The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 18

Every step back up through the ziggurat was an effort. Isak’s limbs were heavy and sluggish, as though he wore armour of lead. The sword itself weighed nothing, but Vorizh had been right to call it a burden: it dragged at his mind and sapped his strength, filling his head with the buzz of wild energies and amplifying the voices of daemons carried on a breeze his cheek couldn’t feel.

Behind him Isak could hear the soft, neat pad of Mihn’s bare feet and sensed the man keeping as close he could. Of Vorizh there was no sound, and more than once Isak turned to check the vampire was still with them. The sight was far from encouraging. Behind Mihn was a shifting, restless mass of shadows; only the vague outline of a human form remained — that and two darkly gleaming sapphire eyes.

A lambent glow on the stairs ahead told Isak it was the last flight to go. He almost groaned with relief as he struggled up them and onto the night shrouded upper floor of the Grand Ziggurat. A dozen Black Swords were there now, each man holding one of the spluttering mage-torches to cast white light over the proceedings. With Termin Mystt in his hand Isak could no longer taste the magic leaking from the torches, only a sense of a great twisting cloud of magic centred on him.

He looked past the people waiting and realised each level of the ziggurat was similarly lit, as was the shoreline of the island on which it stood, and the wide bridge they had crossed to reach it. For a moment he entertained the hope that the sensation was just that, the concentric rings of torches surrounding him, but a part of him recognised the deeper resonance in the air, like looming storm-clouds, when even the Gods held their breath.

‘Lord Sebe,’ intoned Priesan Sorolis, ‘you have walked the labyrinth and hold the mysteries of Vanach in your hand. The signs are fulfilled, the mysteries revealed.’

The old woman’s face was solemn, but she glanced momentarily at the third figure that left the ziggurat, and when she did, her hand started to shake in the folds of her robe.

She raised her arm to indicate the brightly lit bridge leading to the shore. ‘A place has awaited you in the Hall of the Sanctum since our founding; come.’

Isak didn’t respond, but he looked at his companions, feeling light-headed in the breeze washing over them. Doranei and Veil smiled, relieved by his obvious success, while those more sensitive to magic stared aghast at the black sword in his right hand. He glanced down at it and tried to flex his fingers. A flicker of worry ran through him as his numb fingers failed to respond, then at last his muscles became his own again, though his fingers moved only fractionally.

‘Lead on,’ Isak croaked, still staring at the sword apparently fused point-down to his hand.

The Priesan obeyed and headed back down the levels with the rest of the Sanctum, but Isak made no move to follow. He was too concerned by the fact that he could not remove his hand from the grip of Termin Mystt. There was no pain, but it felt as though he were the one being gripped, not the other way around.

‘Isak?’ Vesna said cautiously as he approached his friend. ‘Is all well?’

Isak looked up warily, until he realised Vesna hadn’t spoken loud enough for the Black Swords to hear above the hiss of their torches, that he had spoken at all told Isak he was betraying too much.

‘It is,’ he replied. ‘We have what we came for.’

‘More than that, it appears,’ Legana commented, the divine light inside her waxing stronger the closer she came to the sword. Then she focused her attention on Vorizh as the vampire went to the edge and surveyed the city beyond. ‘We are thirteen now?’

Zhia stepped forward, watching her brother as intently as one might a cobra. ‘Brother,’ she said without affection.

‘Sister of mine,’ Vorizh replied with a small smile. ‘See this city I built? This monument to the curses of Gods?’

‘You never told me what you were planning.’

He turned with shocking, blurring speed. ‘ Tell you? ’ Vorizh hissed. ‘Of course not! You are too rash, for all your plotting. You always lacked vision; remember the lover you took all those years ago, the chaos it caused? You only ever see how to further your own ends in the game, never how to end it. Better you than our noble Prince Koezh, of course; our solemn heir of suffering could never resist an added burden, but both were found lacking.’

‘And now you have found one worthy?’

Vorish turned, unblinking, towards Isak. ‘Perhaps. There is change on the wind, of that I am sure.’

‘Daemons too,’ Daken growled. ‘Don’t mean shit, though.’

Vorizh cocked his head at the white-eye as Daken advanced slowly towards him. ‘You have a pet? One that smells of the Gods?’

Zhia shook her head as Vesna stepped in front of Daken to halt the man’s advance. ‘Just a white-eye whose goal is glorious battle; do not indulge him.’

‘Another day then, lapdog,’ Vorizh called to Daken. ‘Enough battle even for your thirsty heart is at hand, I think.’

The crackle of tension in the air awakened Isak from the distraction of Termin Mystt. ‘Is this permanent?’ he demanded of

Vorizh, looking at his hand. He was holding the long weapon in a reverse grip that was completely impractical if it came to fighting.

The vampire bestowed upon him a reptilian smile. ‘Unless you can remove your own hand, dead man,’ he said with a flourish of black-iron-clad fingers. ‘I smell the marks of daemons upon you, the endless torments of the pit. What did they do to you in the Dark Place? Perhaps your hands grew back more than once down there, before some God plucked you out and back into the light.’

Isak staggered, struck by a sudden weight of memories; flashes of light burst before his eyes as lines of hurt flared across his body. Again it was Mihn who reached his side and supported the huge white-eye with a strength beyond that of his small stature.

‘Aha, it was a thief, not a God!’ Vorizh crowed. ‘Would you venture that way a second time, I wonder, little man? One day my soul may follow a similar path; what price would you ask of me for such foolish devotion, thief?’

Mihn matched the vampire’s gaze unafraid. ‘After the cruelties you have caused Vanach’s people, the anguish dealt by your own hand? Could you make amends for such a thing?’

‘If your price is an apology, I would be a madman to refuse it,’ Vorizh said, his eyes glittering in the dark.

‘You are a madman,’ Mihn said, turning his back on Vorizh as Isak started for the stair to follow the members of the Sanctum, ‘and so I offer you nothing.’

When they reached the entrance, Isak paused to summon his strength. The ziggurat was the highest point for miles around, and he felt like one missed step and he would tumble, crashing into madness or death.

‘So it looks like life did have a plan for me, after all,’ he muttered to Mihn, who was still struggling to bear as much of Isak’s weight as possible. ‘The balance of forces, controlling something inhuman inside.’

‘Could the Gods even have planned such a thing?’ Mihn asked sceptically.

The relief on his face was plain when Isak responded with a laugh, ‘No, but it’d be nice to have someone to blame. Not even Azaer forced me into these choices. This life’s my own.’

‘But you can control the forces?’

Isak nodded. ‘It looks like I’ve made myself into the tool required for the job.’ He made a show of prodding Mihn in the chest as he straightened, taking his weight of him. ‘Never say I don’t plan ahead, eh?’ He took a deep breath and surveyed the illuminated road. There had to be hundreds of soldiers out there, thousands, even. Faint movement in the streets beyond told him the troops were not alone, that the people of Vanach were creeping closer to see their long awaited saviour. The Gods’ plan was not for most to know, but some things would inevitably have escaped the Commissar Brigade. What it meant for the faithful servants of the Gods, only time would tell.

The question is, have they learned to fear any change, or are they desperate for release?

‘My Lord?’ called a trailing member of the Sanctum, the tall one from the Night Council who looked like a eunuch, Priesan Horotain. ‘Do you need assistance?’

‘Just a moment’s peace’d do,’ Isak muttered. He started off down the stairs, his companions following closely behind, Zhia and her brother bringing up the rear.

Should I tell her what I found down there? Isak wondered, a glance back showing him the distance between the two vampires. Does she already know? They’ll recover, maybe even find their eldest brother waiting, but she’s a cold one. From all I hear Koezh wouldn’t stand for enslaving their weaker siblings, but Zhia? There’s no way to tell; she feels the suffering of others but she’s still a politician.

He returned to the task of descending the stairs, trying to stop his uncertain legs pitching him forward into the night, but as he descended the great ramp that led from the lowest level to the island shore, he turned towards a strange scent on the air. It was hard to discern against the overpowering presence of Termin Mystt, but he was certain something had changed; some new presence lingered nearby.

‘Anyone else sense that?’ he murmured.

Fei Ebarn shook her head when Isak turned to her, but Vesna and Legana nodded, their attention focused on the unknown.

‘ More than one thing,’ Legana said into Isak’s mind, ‘ a presence in the streets — a presence in the lake. ’

As though in answer to his question, a figure loomed up from the lake surface ahead of them, startling the nearby soldiers, who scrambled out of the way. The figure standing waist-deep in the water was joined by another, then a third and a fourth; lean, grey faces all silently watched Isak. Heavy, discoloured armour was bound to their filthy bodies by belts and straps, baldrics and fraying leathers. Massive two-handed swords and axes were stowed on their backs and each stared at him through a curtain of dripping, bedraggled hair.

Shock froze Isak to the spot as he saw a gaping, bloodless wound on the neck of one, a mangled arm hanging useless from another. Their pallor was not because of cold or injury; these men were already dead. Doranei had called them the Legion of the Damned.

‘Zhia,’ Isak called softly as the panicking Black Swords fell back in disarray, abandoning Isak’s party as they scattered, ‘is this your doing?’

‘The Legion do not obey me,’ she replied, advancing to join him, ‘only my eldest brother and their own leaders.’

The four sodden figures offered perfunctory bows to Zhia, but Isak could see their attention was focused on him. Dead, milky eyes observed his every movement, but only when Isak raised his black sword in anticipation of an attack did the closest advance another few steps, stopping just at the water’s edge.

Vesna was immediately in front of Isak, his own sword drawn, sparks crackling from his black-iron arm, but the undead soldier appeared not to notice him. The muted scent of decay reached Isak’s party: not rotting flesh, but some mouldering odour mingling with the smell of mud on the shore.

Without warning the four dead soldiers dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. Their leader spoke a brief sentence in a grating, ruined voice, then raised his head to look Isak in the eye.

‘They greet you,’ Mihn translated hesitantly. ‘You bear the sword that can free them from their curse. They pledge themselves to you, in the hope that you will do so once they have proved worthy.’

‘Free them? How?’

‘Their souls were sold,’ Vorizh provided, walking forward until he was face to face with the leader of the legion. The undead warrior stared at him as though desperate to draw his greatsword and attack, but whatever his wishes, he did nothing beyond facing Vorizh down.

‘The necromancer who made them this way tricked them into selling their souls. Those who fall in battle are damned.’

‘And you can’t undo it?’

Vorizh cocked his head at Isak. ‘Why would I wish to? They would have all returned to dust by now, had they lived mortal lives.’

‘You call that life?’ Isak demanded in disbelief.

Before Vorizh could reply an arrow had flashed out from the darkness to strike the nearest of the undead in the side. A second shot dropped between them, then a third caught one in the shoulder.

The leader snarled and drew his weapon, growling some order, and a dozen more damned rose from the lake, weapons ready, as the first four turned to face the knot of soldiers at the bridge-mouth aiming crossbows at them. They advanced with unnatural swiftness, ignoring the hasty shots that danced between them. Two more were caught, one high in his chest, but they snapped the shafts and continued on regardless.

‘No, wait!’ Isak called after them.

The warriors stopped dead, their leader turning to regard Isak once more.

Whether they understood his words or not, the command was clear enough, but before Isak could work out what to say next Mihn broke the tense silence. ‘My Lord, look at the bridge.’

There were more sputtering lights appearing on the bridge as squad upon squad of Black Swords rushed towards them. The crossbowmen at the front were frantically reloading as a commissar bellowed orders, gesturing furiously in Isak’s direction.

‘I can hear them shouting,’ Mihn said quickly. ‘An army of daemons kneeling to you — Isak, they’re saying you have tricked them: they think you are Aryn Bwr reborn. They have ordered the attack!’

Isak looked around. The Black Swords still on the ziggurat were staring down at them in horror, too bewildered to act, but judging from the numbers massed on the far shore the Night Council had come prepared for any excuse to turn on them. He’d already noticed the massing Black Swords; he didn’t want to find out if that was enough to fight perhaps the most lethal group of individuals ever gathered.

‘Something tells me they’re not going to care about casualties,’ Vesna said, again placing his body between Isak and danger. ‘Do we really want to burn a path through thousands of men just following orders here?’

‘Why not?’ Vorizh asked, his eyes bright with delight. ‘You hold the power of the Gods in your hand — shatter them with a word! Be as Death, walking the battlefield once more.’

Isak didn’t bother replying as he scanned the island for options. There were other bridges, one leading to the far shore, another to the temple island further out on the lake. ‘Anyone see any boats?’ he asked.

‘Not here,’ Vesna replied, ‘and we’re not getting across either bridge without a bloodbath.’

‘You want to defend a temple again? Remember Scree?’ Isak demanded, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Vorizh had silently withdrawn to the great stone ramp and Isak pursued him, determined not to let the vampire from his sight if he could help it.

Meanwhile Zhia had waved back the Legion of the Damned and taken their place facing the Black Swords. She reached out one hand and a nimbus of white light began to circle her. The dark surface of the lake below the bridge seemed to twitch and jump with every intoned word before rising like a leviathan and swallowing the massive bridge. Darkness enveloped it, extinguishing the torches on the nearer half and prompting terrified cries as the men were suddenly struck blind and soaked through.

‘Where are you going?’ Isak called after Vorizh.

The vampire ignored him and went to the statues flanking the ramp, the huge stone wyvern statues that looked so out of place there. He placed a hand on one and began to intone his own spell, but as Isak watched he realised it was not a spell being cast but one being unravelled.

Cracks started appearing on the hind leg of the first wyvern, accompanied by a great creak and the groan of stone under stress. Isak faltered, his left hand pressed against his belly as he remembered another wyvern and another time, but his memories were swept away by a more immediate shock: the grey skin of the statues had started to crumble and fall away, revealing crimson hued scales underneath. The monster looming over Vorizh shuddered and stone cascaded off its flanks like a disintegrating clay mould. Its wings jerked ponderously and stretched up towards the heavens.

Isak turned back to his astonished comrades staring up at the emerging wyverns, except for Zhia, too busy with her delaying spells, and Mihn, whose attention was focused on the dark mass of soldiers on the bridge.

‘To the temple island,’ Isak ordered, forcing himself to turn his back on the wyverns. Vorizh clearly had his own plans, whether or not it included the rest of them. ‘All of you, go!’

He shoved Doranei, the nearest, towards a paved path that led around the island to the ornate covered bridge that led to the temple island. There would be guards, of that he had no doubt, but it looked like it might be the least bloody path away from here. The Night Council had clearly been biding their time and looking for any excuse to erase the threat to their control. They would push forward as hard as they could rather than waiting for cooler heads to prevail.

‘My Lord,’ Vorizh called, and Isak turned to see the two wyverns nearly free of the stone that had encased them. One was stepping down from the pedestal where it had stood for so long; the other was struggling to pry the remaining pieces of stone from the leathery membranes of its wings.

‘It is time for us to leave,’ Vorizh said, indicating that Isak should take the second of the beasts.

The monster raised its blade-like muzzle to the heavens and screeched deafeningly, then shook its body and snapped its jaws with ravenous intent as it peered at the figures below. Its head started weaving from side to side as it tried to make out what was happening below it.

‘You think I’ll abandon my comrades?’

‘What choice do you have?’ the vampire laughed. ‘To swim with a sword fused to your palm? And you balk at killing Black Swords — men who are nothing to you, men who have abused and murdered their own, for reasons of twisted nonsense. The cruelty and horror they have inflicted — each one should be punished for their crimes, for joining the oppressors out of cowardice or malice at least. Yet you refuse to make that judgment, you who have killed many times before, no doubt. So if you will not fight, here is your alternative!’

‘I’ll find another choice,’ Isak said, and Vorizh looked contemptuous before he offered Isak a florid bow and barked a command at the wyvern. With one beat of its enormous wings the creature steadied itself, then leapt into the air, closely followed by its fellow.

Isak went to follow the rest of his companions. Mihn was yet to move; the black-clad man still standing beside Zhia and staring out at the confusion on the bridge.

‘Mihn? What are you doing?’

‘I–I thought I saw…’ He looked up at Isak. ‘It does not matter. I am coming.’

They ran together as fast as Isak could manage, Zhia close behind. A squad of Black Swords blocked the way, but Vesna was already leading the charge; his sword cut a scarlet trail through the night. As the air filled with Daken’s roars and the whip-crack of lashing energies, the ten soldiers simply vanished from their path.

The few other Black Swords remaining on the island fled in the face of such effortless slaughter and they found themselves unimpeded until they reached the bridge. It was half the width of the other, and supported by half a dozen arches.

A reinforced gatehouse stood at either end, blocking the way, but Isak stabbed down onto the gate’s hinges with the tip of Termin Mystt. He missed the edge, instead driving the black sword against the wall, but Death’s own weapon tore through the weathered grey stone as if through butter.

Fei Ebarn sent darting arrows of flame to dissuade anyone within the guardhouse from attacking while Isak chopped artlessly with his reversed sword at the listing gate until the way was clear. He led the rest out onto the bridge, ignoring the heavy beat of wings behind them, and attacked the few soldiers still standing their ground. To no one’s surprise, Termin Mystt parted armour, weapons and flesh with as much ease as it had the stone, killing men with brutal sweeping strokes.

The bridge was covered with arches and small, interconnected buildings, which turned out to be small shrines running the length of the bridge. The moonlight illuminated curved letters inscribed into the parapet running the length; Isak guessed it was an extended prayer rather than some incantation of protection. Beyond the torches fixed at set intervals along the walls adjoining the gatehouse he could see little.

They were alone now, Isak realised; the Legion of the Damned had not followed them around the ziggurat, though Mihn continued to glance back as though watching for them. Without meaning to Isak conjured the image of hundreds of dead men tramping stolidly through the midnight waters beneath them.

All following Death’s own weapon, Isak reminded himself. The dead march in my wake.

He shivered and pushed the thought from his mind. It was not something to dwell on; just that fleeting moment was almost enough to overwhelm Isak with the consequences of what he was doing.

‘We punch through the gate and look for boats,’ Isak declared, pointing to the only other exit from the temple island. They could all see the hundreds of soldiers crossing the bridge to the nearer mainland.

‘And if there aren’t boats?’ Zhia asked.

Isak scowled and looked down at the black sword he carried. ‘Then we may have no choice.’

At the gate Isak sensed a vast gathering of power on either side of him. Fei Ebarn and Zhia both reached out to flay the defensive walls with arcs of flame while Vesna drew on his own Skull and punched the closed gate with raw power. Howls came from inside as stars burst along its length and the gate was smashed inwards, leaving nothing but blood and mangled flesh beyond it.

A great half-dome, the Temple of Alterr, rose behind the guardhouse. It was lit fitfully by ornate silver braziers. A square block stood to the right of that, the open peaked doorway declaring it to be the Temple of Death.

‘That way,’ Isak said, pointing to a break in the walls where a pebbled slope led down to the water, but as they approached Isak realised the wooden posts flanking the slope were clear of boats.

‘Looks like we’ll just have to fucking kill ’em all,’ Daken announced as Isak looked around in vain.

‘There’s got to be another way,’ Isak muttered. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Heretics! Servants of the damned!’ shrieked a voice in the lee of the wall, startling Isak, until he realised he wasn’t being attacked. He peered into the shadows and saw a man sitting in the mud, half hidden by a supporting timber. Hugging his knees to his chest, he stared at them all, his eyes wide with blind terror, and his voice descended into a low, wordless gibber.

‘Perfect,’ Zhia declared and reached out towards the man, who didn’t even have time to cry out as he was dragged through the air. Deftly Zhia grabbed the man by the throat, handling him as if he was as light as a rag-doll, and brought the keening figure up to her mouth to bite hard into his jugular. The man flailed and spasmed in her grip, but the small woman stood as still as a statue while she drank, and then held him up to inspect her handiwork. Trails of blood, black in the moonlight, ran down her chin, and the wound in his neck pulsed darkly down onto the scarf that marked him as a commissar.

With a brush of her finger Zhia sealed up the man’s wound. The man fell limp and she tossed him aside to fall like a dead thing on the moonlit ground.

‘He’ll bring us our horses tomorrow,’ she announced to her companions. ‘I’m sure the city will be in too much chaos for anyone to notice their absence straight away.’

‘Since when did you care about horses?’ Doranei demanded.

She smiled. ‘A girl with skin as fair as mine needs to be prepared. Some of us don’t like to travel light.’ She wiped the blood from her face and licked her fingers clean while Isak skirted further around the temple of Death until he had a better view of the bridge they now had to cross. Thanks to the torches he could see the soldiers had stopped near the centre: the nearer half of the bridge was in darkness. Most importantly, there weren’t Black Swords charging towards them.

‘What’s going on?’ he wondered aloud, and magic burst into life around him as the mages drew on their Crystal Skulls to investigate.

‘Fighting,’ Ebarn reported after a moment. ‘Different factions of commissars?’

Even as she said it they caught the clash of steel rising above the lap of water, punctuated by the sound of distant shouting.

Isak closed his eyes and let his senses rise up through the cool air, borne by the churn of magic inside him. High above the city he felt the invisible dart of bats come to greet him, drawn by their master’s sword. Isak ignored Death’s winged attendants, leaving them to swoop and spiral around his mind while he looked further still. There were daemons out there, keeping to the dark places beyond the light on the city walls, but he feared that might not last if the blood of hundreds was shed and the threat of Termin Mystt left.

‘They’re not soldiers,’ Zhia added, opening her eyes again, ‘that’s a mob. I think the people of Vanach have worked out what the Night Council intend for their saviour.’

‘They’re going to be sorely disappointed with me,’ Isak muttered. He looked back at the bridge they had just crossed. There was movement on it already: the first few pursuers were summoning their bravery. ‘More importantly, where do we go now? It won’t be long before we’re cornered here.’

No one had any answer at first, then Veil ran down the tiny pebble beach to the water’s edge. ‘Zhia,’ he called, ‘just how powerful is the sword?’

She laughed. ‘ “How powerful”? What sort of an idiot asks that?’

‘Okay, so I’m an idiot: let me ask instead, how much of its power can Isak safely use?’ he snapped back. ‘The Menin attack on a Narkang border town — I heard they used magic to freeze the moat.’

‘You want to freeze the entire lake? Are you mad? I can’t even see the far end from here!’ Isak exclaimed.

‘Not the whole lake, just enough for us to walk on,’ Veil persisted, pointing with his twin spikes. ‘Rivers and lakes freeze in winter, don’t they, but not completely: we just need a foot or so on the top, just enough to cross on, surely.’

‘Ice?’ Isak said thoughtfully, joining Veil. ‘Why not?’

He touched Termin Myst to the lapping water and closed his eyes. He had never learned how to do such things in the past, but with such astonishing power at his command he guessed finesse wouldn’t matter that much. By focusing the earth-shattering power through the image in his mind, it should be done easily enough.

The wind immediately picked up and someone behind him gasped as the temperature immediately plummeted. Isak felt the cold on his skin: a sheen of moisture on scars that still remembered the heat of the Dark Place. The crisp smell of frost appeared on his clothes as magic began to pour through the black sword and into the water below. Opening his eyes, Isak watched the black surface of the lake grow cloudy, then whiteness spread as quickly as flames through straw, a menacing crackle cutting the tense silence around them. Before long a white path had spread before him, driving like a spear-thrust out across the water towards the far shore.

Vesna came to Isak’s side. ‘That’s a long way,’ he commented, watching the strain on Isak’s face.

‘No choice,’ Isak said breathlessly, his attention never leaving the water. ‘Soldiers on this shore.’

Vesna stepped back as Isak redoubled his efforts. A dull pain appeared in the back of his mind and the Skull of Ruling was hot against his skin, but he knew he couldn’t stop. The ice road continued to surge forward, then he tasted a more familiar flavour on the air and broke off momentarily to look around him. Zhia stood a little way back, her Skull held out before her, her lips moving silently.

Isak didn’t need to ask about this spell; it spoke to the very heart of him: Zhia was calling a storm. Above their heads, clouds started to form, blotting out the light of the stars and moons while weaving a skein of shadows over the island and Isak’s ice road. The longer they had to escape the better, Isak realised, and the thought prompted him to look over to the two bridges where the commissars would be pursuing them.

He narrowed his eyes, momentarily forgetting the task at hand. ‘They’re no closer,’ he commented. ‘Why’s that?’ Unless others were moving ahead of the white torch-lights, the pursuers from the ziggurat island had stalled just beyond halfway across. Just when they were cornered, the pursuit had faltered, but there couldn’t have been enough citizens there to face down the soldiers.

Isak turned to his companions, looking from one to the next. ‘Where’s Mihn?’ he said quietly, and when the small man didn’t speak up or step out from behind someone Isak’s voice became thunderous. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

Legana pointed towards the bridge they had just crossed, and a leaden ball of dread appeared in Isak’s stomach.

‘ A chance taken,’ she said into his mind. ‘ That’s what he said before he stopped. ’

‘What sort of fucking chance?’ he demanded, moving towards her with murder in his eyes. Vesna put his body between them, but he too looked like a man needing answers.

Legana’s expression didn’t change. If Isak’s sudden advance had alarmed her, the Mortal-Aspect gave no sign. She raised her slate so she could explain to all of them, not just Isak.

— Recognised someone.

‘Who?’

A shrug. — Buying time.

Vesna turned back and gripped Isak’s forearm. ‘She’s right, Isak: it doesn’t matter now. Mihn’s made his choice, and we need to move.’

Isak snarled and grabbed the Farlan hero by his throat. ‘Doesn’t matter?’ he rasped, lifting Karkarn’s Mortal-Aspect clean off the ground. ‘It fucking does matter to me.’

Vesna hung limply in Isak’s one handed grip — he knew the young man’s temper well enough — but before either could say anything Legana moved around Vesna and gently rested her fingers on Isak’s shaking arm.

‘ Mihn decided to delay them. Do not waste the opportunity he has given you. ’

‘Sounds easy coming from a heartless bitch like you,’ the white-eye snapped.

‘ One who has also tied herself to both of you,’ she replied calmly. ‘ One who knows he’s not dead yet, and if we get clear, wears no armour. He might still be able to swim to safety.’

Isak’s face tightened as he fought the urge to lash out. Just the idea of Mihn sacrificing himself again sent his memory back to the floorless prison in Ghenna’s lowest pit; where the pain he remembered in his bones had been allayed only by the sound of Mihn’s voice cutting through the clouds of terror.

‘I have to go back for him,’ he gasped, releasing Vesna and tottering backwards.

‘No,’ Vesna croaked, ‘it’s too late for that.’ He physically pushed Isak towards the ice, and the white-eye was unable to resist for the first few steps. Then he found himself staring dazedly at the white ice beneath his feet. He opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment Doranei and Veil both kissed the knuckles of their sword-hands and saluted, even as they turned and faced the ice road.

‘See you when the killing’s done, brother,’ the two men muttered together.

They joined Isak, the rest close behind, and Isak closed his mouth and put one hand to his sternum where Xeliath’s scar was, the link Mihn bore. Legana was right: Mihn would be able to jump from the bridge — but he would be trying to hold off an entire army. Even with his skill, it was asking too much to see the man alive again, but the least Isak could do was not spend his life in vain.

‘I’ll see you again, my friend,’ he whispered to the night, ‘even if I have to reach into the Dark Place itself and drag you back out.’

With that he turned and strode out across the blackness of the lake.

Mihn slipped around the pillar and pinned the spear against it, stepped in and drove an elbow into the soldier’s face. The man released his weapon and staggered back as a straight kick to his sternum knocked him flying into a colleague and they both collapsed in a heap.

Before anyone could bring a crossbow to bear Mihn had ducked back behind the shrine, a set of three trees no taller than Isak with their branches intertwined. Instead of arrows a voice came from the other side, speaking the local dialect in crisp, precise tones.

‘Stop, all of you — withdraw.’

Mihn waited a moment, checking the figures on the ground nearby. Two were unconscious; a third was pawing at his throat as his crushed throat slowly asphyxiated him. There were more just around the shrine. Three he knew were all dead, and the reason the Black Swords in the front hadn’t rushed around the shrine en masse.

‘Will you not come out, brother?’

Mihn closed his eyes a moment. The voice evoked memories of crisp snow on the ground and incense in braziers, priests chanting slowly and the calm voices of the blademasters who’d trained him. He stepped out from behind the shrine, half-expecting to be killed immediately, but the soldiers had all stepped back.

There were five left waiting for him: a balding and bedraggled Menin wearing dirty mage’s robes of blue and yellow loitered at the back, while Priesan Horotain of the Sanctum was flanked by a pair of Harlequins, a man and a woman. The one who’d spoken stood in front of them all. Like Mihn, the man had once been a Harlequin but was now something more. Both were dressed in black, a colour no Harlequin would wear; both were tattooed to signify new allegiances.

‘We are not brothers,’ Mihn said at last.

Venn cocked his head. ‘True: you were cast out, I believe.’

‘And you abandoned your people,’ Mihn countered. ‘The greater shame is yours.’

Venn laughed and took a step forward. Priesan Horotain looked confused by the exchange, which was being conducted in a language he would never have heard before, but one look from the white-masked Harlequins kept him silent.

‘ “Shame belongs to he who beholds it; child of one’s own envy and malice.”’

Mihn rested the butt of his staff on the ground, ready at a moment’s notice to bring it back up, but right now his counterpart was keen to talk; if that bought Isak more time to escape, he was happy to listen to whatever the black Harlequin might have to say.

‘In my years of wandering I have learned a few things,’ he said to Venn. ‘One is that there is a quotation for every instance, words to fit whatever action one might need to justify. Increasingly, I find the solace of others’ words diminishing.’

‘I justify nothing,’ Venn corrected him, ‘but shame has always been the most foolish of notions. When the Land is being reshaped and the Gods themselves quake, what meaning does shame hold?’

There was a slight smile on the man’s face, perceptible in this light only to another student of expression and stance, but one Mihn recognised easily enough. ‘Tell me,’ he asked conversationally, ‘how long have you been thinking about this eventual meeting? How long has pride pricked at your side, wondering when we might cross swords?’

‘Oh, I admit it readily,’ the other said, giving a small bow. ‘I have looked forward to this day ever since I heard Lord Isak had taken a manservant with a Harlequin name — Mihn ab Netren ab Felith, I believe you were known as?’

Mihn inclined his head. ‘I know you only as Venn.’

‘If we were kings, you would confess I had you at a disadvantage perhaps,’ Venn ventured, ‘but such niceties are as foolish as shame. Venn ab Teier ab Pirc is the lineage my father bestowed upon me.’

‘I recognise the name. The blademasters mentioned you in passing.’

‘In passing?’ Venn scoffed. ‘I was their master long before they ever realised it.’

Mihn smiled. ‘Your pride was mentioned, yes. It is one of the ways in which I am your better.’

‘No one is my better,’ he spat, ‘a fact I will gladly prove.’ He turned to one of his colleagues. ‘Marn, give him your swords.’

There was a moment’s hesitation; Mihn could imagine the shock hidden behind her mask: a Harlequin’s blades should never be wielded by another. It was a testament to the thrall she was under that the woman paused for only a moment before reaching for the blades sheathed on her back.

Mihn raise a hand to stop her. ‘There is no need,’ he said. ‘I will not use another’s swords.’

‘It will be no test of my skills if you are not properly armed,’ Venn declared. ‘It must be a fair fight.’

‘No fight is truly fair — it would be no more so if I took her swords.’

‘I suppose so,’ Venn agreed after a moment. ‘How long is it since you used the blades? You have walked the wilderness for many years now; that dulls any edge.’

‘My apologies, you misunderstand,’ Mihn said. ‘It would be unfair on you.’

The anger was clear in Venn’s eyes as the former Harlequin took in Mihn’s boast, even if his voice remained level. ‘You make a bold claim — you think yourself the King of the Dancers?’

‘Others did,’ Mihn replied, inclining his head in acknowledge ment. ‘The masters who taught me, many elders of the clans. I have long since realised they were mistaken.’

‘Even before you met me — how perceptive of you.’

Mihn shook his head. ‘No, there was no King of the Dancers; no prophecy of our own to warm hearts while we watched the Land and those who truly lived in it. It was just a fairytale to bind the clans together; to give them hope of what might one day be. Whether or not you make the claim, it is this hope alone that gives you sway over the rest.’

‘Defiant to the end. I am glad,’ Venn announced, ‘I had thought to honour the failed hopes of the clans by allowing you to die blades in hand, but if you prefer your staff, so be it.’

‘Wait,’ Mihn interjected before Venn could draw his swords, ‘I will take a knife, if you permit it.’

The black Harlequin paused, wary of a ruse, then gestured for someone to toss Mihn a dagger. Marn did so, pulling one from the belt of a nearby soldier and throwing it for Mihn to pluck from the air. He inclined his head in thanks and swiftly cut the laces of his boots to slip his feet out of them.

‘If we are to honour our past when we fight,’ he announced, feeling the slight warmth of his tattoos trying to wrap him in the jagged shadows of the bridge, ‘then I would fight as the man this life has made me.’

Next he sliced open his sleeves to expose the tattoos running down his arms, ripping the cloth away until he was sleeveless. The rowan and hazel leaves echoed on the skin of every man of the Ghosts and Brotherhood looked stark in the glare of the torchlight, and highlighted how lean Mihn’s arms were.

‘No advantage, these,’ he explained, gesturing at the tattoos even as he brought his staff to a ready position, ‘but they show the man I am for all to witness.’

‘As do mine,’ Venn replied, touching a finger to the teardrops set under his right eye.

‘A pale imitation, but nothing more,’ Mihn declared. ‘One I am proud to call my friend bears Karkarn’s true mark, a ruby tear granted to him by the God of War himself. And you? Admit now why you are so eager for this fight — to prove yourself against me.’

‘History has placed us here,’ Venn declared, ‘and it is fitting such circles are closed in a manner of the myths we both learned.’

Mihn shook his head. ‘As my lord would put it: bugger the myths. You want to prove yourself because you are my replacement.’ He moved his staff through a lazy circle, but Venn ignored it.

‘I see it in your eyes. It is a question I have also asked: what purpose was intended for my life? Was there a plan that drove it all? I failed my people, broke under the weight of expectation, perhaps, but perhaps not without help. A failure of memory from a Harlequin, that is rare enough, but one who was expected to be the King of the Dancers? The one hoped to lead the clans out of history’s servitude fails at the last moment? The coincidence is more than unlikely.’

Venn drew his swords and advanced a step, but Mihn could see in his eyes that the man was transfixed. They began to circle warily. Mihn knew he was safe turning his back on the rest — Venn would cut any man or woman to pieces if they dared intervene.

‘What being loves to play with words, to rewrite history or interrupt what is in a man’s mind; to send a man down a new path, one that leads to a decade of wandering the meaner, more desperate parts of this Land? Such a path might make him embittered, making him hold a grudge against the life he never had, and desperate to prove himself. There were times I almost succumbed, almost listened to the anger in my heart, almost opened myself to a shadow’s whisper — but I passed, in the end, and so another was found.’

Mihn gestured expansively towards himself. ‘So come and get me. Test yourself against the one you replaced.’

Venn didn’t wait to refute the claim; he leaped forward with both blades zipping through the air. He moved with astonishing speed, slashing with each step of the dance, each recovery movement turning into a lethal lunge. Mihn gave ground steadily, turning and deflecting blows with calm precision before he thrust forward unexpectedly, stopping Venn’s advance dead as the end of his staff thumped against the black Harlequin’s chest.

Mihn’s blow was at the fullest extent of his reach and too weak to cause the man injury, but it was enough to momentarily halt the fight. Venn’s surprise at the other fighter making first contact was clear, but it shook him from his anger and Mihn saw a cold resolve take over. The Harlequin looked around at where they were fighting. The dead bodies on the ground were as much obstacles as much as the shrines and arches.

Venn pointed to the open stretch of the bridge where the Vanach soldiers were standing and ordered, ‘Back up, all of you.’ He spoke in the local dialect, and several hundred men jumped to obey, forcing their comrades back until they had cleared the best part of fifteen yards. Venn turned his back on Mihn and headed for the open ground, only to have his opponent seize upon the opening; he barely managed to bring his swords up in time, only just blocking one steel-capped end from cracking his skull. Venn found himself scrambling back as Mihn directed blow after punishing blow with each end of his staff, using every last scrap of his remarkable speed to prevent the Harlequin from recovering.

Venn twisted aside as he saw one strike coming, letting the blow glance off his shoulder as he cut brutally up in response.

Mihn caught the blow and danced back out of range.

‘A coward’s attack,’ Venn spat in the moment of stillness that followed.

‘As you wish,’ Mihn replied, attacking again before Venn could reply, using the longer reach of his staff and striking overhead like an axe, forcing Venn to cross his slender swords to catch the blow. Mihn stepped inside the man’s guard and kicked at Venn’s knee, then drove hard into the pinned swords, attempting to push the lethal edges back into Venn’s face.

Venn didn’t wait for the next attack. Swords tangled above his head, he leaned closer and smashed a knee into Mihn’s ribs. Turning, he tried to wrench the staff from Mihn’s hands and flick it aside, following that with a powerful reverse kick at Mihn’s head. Mihn ducked out of the way and launched up to kick at Venn’s chin. His foot glanced off the man’s shoulder and Mihn carried the movement on, throwing himself into a backflip, his staff above his head.

Venn’s swords crashed down on it, just inches from Mihn’s fingers, and he used the momentum to push one side of the staff down and kick at the side of Mihn’s head. The impact rocked Mihn back, but he had dropped to a crouch even before Venn’s sword came around for the kill. Thrusting his staff like a spear, Mihn caught Venn’s lead arm, but in the next moment was forced to roll away as the second blade followed its arc around.

Bracing his staff on the ground, Mihn jumped up and retreated as his opponent drove forward, his sword-tips weaving intricate paths through the air. Mihn watched them come, one high, one low, and darted left at the last moment, battering down at the nearer blade with his staff. Again he tried to come inside Venn’s guard, but the Harlequin was expecting it; he twisted and dropped to a crouch as Mihn drove an elbow at his arm, them surged up with one sword pushing the staff aside and the other heading for Mihn’s throat.

Only Mihn’s extreme athleticism saved him this time: he arched his back and wrenched his staff in a circle. He struck upwards and caught the lunging sword before it could be withdrawn, aiming diagonal blows down on Venn in furious succession. The speed at which he recovered his balance caught Venn by surprise. Now, mixing short, fast swings and jabs with longer strokes, he started pushing Venn back, herding him towards the parapet running down the side of the bridge.

Venn brought his swords close to his body, abandoning the killing lunges for tighter jostling work, edging up to Mihn’s body, but Mihn matched his gambit, his feet feinting to kick as he pressed in on Venn’s right side. He threw himself forward, driving Venn back and forcing his arm to bend at an unnatural angle as he absorbed the pressure.

Losing one hand from his staff, Mihn grabbed Venn’s wrist and smashed his shoulder into the former Harlequin’s, twisting the man’s hand savagely as he did so. As he bent Venn’s hand down, forcing the wrist back against his throat, he used the staff to push the other sword away. Venn tried to resist the pressure and keep hold of his sword, but Mihn kept forcing it until his fingers curled in on themselves and the wrist broke with a crisp snap.

Venn’s fingers went limp, his grip broken, but the sword was still pinned against his body. The pair slammed back into the parapet together, Mihn shoving Venn’s back against the stone edge. As he forced the black Harlequin to bend backwards over the edge, the sword’s razor-sharp edge sliced the cloth of his tunic and traced a red line towards Venn’s throat.

The sight of blood made Mihn freeze and Venn’s eyes widened as he felt the cut of his skin. There was a moment of perfect stillness as both men realised the kill was there. Venn was able to watch his demise in his enemy’s face.

But Mihn didn’t press any further. His attention was focused solely on the faint glitter of light playing on the edge of Venn’s sword.

‘No,’ he whispered, and released the pressure against Venn’s arm.

The sword fell, and the two men stood as close as lovers until Venn wrenched his body upright and brought his other hand up to bear. Dragging his remaining blade behind, Venn drew its edge across Mihn’s belly and felt the steel bite deep, even as the man gripped his hand.

Mihn gasped and shuddered, his hands tightly clasped around Venn’s broken wrist, even as he felt the sword tear up to his ribs.

The movement spun him against the parapet and Venn felt

Mihn’s breath on his face as a last gasp escaped his lips, but Mihn could not maintain the pressure and released his enemy. He sagged, one shoulder over the parapet while blood spilled down his legs. He looked up, fighting back the pain to stare Venn straight in the eye. ‘You will always know,’ he whispered, ‘that only my vow saved your life.’

Venn didn’t wait to hear any more. His ruined wrist clamped to his chest, the black Harlequin spun neatly around and smashed a foot across Mihn’s face. His head snapped backwards in a spray of blood and then he was falling over the edge. Mihn fell, as limp as a dead thing, and disappeared.

Venn ran to the parapet and watched the dying man hit the lake with a dull splash. The black waters swallowed Mihn and closed above his body, the ripples of his impact lasting just a few seconds before the waves washed over them and erased any sign.

He stayed there a long half-minute, watching the inky surface below. It betrayed no sign of the man he had killed.

Eventually Venn nodded to himself. No man could survive that injury, he knew that with certainty. Even without the cold water and the exertion of swimming, Mihn would be dead in minutes from such a cut. Satisfied, he turned away.

No man of such skill deserves an audience when he dies, Venn thought to himself. It is best I did not see the light extinguished from his eyes.

‘ A sentimentalist still? ’ Rojak said in the recesses of Venn’s mind. The minstrel laughed softly as Venn caught the faint scent of peach blossom on the wind. ‘ I did not appreciate the honour when King Emin left me to burn.’

Venn tasted sour contempt in his throat. Rojak had been the first of Azaer’s most remarkable followers, but the minstrel had never understood true warriors, men like Ilumene or Mihn. There was a commonality that could not be explained to others; that went beyond the act of one killing another. Rojak had always been contemptuous of fighting men, thinking all those who killed on command were the same.

He had hunted you for years, and still he could not bear to watch that last spark fade, minstrel.

‘ Let us hope the creatures of Ghenna honour your friend so. I can hear their voices call out in the night. They sense a hunt is on. ’

Venn sighed and looked down at his right arm as the pain continued to build, one final reminder of the King of the Dancers. The break was bad; it might be a lasting legacy.

‘Go,’ he croaked to the hushed crowd behind him. ‘Get after the rest.’