The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 23

A white falcon soared above Byora, far from the voices and clamour of the city below. Lord Gesh watched it with envious eyes; his own great wings provided him with no such freedom now that tradition and politics dragged at his heels. The touch of the thin autumn sunlight on his body failed to warm him, and the soft kiss of magic that had carried him this high was no longer the sheer indulgent pleasure it had once been.

He was not entirely alone up here, of course, but his guards maintained their distance. Their lord’s fatigue was obvious, even to other white-eyes. The burdens of leadership, or something more? Gesh was not sure he knew himself. Restful sleep had eluded him ever since he had ascended to Lord of the Litse.

Perhaps it’s guilt? — no, hardly; Celao had been an insult to their God, and the people of Ismess had suffered for it. Now they cheered Gesh with a passion: a lord who truly embodied their God.

And Ismess welcomed Ruhen’s Children with open arms, their enthusiasm the greatest of any quarter of the Circle City. The preachers had been careful to speak out only against the priests of the city, not the God who was their patron. The cults of Ismess had seen the clerics’ rebellion in Byora and the Devoted’s own power struggle in Akell. They had seen sense and chosen survival over principle. The Gods were weakened and Ilit would not intercede, even for his own priests, so they had quietly closed their temples and gone to ground or left the city, leaving no opposition to Ruhen’s Children, no dissenting voices to his message — and no refusal of the food appearing in their markets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Your people, Lord Koteer?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He’s even got you wearing boots, Nai,’ Amber replied, raising a hand for his troops to halt. ‘What’s the Land coming to? What would your former master say?’

Nai glanced down at the army boots he’d been issued with. He had never worn footwear, not crossing Byoran or Narkang lands, in the whole time Amber had known him. ‘That the king’s a genius?’ Nai muttered. He gave a sniff. ‘Apparently bare feet detract from the mystique the Brotherhood’s aiming for.’

Before Amber could reply he was forced to jerk the reins of his horse out of a young officer’s grip. ‘Hey, try and take them again and you’ll lose your head,’ he growled.

‘Whoa!’ shouted Nai, running between the two men as weapons were drawn, ‘step back, Captain!’

‘He can’t take an armed troop into the castle!’ the captain yelled, struggling fruitlessly against the arm Nai had wrapped around his bicep.

‘That’s not your decision!’ Nai said, loud enough for the captain’s troops to hear too. They all had their weapons out and the only thing now keeping them from the Menin was the bee device on Nai’s collar. He gave the captain a shove and sent him reeling backwards into his troops. Before the man had recovered his balance Nai was already drawing magic into himself.

The Kingsguard were drifting closer from all directions, hands reaching for weapons. The Menin showed no sign of backing down. Nai held his hand out to the captain as though warning him to stop, but instead of speaking he made a sweeping motion with his hand that cast a trail of spitting sparks towards the faces of those about to attack. The soldiers reeled, hands raised to cover their eyes and swat the sparks away from hair and clothes.

By the time the magic had faded to nothing, Nai had made up the ground and grabbed the captain by the collar and hoisted him up one-handed for all to see. Coils of green and black light raced around his hand, growing faster and more intense with every passing moment. The black light left a smoky, sulphurous trace in the air, and Amber realised Nai’s past had to be common knowledge now: he was playing on the fear others felt at the word necromancer. It had the desired effect as the eager troops scrambled back.

‘All of you, sheathe your weapons!’ Nai roared, turning to make it clear he included the Menin in that order. Amber gave a small gesture and his men obeyed, spurring compliance from the Narkang troops.

‘Now, get back to your duties. You, Captain — you and your men see to Major Amber’s horses, you hear me? Amber, please dismount and follow me — just a few officers, please; the rest can wait here or return to your troops, I really don’t care.’

Amber cocked his head at the man. Nai wasn’t really suited to giving orders, but he appeared to be learning the Brotherhood way, expecting commoners and generals alike to jump on command.

‘Since you asked so nicely,’ Amber said before continuing in Menin, knowing the necromancer was the only other able to speak the dialect, ‘Dorom, Kesax, with me. The rest of you wait here and try to not to kill any of the king’s precious troops. Apparently they don’t have many to spare these days.’

With the two colonels as his side, Amber followed Nai to Camatayl Castle. Kamfer’s Ford had grown in the days he’d been absent; now corrals, barracks, tents and warehouses were dotting the plain around the town. There were wagon-trains approaching, laden with food to maintain the army King Emin was building, and beyond he could pick out troops practising manoeuvres.

The Kingsguard inspecting the faces of everyone entering the castle said quietly to Nai, ‘If they’re going in armed, you keep ’em clear of Forrow, eh?’

Nai nodded at the sense of that and waved Amber and the colonels through and across the cluttered courtyard. Amber could see a large feathered hat at the centre of a knot of soldiers. Men instinctively parted for them before King Emin had even noticed their arrival. Nai placed himself square in front of the king’s bodyguard to block his path.

‘Ah, Major,’ Emin said cheerily, ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

‘It’s General now,’ Amber replied, feeling his hand tighten instinctively into a fist before he could catch himself.

‘General? Ah, the Menin right of challenge? I hadn’t realised that worked in the military too.’

‘It doesn’t — but General Arek could think of no man higher ranked than he now our lord was dead.’

‘Hardly a fair fight,’ Emin said with an appraising look. Arek had been a fighting man, but few reached the rank of general while still in the prime of their life, and Amber was powerful, even for a Menin.

‘He realised that,’ Amber said, his tone of voice making it clear he didn’t want to discuss the matter further. Arek had died like a warrior, in a manner of his own choosing.

‘As you say, General Amber.’ Emin gestured to the men around him. ‘Since you are here, please report on the state of your men for my advisors.’

Amber recognised several faces: Dashain of the Brotherhood, General Bessarei of the Kingsguard and Suzerain Derenin among them, but only the Farlan veteran Carel had given him any sort of proper acknowledgement.

‘I command ten battle-ready legions — five heavy infantry, two medium and one of archers — plus one of skirmishers and a legion of cavalry support, if I can secure fresh horses for most of them.’

‘And they will fight under my banner?’

‘They’ll fight for me,’ Amber said stiffly. ‘I have promised them your assistance with supplies and in crossing hostile ground and in return they will fight any troops who try to block their path. But they’ll not fight under your flag any time soon.’

Emin hesitated a moment, most likely picturing a map of the route Amber was planning for his army. It would cut through the heart of Ruhen’s lands and past Thotel to the great high plain that interrupted the mountain line there. It would give him everything he needed.

‘That is acceptable. I thank you, General. Will you permit troops to be attached to your command? The Devoted have many Farlan in their ranks, and I believe their cavalry surpasses your own. I offer a few legions of my own best, the Green Scarves, and mages too, since you are assuming the lead on a dangerous journey.’

Amber turned to the men who’d accompanied him. ‘Green Scarves,’ he muttered to them in Menin. ‘Will you fight with them if they provide support?’

The pair exchanged a look. ‘We heard of them in dispatches,’ Dorom replied, ‘but neither of us have personally encountered these legions. I believe they were a major irritant for our lord’s armies during the advance: brave soldiers led by a God-marked daemon.’

‘Led by a daemon?’ Amber asked King Emin.

The king smiled indulgently. ‘He does get a bit over-excited at times — I believe they’re referring to General Daken. The Green Scarves are currently commanded by Colonel Dassai, but Daken will be rejoining them soon.’

Amber straightened a little. ‘Your mission was a success?’

‘It was. And that leads me to this: Isak Stormcaller will be arriving here soon. You and your men had best keep clear of him.’

‘Clear?’ Amber growled.

‘Well clear. If you need a reason, it’s this: he went to find an object of great power, Death’s own weapon. None of us know the damage he’ll wreak if he’s attacked. You know his mind is damaged; the Gods alone know what toll Termin Mystt is taking, so he may prove indiscriminate.’

‘I shall instruct my men accordingly.’

‘You do that.’ Carel spoke up, ignoring the shocked looks from some of the king’s advisors. ‘All you’ll get is a bad death, and you better believe I’ll be leading the massacre o’ the rest o’ your boys before anyone gets a chance to stop me. Don’t reckon many o’ these boys here will care who’s giving the order if it’s to kill Menin.’

Amber bit down on his lip, fighting the anger that blossomed hot in his stomach. ‘I hear you, Carel,’ he said after a moment.

‘You have my word.’

Emin looked from one man to the other. ‘I think we all understand each other, so let us move on. General Amber, what condition are your troops in?’

Amber kept his eyes on Carel a moment longer before returning his attention to the matter at hand. ‘Their condition?’ he said, ‘tired mostly. Being holed up in a town on short rations hasn’t done any of them much good. I could do with a week to get them back into proper order before they’re ready to fight a drilled army.’

‘You have it: a mile or so north of here there’s a stretch of heath you can camp on. Plenty of water there too.’ He thought for a minute then said, ‘General, the bulk of your troops are heavy infantry. You will not fight alongside my armies — what about an elite force not of either of our tribes?’

‘Got one up your sleeve, have you?’

King Emin inclined his head, smiling slightly as he tugged one braided cuff then the other in the manner of a travelling conjurer. ‘My mage assisting Lord Isak’s swift return tells me we have had an offer of assistance from an unexpected source. I suspect your battle tactics will be to push through anyone arrayed against you and break their order. These troops could provide a breach of the lines on command.’

Amber narrowed his eyes at the king. ‘Just who’re you talking about here?’

‘The Legion of the Damned — I believe you saw them at work in Scree?’

‘Not up close, just from the city walls, but I didn’t much like what I saw. They slaughtered more’n a thousand at the gate itself, gave ’em nowhere to run and never listened for quarter.’

‘I am told they’ve pledged their loyalty, though obedience might be yours to persuade. Mage Ashain informs me they will arrive soon. They are travelling faster than Lord Isak’s party.’

The big officer scowled. ‘Don’t sound an easy task, but I’ll use ’em, sure. Bastards’ll be worth the trouble.’

‘Good. The bulk of my troops are spread out in an attempt to restore some order to the eastern parts of Narkang. If I need not recall them to support your army I am thankful.’

‘The bulk of your troops?’ Amber asked, gesturing towards the thousands of soldiers encamped beyond the castle walls.

‘The men you see here are largely raw recruits and those mostly inexperienced troops who survived Moorview. I’ve had to divert much of the Canar Thrit reinforcements to the Vanach border to dissuade any expansion of boundaries there, and the legions from Canar Fell are untested in battle. General Bessarei here tells me he needs another month before sending them into battle. We will be marching, I assure you, but it will be in your wake, once the enemy are forced to react to your efforts.’

Amber gave the king a brief bow of acknowledgement. Tense and tentative allies they might be, but still Amber felt the warrior spirit inside him cry out to obey this ruler. Loyalty and duty were beaten into the minds of every Menin warrior. For generations they had had a lord without equal, one worthy of reverence and sacrifice. Though pride and anger kept Amber aloof and disrespectful, in that moment he realised he would always be a soldier in need of a master.

The king’s ice blue eyes glittered knowingly as Amber met his gaze and a chill ran down his spine — did the king realise that too? Had he been counting on it when he sent away the best of his army?

‘Thank you, General,’ said Emin. ‘I’m sure you are keen to see to your men. Gentlemen, we shall reconvene in the morning.’

After King Emin’s meeting with his newest general, both Menin and Narkang commanders swiftly moved on to the many tasks screaming for their immediate attention. Carel found himself alone in the lee of the castle wall while life continued around him. Gusts of wind swirled across the courtyard, invisible but for the leaves and dust they picked up, but they were all Carel could see. Sweeping over men as though they weren’t there, the twists of wind possessed a strange life of their own that perfectly matched the high, urgent calls of the swifts that Carel normally heard only in the northern summer. There was no God here, not even those spirits too weak to be called Aspects; maybe because of that, Carel was entranced. For months the old warrior had felt himself little more than a puff of wind amidst this great storm.

It wasn’t just those who’d died. Mihn had been a source of quiet strength, and not just to Isak; Vesna was a friend he’d relied on. He’d been set adrift from his life on the wagon-train and he couldn’t imagine how he could ever go back, even after Isak’s death. He’d belonged in Tirah Palace, but with the Ghosts marched away and all his friends dead, Carel had found no real place for him there now. The Chief Steward would always have work for trusted veterans, but he had felt like a ghost, walking corridors that echoed with voices of the departed.

‘Is this place any different?’ Carel asked himself. ‘It’s no more of a home for me — or is home just chasing after that surly brat the rest o’ my life?’ He pulled his jacket a little tighter around his body and glanced down at his left sleeve where his arm had once been. The back of his damn hand was itching again, the hand that’d been tossed into a fire, so Mihn had said.

‘Sure someone told me somethin’ about that,’ he muttered as he stepped back to make way for two porters carrying a crate; the men were careful not to notice him talking to himself — there were many around without livery or uniform who’d take exception to being disturbed by a servant. ‘Was it your mother, Isak?’ he asked himself.

He shrugged and forced himself to start off across the courtyard and back to Kamfer’s Ford. ‘Think it might’ve been, superstitious lot, those caravan folk. First time I met her, too — Horman brought her along when I was still in the guard. Man was so alive then, walking well and made taller by love.’

He stopped by the gate and looked around at the bustling inhabitants — soldiers and clerks for the main, little more than boys, wearing the green-and-gold of the Kingsguard.

‘That’s how I remember your father,’ Carel whispered to the small gusts of wind that followed him across the courtyard, ‘so young he still had fluff on his cheeks, but on his arm was this dark-eyed beauty — she was a wild and wilful one, was Larassa. You got more from her than Horman ever let you know.’

He headed outside, letting the breeze cool his eyes where tears where threatening to form. ‘No memories of your ma; that always hurt you. Now they say you don’t remember me either?’ His thoughts dissolved into memory, the day King Emin had returned to Kamfer’s Ford, not so long after Carel had arrived himself, and met in Major Amber a soul as damaged as his own. When the king returned, Carel had been the first person he’d summoned. He’d hardly expected to meet the man again, but a pair of Kingsguard had hustled him all the way to a private meeting.

Surprise had melted into shock and sick disbelief when he was presented to the King of Narkang. The man had been full of worry, the stink of it filling the room, leaving Carel fearful for his few remaining friends. But to learn that Isak was alive- The king’s words had robbed him of the ability to stand; the king’s new bodyguard had had to half-carry him to a chair.

But the grief at Isak’s death, still eating at Carel’s guts, was doubled at what he heard then: his boy, dragged out of Ghenna, scarred and scared and traumatised — Carel’s head had already been reeling when the final punch came, driving the wind from his lungs, emptying his stomach and leaving black stars of pain bursting before his eyes. Remembering that moment even now forced him to stop by the road and drop to his knees, retching, as his heart threatened to burst.

‘ Carel, I’m sorry, but there’s more,’ the king had said. ‘ He- ’ For a moment even the King of Narkang had been lost for words. ‘ His mind was hurt, Carel. The pain of Ghenna was too much for him. The witch of Llehden had to take memories from his mind to save what was left. He — Isak — he doesn’t remember you. He will not know you if he sees you again. Carel, I’m sorry, but you are lost to him. ’

It wasn’t far, but it took Carel a long time to reach the town, lost as he was in his memories. He found himself resting on the swordstick he used to support himself more often these days. He only caught himself at the river, when the click of the stick’s metal tip on the bridge woke him from his thoughts. Carel stared at the stick, struck by a sudden urge to throw it into the river.

‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ a woman called.

Carel turned and peered through the low light at the speaker. ‘Ardela?’

‘If you’re going to pitch yourself off, best find somewhere higher,’ the former Hand of Fate advised, stepping lightly over to him. She was dressed in men’s clothing as usual, but judging by her battered brigandine and black breeches worn over high boots, this time she’d looted the tent of some Brotherhood man. Short, unruly curls of dark black hair poked out from beneath an ancient wide-brimmed hat that Carel guessed would make the king laugh.

He looked down at the river, some twelve feet down below. ‘You could be right, but I was more thinking of takin’ my life back from this damn thing.’

‘Your swordstick?’

‘I keep finding myself putting my weight on it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s turning me into an old man.’

‘That ain’t the stick, old man — anyways, not as if you’re one o’ those wrecks shuffling around with their white collar stained so bad by wine, folk won’t believe they were ever in the Ghosts.’

Carel straightened up automatically. He was certainly more grey-haired than in his army days, but it had been the loss of his arm that ended his fighting career, not his age. ‘I’m not so old as that.’

‘True,’ Ardela conceded, ‘but any fool can see the weight on your shoulders, so maybe the stick’s not so bad an idea.’

‘Since when did you find such wisdom? Come with the tattoos, did it?’

Ardela automatically looked down at the circles on her palms. They were recently done, and the slow way, as she’d not been present after the battle. ‘I think that’s experience, not wisdom. There are times I’ve needed a stick too.’

Carel looked the muscular young woman up and down. ‘Somehow I find that hard to picture.’

‘Aye, well, I’d have said the same about Legana. First time I met her I thought she was just some mad blind woman out in the forest — a long way from the Hand of Fate I’d heard was the best of us,’ Ardela said with fierce pride. ‘She walks with a stick now; that’s not so much a ruse as the blindfold she uses to shade her eyes, but it doesn’t mean she’s so weak as all that. Any man here’ll come off worst against her, I promise you that.’

‘I’ll not be the one to test her,’ he said, forcing a smile, ‘but I like the thought o’ not being entirely useless. So how does it feel, to walk as silently as the Grave Thief?’

‘No different yet, not till Legana’s back. The magic to link us comes from her; these tattoos are mostly to make the job easier for her; at least that’s what Nai says. Doing it all from scratch, she’d need Mihn there every time and that ain’t so practical for a sisterhood. With the tattoos done and a brand ready, the God part of her can put in the magic easy enough.’

‘Brand?’

Ardela grinned, reminding Carel more than a little of Isak. White-eyes didn’t enjoy pain, he knew that, but the prospect was enough to animate the savage fighter within them and Ardela looked no different there.

‘Aye, that “heart” rune they all got on their chests — came from Lord Isak, I’m told, but it’s the pain of the tattoos and the branding that opens the path for the magic. Don’t understand it much myself, but given some of the shit I’ve seen mages do it makes sense.’

Carel hesitated. ‘So it’s a link to Isak too? To Mihn, to Legana, to Xeliath too, if she’d still been alive?’

‘Guess so, why?’

‘Come on.’ And without bothering to explain, Carel set off to the small compound on the eastern edge of the original town, the large stone house and a pair of barns which had been appropriated by those priestesses and Hands of Fate who’d answered Legana’s call in search of a new purpose. The original owner had died in the Menin advance; King Emin had been glad to offer his new allies the space to make their own. Carel guessed it housed a hundred or more of the sisterhood, a good dozen of whom had been priestesses of the Lady.

The compound was surrounded by a wicker fence the height of a man, and armed women stood on guard at each of the gates. The guard stepped in front of Carel well before he reached it, her spear lowered enough to force him to stop or be impaled upon it. The Farlan veteran didn’t break stride but struck with surprising speed, battering the spear aside with his stick, then stepping inside her guard, he turned into her blow as she struck at him with the butt of the spear, getting too close for there to be any real force in it.

‘Stay your weapon!’ Ardela called from behind him. ‘He’s with me.’

The guard scowled at Carel, her face only inches from his, before growling, ‘Doesn’t mean he’ll be welcome, heretic.’

‘Watch your tongue, bitch,’ Ardela snapped back. ‘Now step aside or I’ll put you down.’

‘What do you want, heretic’s friend?’ the guard said, flushing with anger, but directing her antagonism at Carel. She knew full-well Ardela was one of their best killers.

‘You to get out my way,’ Carel said quietly. ‘I ain’t going to ask again.’

The guard blinked and found the handle of his swordstick pressed against her throat. The rounded pommel was solid brass and he could see she knew how little effort it would take to crush her windpipe, one-armed or not.

Carel eased himself to one side, allowing the guard to do the same and edge out of his way so he could slip through. He wasn’t surprised when Ardela stayed outside while he continued on.

The enclosed area was a hive of activity. The doors of the nearer of the barns were wide open, and Carel could see the small forge inside. Before it were several tables where all sorts of work was being done, but none that interested him. He ploughed on to the other side where he could see a gate leading to the stone-walled courtyard of the main house, and his gamble paid off: the priestesses were taking advantage of the daylight.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ the nearest woman spluttered in outrage. Judging by the wrinkles on her face, Carel guessed she was older than he was, despite the bright copper hair tied back in a plait.

‘Your new recruit,’ he declared, stepping past her. One young woman was stripped to the waist, with just a scarf wrapped crossways over her breasts to cover them. Three copper-haired priestesses were gathered around her, tattoo needles poised. He nodded companionably at the young woman and found himself a stool opposite her, shrugging off his coat as he sat.

‘And to think Cedei told me I’d not get so much as an eyeful round here,’ he commented as he fumbled one-handed with the toggles on his doublet.

‘What in the name of the Dark Place do you think you’re doing?’ hissed the oldest of the priestesses, brandishing a long bone needle tipped with black ink.

‘I want you to tattoo me; I need it done before your Mortal-Aspect arrives.’

‘You’re not one of us — why?’

Carel winced as he tugged his doublet over his maimed arm. The stump underneath looked pale and withered in the dull light of day. It had been a clean cut, made by Eolis when Isak realised the arm couldn’t be saved, but still the swirls of scarring from where he’d cauterised the wound looked horrific to Carel.

‘I’ve got my reasons.’

‘Not good enough,’ the priestess snapped. ‘I’m not wasting hours of work on some ancient veteran just because he wants to rejoin the Ghosts.’

‘Do it,’ Ardela called from the open gate. The priestesses turned in surprise, more than one tensing at the sight of her. ‘You can’t deny Carel — he’s more right to this mark than any of us.’

The priestess shook her head firmly. ‘Our sisters are the only ones who have a right to it. He is no one.’

‘He’s more than you know. The tattoos belong to Mihn and the witch who made them; the Ghosts and our sisterhood are only borrowing that power. Mihn did it out of devotion to his lord, and Carel’s got more claim to that than we do.’

‘Then he can wait for Legana to return — if she sees the right of it, she will decide.’

Ardela moved in and shut the courtyard door behind her. One hand rested casually on the hilt of her plundered Harlequin sword. ‘Man’s clearly got a reason for wanting it now. I’ve spent enough time around those at the forefront of this war to recognise that look in his eye. It’s a reason that goes to the bone.’

‘I do,’ Carel said, a quaver entering his voice as King Emin’s words echoed in his mind, ‘one that’s my own. Your Mortal-Aspect don’t think that’s a good reason, she can take the damn tattoos back.’

The priestess’s expression became pointed. ‘She might yet do that — the spirit of our Goddess flows through our sister’s veins. Neither cares much for the pain of the undeserving.’

‘She can take ’em back with a rusty knife,’ Carel growled, sitting forward to look the priestess straight in the eye, ‘my oath on it, if she don’t think I’m worthy.’

The priestess sighed and glanced at the young woman whose tattoos were unfinished. The woman nodded and reached for her shirt.

‘As you wish. Carel, is it? Well Carel, let’s start with your hands. I’m going nowhere near the soles of your feet till you’ve washed.’