The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 20

Lord Fernal sat alone in a dim study, picking at the plate of cold meat and cheese sitting on a table beside him. The window shutters were open and he watched the last of the daylight recede in the east, slivers of light gleaming on the drifting river that cut across his view. The fields and hedgerows were already dark, but his predator’s eyes caught the small movements of rabbits on the fringes of the human domain. He watched them moving warily, ears twitching at each shout and laugh from the banquet hall nearby, but not driven from their grazing by the clamour.

A knock came on the door. Fernal sighed and called for them to enter. A liveried guardsman announced Duke Lomin, but the nobleman was already inside the room before Fernal nodded his assent.

‘My Lord,’ Duke Lomin said, ‘your absence has been noticed at the banquet.’

Fernal turned in his seat to face the bearded soldier. ‘Noticed? I would hope so; I am their lord after all.’

‘The new arrivals were all keen to toast your health.’

‘Really?’ Fernal asked wearily, ‘and after that I’m sure they’d be commending your lineage, Duke Lomin.’ The man coloured and Fernal held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry. The insult was not aimed at you but your peers.’

‘Whatever their feelings, you should come down. You have called them here, after all, and have given little reason for so many to assemble.’

‘Is their lord’s will not enough?’

‘Not for long,’ Lomin said. ‘My Lord, why are we all here? There’s no insurrection to put down, no threat of invasion from the south — if anything, the army should be heading north to the coast to face down the Yeetatchen raids.’

‘The fact that you don’t believe Ruhen is a threat does not alter my policy, Duke Lomin,’ Fernal said with a growl.

‘Yes, my Lord, and we are bound to follow you to war — this we know, but some of us have been beyond the Farlan borders for months now. If there is no enemy to fight, well — it is testing the limits of obedience.’

‘Chief Steward Lesarl has more than a few things to say about Farlan obedience,’ Fernal said with a gesture of one taloned hand to the letters on another table, ‘but call it what you will, I realise they are chafing under my authority.’

‘My Lord, you’ve gathered the rulers of fourteen Farlan domains, along with their troops, here in this pitiful little border town, with no enemy to fight and many concerned they will have to refuse you outright if you press to take the fight to the child, Ruhen.’

Fernal rose and went to face Duke Lomin; the massive, midnight-blue Demi-God loomed over him. ‘Do they send you as their emissary?’

‘I am the highest-ranked among them, it is my place to speak to you. They seek assurances that you will not drag the Farlan into another nation’s war.’

‘You mean a war that concerns us just as much as it does our ally fighting it?’ Fernal shook his head sadly. ‘I will never understand your people, Duke Lomin. However, I understand there are formalities to adhere to. Lead on to the banquet.’

As they went out into the torch-lit street and headed for the banquet hall Fernal’s liveried guards fell in around them. A pair of Lomin’s own hurscals kept to the fringes. Before they reached the hall, however, Duke Lomin stopped and pointed ahead.

‘Suzerains Amah and Danva were the most anxious to speak to you themselves, rather than be represented by me.’

‘Both recently come into their titles, no? Their fathers lying among the dead on the Chir Plains?’

‘Danva’s father was suzerain-in-regent for his infant nephew, now dead of scarlet fever, but Amah was uncle to the previous suzerain.’

Fernal nodded and moved forward to greet the two recently arrived noblemen. Both knelt and offered him their swords as tradition demanded.

‘My Lords,’ Fernal said in his deep, rumbling voice, ‘I am glad to see you both here.’

‘Thank you, your Grace,’ Amah replied quickly, a burly man with greying hair and cheeks scarred by some childhood illness. ‘Might we now know why we are here?’

‘Because I command it,’ Fernal said.

‘The situation here requires so many soldiers?’ he countered, barely keeping the anger from his voice. ‘Is the concern rebellion or invasion?’

‘Rebellion is always a concern of mine,’ Fernal said pointedly. ‘I am newer to my title than even you both. However, the greater threat remains in the Circle City.’

‘The child, Ruhen? My Lord, have I missed some piece of intelligence? All I hear is that he preaches a message of peace and denounces the corruption of the priesthoods.’ Amah frowned. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but did not the Farlan nobility mobilise specifically to face down the cults and prevent civil war?’

‘For which you have my gratitude. But it does not override other matters.’

Amah shared a look with Danva. ‘My Lord, the child’s threat is surely to the cults? Since we have broken their power and now formally limit it, why are we not allied with Ruhen? Our goals coincide; the enemy is a common one, yet I’m told we have slaughtered two parties of missionaries and turned back others. Why do you seek war, my Lord?’

‘They have had their warnings; they refuse to heed them. As for the missionaries slaughtered, they came with several regiments of Devoted as escort and preferred to fight rather than return to their own lands. You would prefer foreign powers be allowed to march troops into Farlan territory?’

‘Of course not — but I still do not understand your antipathy, the preference of provoking war over building links with our new neighbours.’

‘You would have me welcome messengers of peace who come accompanied by hundreds of fighting men?’ Fernal asked, taking a step towards the suzerain.

Unlike Duke Lomin, the suzerain could not help but edge back from the Demi-God’s size and brutal appearance. He didn’t even notice Fernal’s guards putting their hands on their weapons.

‘There is a specific agreement between myself and the suzerains of the Farlan. You have received a copy of it?’

Suzerain Amah nodded.

‘Good, so you know the terms already then. Nowhere does it say I must explain myself to you, only that I will not lead you into a war on foreign soil without recognised justification. I choose not to dwell on reasons or explanations; otherwise I might require a few of my own, and point out our finest are already fighting in such a war.’

‘My Lord,’ Lomin interceded, stepping forward, ‘we are all aware of the terms, and we shall abide by them. The question remains: what threat exists on our border? The expense of maintaining such a large force here is significant, and we all have matters to attend to at home, in addition to the new lands we are now administering here in Helrect and Scree.’

‘You are telling me I must release the nobility to be about their own affairs?’

Lomin bowed. ‘It would seem time for that, my Lord. All intelligence suggests the Devoted troops are heading for the Narkang border — they pose us no threat. The purpose of this show of strength is achieved, to my mind.’

And there you have it, Fernal thought as he looked around at the faces watching him, emotion showing even on the faces of Lomin’s hurscals, hovering behind their lord. They offer me a way out, a way to save face and move on. The question is — do I take it? Where does my duty lie? I gave my oath to serve the Farlan, to ensure they do not fall into civil war, but what of the Land itself, the friendships I bear and the war they are engaged in?

He lingered a moment on the elder of the two hurscals, a man whose much-broken nose and weathered face told its own story.

He was balding and had cropped short what little of his hair remained, making it easy for Fernal to see the tattoos of knighthood on his neck. The blue markings showed he had been ennobled on the battlefield, and Fernal could see in his grey-brown eyes what he thought of not marching to support the Ghosts, the tribe’s proudest legions.

‘My duty is clear,’ Fernal said, staring straight into the hurscal’s eyes, ‘and this show of strength is indeed done. The nobility are released to return home. Duke Lomin, please convey my words to those attending the banquet.’

‘I will do so,’ the duke replied, sweeping up the suzerains as he moved past — his powerful arms taking them by the shoulders before they could object and dragging them both with him. The hurscal however didn’t move.

‘My duty is clear,’ Fernal repeated.

‘Is it just me,’ Suzerain Torl asked quietly, ‘or do they prefer to preach at dusk, when the shadows are longest?’ He indicated the white-robed Children of Ruhen holding court in the town square. They were less than twenty miles from Byora now, deep in the heartland of Ruhen’s powerbase.

Count Macove nodded, careful not to stare at the group of preachers. There were only four of them, but a score of wide-eyed followers lingered at a reverent distance and at least one squad of Devoted soldiers kept a close eye on events. From what Torl could see, that was unnecessary; there were no dissenting voices, no expressions of disapproval. Most of the people here were converts already, accepting Ruhen’s promised peace with the fervour of those scared of living in uncertain times.

‘They can’t all be touched by the shadow,’ Macove muttered in response, ‘there’s too many of them now — unless the shadow’s power has grown vastly. Theatricality perhaps?’

Cedei, the Brotherhood veteran, hawked and spat on the cobbled ground. ‘Sounds about right. Bastard’s always loved a show.’

Cedei was typical of the Brotherhood in Torl’s eyes: an unremarkable man with a weathered face, speckled grey hair and cold, intense eyes. A born street-fighter, that one, Torl thought. Macove’s the nobleman, the knight with height and muscle on his side, but I’d never bet against Emin’s bloody hands of history if it came to a fight.

‘Tell the others to hang back,’ he said out loud. ‘We’re not looking for a fight here, just getting the lie of the Land.’

Cedei nodded and fished out a pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled the bowl and made a show of casting around for a light, checking for their escort of Dark Monks, the religious order both Torl and Macove belonged to. He caught no one’s eye and made no additional gestures, but once the pipe was lit he looked satisfied enough.

‘Shall we then?’

The three men edged a little closer to the preachers, careful to act as they looked: interested merchants who posed no threat to order or the safety of the preachers. Only Torl wore a cloak, and that was pushed back off his shoulders despite the chilly weather and heavy grey clouds — all the better for the Devoted to see they carried only knives for their own protection. His three gold earrings of rank had been removed now they were in enemy territory, as had Macove’s two, though both men found themselves touching a finger to their ear from time to time, then checking the cords around their necks from which the family relics hung.

‘Brothers!’ exclaimed a voice from their left, and Torl almost jumped as a man appeared from the crowd, not dressed as a preacher, but with the exact same expression as those in white. He’d been tasked with rooting out potential dissent in the crowd, Torl realised, meeting the naysayers head on before the white-clad preachers could be dragged into a shouting match.

‘Do you come to hear the peace of Ruhen?’

Cedei nodded enthusiastically, immediately deferential. ‘We do, sir. Passed a good few preachers on the road — and more’n enough signs o’ what war’s done to this Land besides.’

The man inclined his head benevolently and Torl forced himself to respond in respectful kind, Macove following his lead. The ageing suzerain felt his fists tighten as he bent his back to the man; he was unused to considering any commoner his equal, let alone his superior.

‘You are come from Narkang lands?’ he asked with a studied expression of guileless interest.

‘That I am, sir,’ Cedei agreed with a bob of the head, ‘my friends from the north.’

‘Scree,’ Torl said hoarsely, ‘what once was, anyway.’

‘So you have all suffered by the cruelty of avaricious men,’ he intoned. ‘Yours is a common story, brothers.’

‘We’ve seen enough fighting, aye, ta know the horrors of it,’

Cedei said. He looked askance at Torl. ‘Some witnessing more’n others.’

‘Your family?’

Torl bowed his head, trusting Cedei’s instincts for spinning a plausible story. ‘My wife and children,’ he confirmed, ‘we were separated in the rush to escape the firestorm.’

‘And they were murdered by men claiming divine inspiration,’ the man finished for him. ‘The King of Narkang let his army run riot on the defenceless refugees.’

‘Bastard did nothing when the Menin came either,’ Cedei added with venom. ‘Could’ve used some righteous fury when my town was burning.’

‘But he saw no profit in it,’ the white-clad man said sadly, ‘such is the way of men of power. Only Ruhen’s peace will free us of this — only Ruhen is not so clouded by the cares and fears of our mortal life, not corrupted by desires for power or magic only Gods should be able to wield.’

Cedei nodded obsequiously and it was all Torl could do not to gawp at the man’s superb acting. ‘Hoping ta hear a better way, sir. We’ve all heard rumours that King Emin commands monsters, but no matter what, the priests would only sing his praises.’

‘The cults are wedded to their own love of power, the thrall they hold the people in with empty promises of the afterlife.’ The man lurched forward and unexpectedly embraced Cedei, causing several more in the crowd to turn and watch the exchange.

‘Open your heart, brother! Come, let us get closer and hear our saviour’s message of peace!’ Torl saw smiles and approval on the faces of the crowd, and more than one echoing the man’s exhortations.

Torl and Macove held their ground as the man led a beaming Cedei away, one arm draped over his shoulders to guide him to the front of the crowd. Torl could sense the envy radiating out from those around them as Cedei was brought to the front of the crowd, the people parting easily before them, but closing up just as quickly afterwards.

The main group of preachers were assembled on a small platform in the centre of the square, next to a large well. The lighter marks on the stone indicated something had recently been removed from there — Torl guessed a shrine to an Aspect of Vasle inhabiting the well — though how the preachers had justified demolishing it he couldn’t fathom. Perhaps the local priests charged for any water drawn; perhaps it was destroyed under cover of dark and King’s Men blamed for the desecration.

‘Brothers,’ began a burly preacher, slipping his white hood from his head, ‘Sisters, blessed children! May the peace of Ruhen embrace you all and cast the fear from your hearts.’

There were muttered responses from the crowd, no one wanting to stand out by speaking up too loudly, but the preacher basked in their attention nonetheless. He fell silent for a few heartbeats and then his expression turned grave. ‘The peace of the child is a blessed thing. We, his children in spirit, were born with purity in our hearts and minds. We too were once free of fear and our hearts yearn for that time of peace, but this Land is one assailed and it cannot be. Only the child, our Lord Ruhen, possesses a purity of spirit that cannot be diminished by the works of daemons and evil men — for his is the quintessence of that first, perfect gift we are each given by the Gods.’

Torl nodded along with the rest of the crowd, though it sickened him to his stomach to hear such words go unchallenged. The Brethren of the Sacred Teachings, called by most the Dark Monks, were an Order dedicated to the preservation of the Pantheon’s majesty. He had spent his life studying religious texts and defending the innocent from all sorts of threats. That he could not draw a sword and strike this man down pained him physically, but he forced down the feelings and continued to listen.

‘In these dark times,’ the preacher continued after the crowd had hushed again, ‘we find ourselves assailed. The Land itself and the Gods that rule us are assailed, estranged from their children by the wickedness of priests in love with power. We choose peace for our hearts, we choose a path of purity for our lives, but it is not always enough.’

He gestured towards the liveried Knights of the Temples standing at the mouth of an alley. ‘Some are forced to take up arms in defence of peace, to fight those who cannot stand to see it flourish in this once beautiful Land. Place your trust in these guardians and place your faith in the child: his peace is a shield against the cares of this life.

‘And still they come, and still the devoted servants of peace are beset. This is the dusk of the Land, brothers and sisters, and a great darkness shall soon be upon us.’

The preacher bowed his head a moment, as though struggling physically with the strain of the darkness, and Torl saw the crowd surge forward as if to support him with all they had. Many of those watching were the poorest of this town, but not all; Cedei’s account of the assault on the Ruby Tower had described a small army of beggars camped outside the gates, waiting for a glimpse of their saviour. Now, it was not only the mad and the desperate finding solace in Ruhen’s promises. He recognised how they would be swayed to Ruhen’s service even as his horror deepened.

‘The darkness will come in many forms: in the faces of men and on the wings of daemons — but do not fear it; it is fear they crave, terror they seek to inspire. Without oppression and fear, the King of Narkang is nothing but a man ruled by his own vices. Darkness walks this Land, as you have all borne witness. Daemons walk this Land — the voices in the night, the shapes beyond the boundary lines, given freedom to hunt by those enemies of peace, eager for the blood of innocent men.’

The preacher took a step forward, staring directly at the faces of those nearest him, Cedei included. ‘But should we fear them, my siblings under Ruhen?’

‘No!’ screamed several, howling the words back at him and prompting the preacher to incline his head with stern approbation.

‘No, we should not: their power comes from your fear; that is how they become strong over us. When the daemons came to Byora, the child did not fear them. An army of daemons, loosed from Ghenna’s dark pit and sent to kill the child by King Emin himself — but Ruhen did not fear them. He marched out with one disciple at his side, one man walking in the footsteps of a child!

‘The daemons were weakened by his resolve and they could not harm him, for peace is anathema to them. A great victory was won that day — not by armies, not by lords or mages, but by common folk like you and me. The people of Byora cast off their fear; they saw the child unafraid and knew they had no need of it. Fear weakens us, but without it no force in the Land can prevail over us!’

The crowd began to cheer and shout, stamping their feet and drowning out the preacher’s next words so he was forced to stop and quieten them before he could continue: ‘Be as the child, in all things. If darkness assails you, stand tall and meet it without fear. As children of a greater cause we shall face them, side by side and armoured by the child’s perfect peace.’ His voice lowered to almost a prayer, and the crowd went suddenly silent, rapt, as he finished, ‘With the blessing of the child, my brethren, we will march out and show them the resolve children of peace possess. Against that no spears can prevail.’

The crowd found their voices again, but now there were no wild calls or shouts; many had sunk to their knees and begun to keen wordlessly. Torl could not bring himself to follow their example. Instead, with his head bowed and hands clasped, he spoke the words of a prayer in his mind, first to Lord Death, then a grace to the Aspects of Vasle. From all sides the voices joined and slowly built into a chorus, a lament and entreaty that was primal. Torl felt it deep inside him.

When the mood finally broke and people started to move from where they stood, some returning to their labours, others to approach the preachers directly, Torl felt Macove put a hand on his arm and lean close in. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked quietly, the words almost lost in the resuming hubbub of daily life. ‘Is the child building an army?’

Torl shook his head and gestured for them to leave. He needed a drink after witnessing that. ‘No, my friend, it’s something more basic than an army.’ He glanced back at the centre of the square, where Cedei was now embroiled in conversation with one of the white-cloaked preachers. He decided to leave the man to it; infiltration was one of his skills, and he would be safe enough on his own. At the last town Cedei had spent an entire evening in the company of one such preacher, acting the convert and ever-keen to hear more of the child’s great works.

They had all left the town by the time the preacher was found dead in a whore’s bed with an opium pipe in his hand. Subtlety, it seemed to Torl, was the one thing not taught to the King’s Men, but the more he watched Ruhen’s preachers the more he wondered what outrageousness would be too much for the credulous, fearful masses.

‘A sacrifice,’ he said with a heavy heart. ‘Ruhen expects an invasion. He does not believe the Devoted can face us in the field, so he portrays King Emin as a monster and godless conqueror.’

‘And still he asks people to face us down?’ Macove’s breath caught as he realised the truth of it. ‘Oh Gods!’

‘Exactly,’ Torl said. ‘To meet Ruhen, the king’s armies will have to march through a river of innocent blood, cutting a path through unarmed fanatics as well as Devoted armies. Ruhen does not care how many we kill; his audience is the people beyond these parts. If we slaughter a hundred thousand of his followers, he will only laugh for we will be playing into his hands. We must hope the king puts a careful man in command of the army he is preparing.’ He sighed, feeling a chill of age and foreboding in his bones. ‘To reach our enemy we will have to confirm these people’s worst fears.’