reports from Alltor were fairly lurid in their description of your willingness to do this very thing.”

The heroic Free Sword’s head spiralling blood as she cast it over the wall… The prisoners being led to the block… No better than us… Think nothing! Feel nothing! “Do your own killing,” she said.

“But I need for us to understand each other better.” The Empress reached out to clasp her shackled wrists, meeting Reva’s gaze with intent sincerity. “Blood will bring us closer. A lesson I learned from my beloved. In time we will be a family…”

Reva wrenched her hands away, burgeoning rage sending unwise images through her mind; Varulek’s secret chamber, the bow of Arren, how it would feel in her hands when the time came… Think nothing!

“What is this, little sister?” The Empress frowned, tilting her head in a now-familiar gesture. “Do you scheme? Do you plot? With whom, I wonder?”

Reva closed her eyes and drew breath, calming herself with an image of Veliss, that day in the gardens as they watched Ellese stumble through her scales. I have never asked you for a promise… Stay alive and come back to me. “I already have a family,” she said. “And you could never be part of it.”

“And Lieza?” the Empress asked. “Does she deserve a place in your family? What will you tell that woman you pine for if you return? Why don’t I spare you the complication? I can have her brought up, and my father’s statue can have a girl’s head instead of a coward’s.”

Reva lunged for the axe, tearing it from the Arisai’s grip and whirling towards the Empress, though she had danced out of reach, a delighted laugh escaping her lips. “Enough play,” she said, her mirth fading as she pointed to the kneeling general. “Time to craft your art.”

“She make you fight again?” Lieza stared at the blood discolouring Reva’s blouse, coming forward, eyes wide in concern. “You hurt?”

“No.” Reva moved away, tearing the blouse off, suddenly uncaring of what she saw. Lotarev gaped up at her in vague comprehension, drool beading on his lower lip…

She stripped, filled the bath and scrubbed herself clean. So much death wrought by these, she thought, staring at her hands as the blood turned to mist in the water. Why do I feel it so now?

After a while Lieza came to wash her blouse. This time she made no effort to enter the water, avoiding Reva’s gaze and crouching at the edge as she worked the soap into the material.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Reva asked her. “I know you tried with the Empress, but have you ever actually succeeded?”

The girl shot her a guarded look and shook her head.

“Well, to escape this place you may have to. I won’t be able to protect you when it starts.”

Lieza spoke in a soft voice, her hands still busy, “Won’t leave without you.”

“This is no game!” Reva thrashed at her, scattering reddened bath water. “This is no story! You will die here and I can’t save you!”

Lieza was on her back, pinned beneath her, the concern in her eyes now turned to fear. Reva couldn’t recall leaping from the bath. Lotarev didn’t speak as she raised the axe. It made a crunching sound as it bit into his spine, just like the prisoners and the Free Sword, Fatherless sinners all…

She shuddered and scurried away from Lieza until her back met the wall, drawing her legs up and burying her head in her knees. She felt Lieza come to sit beside her, soft fingers gently tracing through her damp hair until Reva raised her head. Her kiss was tentative, so unlike Veliss in its lack of experience…

Reva moved back. “I can’t…”

“Not for you,” Lieza murmured, kissing her again, more insistent now, Reva finding her heart pounding, knowing she should push her away and yet her arms opened to enfold her, drawing her close. Lieza drew back a fraction, their breath mingling as she stared into Reva’s eyes. “For me.”

Varulek arrived after the morning meal with a dozen female slaves, some bearing clothing, others combs and various concoctions used for dressing hair or painting faces. They dressed her in armour, of a sort, specially tailored to her size judging from the closeness of the fit. The breastplate was tight around her torso, fashioned from stiff leather but too thin to ward off anything but a glancing blow. Similarly the kilt of leather strips, each weighted at the lower end with a brass stud, was too flimsy to afford more than basic protection. She soon realised this was not truly armour; she was required to play a role and this was her costume. However, she took some comfort from the fact it was light enough to allow her to move quickly.

Lieza was dressed in a long gown of flowing silk, dyed a pale shade of violet that complemented her eyes. Her hair, grown longer than any slave was usually permitted over the weeks of seclusion, was moulded into a lustrous ebony cascade, adorned with a small silver diadem.

“Avielle was a queen,” Varulek explained. “Granted the throne by her elder sister who eschewed power for service, preferring to fight rather than rule. When the Dermos fired Jarvek’s lust to carry Avielle off to the dark places, they baited a trap Livella could never resist.”

Reva met Lieza’s gaze and the girl smiled, seemingly immune to fear now. Reva had woken awash in memories that alternated between Veliss and the previous night, guilt and delight stirring to a fugue of confusion. She disentangled herself from Lieza’s embrace and roamed the chamber, vainly searching the Ten Books for some words to comfort a betraying soul. Lieza was markedly less confused, waking and coming to her with more kisses.

“No.” Reva turned away, softening the rejection with a clasp to her hand. “No. Today we fight. One last practice before they come for us.”

Varulek dismissed the slaves when Reva grew fractious at their constant fussing, snarling at a matronly woman attempting to brush some reddish powder onto her cheeks.

“I doubt the Empress will notice any imperfections,” he said when they had gone. He glanced at the two Kuritai at the door, presumably to confirm no Arisai had joined them in the interval. “Rumour has it your queen is fifty miles from the city. Panic spreads but the Empress has her spies everywhere. A hundred free men received the three deaths yesterday and she has decreed all citizens of age attend the arena.”

“The bow,” Reva said.

“There’s a motif carved into the centre of the lintel under the Empress’s balcony, an eagle with wings spread. The bow is beneath the sand fifty paces directly in front of it. You will have six arrows.”

With luck, five more than I’ll need. “I have another condition,” she said, turning to Lieza once more. “Should I fall, you will secure her escape from this place and take her to the queen. She will be my assurance your words are true.”

“The task we face is perilous. I can make no promises…” He trailed off in the face of her glare, eventually giving a reluctant nod. “I will do what I can.”

The trumpets blared as they were led into the arena, the tiered terraces so filled with people it seemed they might overflow the walls and spill onto the sand. Apart from the trumpets, however, there was barely any sound save the continual faint groan of thousands drawing breath. Reva picked out numerous specks of red and black amidst the throng; Kuritai and Arisai strategically placed to ensure their continued attendance. She shifted her gaze to the lowest tier, scanning the faces within sight. There was none of the bloodlust she had seen before, just a parade of scared people, tense with dreadful expectation.

Was this her intention? she wondered. To make them hate the spectacles they loved?

A pair of Kuritai led Lieza to a new structure rising from the centre of the arena — three circular platforms of descending size placed one atop the other to form a dais, constructed of wood but painted to resemble marble. The Kuritai secured Lieza’s manacles to a sturdy wooden pole that arose from the topmost platform whilst those guarding Reva placed a long, broad-bladed spear and a short sword on the sand in front of her before removing her shackles and quickly trooping off to the nearest exit.

The trumpets faded, leaving a tense hush as the slender form of the Empress appeared from the shadowed recess of her balcony. “Honoured Citizens!” she called out, her voice absent the mockery evident before. Now it was rich in joyous celebration, a benevolent ruler greeting loyal subjects with a grand reward. “Not for a generation has this spectacle been gifted to the Volarian people. The Council was ever mean in its responsibilities, grubbing to fill their own pockets and begrudging you the smallest entertainments. Now behold your Empress’s generosity, rejoice as I give you the legend of Jarvek and Livella!”

She spread her arms wide and the crowd cheered, though it sounded to Reva like the hoarse baying of some tormented monster. The people in the lowest tier screamed themselves red in the face in their desire to display loyalty as an Arisai looked on, teeth bared in mocking laughter.

The Empress lowered her arms, heralding an instant silence. “Be it known to the ages,” she said in tones of grave recitation, “that the Dermos did conspire to steal away good queen Avielle to the darkest pit beneath the earth.” She assumed a theatrical pose as she pointed at Lieza standing shackled atop the dais. “And there they did chain her under threat of vile torment, knowing her loving sister would brave any danger to bring her into the light once more. All will acclaim Livella, bravest of the Guardians!” Her finger swept towards Reva, drawing another chorus of hoarse cheering from the crowd.

“But the Dermos were ever cunning in their evil,” the Empress continued when the tumult subsided. “For having tempted the mightiest of the Guardians into lust and treachery, they filled his heart with malice and spite, moulding him into their most vile and savage servant. Behold Jarvek!”

The door at the opposite end of the arena swung open with an audible boom, the crowd screaming on cue, then gradually falling silent as nothing happened. For a moment Reva suspected some trickery on the part of the Empress, a great prank to stoke her fears before revealing yet another novel cruelty. However, a glance at the balcony showed her to be staring at the empty arch with palpable annoyance.

Then the roar came.

It seemed to fill the arena from top to bottom, cutting through Reva like a blade, not with its fury, but its pain. The anguish she heard in this cry was searing, the torment it spoke of unimaginable.

Varulek had told her what manner of beast she faced this day, but mere words could not have captured the sight of it. When she and Vaelin had travelled with the minstrel’s players she had seen some monkeys, small mischievous creatures prone to hissing and scratching at fingers unwisely poked into their cage. Come the evening show, their owner would play a flute as they danced, or rather capered about with some vague relation to the tune. The idea that what she saw now could in any way be related to those chittering imps seemed absurd, making her wonder if Varulek’s garish legends might have some substance after all.

It entered the arena at the run, or rather gallop, moving on all fours and raising a sizeable cloud of dust. Its full size was revealed as the dust settled, and a spontaneous gasp rose from the terraces. Even though it was crouched, this monkey, or great southern ape as Varulek called it, stood close to eight feet tall. Its fur hung in shaggy tendrils from its arms and shoulders, brownish red in colour except on its densely muscled back where the fur was shorter and steely grey.

It roared again, a vast howl of pain and fury, baring teeth like blunted ivory nails. As it reared Reva saw the scars that covered its torso, deep and barely healed. It raised both hands and she saw a gleam of steel, noting the leather straps over its wrists.

“They are peaceable beasts, in truth,” Varulek had said. “Keeping to their forests and valleys, eating only leaves, shy of man and not without good reason. Finding one with sufficient innate aggression to play the desired role is difficult, but when they do… Well, after a suitably harsh training period, they always seem to know what’s expected of them, and the steel claws we give them.”

Reva saw the truth in his words as the ape’s gaze swept the arena, fixing first on Lieza and then her. There was a definite knowledge in its eyes, an all-too-recognisable understanding of its circumstances. It growled, scratched at the sand with its steel-augmented claws, and charged.

Reva sprinted forward, scooping up the spear and short sword. The ape made straight for Lieza, covering the distance in a few loping strides. Reva saw Lieza standing stock still, as if frozen, all the training perhaps driven from her head by terror. But then, as the beast closed, she dived to the right, rolling away as the steel claws tore at the pole to which she was shackled, shattering her chain. She scrambled to her feet, gathering up the chain as Reva had told her.

The ape skidded to a halt, snarling and readying itself for another charge. Lieza issued a shrill scream as she lashed at the ape with her chains, raising dust but giving it only a second’s pause before it charged again.

Not yet! Reva implored as she ran towards them. Don’t dodge too soon.

Lieza, however, timed it perfectly, springing to the right and ducking under another slash from the claws, then rising and running back towards the dais. She sprinted up the steps and crouched behind the pole, the ape pounding after her. It thrashed at the pole, the claws shattering the timber above Lieza’s head, showering her crouching form in splinters, then drawing back, both claws raised high for a killing blow.

Reva’s short sword spun through the air to sink into the ape’s leg just below the knee. It roared, reeling away from the dais, rolling onto its back, thrashing the sand into a yellow fog.

“Are you hurt?” Reva crouched at Lieza’s side.

The girl gaped at her for a second then amazed her with a grin. “Today, maybe I am Livella too.”

Reva felt a flicker of prideful amusement, vanished in an instant as she saw the ape emerge from the dust, plucking the sword from its leg with a howl of rage. “Stay behind me.”

It circled the dais, trailing blood and dragging its maimed leg. The injury had slowed it but also done much to focus its attention. Its gaze was now fixed on Reva, the eyes gleaming with a disconcerting sense of understanding. It knows, Reva thought. It knows one of us has to die.

Without warning the ape charged again, ascending the dais in a frenzy of slashing claws. The faux-marble steps were rent to splinters, Reva and Lieza diving clear as the beast tore away any vestige of protection then rounded on them anew, repeatedly lunging forward and swiping at them with its claws. Reva danced aside as each slash came close, Lieza following her example though she was visibly tiring.

It’s too clever, Reva decided, seeing the tense concentration in the ape’s eyes. Trying to wear us down.

“We need a distraction,” she told Lieza, ducking under another swipe. She managed to ward off another with a jab of the spear but the ape retreated barely a few feet before edging closer. “Dive to the left when it attacks next. Use your chains, only once mind. Then run.”

The ape issued a determined grunt and made another limping charge, both arms extended to the sides like poised scissor blades. Reva dived to the right as the arms closed, the claws slashing close enough to snip off the end of her trailing braid. She snatched a glance at Lieza, sighing in relief at the sight of her scrambling to her feet as the ape wheeled for another attack. Lieza took hold of her chain in both hands and swung it, shouting with the effort. The steel whip snaked upwards to score a hit on the ape’s face, Reva catching sight of a ruined eye as its head jerked to the side.

It rounded on Lieza with its loudest roar yet as the girl turned and ran, making it only a few steps before stumbling into the sand. The ape bellowed in triumph, crouching for an attack, its back now fully turned to Reva. She surged to her feet, sprinting forward and planting the spear’s blunt end in the sand, vaulting into the air and landing astride the ape’s shoulders. She grabbed ahold of the shaggy fur on its neck with her free hand as it thrashed, trying to throw her off. Her legs flailed as the beast wheeled and heaved, swiping at her as if she were a bothersome fly, forcing her to duck as the steel barbs missed her by inches.

Abruptly the ape staggered, ceasing its swipes at her and sinking to one knee. Reva caught sight of Lieza, back arched and arms taut as she hauled on her chains. Reva’s gaze tracked the chain to where it was wrapped around the ape’s injured leg, blood pulsing from the wound as it tried vainly to loosen the steel links pressing into the flesh.

She released her hold on its fur, standing upright and hefting the spear in both hands, whirling it about and sinking the broad blade into the ape’s shoulder. She put all her weight on the haft, teeth gritted as she forced it deeper, feeling it grinding on bone and slicing through sinew until it protruded from the ape’s chest.

It convulsed as she dived clear, a gasping bellow of pain and confusion issuing from its mouth. It stood fully erect for a moment, eyes tracking from the spear-blade to Reva, now crouched in the sand, ready to dodge another charge. Seeing its eyes, however, dulled with pain and the knowledge of defeat, she saw it was done even before it sank to its knees with a gurgling whine.

Reva glanced about, finding herself less than a hundred yards from the Empress’s balcony. She was standing close to the edge, smiling with sisterly pride as the crowd’s unbidden exultation filled the arena. A brief look at the upper tiers confirmed the absence of archers; Varulek had kept his word.

She rose and walked towards the balcony, her eyes picking out the eagle motif in the centre. Flowers cascaded down from the terraces as she walked, liberally covering the sand around her in a multi-coloured floral carpet. She lowered her gaze, concealing a grunt of frustration at the growing blanket of flowers. How to find it amidst all this…

Then she saw it, a faint irregular line in the sand, only partially obscured by a cluster of roses. She raised her eyes to the Empress, seeing her incline her head in acknowledgment. Think nothing. Feel nothing. Reva went to one knee, keeping her gaze on the Empress, her fingers sinking into the sand and inching towards the line until they felt the rough weave of coarse fabric. Her fingers bunched on it, ripping it away, sand erupting in a large plume to reveal the bow, strung and ready… and a single arrow alongside it.

The crowd fell to instant silence as something landed in the sand with a soft thud. Reva closed her eyes, air escaping her in a hiss. Just one arrow.

She opened her eyes, finding herself staring at Varulek’s slack, lifeless face. From the fresh blood still seeping from the stump of his severed neck it was clear he had died only moments before.

Reva raised her gaze, expecting to find the Empress now shielded by a wall of Arisai, but instead she stood as she had before, precariously close to the edge, arms open with no protection at all.

“You displayed great skill in concealing yourself from my song, little sister,” she said. “The Honoured Master of the Arena did not.”

The doors in the arena walls slammed open in unison, Arisai emerging from the tunnels in a run, perhaps fifty of them, all forming a circle around Reva, Lieza and the dying ape. Lieza tried to run to Reva’s side but was quickly brought down by a trio of Arisai, laughing as she spat and thrashed in their grip.

“I am pleased to have made such a valued gift to my sister,” the Empress said as Lieza was forced to her knees. Reva dragged her attention back to the balcony where the Empress still stood, maddeningly close, such an easy target.

“But, if we are to share power,” the Empress continued, “I am forced to conclude that you require a lesson in its cost. Power was never won without blood, ambition never fulfilled without sacrifice. So before dear Lieza receives the three deaths, the Arisai have orders to rape her in front of you for a day and a night. But, of course, you can spare her such a fate.” She pointed at the bow and the single arrow a few inches from Reva’s hand. “It seems you have a choice to make, little sister.”

CHAPTER NINE Frentis

“Volar features the most heavily fortified harbour in the world,” the Fleet Lord said, his gloved hand sweeping across the map. It was an old chart, the edges frayed and the waxed parchment yellow with age, but also highly detailed. “Towers on either side of the harbour mouth and high walls on the moles that enclose it. The dockside itself has six different strongholds, each holding a battalion of Varitai.”

The map fluttered a little in the wind, obliging him to weight it down with a dagger. The day had dawned with an ominous sky and an unseasonal chill to the air. Frentis could see the trepidation on the faces of many Meldeneans working the Red Falcon’s rigging, knowing they feared the onset of another Dark-born storm though Ell-Nurin himself scoffed at such notions. “Sailed the Cut half a hundred times. She’s ever prone to summer squalls, nothing Dark about it.”

“How do you propose we attack such a place?” Karavek asked the Fleet Lord. “Unless you intend to commit my people to some suicidal enterprise.”

“I certainly don’t.” Ell-Nurin’s finger tracked to a shallow inlet five miles east of the city. “This is Brokev’s Notch, favoured haunt of smugglers for as long as there’s been an empire.”

One of the other captains, an Asraelin from his garb, stepped forward to peer at the map with a dubious eye. “The channel’s barely wide enough for three ships abreast that far in.” Ell-Nurin said nothing, staring at him in silence until the captain gritted his teeth, and added, “My lord.”

“We land in relays,” Ell-Nurin said. “Form up on the beach and march on Volar from the east, the least expected direction.”

“The Empress is mad but not foolish,” Frentis said. “She may well have anticipated the move. We could find ourselves facing a fortified shore.”

“Which is why a third of our ships, those not laden with troops, will linger outside the harbour come the dawn, giving every appearance of being about to make an assault. With luck the Empress will concentrate her forces there.”

“They could sally out,” the Asraelin captain pointed out. “Seek to break the fleet in two before we land.”

“Thanks to Lady Alornis’s marvellous devices,” Ell-Nurin replied, “and our considerable advantage in numbers, I’m certain we can contain any sallies they might attempt.” He turned to Frentis. “Brother, I leave it to you to decide the order of landing.”

Frentis nodded. “My own people first. The Politai next. Master Karavek’s people last.”

“Want the glory all to yourself, eh, brother?” Karavek asked, though not without a note of relief.

Ell-Nurin straightened, lifting his chin and gazing off to the east. “My lords, Captains of the Fleet and honoured allies, come the new day we will have struck a deathblow to this most vile of empires. For we come with justice in our hearts and freedom in our souls. Let all who sail with us know, destiny awaits and will not be denied.”

Ell-Nurin held his pose, seemingly expectant of some response, a hearty cheer perhaps. After a moment, as the silence stretched and thickened, he coughed. “To your duties, lords and sirs.”

“What an arse,” Draker muttered as he and Frentis made their way below. “We truly have to take orders from him, brother?”

“Arse he may be, fool he isn’t. The plan is sound. Make sure the others know that.”

Draker nodded and began to move away, then paused. “Always wondered, brother. What’s my rank?”

“Rank?”

“Yeh. You’re a Brother, Illian’s a Sister, the arse is a Fleet Lord. What am I?”

“You can be a sergeant, if you like.”

Draker’s bushy brows bunched in disappointment. “Got more folk answering to me than any sergeant I ever saw. Over two hundred of the buggers at last count.”

“Captain then. Captain Draker of the Queen’s Free Company. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like it’d earn a pension.”

Frentis sighed a laugh. “I expect it will.”

Draker smiled, though his voice held a sombre note as he said, “Sorry for the beatings, brother. If I never said before. I was drunk the whole time, see? Don’t think I had a sober day till Varinshold fell.”

“It was a long time ago, Captain. See to your company, if you would.”

He sought out Sister Merial, finding her in company with a pipe near the stern, the sweet-smelling smoke escaping through an arrow-slit in the hull. “Meldeneans can always be counted on for some prime Alpiran five-leaf,” she said, offering him the pipe. “Been over a year since I had a toke on anything this fine.”

He declined with a raised hand. “Any word from your husband?”

“Indeed.” She took a deep draw, blinking with watery eyes, her gaze losing focus. “Think I might’ve been a bit too generous with meself, brother.”

“Any word?” he repeated as she patted her chest and coughed a little.

“The queen won another victory,” she said, voice a little hoarse. “Becoming a bit of a habit with her. Battle of the Flowers they’re callin’ it, don’t know why. In any case the road to Volar was open as of this morning. They should get there within two days.”

He nodded, thoughts clouded with visions of Lady Reva in the arena, and more besides. Bring the healer…

He had resumed taking Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught in New Kethia, keen to avoid any more shared dreams, wary of what they might reveal to her, though it also robbed him of any clues as to her intentions. Doesn’t care if I bring my army. Seems indifferent to the queen’s approach. What does she plot now?

“We’re landin’ first, I take it,” Sister Merial said.

“My company is. You will remain on the ship.”

“A dog’s fart I will. Sailed half the world for this, and Aspect Caenis deserves a reckoning.”

“You are skilled in arms?”

She gave a short laugh and returned to her pipe, twiddling her fingers at him with a grin. “You’ll see what I’m skilled at, brother. Just don’t stand too close when you do.”

Brokev’s Notch was formed of a small bay flanked by craggy bluffs. Beyond the beach the ground rose in a steep incline to the redflower fields beyond. The sun was only just beginning to glimmer on the horizon and the promise of poor weather had manifested as a light morning drizzle.

“Even a handful of enemies on those heights, Redbrother,” Lekran said with a grimace. “And this bay will become a slaughter-house.”

Frentis said nothing, keeping his gaze on the cliff-tops as the boat neared the shore. It was low tide and the surf was negligible, the oarsmen heaving away at a high tempo regardless of noise; speed was more important than stealth now. He could see no sign of any movement on the bluffs, nor the ground beyond the beach.

“Remember,” he told Lekran. “Do not linger for a second, regardless of loss.”

He had placed the Garisai in the leading boats along with all their archers, Draker and Illian’s people following behind with orders to secure the bluffs. Master Rensial had opted to accompany him, probably in hopes of finding a horse as quickly as possible.

Frentis leapt clear at the sound of the boat’s hull scraping on the sand, sinking into the water up to his knees and immediately labouring towards the beach. In accordance with their orders the archers spread out with arrows already notched and bows raised, constantly scanning the bluffs for any sign of an enemy. The Garisai churned the tide-water into a white froth as they charged with Frentis, all making it onto the sand untroubled by the telltale hiss of an arrow storm or shouts of alarm.

Frentis permitted no pause on the beach, running across to the grassy slope and halting only on reaching the top. The Garisai immediately assumed a defensive formation though there was no sign of any opposition. The fields, rendered a dull shade of crimson by the morning gloom, stretched away silent and unmarred by a single living soul. Off to the west he could see the rising sun playing on towers ascending from the redflower like silver pins in a vast red blanket.

“Volar,” Lekran said in an oddly reverent tone. “All those years a slave to this empire, and this is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on it.”

And perhaps the last, Frentis mused. There may be nothing left when the queen gets done. The thought stirred memories of the grey-clad girl and her mother and he shifted his gaze to the beach in search of a distraction. Draker and Illian’s people were already ashore and in the process of splitting up to make for the bluffs. The Politai were fast approaching the beach, Weaver’s curly-haired form visible in the lead boat. Bring the healer…

“This smells wrong,” Ivelda said, scanning the poppy fields with a suspicious squint. “Not even a scout to greet us. Where are they?”

Frentis watched as Volar’s sprawling suburbs were revealed by the burgeoning sun. No walls to fight our way over, but a house can be made a fortress easily enough. “I suspect we’ll have an answer within the hour.”

They found the first body two miles on from the bay, a boy of about fifteen lying amidst the flowers, grey-clad and barely two hours gone by Frentis’s reckoning. He had been killed with a single thrust to the back, probably from horseback judging by the angle.

“Three more here,” Ivelda said from nearby. “Man, woman and child. Someone killed a family.”

They kept on towards the suburbs in a tight formation, Garisai skirmishing in front, Draker’s company on the right and Illian’s on the left. Karavek’s people followed in a dense mass with the Politai acting as rear-guard. Frentis set a punishing pace; moving across open ground with no cavalry to secure the flanks instilled a keen sense of vulnerability. More bodies were discovered on the march, grey-clads and a few slaves with the occasional black-clad. Most had wounds to the back, indicating they had been cut down whilst running. Frentis counted over a hundred by the time they reached the first houses whereupon he stopped counting.

What is she doing?

They lay in every doorway, every street corner, the gutters running red as evidence of the freshness of the slaughter. There was no sign of torture on the bodies, few with more than two wounds, most with one. This had been an efficient massacre, performed without regard to age, sex or station. Children lay alongside the elderly, slaves were entwined with overseers. Black, grey and enslaved all united in death.

“The queen?” Draker asked Frentis, skin pale beneath his beard. “I know she wanted justice, but this…”

“This was not the queen,” Frentis told him. “The Empress has set her Arisai to work.”

“Those red bastards? Thought we killed them all.”

Nine thousand more… He sighed at his own stupidity. They must have all been given the same lie to tell if captured.

“Varitai and Free Swords are one thing, brother,” Karavek said. “Even Kuritai. But my people can’t stand against the red men…”

“Then go back to the beach and beg Lord Ell-Nurin to take you home.” Frentis turned back to Draker. “Choose your fastest runner, send them to the Notch with a request the Fleet Lord come ashore with every sailor who can hold a blade.” He turned to view the death-choked streets ahead. “He’ll find us at the arena.”

They were drawn by the screams, a shrill chorus of terror and pain echoing across the bloodied streets. Frentis led the Garisai towards it, ordering Illian and Draker to work their way around on both flanks and sending the archers onto the rooftops. A hundred paces on the streets opened out into a square, displaying typical Volarian orderliness with its neatly arranged lawns, spotted with statuary and bisected with stone pathways, and, in the centre, a dense crowd of Volarians being systematically slaughtered by some two hundred Arisai. The people had been hemmed in on all sides, clustering together in instinctive terror as the red men methodically hacked their way through the throng, visibly shrinking by the second amidst a growing circle of corpses.

“I don’t expect you to fight for them,” Frentis told Lekran, raising his sword to the archers on the rooftops.

“I fight with you, Redbrother,” the tribesman told him, briefly twirling his axe. “Until this is done. You know that.”

Frentis nodded and lowered his sword. The archers unleashed their volley, the arrows streaking forth to claim at least a dozen Arisai as he sprinted forward, the Garisai following with a collective shout. Until this is done. For good or ill, it’ll be done today.

The Arisai rebounded from Sister Merial’s outstretched hand to collide with a wall, tendrils of grey smoke rising from the blackened handprint burned into his breastplate as he sank to the ground, all sign of life vanished from his frozen features. The sister turned to Frentis with a tired grin and flexed her fingers. “Handy in a tight spot, aren’t I, brother?”

“Down!” He grabbed her shoulder and forced her aside as an Arisai charged from a shadowed doorway, short sword outstretched and a joyful smile on his lips. Frentis turned the blade with his own and spun, bringing the sword around to slash across the Arisai’s eyes, finishing him with a thrust to the throat as he staggered, laughing in gleeful surprise.

Frentis paused to drag air into his lungs, surveying the street, littered with corpses from end to end. He spotted Ivelda among them, lying dead atop the Arisai she had killed, her dagger still embedded in his neck. They had fought from street to street for close to an hour now, forcing the Arisai to leave off their slaughter and face them. The fighting descended into chaos the farther in they went, as the streets grew more narrow and the Arisai revealed a fiendish talent for ambush. They would attack alone or in pairs, launching themselves without warning from alleys, doorways and windows to assault his fighters in a frenzy of delighted carnage before being brought down by weight of numbers or a well-placed arrow from one of the archers above. They had learned their lessons well in New Kethia, their advance made possible by the archers, who continued to leap from rooftop to rooftop, killing any Arisai seen in the streets below.

Frentis spied Lekran with half a dozen Garisai at the north end of the street and ran to his side, Merial following with an unsteady gait. He had seen her kill three Arisai already and knew she was risking collapse with every use of her gift.

“The last of the cowards from New Kethia pissed themselves and ran,” Lekran reported with a grimace of disgust. “I will kill Karavek with my own hands.”

“You’d have a difficult task,” Merial groaned, leaning against a doorway, ashen features sagging. “I saw him die two streets back.”

Frentis’s gaze rose at the sound of someone calling his name, finding Illian’s slim silhouette standing atop a two-storey building twenty yards away, waving her crossbow above her head. “Weaver!” she called down to him as he ran closer, indicating a point where the dense streets opened into what appeared to be a market square. “And Master Rensial!”

Frentis gestured for the Garisai to follow and sprinted for the square, finding it in shambles, carts and trestles overturned amidst the slumped forms of murdered slaves and free folk. At the north end of the square some fifty Politai were formed into a dense wedge, moving steadily forward against a seething wall of Arisai perhaps twice their number. The Politai moved with all the precision born of their years of ingrained discipline, their broad-bladed spears jutting out like the spines of a porcupine as they edged forward, Weaver’s blond head visible in their centre. Curiously the Arisai seemed to have lost much of their maddening humour when confronted with the former slave soldiers. Frentis saw naked fury on many faces as they launched themselves at the well-ordered ranks, most dying on the unyielding hedge of spears but some managing to hack their way into the formation, claiming one or two Politai in the process.

At first Frentis was puzzled by the determined nature of the Politai’s advance; there appeared to be no one left in this square to save, then he saw him, a lone rider amidst the Arisai, wheeling his mount with matchless grace, sword moving in elegant arcs as the red men fell around him. But he was just one, and they were many.

Frentis forgot all caution and hurled himself into the Arisai, sword gripped in two hands as he hacked his way through, whirling and killing as the Garisai charged in his wake. He dimly heard a shout from the Politai, not in exultation, for such emotions still seemed to be beyond them, more an acknowledgment of an order. Their formation doubled its pace as the Arisai’s ranks thinned about them, forcing their way closer to the lone rider.

Frentis ducked under the sweep of a sword and drove his blade through the breastplate of the Arisai who held it. The man refused to die however, latching onto his sword arm and holding Frentis in place, red teeth bared in a broad, affectionate smile. “Hello, Father,” he rasped, hands like a vise on Frentis’s arm.

One of his compatriots lunged forward, sword levelled at Frentis’s neck, then drawing up short as something streaked down to skewer him through the forehead. For a second his eyes rolled up to regard the crossbow bolt as he stood, drooling, before Lekran’s axe cut his legs away. The tribesman spun, the axe sweeping up to sever the arm of the Arisai still latched onto Frentis. He tore his sword arm free of the Arisai’s remaining hand as Lekran’s axe came down to finish him, turning to see Illian standing on a nearby rooftop. He raised a hand to acknowledge her assistance but her attention was elsewhere, a bolt clamped between her teeth as she sprinted and leapt to the next rooftop, gaze fixed on the lone rider up ahead. Master Rensial!

Arrows fell with increasing rapidity as he fought his way through, Lekran at his side and the Garisai behind, more and more archers appearing on the surrounding rooftops. The Arisai’s ranks thinned ahead of Frentis as he saw three fall to the archers in quick succession, charging clear of the struggle and making for Master Rensial, a shout of fury and frustration escaping his throat as he saw an Arisai dart forward to plunge his sword into the flank of the master’s horse. It reared, mouth gaping as it screamed and collapsed, legs thrashing. The surrounding Arisai closed in, swords raised and laughing. The Politai’s formation issued another shout and broke into a charge, pushing aside the remaining Arisai and sweeping towards the cluster surrounding the fallen rider. Frentis lost sight of the horse as the Politai struck home, cutting down the Arisai then forming a defensive ring with their typical, unconscious swiftness. He forced his way through, drawing up short at the sight of the still-twitching horse, noticing for the first time that it was a fine grey stallion. He could only wonder where the master had found it. He leapt the dying animal, issuing an explosive sigh of relief at the sight of Master Rensial pinned beneath it, frowning in annoyance as he attempted to tug his sword from the body of an Arisai lying dead at his side.

“We need to find another stable,” he told Frentis, grunting as the blade slid free of the corpse.

“Of course, Master.” He knelt and put his shoulder to the horse’s body, heaving until the master was able to draw his leg clear. From the twisted, mangled state of the limb he could see Rensial would not be riding, or walking again for some time.

“Redbrother!”

Frentis rose at Lekran’s shout, finding they were surrounded on all sides by Arisai now, more having materialised out of the surrounding houses, every one of them seemingly staring at him with a mixture of fascination and delight. Arrows continued to fall from the rooftops but they seemed not to care, barely glancing as their brothers fell beside them. Drawn to me, he decided, seeing something more in the collective gaze. Madness. She has set them loose, and they all hunger for the joy of killing their father.

“This can end here!” he called to them, moving to stand with the encircling Politai. “She has freed you, I see it. Now free yourselves. Let go your madness.”

They laughed at him, of course. Great hearty peals of mirth sweeping through their ranks, some still laughing as the arrows took them.

“As you wish,” Frentis sighed, raising his sword. “Come, receive your cure!”

A new sound cut through the continued babble of their laughter, a faint, rumble echoing from the surrounding streets, soon rising to a roar, the roar of many angry men.

The Meldeneans came streaming from every street and alleyway, sabres flashing as they tore into the red-armoured throng. The Arisai fought, as they were made to, killing with happy abandon, but for all their skill and ferocity they had no counter to the tide of pirates that swept over them, islands of red soon swamped and drowned in a scant few moments. The Meldeneans shouted their victory to the sky, sabres raised and heads thrown back in feral triumph.

“Took them long enough,” Lekran muttered as the carnage subsided.

Frentis turned to find Weaver standing over Master Rensial, head cocked as he cast a critical eye over his leg. “Can you help him?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, brother.” The healer shook his head with a grimace, then raised his gaze to a massive curved structure rising above the rooftops to the west. “I have a sense I will soon need all my strength.”

He left Master Rensial in the care of the Meldeneans, most of whom seemed content to stay and loot the many vacant houses, proving deaf to entreaties to join the advance on the arena. Frentis could find no sign of Fleet Lord Ell-Nurin, or any other Meldenean of appreciable rank beyond that of second mate, so was obliged to leave them to their rewards and move on. They found Thirty-Four stitching a cut on Draker’s arm a few streets on, the dozen surviving members of the newly appointed captain’s company clustered around them amidst the bodies of some thirty Arisai.

“Can’t you get through one battle without a wound?” Illian asked Draker, her caustic tone leavened somewhat by the affectionate hand she ran through his shaggy hair.

“I do like my souvenirs,” he replied, teeth gritted as Thirty-Four tied off the thread. He raised an apologetic gaze to Frentis and nodded at something lying nearby. “Sorry, brother.”

Slasher lay on his side with Blacktooth whining as she nuzzled his head. A short sword was buried in his chest and an Arisai slumped dead against a nearby wall, his face a ruin of chewed gore.

“We can’t linger,” Frentis said, tearing his gaze away to survey the drained, pale faces of all present. There were perhaps a third of the number that had followed him from New Kethia. So many lost saving those that enslaved them, he wondered, fighting down the mingled grief and admiration that threatened to moisten his eyes.

“Captain,” he said to Draker, “form your people up as a rear-guard. Sister, take the archers and scout the approach to the arena.”

“Surely there can’t be any left after this,” Sister Merial said. Her pallor was slightly improved, though the red smudges around her eyes and nose spoke of an attempt to conceal her exhaustion.

“We thought the same back in Eskethia,” he told her. “Stay by me and do not use your gift again except in direst need.”

The dense maze of streets soon gave way to broad avenues and parks, also littered with corpses. They were mostly black-clad here, plus a few slaves cut down at they tended the grass or polished the bronze statues. Of the Arisai, however, there was no sign. A hundred yards ahead the streets fell away completely to reveal the arena, every fighter and Politai come to a halt at the sight of it, the gently curving, red-gold tiers made vivid in the sun. They could hear a great tumult from within, thousands of voices raised in adulation, no doubt of some dreadful spectacle orchestrated by their Empress. Baying like sheep as their city dies around them, Frentis thought, unable to suppress the bitter notion that these people were not worth the blood spilled on their account.

“No guards,” Illian reported. “As far as we can tell it’s completely undefended.”

Frentis looked at Weaver, for the first time seeing a troubled wrinkle to his brow as he regarded the arena, even a twitch of fear to his lips. Bring the healer… “You don’t have to,” Frentis told him. “Remain here with the Politai. I’ll send word when it’s safe.”

Weaver’s brow smoothed as he turned to him, banishing the fear with a faint smile. “I do not believe there is any safe place today, brother.”

Frentis nodded, stepping forward and turning to address them all, finding his voice hoarse and having to force the words out. “You have all done more than I could ever ask. Wait here, Weaver and I will proceed alone.”

There was no response, nor any change in expression as they all, as one, took a step forward.

“I do not know what awaits us in there,” he told them, hearing the note of desperation in his voice. “But I know many of us will not survive it…”

“Wasting time, brother,” Draker said. Beside him Illian hefted her crossbow, meeting his gaze with expectant eyes.

He turned back to the arena as another roar sounded from inside, from the volume and length it seemed the Empress’s spectacle had reached some form of climax. “Our objective is to secure Lady Reva and kill the Empress!” he said, raising his sword and starting forward at a run. “Show her no mercy, for she has none for you!”

CHAPTER TEN Vaelin

Stars. He blinked, trying to clear what he knew must be an illusion, but they were still there, shimmering and bright. And there were so many, more than he could ever count. Some were brighter than others, so bright it seemed they eclipsed those around them. A few were dark, shimmering between red and black. They were all moving like tiny miniature ants on a vast dark blanket of green and blue. Not stars, he realised. People.

“Vaelin.” She was there, floating nearby in the night sky, for he saw now that they were flying far above the earth. He could only stare at her, words choking in his throat, grief and gratitude combining to make him shudder. She smiled and drifted closer, hands reaching for his. “I wanted to show you,” she said. “I wanted you to see what I see.”

“I…” He stammered, clutching her hands. “I should never have…”

She moved into his arms, her warmth wondrous, banishing his guilt. “All choices were mine to make.” She pressed her forehead to his, then drew back, turning and gesturing to the star-speckled earth below them. “Look,” she said, “the world as it was, about to change forever.”

He held her hand as they drifted closer to the earth, approaching a landmass with a coastline he recognised as that of the Unified Realm. They paused above a dense cluster of stars in the centre of what would one day be known as the Fallen City, the stars resolving into shimmering forms of people as they flew lower. Two figures stood at the centre of the cluster, next to something so dark it seemed to swallow all light, Vaelin taking a moment to recognise its foreshortened shape. The Black Stone.

One of the figures next to the stone differed from the others in the way his light shimmered, flaring bright one second then dark red another. The flicker made it difficult to discern any features, but Vaelin gained the impression of a tall man, a man with a beard. The Ally.

The figure at the Ally’s side was shorter and, judging by the stoop of his back, considerably older. Unlike the Ally his light was constant and bright, the hue a warm shade of blue. Vaelin watched as the Ally placed his hand on the older man’s shoulder in respectful assurance then stood back. The older man stood still for a moment, head lowered as if gathering strength, his light dimming slightly, then he took a step forward and touched his hand to the absolute void of the black stone.

For a second nothing happened, but then a red circle appeared in the centre of the stone. It was small but glowed with a fiery energy, pulsing rhythmically like a heart. The glowing hand of the old man reached for it, fingers extended to grasp it… The circle gave off a sudden flare, its pulsing increased to a rapid thrum, and the old man reeled away as something erupted from the stone, cascading up and out in a multi-coloured fountain, rising high into the sky as a circle of pure energy spread out from the stone at ground level, expanding and streaking away to the horizon like a wall of flame. Most of the lights it passed through without apparent effect, but here and there one would flare even brighter as the wall touched them. The power, Vaelin recalled. Burned into the bloodline…

The spectral fountain faded slowly, the fiery circle in the stone diminishing in size until it was no more than a pinprick, whereupon it vanished. The old man rolled on the ground beside the stone, jerking in obvious agony, his light shimmering now, but pulsing brighter than before. His agony subsided slowly, reaching up to take the Ally’s hand as he knelt at his side. The Ally, however, made no move to take his hand, staring down at the prostrate old man, his light now more red than white.

Abruptly he reared, raising something dark above his head and bringing it down with all his strength. The old man’s light flared then seemed to fracture, dimming into two faint glows, one big, the other smaller. His head, Vaelin realised. He took his head.

The Ally bent to retrieve the head, raising it up until the stump touched his lips whereupon his light instantly turned a permanent shade of red, a dark crimson glow that pulsed with the same rhythm as the fiery circle in the stone.

The Ally cast the head aside and turned to the crowd of onlookers. They had all retreated from him in evident fear, many turning to flee. Then, as one they came to a halt, all standing frozen and immobile. For a long moment the Ally regarded the crowd in careful scrutiny, then he began to walk among them, pausing next to a frozen man of athletic build and a yellowish glow, touching a hand to his head. The selected man’s back instantly formed a rigid arc as he voiced a silent scream, his light turning the same shade of red as the Ally in the space of a heartbeat.

The Ally moved on touching a dozen more men in quick succession, then striding from the crowd and standing to watch as the reddened figures began to murder their white companions. Some were strangled, others clubbed with rocks or branches for these people seemed to possess no weapons. All the while the Ally stood and watched the massacre, head tilted slightly in dispassionate observation. When it was done, every white glow snuffed out, the Ally walked off towards the north and the red men followed him.

Dahrena gripped Vaelin’s hand tighter as they flew higher, time accelerating beneath them, the Ally’s cluster of red blossoming in the north and spreading, issuing smaller clusters that spread like spores across the length and breadth of the Unified Realm, white lights snuffing out everywhere they went.

“The Ally’s gift,” Vaelin said.

“No,” Dahrena told him, “never a gift. A sickness, a plague. Like the Red Hand.”

“This is but a dream. How can I know this?”

“We know it.” She floated away from him, spreading her arms as more people appeared out of the surrounding blackness, forming a circle around them. They were mostly strangers but he recognised some. The sister from the Seventh Order who had conspired with Alucius in Varinshold. Marken was there too, smiling grimly behind his beard, and Aspect Grealin, still fat even here… And one other.

Caenis wore the garb of a brother of the Sixth Order, even though he had died Aspect of the Seventh. “Brother,” Vaelin said, reaching out to him but Caenis only smiled and inclined his head in fond recognition.

“We who lingered when you drew him from the Beyond,” Dahrena said. “It is not just his will that can bind us there. We spent our remaining strength in crafting this vision. It was all we had left to give.”

He saw the circle of souls fading, drifting into darkness, Caenis the last to go, his hand raised in reluctant farewell before the dark claimed it.

“So you are truly gone now?” he asked Dahrena. “Your souls vanished forever?”

“Soul is memory,” she told him, pressing herself to him again, arms enfolding his head. “You are my Beyond now, Vaelin. You and all those I loved, even those I fought. For me to endure, so must you.”

She drew back, hands gripping his face. “Remember, a plague like the Red Hand. And none who caught the Red Hand and lived ever caught it again. And now, you really must wake up.”

He awoke to raised voices. Lonak voices, angry and aggravatingly loud. He groaned as he rolled upright, his fingers instinctively exploring the growing lump on the back of his head. The voices stopped and he looked up to see Kiral and Alturk retreating from one another, the Tahlessa sparing him a reproving glance before moving to stand in front of the Ally’s slumped form. He seemed to be unconscious, head lolling forward as a trickle of blood fell from a gash on his forehead.

Orven stood close to Vaelin, his guardsmen all around, glaring at the assembled Sentar on the other side of the clearing. He discerned it had been but moments since Alturk had clubbed him senseless. Vaelin extended a hand to Orven, who obligingly hauled him upright. He walked to Alturk and gave a shallow bow. “My thanks, Tahlessa. Lord Orven, break camp. We still have a long way to go.”

More towns appeared along the course of the road the farther south they went. They were usually sprawling places, having long outgrown the protective walls of the pre-Imperial age. Most had clearly suffered riot and rebellion, a few were little more than blackened ruins, and fewer still had contrived to remain intact by virtue of newly raised walls and barricades, often held by armed townsfolk happy to launch arrows at strangers who ventured too close. Vaelin avoided them all, having no inclination to embroilment in unnecessary battle, though the Sentar often chafed at the need to suffer an unanswered challenge.

The Ally now rode at the rear of the column, his bruised and partially remoulded features bland and cheerful as ever. Orven’s guards had been given stern instructions to gag him if he attempted to speak again, but he had maintained a continual silence since waking from the beating. Kiral stared at him constantly, hands often bunching on her reins and Vaelin knew she was resisting the impulse to reach for her bow. The song’s guidance is rarely mistaken, he knew, missing his lost gift more keenly than ever. But Dahrena’s vision had held no desire for the Ally’s immediate death, and no inclination he was on the wrong path.

A line of red appeared on the horizon five days later, growing as they drew closer until they paused amidst a vast array of redflower fields and, in the hazy distance, the tall towers of a marble city.

“Volar,” Lorkan breathed at Vaelin’s side, shaking his head in unabashed wonder. “I truly never thought to see it.”

Vaelin called for Lord Orven and pointed to the west and east. “Send out your scouts, we need word of the queen’s whereabouts. We’ll make camp here…”

“You don’t have time!”

Vaelin turned to see the Ally regarding him with cold intent, all vestige of humour vanished from his still misshapen features. The guards on either side moved closer to fulfil their orders but Vaelin waved them back, trotting Scar closer, meeting the Ally’s glare. “Why?”

“My servant plays with your sister in the arena as we speak. Or rather, that perverted bitch you call your sister. Delay further, and I suspect she’ll be dead before long, after a suitable period of well-deserved punishment. She did always irk me so.”

Vaelin looked at Kiral, who gritted her teeth and nodded. Reva! His creature has Reva.

“She holds no gift,” the Ally went on. “No place in the Beyond for her…”

Vaelin wheeled away from him, spurring to the head of the column and barking an order at Orven to follow, making for Volar at the gallop.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Lyrna

It seems I have come far to visit justice on a people intent on their own destruction. The city seemed to be ruled by the dead; there was not an avenue, doorway or garden free of corpses. They also hung from the many towers like ragged, long-forgotten dolls. It was clear to her this had been a wealthy district, the opulence of the houses and the extensive walled gardens rich in cherry blossoms and statuary told of great privilege and high status, but whatever had swept through here had little regard for rank; copious enslaved dead told her this was not the product of revolt.

“Arisai, Highness,” Brother Sollis reported, his horse’s iron-shod hooves a jarring intrusion into the silence covering this place. He clattered to a halt nearby, pausing to offer Aspect Arlyn a respectful nod before addressing her. “We found twenty or so in the neighbouring district, killing all they could find. We dealt with them but I’ve little doubt there are more.”

He shifted in his saddle as his fellow brothers reined in a short way off, clearly impatient to be off. “The route to the arena?” she asked him.

“Clear, Highness. There appear to be no other Volarian soldiery in the city. I believe you have sufficient protection to proceed there.”

Whilst you ride off to save the people we came to destroy, no doubt. She was about to order him to form up his company in escort when Murel abruptly leapt down from her horse and ran towards a pile of bodies lying near the arched entrance to one of the larger houses. She pulled the topmost corpse away, a slender woman in a red robe with a gaping wound to her neck, and reached into the bloody mess beneath, emerging with a small, half naked figure. She clutched it in a tight embrace as Lyrna trotted Jet closer, dismounting at Murel’s side as she wiped fresh blood from the face of a girl perhaps eight years in age, alive but oddly still, staring about with wide, dark eyes. Murel was weeping, the first time Lyrna had seen her do so since the day of her ennoblement at the Wensel Isle.

The girl blinked at the lady then looked up at Lyrna with a curious frown. “I know you,” she said in a somewhat prim voice.

“You do?” Lyrna moved closer, going to her haunches and reaching out to tease back a stiff strand of matted hair from the girl’s forehead.

“My father told me,” the girl went on, pouting a little in defiance. “You’ve come to burn everything down. You’re the queen of fire.”

Lyrna closed her eyes. A breeze played over her skin in a gentle caress, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms, the perfume delicate but rich enough to mask the stink of gore and bowels voided at the point of death. She tried to recall another odour, one she knew so well, one that choked the throat and stirred bile from the gut, the stench of her own flesh burning. But she couldn’t find it, not today.

“No,” she told the girl, reopening her eyes and pausing to cup her cheek with a smile. “I’m just a queen.”

She rose, touching a hand to Murel’s shoulder. “Take her to Brother Kehlan.” She turned and strode back to her horse. “Brother Sollis, take your company and hunt down any remaining Arisai. Volarian citizenry found alive are to be conveyed to safety if possible. I’ll send word to the Battle Lord to allocate forces to assist you.”

He bowed in the saddle, his face betraying a sense of gratitude she hadn’t seen before, nodded again to the Aspect, and wheeled about, his rasping voice calling out orders to his brothers as he galloped off.

“Don’t like it, Lerhnah,” Davoka said as she climbed into the saddle, casting a critical eye over the surviving Queen’s Daggers. “We are too few.”

Lyrna turned at the sound of a multitude of voices at their rear, causing Iltis to wheel about with sword drawn. He calmed as the first Cumbraelin came into view. A well-built man, as many archers were, running with his bow across his back and hatchet in hand, pausing to offer her the briefest bow before running on, making for the unmistakable bulk of the arena, now only a half mile distant. He was quickly followed by hundreds more, the surrounding avenues filled with their panting prayers, the words “Blessed Lady” most frequent among them. Al Hestian couldn’t hold them, she surmised. I hope he was wise enough not to try.

“I think we’ll have enough, sister,” she told Davoka, spurring Jet to a gallop.

The head stared down at her with sightless eyes, mouth slack and tongue lolling from between its teeth. It had been fixed on to the stump of the statue’s neck with iron nails, hammered through bronze and flesh alike, streaks of dried blood covering the metal down to the plinth where the original head lay.

“These people are never short of horrors, it seems,” Iltis observed in a disgusted tone.

Lyrna guided Jet past the statue and on to the arena, the Cumbraelins now streaming through its arches. She had caught a glimpse of Lord Antesh urging them on before disappearing inside, but had no opportunity to impart any orders to him, not that she expected him to follow them now with the Blessed Lady so close.

She dismounted before the tallest arch and proceeded into the gloomy interior, shouts of combat echoing through the vaulted stairs and corridors as the Cumbraelins overcame any opposition. The Queen’s Daggers spread out around her in a protective arc, Aspect Arlyn and Iltis both close on either side with swords drawn.

“If I may, Highness,” the Aspect said, pointing to a stairway nearby, leading down into the depths of this structure. Lyrna raised a questioning eyebrow and he went on, “The cages where the Garisai are kept. They may be of use.”

She nodded and gestured for him to proceed, following as he led the Daggers into the stairwell. The tumult of battle greeted her as she descended, emerging into a long rectangular chamber, lined on each side with cages. The Daggers and the Aspect were engaged in a struggle with a dozen Kuritai. The Aspect moved with the typical fluid grace of the Sixth Order, belying his years as he parried and spun in the melee, cutting down a Kuritai and blocking the blade of another who lunged at one of the Daggers. But the Kuritai were also fearsomely skilled and Lyrna forced down a surge of rage at the sight of yet more of her people falling to the blades of the slave-elite. I am just a queen.

She sent Iltis to join the struggle with a flick of her hand and looked around, her eyes alighting on a corpse lying nearby, a man of considerable girth with a stab wound to the chest, a gaoler judging by the keys dangling from his belt. She bent and tugged them free, going to the nearest cage and drawing up short at the sight of the occupant.

There was no smile on his lips now, no mischief in his eyes, his hair hung limp and greasy over a face devoid of all humour, or admiration. “So you see,” the Shield said, voice barely above a grunt, “you managed to put me in a cage after all.”

She said nothing, turning the key in the lock and hauling the cage open, standing aside with an impatient gesture as he lingered. He emerged slowly, casting a brief glance at the continuing struggle in the corridor, the Kuritai now reduced to three, backed up against the bars of the cages as hands reached from within to claw at them in desperate fury.

“This is the last war I fight for you,” the Shield said.

Lyrna tossed him the keys as the last of the Kuritai was brought down, moving to the stairwell and ascending without a backward glance.

CHAPTER TWELVE Reva

“Kill her!” Lieza shrieked, thrashing in the Arisai’s grip. “Kill her and it ends!”

Reva’s hand jerked in the sand, inching closer to the bow as if by its own volition, her eyes still fixed on the Empress’s smiling face. “She makes a fair point,” she called. “With me gone this war is over, but she will still die and you will remember her end for a long time. I’ve ordered them to spare you, for how could I harm my sister? Wouldn’t you rather give her a quick death?”

Reva tore her gaze away, turning to Lieza, now sagging in the Arisai’s clutches, eyes imploring, her ragged breaths the only sound in the arena, the silence unbroken by the barest murmur as Reva’s hand closed on the bow…

Something whined past her head and thudded into the sand next to the bow. An arrow, the fletching shuddering with the impact. Reva’s gaze snapped up to the top tiers of the arena, finding a line of figures silhouetted there, each holding a bow. She groaned as her despair deepened. Varulek’s Kuritai hadn’t done their work after all. One of the archers raised his bow above his head and Reva squinted, finding something familiar in his bearing, the breadth of his shoulders reminding her of someone she knew, someone surely lost to the ocean. Her eyes went to his bow. It was long with a single elegant curve, so unlike the double-curved strongbows favoured by the Volarians.

Slowly she turned and lowered her gaze to the arrow buried in the sand. Swift-wing feathers, she saw, eyeing the fletching. A bird only seen in Cumbrael in the summer.

She raised her gaze to the Empress, and returned her smile.

She snatched up the bow and Varulek’s arrow, pivoting to the left, notching and loosing in a single motion. One of the Arisai holding Lieza staggered back, staring at the arrow jutting from his chest in gasping amusement. The other immediately drew his sword, raising it to plunge into Lieza’s back, then falling dead as Reva sent Antesh’s arrow into his neck.

The air thrummed as she rose and sprinted towards Lieza, every Arisai in sight falling in unison as the arrow storm swept down. She skidded to a crouch at Lieza’s side and pulled her upright. The girl gave a shout of alarm as an Arisai laboured towards them, teeth bared in a fierce smile as he struggled closer with arrows jutting from his shoulders and legs. Reva snatched another arrow from the sand and sent it into his eye from five paces, then grabbed Lieza’s arm and pulled her towards the nearest doorway. The heavy iron-shod door was firmly locked but the stone arch at least offered some protection. She could see Varitai archers on the lower tiers, vainly trying to contest the longbowmen above as the crowd convulsed around them, people massing in dense, roiling throngs as they stampeded for the exits.

Then the arrow storm began to abate, slowly at first, but soon dwindling to nothing. Reva stepped out from the archway, scanning the upper tiers and finding them full of thrashing men, red and black amidst the grey-green of the Cumbraelins. Her gaze went to the door where the unfortunate Jarvek had entered the arena, finding it still open. “Come on,” she told Lieza, taking her hand and starting forward.

The Empress landed in their path and rolled into a fighting stance, short sword held low and regarding Reva with a stern frown of annoyance. “You spoiled my spectacle.”

Reva backed away, ushering Lieza behind her and casting about frantically for another arrow as the battle raged above.

“All my lessons,” the Empress said, dancing closer, sword held low. “All my generous tutelage, cast back in my face. I am very disappointed, little sister.”

She lunged and Reva rolled to the side, dragging Lieza with her, the blade missing by inches. She came to her feet and swung the bow like a club, aiming for the Empress’s head. She ducked it easily, rounding on Reva with a disapproving scowl. “Our mother died with you inside her, as I lay abed and listened to her screams beyond the door. The Ally had told my father of the blessing, you see, and he was thirsty.”

She lunged again, Reva pushing Lieza to the left as she dodged to the right. She saw an Arisai’s body no more than ten feet away, feathered with arrows and a sword lying under its hand.

“Mother would have loved you more than me,” the Empress told Reva, leaping into her path as she started towards the body. “I know this. But I don’t mind, you would still have been my sister.”

Reva glanced at Lieza, imploring her to run, but the girl stayed, hefting her chains and adopting a clumsy approximation of a fighting stance. The Empress laughed at her, then sobered. “Such devotion,” she said, shaking her head. “All I ever received was fear and lust. I would have loved you, sister. But the envy would have been hard to bear.”

Reva looked again at the Arisai’s body, gauging the distance and calculating her chances of leaping over the Empress’s sword… Then she saw something else.

“I am not your sister!” she shouted to the Empress, capturing her wide-eyed gaze. “You have known nothing but fear and lust because that is all you are. You are just a madwoman who has lived far too long.”

“Mad?” The Empress’s humour returned, her sword lowering a little as she laughed. “What do you think the world is if not just an endless parade of madness? To make war is madness. To seek power is madness.” She laughed louder, throwing her arms wide. “And madness is glorious!”

Reva assumed the ape was simply attempting to complete the role it had been trained for, trailing a red stain across the arena as it dragged itself towards the Empress with its steel claws, taking her for Livella as she was the only one armed. With a rasping roar it reared up and lunged, claws lashing out as the Empress turned, taking the three steel barbs full in the chest.

The ape gave a final bellow, either of triumph or rage, and sagged onto the arena floor, sand flying high as it breathed its last. Reva moved closer as the Empress struggled, still somehow alive, blood flowing in torrents from her mouth as she laboured to heave herself off the ape’s claw, finally succeeding with a shriek of agony. She lay panting, breath coming in hard, convulsive tics as she stared up at Reva with the same wide, unreasoning eyes, smiling with a genuine affection that made Reva’s hand itch for a sword.

She became aware of the sound of battle once more, looking up to see that the conflict had spread across the tiers, the Volarian citizenry huddled together as the fighting raged around them. It appeared the Cumbraelins had been reinforced by Realm Guard, Lord Nortah’s free fighters judging by the number of women in their ranks. Also she glimpsed the trailing blond hair of the Shield on the lower terraces, fighting alongside several dozen freed Garisai. She sent a prayer to the Father to ensure Allern was amongst them. The knots of red and black were shrinking under the combined assault, though, as ever the Arisai showed no dismay at their own imminent passing, fighting to the last and laughing as they died.

Reva started as the Empress issued a loud, hacking snarl, arms flailing as she sought to rise, gaze fixed on something at the north end of the arena, a single word discernible among her blood-choked babble. “Bitch!”

Queen Lyrna Al Nieren strode across the sand, accompanied by her hulking Lord Protector and a tall, aged brother of the Sixth Order Reva didn’t recognise. A dozen or so Realm Guard fanned out on either side as she came towards Reva, waving away her bow and drawing her into a warm embrace. “My lady. Please accept my sincere apologies for not reaching you sooner.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Vaelin

They were obliged to force their way through a horde of fleeing Volarians, all too panicked and livid with terror to even recognise a group of foreign invaders. Many pelted through the redflower on either side of the road, shorn of any baggage as they fled, recent horrors etched into bleached features. In contrast the families moved in dense, wary knots, clutching meagre bundles with their children held close, small faces bunched in tears or frozen in fear.

Astorek leaned down to pull a man from the throng, a balding grey-clad of middling years with a little boy clinging to his side. He answered the shaman’s questions in clipped tones, habitual servility overcoming his dread.

“The Empress has set her Arisai on the city,” Astorek reported, releasing the grey-clad, who stumbled on without pause. “They’re killing everyone. He seemed to think it was punishment for not attending the arena, even though the place could never hold all of them.”

Vaelin turned to the Ally, regarding the passing refugees with only vague interest. “Is this your doing?” he demanded.

The Ally shrugged and shook his head. “She was mad even before I took her. And these people have always stirred her hatred.”

They moved on, breaking free of the fleeing mob after another mile and proceeding into the city. The eastern district seemed to be the merchants’ quarter, rich in warehouses and canals, their dark waters thick with floating corpses. Here and there dazed people wandered into their path, wounded or shocked into passivity. Horrors greeted them at every turn, women wept over murdered children and mystified infants prodded fallen parents. Vaelin closed his heart against it all and kicked Scar to a faster trot, his gaze fixed on the arciform mass of the arena rising from the centre of the city. He shot continual inquisitive looks at Kiral, who could only confirm the urgent note of her song.

After a tortuous hour-long ride they broke into the parkland surrounding the arena where he forced Scar to full gallop, hearing a rising cacophony as they neared the great red-gold edifice. Something flickered in the corner of his eye and he turned to see a line of people running towards the arena’s south-facing wall, perhaps five hundred, all armed. His gaze went to the figure in the lead, picking out the dark blue cloak and the familiar, precise gait of his run. He angled Scar to the left, leaping corpses and thundering over marble and grass to charge into the path of the onrushing fighters, dragging him to a halt and raising his hand.

The charging line came to a slow stop as Frentis waved his sword. They were an odd bunch, men and women in motley armour bearing the marks of recent battle, some with Volarian colouring, others plainly Alpiran or of Realm origin. He breathed a sigh of relief at finding Weaver among them, standing amidst the only group in this company to present a truly soldierly appearance.

“Brother!” Frentis greeted him, running to his side. Vaelin was struck by his appearance, besmirched with blood and soot from head to toe, his sword blade stained red from end to end. However, he took comfort from his gaze, aged since he had last seen him, but steady and free of the madness that seemed to have gripped this city.

Vaelin nodded at Weaver and the well-ordered Volarians surrounding him. “Are those Varitai?”

“They call themselves Politai now,” Frentis said. “It means ‘unchained’ in old Volarian.”

Vaelin glanced over his shoulder as Orven’s guards and the Sentar rode into view, the Ally among them, his posture now considerably more alert as he scanned the arena. Vaelin saw the smile playing on his lips. No need to conceal his anticipation now.

“Unchained,” he repeated, turning back to Frentis. “As were you, brother.”

Frentis nodded, frowning a little in puzzlement. “Lady Reva,” he said, pointing his sword at the arena. “I have sound intelligence…”

“I know.” Vaelin climbed down from Scar’s back and drew his sword, striding towards the arena and beckoning Frentis to follow, speaking softly. “We do not have much time, so listen well…”

All sound of battle had faded by the time he entered the arena. They had been delayed by a few Kuritai found in the maze of corridors that led them here, but the Sentar and the guardsmen were numerous and skilled enough to cut them down without difficulty. Vaelin’s gaze tracked over the surrounding terraces as he stepped out onto the sand, finding them only a third full, nervous huddles of Volarian citizenry keeping their distance from companies of Realm Guard and Cumbraelin archers. The queen stood in the centre of the arena, smiling as she exchanged words with Reva, alongside what appeared to be a monstrous ape of some kind, lying dead with a spear jutting from its back.

Reva ran to him as he approached, her embrace fierce and warm. “Too late this time,” she chided, moving back to deliver a playful slap to his cheek.

He nodded and forced a smile, bowing to the queen as she came to greet him. “Highness. I am glad to see you well.”

“And you, my lord.” He found her gaze oddly cool, the unaffected smile she had shown him in the past now more considered. The greatest conquerer in Realm history, he reminded himself. More than a queen now.

“Lady Dahrena?” she asked, her gaze tracking over the company behind him.

He met her gaze and shook his head, seeing the brief spasm of lost composure she betrayed, her face clouding in genuine grief. “A… great loss, my lord.”

His gaze was drawn by a choking sound behind her, seeing another body slumped next to the monstrous ape, her eyes fixed not on him but on Frentis. Her lips moved in some form of greeting, spitting blood across the sand as her hands twitched.

“May I present Empress Elverah of the Volarian Empire,” the queen said.

Vaelin saw how Frentis paled and shifted at his side, seemingly unable to look away from the dying woman as she continued to voice her greeting. He stared at his brother until he turned, meeting his gaze and holding it, hoping he remembered his task. Frentis gave a barely perceptible nod and turned away from the Empress, drawing a plaintive groan from her as she clawed at the sand, desperately trying to pull herself closer to him.

“I have an introduction of my own,” Vaelin told the queen, beckoning to Orven’s guardsmen to bring the Ally.

“Your ageless Gifted?” the queen asked, casting a critical eye over the Ally’s bound form. He returned her gaze with a distracted nod and looked up at the surrounding tiers, eyes narrowed in careful calculation.

“Not exactly,” Vaelin said. “I don’t know his true name, but we have become accustomed to calling him the Ally.”

“I never liked that name,” the Ally commented in a faint tone. “Perhaps, in the years to come you can compose a better one. Something more poetic. You see, I have decided to become a god.”

Vaelin opened his mouth to command him to silence, and froze. He tried to raise his sword arm and found it immobile. He attempted to turn to Frentis but his neck refused to budge. All sensation had fled his limbs, the only movement in his chest which continued to draw breath, and his eyes which flicked about with panicked speed. He could see the queen, standing frozen with the same frown of critical scrutiny, Lord Iltis close behind her, still like a statue, as was every other living soul in sight, even those in the terraces above. The arena was silent now, save for the Empress’s dying gasps and the sound of the Ally’s soft steps on the sand as he moved closer to Vaelin, peering into his eyes.

“You asked about my gift,” he said. “Here it is, or one of them. So many years since I wielded it in this world without need of a proxy. Not so taxing now, thanks to you and your ageless friend. See?” He angled his head, moving it from side to side. “No blood. This body will sustain me for quite some time I suspect. Perhaps until the death of this world, though I’ve no desire to see that.”

He moved away, pausing to peer closely at Lyrna then Reva, just visible in the edges of Vaelin’s vision, as still as everyone else. “So well-made,” the Ally said, his gaze lingering on Reva. “Pity to spoil her, but this one will require a reward if she’s to continue as my dog.”

He moved away, going to the Empress, the only body in sight not frozen, though her movements were now confined to a faint twitching. The Ally went to his knees beside her, leaning back to press the ropes around his torso to the steel claws protruding from the hand of the dead ape. He grimaced with the effort, working himself up and down several times until the bonds gave away.

“Ahh,” the Ally breathed, standing upright and tossing Alturk’s ropes aside. “That’s better.” He flexed his arms for a brief moment then crouched to inspect the Empress, pursing his lips at the small glimmer still visible in her eye then grunting in satisfaction.

“I have often been called arrogant,” he said, looking up at Vaelin. “And I’ll admit to a certain reluctance in admitting failure. But, so many years of awareness have given me a new appreciation for humility. I did fail, of course, and Lionen tortured me to death for it. But it was the method rather than the intent that brought me down. The method was flawed. To attempt the slaughter of every Gifted in the world by myself, even with the ability to twist sufficiently malicious souls to my purpose, was all too great a task. But I had plenty of time to ponder a new approach.”

He bent to the sand and retrieved a fallen short sword before placing a foot under the Empress’s body and heaving her onto her back. “Why strive for the impossible?” he asked Vaelin. “When the endless greed of humanity can do it for me? It was to be the Volarians’ role, once moulded to suit my purpose. It never occurred to them why I always ensured there was never enough, no matter how many they bred in their pits, I simply gave my blessing to more of their nobility so they would always need more, compelled to expand, an empire crafted to conquer the world in search of gifted blood, driven by their hunger for eternal life. All come to nothing thanks to you and these others. The wolf’s doing, I suppose. Still, no matter.”

He raised the sword above his head and turned to the terraces, calling out in a strident voice, “Take heed of this! The old gods are risen in me! Great power runs in my veins! Behold my blessing!”

He moved closer to the Empress and pressed the blade of the sword to the flesh of his arm, the cut short but deep. He lowered the wound to the Empress’s face, letting the blood trickle onto her lips. At first she barely reacted, lips betraying only the slightest twitch, but soon her mouth opened wider, allowing the blood to flow into her throat as her back arched. The Ally moved away as she continued to convulse, tossing the sword aside and tearing a rag from his shirt to bind the wound.

“Since you took my empire away,” he said to Vaelin, teeth gritted around the rag as he pulled it tight, “we will make another.”

He moved closer, pausing at Lyrna’s side once more, her eyes darting about in her perfect face with frantic alarm. “She will be the Saviour Queen, come from across the ocean to deliver the Volarian people from the murderous reign of the Empress Elverah. And you”—he grinned at Vaelin—“her great and noble general. Think of the armies you will build together, the lands you will conquer. And in every land you seize you will seek out the Gifted.”

His grin evaporated as he moved to Vaelin, all pretence of humanity falling from his face, the sheer malice of this thing revealed in a tremulous snarl. “And you will sacrifice them to your new god. It may take decades, it may be that I will have you father sons on my puppet queen so they can continue the work. But in time every Gifted on this earth will be gone, and I can finally move on.”

He stepped closer still, voice dropped to a whisper. “The grey stones were the foundations of our greatness, receptacles of memory and wisdom, able to carry our thoughts across vast distances. With them we crafted an age of peace and wisdom, then we found the black stone and thought it another blessing. Oh the gifts it gave, my wife the power to heal, her brother the ability to pierce the mists of time. Such wondrous gifts, but not for me. For me it had a curse. Do you know what it is to live in a world of harmony, a world unmarred by greed, and possess true power? The power to command by a single touch, the power to force a man to murder. I didn’t want it, I wanted something better, something more. But the black stone only ever holds one gift, permits only one touch. For, as those who dug it from the earth discovered to their cost, touch it once and gain a gift, twice and you lose your soul.

“So, year after year, decade after decade, I resisted my gift. I built cities, I taught, I spread wisdom across the earth, and never once did I use my gift. And my reward? A wife sacrificed to save a race of savages without the wit to even write their own name. This world, this world of flawed beasts who imagine themselves above nature. What loyalty did I owe it now? Why not take what I had been denied?

“His name is lost to me, but he was the first to touch the black stone, the first to receive a gift. A mighty power, like mine one he preferred not to use. Though there were occasions when he would demonstrate it, holding willing volunteers frozen for hours at a time, a harmless amusement you might think. But I saw it for what it was, a barrier, the counter to the power I had been gifted.

“In time we grew to be great friends. As age wearied him and he began to contemplate the trials ahead, it was a small matter to persuade him to a final adventure, a second touch to the stone which would spare him so much pain, leaving his body empty, whilst his gift lingered in his blood.

“I didn’t know, of course. I didn’t realise what I would be unleashing. We touched something, you see. When we reached into the Black Stone. We touched something beyond this world. Another place, a place where what you call the Dark holds supreme, a place of utter chaos. In having such a powerful soul touch the stone, I pierced the veil between the worlds and let it loose in ours, spreading out through all the world like a plague, latching onto a few souls, seeping into their blood so every generation would birth more, and creating a snare for their souls. For we had made them real, by giving them a place to reside, we had created the soul. We had created life beyond death. It’s them that hold me in the Beyond. Their power sustains me, feeds me, keeps me chained in that eternal prison. I tried so hard not to, but even there, in a place without form or any feeling save the endless cold, even there the instinct to feed is irresistible, and if there are none left here, there will be nothing more to sustain me when I choose to slough off this flesh.”

He moved back, his alien visage returned to its previous blandness. “In all honesty I wasn’t at all sure I could twist you to my design. Some souls are simply too lacking in malice to make suitable tools. But then I saw you hack the head from that animal in the north. Do not think me ungenerous.” He raised a hand and reached towards Vaelin’s forehead. “I’ll make you a god too, if you like.”

The hand stopped, barely an inch from Vaelin’s skin, the Ally’s eyes widening in shock as he regarded the fist clamped to his wrist. “The seed grew,” Frentis told him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Frentis

The Ally slammed his free hand onto Frentis’s fist, his face contorted, the flesh turned red as he no doubt sought to summon his gift. Frentis slapped the hand away and pushed him back, forcing him to his knees.

“They are forever bound to me,” the Ally snarled at him, gesticulating at the frozen figures all around. “Whilst I live in this world they are mine. Only the death of this flesh will free them.”

Frentis ignored him, eyes going to the open door at the north end of the arena in expectation.

“So that’s why Revek hung on to his shell for so long.” The Ally gave a grating cackle. “Taking another would have left him susceptible to my touch once more. So he gave you his blood to free you as he had freed himself.” His mirth evaporated and he hissed at Frentis, eyes bright with baleful promise. “You shouldn’t have revealed this little secret, boy. All you have done is ensure the death of any formerly bound by my will. Though it may take me years. Do you imagine time is any barrier to me? The centuries I endured in the Beyond…”

Frentis cuffed him on the side of the head, the force of the blow enough to leave the Ally stunned and barely conscious. “You seem overly fearful, for a god.”

“Beloved.”

She stood next to the ape’s body, red from head to toe but whole again, the rents torn into her chest sealed and smooth. Her face was a stranger’s but the gaze was the same: unselfish affection, naked love. “Did you bring the healer?” she asked.

He looked back at the doorway, seeing the Lonak girl enter, leading Lekran and the Politai into the arena. Vaelin had told her to wait until her song told her it was safe. Weaver walked at the head of the Politai, his gaze fixed on the Ally.

“I see you did,” the woman observed. “I don’t suppose it matters now. It seems your brother found a better vessel.”

He turned back to her, noting she had reclaimed a short sword from the sand and was moving purposefully towards the queen.

“Don’t!” he told her, moving to block her path.

She stopped and issued a sigh of frustration. “She took you from me,” she explained in her impatient tutor’s voice. “There must be a reckoning.”

“Yes.” He raised his own sword. “Yes there must.”

“Don’t you see?” she railed at him in sudden anger, pointing at the Ally. “He is broken now. I will drink from him, take his gifts. The world can be ours.”

“And what would you do with it? I fought my way through a city of horrors today, all of your design. How can you dream I would allow you to do that to the world?”

“Because you love me!” Her new eyes were beautiful, he saw. Dark, limpid pools in a pale mask, free of any cruelty, but utterly mad.

“You are sick,” he told her. “And I brought the healer…”

She gave a shout of frustration and attempted to dodge past him, sword reaching for the queen’s exposed back. He forced the blade aside with his own and tried to grab her wrist, hoping to disarm her. She was too fast, spinning away and slashing a cut into his shoulder.

“You talk of sickness,” she spat. “We live in a world of sickness. You mourn for those I killed today. Did any ever mourn for me? I killed for decades to build this empire of filth and greed. It was mine to bring down.”

Frentis felt his left arm growing numb as warm blood coursed down his back. “Please!” he begged her. “If he can heal a body, perhaps he can heal a mind.”

She paused for a second, a confused frown appearing on her brow. “The night I killed my father he wasn’t afraid. He sneered at me, he spat in contempt. He said, ‘I should have drunk your blood the night I drank from your whore mother.’ Can he heal that?”

“I don’t know.” Frentis reached out to her, chilled arm trembling. “But we can…”

The arrow took her in the chest, quickly followed by two more. She staggered, her confusion fading as she looked down to regard the fletchings, her expression one of complete and sane understanding.

The Lonak girl stepped to Frentis’s side, bow drawn, and sent another arrow into the woman’s neck, folding her body onto the sand. Frentis watched the girl move closer and deliver a hard kick to the corpse, eyes narrowed as she scanned her for the slightest sign of life. She glanced at Frentis, frowning at what she saw on his face. “The song was clear,” she said.

He heard a faint moan behind him and turned, seeing Weaver gently taking hold of the man lying slumped in the sand and guiding him into a seating position. The Politai stood around them, spears levelled at the Ally. “There is a great sickness in you,” Weaver said. “Let me help.”

The Ally’s senses seemed to return as Weaver drew him into a tight embrace, struggling feebly then throwing his head back to issue a scream.