The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 2

Doranei awoke with a whimper from dreams of sapphire eyes. Lost in dark corridors, exhausted and afraid, he’d followed the faint scent of her perfume for an age and more — walking deep in the bowels of some unknown castle, through bloodless corpses and shit while dead Menin soldiers reached at him from the shadows.

Somehow he’d kept himself upright, prising cold grasping fingers from his flesh and beating them away. They’d decayed before his eyes but more rose in their place until his limbs screamed with pain and he could scarcely breathe. When Doranei woke the ache of exertion intensified and he lay there for a long while, barely able to move, every shallow breath feeling like a knife slashing down his ribcage.

‘Don’t complain! At least you’re alive.’

With a groan he rolled himself onto one side to face the speaker. Veil sat slumped in an armchair, a handful of other members of the Brotherhood asleep on the ground nearby.

‘Did you hear me complain?’ Doranei said, wincing as he spoke. He’d survived the battle virtually unscathed, just four or five minor nicks and a whole ton of bruises.

‘You were about to.’ There was no humour in Veil’s voice, no space for anything more than weariness. He wore a fresh shirt and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but neither hid the bandage encasing the stump where his hand had once been.

Thank the Gods it was his left, Doranei thought again, his eyes lingering on the injured limb until Veil tugged the blanket over it. Veil had tied his dark hair neatly back, but like the rest of them he’d had no chance yet to wash out the blood and mud.

‘How is it?’

‘Hurts like a bastard.’ Veil tried to smile, or maybe he grimaced, Doranei couldn’t tell which. ‘Hopefully not for much longer. Tremal said he smelled opium in the night — went to steal it for me.’

Doranei nodded absently. He struggled to rise, using the wall to steady himself, and stood staring down at his feet until he decided he could trust them. Diffuse sunlight shining through a window on the right told him he’d clearly slept long past dawn, however little actual rest he’d managed. His stinking, sweat- and blood-stiffened tunic was still lying on the floor, where he’d dropped it with his armour. He picked it up and inspected the stains. ‘Heard one o’ the king’s clerks say it’d be quicker to count the living than the dead.’ He looked up. ‘A sour kind of victory, this. I ain’t one for praying much, but I’ll kiss the feet o’ any God can see to it I never witness that again.’

‘Aye, nor lose so many Brothers again,’ Veil added. ‘Ain’t many of us left to make good on the bet.’

‘Bet? Who won?’ Doranei shook his head as sadness filled his heart. The Brotherhood would bet on almost anything — it was one way to cope with the strange, dangerous life they led; one way to remember those they lost along the way. After yesterday’s slaughter, even a veteran of the Brotherhood found it hard to believe anyone cared to collect on the wager.

‘That fucking loud-mouth white-eye,’ Veil said.

‘Isak? He didn’t kill-’ Doranei scowled as the ache behind his eyes increased. ‘He didn’t kill the Menin lord, whatever we’re telling the Land.’

‘Not Isak, the Mad Axe — that bastard was dragged out o’ the north ditch just before sundown, half-dead and brains scrambled but still claiming his win. Turns out he killed the general attacking that flank, Vrill, Duke Anote Vrill.’

Doranei sighed and slipped his complaining arms through the sleeves of his tunic. He left the armour on the floor but buckled on his weapons-belt, now holding only the ancient sword he’d taken from Aracnan’s corpse. Then he stood still for a moment, letting Veil’s words filter into his exhausted mind. ‘Wonderful,’ he said finally, stirring himself to hunt through his pack for the cigars he thought he’d left there. ‘So now I get to live the rest o’ my life with some fucking white-eye’s name tattooed on my arse.’ He lit one from the coals and headed outside.

He squinted at the weak sun as he gingerly wove a path through the makeshift camp in the grounds of Moorview Castle. He stopped outside the walls on the slope that led down to the moor, brought up short by the chaos of the previous day.

There were three great pits, one still being dug. The first was already filled with bodies and wood from the forest and a column of dirty smoke was rising high in the windless sky. Images from the battle flashed before his eyes: friends falling as the Menin threw themselves forward with frenzied abandon. The Brotherhood had lost half their number, a shocking proportion that was matched or exceeded by at least a dozen legions.

‘Brother Doranei.’ Suzerain Derenin sat on the sloping grass to Doranei’s left, his back against the wall of his castle. His right arm was in a sling and he winced as he gestured to the ground beside him with the spherical bottle he held in his left. ‘Join me.’

‘Got any food?’ Doranei asked as he eased himself down beside the Lord of Moorview. Whatever was in the bottle smelled more potent than wine

Suzerain Derenin shook his head. ‘Couldn’t stomach it.’ He was muscular, both bigger and younger than Doranei, his long limbs and broad shoulders well-suited to battle, but he’d still been so exhausted he’d almost crawled out of the fort once the last Menin had fallen.

‘Your first real battle, right? You sure can pick ’em.’

Doranei received only a grunt in reply, and when he took the bottle from Derenin he saw tears glisten in the man’s eyes. ‘Don’t matter who tells you what to expect, nothing prepares a man for what he sees on a battlefield, and that…’ He tailed off. None of the Narkang men had seen anything like it, experienced or not. Scree had been a place of horror and slaughter, sure enough, but it was the Farlan and Devoted troops who’d seen the worst of it. And they’d got off lightly, he now realised.

There were tens of thousands of men lying dead out there on the moor. Someone had guessed at fifty thousand, but others thought the figure higher. And a great many of those who survived the battle would have died in the night of their wounds. Bodies were lying everywhere, despite the efforts of the gangs working to drag the dead into those great pits. The earth was stained rusty-red, and the stink of death was rising with the clouds of flies.

‘Can’t get the taste out the back of my mouth,’ Suzerain Derenin muttered. ‘No matter what I try to wash it away with.’

‘Try this.’ Doranei proffered his cigar. ‘Covers up most stinks that can be covered.’

He watched Derenin puff away at it, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste but drawing all the harder on it for that. ‘You fought well,’ Doranei said. ‘There’s not much to feel proud about when you’re treading on the faces of the dead and sticky with their blood, but you were a hero yesterday. Never forget that.’

‘I won’t,’ he murmured. ‘It’s right there with the screams of men I’ve known my whole life — men who were only in that hell-pit because of me.’

‘I’ve got no answers for you,’ Doranei replied wearily. ‘There’s no justice in war, no consolation. My best friend died before the battle of the Byoran Fens — you know why? Because we tossed a coin and he got unlucky. Much as I hate myself for it, that’s all there is, and no amount of blame’ll change that.’

‘And life goes on,’ the nobleman said bitterly, wincing as he shifted slightly. ‘I’ve heard men say that half-a-dozen times already this morning.’

‘It’s the only truth we know. You got the luck o’ the draw, others didn’t. I ain’t claiming to have worked this out myself, but all you can do is mourn and keep on living.’ Doranei paused and looked at the battlefield. When he spoke again it was with a firm nod of the head, as though he was still having to remind himself that what he said was true. ‘If I meet Sebe on the slopes of Ghain and he asks me how I lived the life won on that toss of a coin, I better have a good answer for him. Hard as it might be, we got to try.’

He hauled himself up again and started on down the stepped gardens into the small forest of tents pitched on the moor’s edge. To the right was a second, smaller camp where the worst-injured of the prisoners were; anyone able to walk was out on the moor dragging bodies into the pits. The prisoners were a mixed lot, mainly Menin as most of their allies had fled when they felt the Menin lord’s name ripped from their minds. Some, unable to escape, had surrendered; only the Menin elite had fought to the death, but it did mean there was no chance of pursuit.

He walked forward, drawn without thinking towards the fort where he’d made his stand at the king’s side. He was still not sure how they’d survived that crazed assault. He felt his hands start to shake as he neared it. When he reached the mound where Cetarn had sacrificed himself, his legs gave way and he sank to his knees, feeling the anguish build up inside him, but the tears would not come; no matter how much he craved the release, the outpouring of grief, it wouldn’t come.

At a sound behind him Doranei gave a cry of alarm and tried to turn and draw his sword, but his body betrayed him and he staggered sideways, waving the weapon drunkenly until he used it to steady himself on the uneven ground. The group of soldiers behind him were enlisted men, wearing the Narkang legion’s uniform.

‘My apologies, sir,’ said the nearest, tugging frantically at his greasy curls of hair, ‘din’t mean to disturb you, sir.’

Doranei wavered and his vision blurred for a moment before he was able to pull himself together. ‘I- Ah, no, it doesn’t matter. What do you want?’

The man glanced back at his comrades. The lot of them were caked in mud and blood, and several were very obviously injured. ‘Well, sir, we was hopin’ you’d tell us what happened.’

Doranei tried to grin. ‘We won, didn’t you hear? Can’t you smell the glory?’

The soldier winced and bobbed his head again. ‘Aye, sir, we all felt his name taken, but no one knows what happened — some said the Gods themselves must’ve-’

Doranei stopped him. ‘Cetarn,’ he said, ‘Shile Cetarn, Narkang’s greatest mage: you want someone to thank in your prayers, he’s the one. Him and Coran, they both sacrificed themselves.’

‘The king’s bodyguard?’

‘Aye, him, the one and only, stubborn, stupid, vicious white-eye motherless shit that he was.’ Doranei felt his lips tremble, but suddenly he couldn’t stop talking. ‘A man with no friends and lots of enemies, who liked his whores bloodied and bruised and never had a good word for any living man. The sort o’ fearless bastard you wanted at your side when it got down to the bone, one who never backed down from a fight in his life and enjoyed pain more than any fucker I ever met.’

He took a long, shuddering breath and glanced back at the mound of earth where Cetarn had died. The earth was scorched and ripped open by the terrible magic unleashed there, the fury of an earthquake visited upon that small scrap of moorland.

‘And Cetarn was the best of men; ’cept for his size he had nothing in common with Coran before this. But neither one hesitated, or took a step back when the time came — they marched into Death’s bony arms, glad they were doing their duty and never a backwards glance from either of them.’

Doranei turned his back on the soldiers’ stunned silence and looked at the killing ground between the fort and the mound. There too the grass was scorched black, the earth furrowed and seamed with white as though burnt to ashes. Crows and ravens hopped across the brutalised ground, their calls cruel and callous to Doranei’s ears. The faint smell of smoke carried on the wind and for a moment he felt his soul tug free to drift on the breeze with the voices of the dead and carrion birds.

There were still many hundreds of bodies there on the killing ground, still lying where they had fallen. Not all could be identified, not even from one side or another, but there were enough green and gold Kingsguard uniforms to show Doranei where Coran had likely fallen. He hadn’t seen the body himself, but someone had said it bore terrible injuries — more than would be needed to kill a normal human or most white-eyes.

Stubborn even to death? Doranei thought before muttering a prayer to the dead. I’ve no doubt you were a bastard to kill — you’d have had it no other way.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a group of people heading his way and his heart sank. Isak and Vesna, with Mihn in close attendance. The broken white-eye was entirely hidden by a long patchwork cloak, as though trying to hide his identity, but it was hard to mistake a shuffling seven-foot monster of a man, no matter how stooped he now was. The harsh voice of a crow swooping above them made Isak look up and follow its movement with wary intensity.

By contrast Vesna, the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn, looked pristine and regal. His title had been taken from him; Vesna was no longer a nobleman of the Farlan but had been dubbed Iron General by the God of War. Unlike Isak he still looked the part: his clothes were spotless, his hair neat and oiled, even the strange armoured arm Vesna now sported was clean and undamaged.

Doranei sheathed his sword and turned to wait for them as the soldiers fled. He couldn’t blame them for being unwilling to loiter when Karkarn’s own approached them across a battlefield. Isak’s identity remained a secret. Even if his death hadn’t been widely reported, the horrific mass of scars on his face and body rendered him unrecognisable to anyone who might have known him.

The King’s Man nodded as the group of Farlan reached him, not caring to do more even if they still expected it after giving up their noble titles. Seeing them here and now, he realised it meant as little to both men as it did to him. ‘Didn’t get a chance to thank you yesterday,’ he said to Vesna.

The handsome Farlan looked startled at the idea. ‘Because we charged the Menin?’

‘Aye, well, some of us appreciated it.’

Vesna’s face darkened. ‘Not too many left to do so, by the time we got there. Not sure even our final stand in Scree compared to what I saw there. How many of you survived? Maybe a hundred all told, around the king?’

‘Easy to look heroic when there’s nowhere to run,’ Doranei said awkwardly.

‘No,’ Isak interrupted, ‘it would have been easy to give up — none of you did that.’

Doranei scowled at the furrowed ground at his feet. ‘Yeah, well, sure I’ll find a knighthood in my morning porridge. What’re you doing out here?’

‘Walking.’

Doranei cocked his head and looked inside the drooping hood Isak wore. The dead man’s face was twisted strangely, but whether he was trying to make a joke Doranei couldn’t tell. Isak’s expressions were forever ambiguous now: the daemons of Ghenna had seen to that.

But there was something different about the young white-eye. Though permanently stooped, thanks to the abuse he’d received in Ghenna, Isak definitely stood a fraction taller today; it made Doranei think a weight had been lifted from those scarred shoulders. He had been born to be the Menin lord’s adversary, in more forms than one, so Isak could truly feel his purpose in life had been fulfilled.

‘Just out for a walk? Picked a funny spot for it.’

‘As have you. Maybe we’re doing the same thing, though: remembering the dead.’

‘Lost many friends yesterday, did you?’

Isak’s head bowed for a moment, then tilted towards Vesna. ‘Some. Others I just heard about.’

Doranei hesitated. Just before he’d crashed out yesterday, someone had mentioned an assassination attempt on Vesna, one that had left Lady Tila dead — on her wedding day. It hadn’t surprised him at the time, not after the horrors he’d just witnessed, but now it seemed sick and unreal — that beautiful young woman no different to the brutalised corpses all around him. He shook his head as if to clear the image from his thoughts.

‘What now for you?’ he asked.

‘Now? Now we’ve a war to win.’ Vesna’s black-iron fingers flexed disconcertingly. ‘The worst may be yet to come.’

‘You make it sound like all this was nothing!’

Mihn stepped around Isak and placed a hand on Doranei’s shoulder. ‘This was far from nothing, my friend. The man created by the Gods to defeat Aryn Bwr was beaten, and that in itself will be remembered as one of the great feats in history. But your war was not always with the Menin lord.’

‘Azaer,’ Doranei said, finally getting it. ‘Do you have a plan?’

Mihn gave an apologetic little smile. ‘Nothing quite so simple, I’m afraid, but there is much work to be done.’

‘Where do we start?’

‘The king wants you to interrogate the Byoran prisoners — there are men of the Ruby Tower Guard claiming they have information for the king, if he is the one who sent men to assault the tower.’

‘I better get to it then. There aren’t many of the Brotherhood left who know what questions to ask.’

Mihn stopped him as he turned to leave. ‘Afterwards, come and find us at the Ghosts’ camp,’ he said, pointing to where the Farlan tents stood in neat blocks. ‘We have something else you might be interested in, you and all your Brothers. If you would gather them and anyone else you consider bound to the Brotherhood?’

‘Why?’

The small man glanced back at Isak. ‘I do not want to promise too much in advance, but there is a common saying: “a burden shared is a burden halved”.’ He scratched at his chest where the witch of Llehden had burned the heart rune into his flesh. ‘I am hoping the same does not go for gifts.’

There were three of them, two captains and a major, filthy and bedraggled in their torn uniforms. Buttons and braiding had been ripped away, most likely removed when they were disarmed, and they’d been relieved of any money they might have had. One of the captains was in a bad way, his right arm as poorly splinted as the gash in his shoulder was stitched.

Only one looked up when Doranei approached, but it was enough for him to see the misery of a cowed dog.

Ignoring the Ruby Tower Guardsmen surrounding him, Doranei advanced on the officers and squatted beside them. There were two Brothers behind him, Cedei and Firrin; neither were close enough to save him if the mob went for him, but they all knew the remaining regiments would be butchered if they did any such thing.

‘The Menin’s dead,’ he started in a quiet voice.. ‘You came here as allies of his, against your will, I’m sure.’

The battered captain nodded briefly, and returned his gaze to the ground.

‘So we don’t care much about you right now — no one wants the effort of imprisoning or slaughtering you all — but you’re soldiers and you know how easily that can turn. You all killed a lot of our countrymen getting here.’ He waited a few moments to give them time to think about that, then continued, ‘So this is me asking nicely so I don’t have to bother showing you how nasty I can get: tell me everything you know about Sergeant Kayel and the child, Ruhen.’

The captain’s fear fell away for a moment. ‘That scar-handed bastard? Gladly — the kid too. There’ somethin’ unnatural about the pair of ’em; the duchess is my liege, but when that Ruhen’s around she ain’t all there.’

Without warning a soldier leaped from the huddled mass, a short knife in his hand. For a moment Doranei didn’t react to the sudden movement, his exhausted body failing him, then he saw the knife-tip pass him by and something went click in his head as he saw the man reaching for the captain. Doranei launched into the slimmer man and knocked him sideways, then scrabbled to get his fingers around the man’s wrist. They crashed together into the injured captain, who cried out as they flattened him.

The Byoran twisted underneath Doranei, trying to kick him off, but the King’s Man hooked one leg under him and let his greater size do the work for him. Once he had a good grip on the man’s wrist he pushed forward, lying nose-to-nose on top of the attacker while stretching his arm up away from his body. The Byoran wrenched around and managed to turn onto his front, trying to bite Doranei’s arm until he smashed an elbow into the back of his head.

The blow seemed to drive the frenzy from the Byoran and gave Doranei time to bend his knife-hand back behind his shoulder. A quick twist and the man’s fingers opened, releasing the knife with a yelp that turned into an agonised howl as Doranei increased the pressure and felt the man’s shoulder pop out of its socket. That done, he pushed himself upright again, leaving the wailing man on the ground as he drew his black broadsword.

‘Anyone else fancy being a martyr to a false god?’ he demanded, raising the sword. His ragged voice was thick with hatred and the crowd of soldiers shrank further back, some falling over each other to get away. He saw the fight was gone out of them. Not even the brutal treatment of one of their own could make them raise a hand against him. Doranei turned and found Firrin right behind him, sword drawn, with Cedei two paces behind.

‘Take this one — I’m sure the king’ll be interested to meet a fanatic,’ he said, giving the prone Byoran soldier a nudge in the ribs. As Firrin hauled the man up Doranei saw the fear in the captain’s eyes. He realised the man was watching his own men, expecting another attack to follow as soon as he was left alone. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he announced, and grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him away until they were clear of the mob. There he released the Byoran officer and gestured for him to keep walking with him as he sheathed his sword again.

‘There’ll be more of them, waiting for me,’ the officer whimpered.

‘Don’t you worry about that. Tell me the truth and if it checks against our intelligence, you won’t be going back to them — not until we win this war.’

‘What? But-? I’d look like a traitor, selling out the whole Circle City!’

‘Bit late now,’ Doranei said, grabbing the man by the arm and stopping him short. ‘Your only other choice is me beating the fuck out of you ’til you tell me what I want to know. Don’t be surprised if I kill you, I ain’t in the best o’ moods and I can always ask the same of your major afterwards.’

The Byoran’s head drooped. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘Like I said: Kayel and the child — how do they act, how do they speak, how old is the child now. And how did you mean “ain’t all there”?’

‘That’s it?’

Doranei laughed. ‘We just battered the best of your army and the Circle City ain’t got many special defences to speak of — got any secrets our spies don’t already know?’

The Byoran just looked blank at that and Doranei started walking again. ‘Exactly. Either you’re a better liar than I am, or you don’t know anything else of use. So tell me about Kayel.’

‘I don’t understand him myself,’ the Byoran said with a miserable shake of the head. ‘He’s mad, vicious to the bone, that one-’

‘I’ve met the bastard; tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Well that’s just it,’ he captain insisted, ‘it doesn’t make sense — Kayel’s not one to take orders; he’s not one to take shit or even leave alone anyone who looks at him in a way he doesn’t like. But he follows that weird brat’s every word like he really is the saviour they’re saying.’

Doranei stopped short. ‘Kayel’s taking his orders? You mean he’s taking the duchess’ orders when Ruhen’s near her?’

‘No, not just then; it’s whether or not the duchess is around. That’s what has half the quarter persuaded Ruhen’s everything those white-cloaks, Ruhen’s Children, claim he is. He’s growing faster than any normal child, could only be by magic, but Kayel don’t look ensorcelled. That man’d rather cut out his own eyes than think any man’s his better, but he jumps when that shadow-eyed bastard says, just as quick as any of the rest of us.’

Doranei gave a cough of surprise which turned into a painful wheeze as the aching muscles in his back reminded him of their presence. ‘“Shadow-eyed”?’

‘Aye, that child’s got shadows in his eyes, drifting like clouds on the breeze.’ The Byoran shivered at the memory.

‘Shadows in his eyes,’ Doranei whispered hoarsely, ‘and Ilumene’s his errand-boy. Fires of Ghenna, the boy’s no instrument-’

‘Nope,’ the Byoran agreed, puzzled by the name he didn’t know but eager to be helpful, ‘the little bastard’s in charge sure enough, and by now I’d guess half the Circle City’s willing to accept him as their saviour.’

Doranei had started running blindly until his brain caught up with him and he tried to work out where King Emin would be at this hour. The Byoran captain followed him like a lost puppy until they came upon a nobleman, who wisely decided not to object when Doranei left the Byoran in his charge. He directed the King’s Man to where he’d seen the king’s party last. Unnoticed by Doranei, more than a few Narkang soldiers had grabbed weapons in his wake, looking in vain for the danger as they followed him, but he jolted to a stop as he passed another Brother, the thief Tremal.

‘The king, you seen him?’

Tremal nodded, his mouth full of the honey-cake he’d procured from somewhere. ‘Heading to the Farlan camp with most o’ the remaining Brotherhood — I just been sent to round up the last few.’

Doranei had to walk to the Farlan camp. It was on the other side of the battlefield, half a mile away and beyond the long defensive ditch now half-filled with corpses. Long before he got there his body was protesting violently. Tremal and the remaining two members of the Brotherhood caught up, but none of them bothered with questions; they recognised Doranei’s expression well enough.

At the Farlan camp it was easy to find King Emin amidst the duller liveries of the Tirah Palace Guard and Suzerain Torl’s Dark Monks. Doranei was so focused on the king that he almost barged the suzerain out of the way, checking himself just in time as he glimpsed a hurscal’s sword leaving its scabbard. The white-haired Farlan was one of a crowd around a large fire and as he made space for Doranei to pass, the King’s Man realised they were all watching a small group sitting inside the circle.

The figure closest was Isak Stormcaller; still clad in his tattered cloak. The white-eye was looking into the flames, paying no regard to those around him. The heat would have been uncomfortable, save, perhaps, for those who’d felt the flames of Ghenna. Close behind him, the Witch of Llehden had one hand tight on the cord around the neck of Hulf, Isak’s dog. She was staring at Mihn and the Mortal-Aspect Legana. The witch noted his presence with a flicker of the eyes, but clearly she wouldn’t be distracted from whatever she was watching between Legana and Mihn.

He didn’t even bother trying to work out what she was seeing around those two; they could have been wearing Harlequin’s masks for all he could make out in their faces. Legana had a shawl shading her eyes from the morning sun as usual, while Mihn was shirtless, for reasons Doranei couldn’t fathom, with a blanket loosely draped around him to cover the leaf-pattern tattoos running from wrist to shoulder. The pair sat silent and still, as close as young lovers.

‘Doranei,’ the king said from the other side of the fire, ‘I’ve not seen you look so glum since you told me you were in love.’

The King’s Man tried to smile at the gentle needling, but he failed as completely as those around him. Their losses had been too great. Instead he ducked his head in acknowledgement and looked around at their allies to check he could speak freely.

‘News, your Majesty,’ he started, ‘from the Byoran prisoners.’

‘Speak it then.’

Doranei hesitated, in case he’d misheard or misunderstood, but he knew it wasn’t so. ‘You’ll want to hear it yourself, but I think we judged it wrong in Byora,’ he said. ‘The child, Ruhen, isn’t a vessel or tool; he’s the one giving orders. Ilumene jumps on his command — the command of a child with shadows in his eyes.’

There was a cold silence, every remaining member of the Brotherhood digesting the information as they remembered their failed assault on Byora’s Ruby Tower.

‘Azaer has taken mortal form,’ King Emin said at last. ‘A mortal body, an immortal soul — but why?’

‘The greatest magic always involves sacrifice,’ Isak said abruptly, looking up from the fire at last, ‘the change from life to death.’

‘And the potential for catastrophe,’ the witch added. ‘Azaer does not intend some basic working of magic, but something to unpick the fabric of the Land so it can weave the tapestry anew. Even the Gods are weakened by grand undertakings; whatever power the shadow can bring to bear, it must risk everything in the act.’

She pointed to Isak who flinched slightly at the gesture. ‘Isak knew he would die at the Menin’s hands, their destinies had been entwined long before he was Chosen by Nartis. He would never have managed what he did yesterday without first gambling all he had.’

‘And now Azaer gambles,’ Emin finished, an edge of hunger in his voice. ‘Now the shadow has allowed itself to be vulnerable. If we can choose the time of its passing rather than allowing it to do so, we might yet win this war.’

‘Speaking of gambles,’ broke in a young devotee of the Lady called Shanas standing nearby, a woman barely old enough to be part of this fight, ‘Legana says it’s time to raise the stakes in Vesna’s own effort.’

All eyes turned to Shanas, then to Legana who beamed unexpectedly at the assembled men. With a surprised cough Shanas continued, ‘Ahem, she also wants to say you all look fucking stupid with your mouths open — she’s part-Goddess! Are you surprised she can speak into a devotee’s mind?’

Emin’s laugh broke the hush. ‘A fair comment. But what’s this about Vesna?’

The big Farlan soldier stepped forward. He matched the strangeness of emerald-eyed Legana with a ruby teardrop on his cheek and his left arm permanently encased in black-iron armour.

‘I think she’s talking about the Ghosts,’ he explained. ‘Life back home in Tirah remains fraught, but I knew there was a greater fight coming. Lord Fernal was forced by his nobles to sign a peace treaty with the Menin, so to pursue the war further, the officers of the Ghosts took holy orders so that they would have to be released from their military positions or prosecuted. Following the assassination of Karkarn’s priests in the city, presumably to weaken the God’s powerbase in advance of a challenge by the Menin lord, the soldiers of the Ghosts were only too willing to join us.’

‘You have an army of ordained priests?’ Emin replied, doing his best not to look surprised. ‘All dedicated to the God of War?’

‘A third of the Ghosts,’ Vesna said quickly. ‘The rest are priests of Death or Nartis, so as not to unbalance the Upper Circle of the Pantheon. General Lahk and I reasoned that it would at least buy us time to halt the Menin’s plans.’

Emin turned back to Legana and Shanas. ‘So where do you fit in here, Legana? One Mortal-Aspect helping out another?’

‘Something like that,’ Shanas said, looking nervous as she voiced Legana’s words. ‘They are no longer the Palace Guard of Tirah, but they still call themselves Ghosts.’ The Farlan soldiers in attendance nodded at that and Legana, her green eyes flashing with divine mischief, patted Mihn on the head as though the failed Harlequin was a dog. ‘A precedent has been set: a man bound to service even as he was imbued with powers.’

Legana gestured towards all those present, picking out specific groups in turn while Shanas continued, ‘Those who live in the shadows’ — Legana jabbed a thumb back at Doranei — ‘these dark soldiers’ — as Torl’s Brethren of the Sacred Teachings were indicated — ‘these steel-clad ghosts’. Legana’s gaze fell on Vesna and General Lahk as the leaders of the Palace Guard.

The unnaturally beautiful woman kept her eyes on those two while she jerked the blanket from Mihn’s bare shoulders and turned his palms upwards so all present could see the owl tattoos there.

‘Those who choose to serve, let them be as ghosts,’ Shanas repeated for Legana, louder than before. ‘Let their skin be marked with silence and service. It is time to take this war to the shadow.’

King Emin wasted no time. The entire company was ordered to sit, the order rippling back through the ranks outside, and Doranei found a place at his king’s side, placing himself between Emin and the white-eye, General Daken. Morghien sat grumbling on Emin’s other side, while behind him the ranger Tiniq crouched in the shade of the king’s war standard and squinted down at the churned ground below.

Daken’s grin was barely visible behind the swelling and split lips, but the man still managed to express his amusement at the whole proceeding. Doranei tried to forget the bet Daken had won against the Brotherhood, instead looking at the assembled soldiers and trying to estimate how many they were.

The Farlan had been least hurt during the battle, arriving late to catch the Menin unawares, but anyone meeting the grief-maddened Menin heavy infantry had taken losses. He guessed one and a half thousand remained in total; the double-legion of the Ghosts wouldn’t have been quite at full strength, not after the major engagements of the last year, and some had to have remained to man the walls of Tirah Palace. Veil was nearby, looking exhausted, but in less pain now. He gave his Brother a prod with his boot and was rewarded by an obscene gesture with Veil’s remaining hand.

‘You two, swap places,’ said the witch, Ehla, as she assessed the crowd of soldiers. Doranei looked up and realised she was pointing to him and Daken. The white-eye heaved himself up and Doranei reluctantly let him take his place at King Emin’s side.

‘Want the best up front, eh?’ Daken wheezed as he thumped heavily down onto his backside, tipping backwards until Veil shoved him upright again with his boot.

‘Not quite — the last thing we need is that bitch on your chest getting involved and marking any more soldiers.’

Daken lifted his shirt as best he could, exposing part of his tattoo of Litania the Trickster. For once, the blue lines on his skin were perfectly still. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Like most women lyin’ on my chest she’s all tired out. She won’t be movin’ any time soon.’

‘Perhaps,’ the witch said dismissively, ‘but I prefer not to trust her. The power will flow outwards from Mihn. With Doranei as a buffer there she’ll not let herself be carried on it into him.’

‘Why? The boy smells, but so do most’ve us.’

Her eyes narrowed on Doranei. ‘It’s who he smells of Litania will be wary of — yes boy, her. There’s a perfume on the wind that isn’t coming from the Farlan nobles.’

Doranei looked away from them both and the witch moved on, raising her voice so she could be heard by all.

‘All of you — put your palm against the chest of the man behind you, over his heart. You must all be linked; you must all choose to give yourself to this service.’

Doranei felt Daken’s meaty paw thump him on the chest, almost knocking him backwards, and he grabbed it with his left hand and held it over his sternum, where he knew the heart rune had been burned into Mihn’s and Isak’s flesh. Reaching back he felt Veil push forward against his hand and all around them men and women copied them, or followed the king’s example and reached out with both arms.

It took a long while for everyone to link themselves, but the witch — unable to have her own magic turned back on her, Doranei guessed — continued on out through the ranks, neatly picking her way over the outstretched arms towards the back. Finally he saw the witch waving from the far end of the seated soldiers, indicating Legana could start.

As Shanas passed on the message — Legana’s eyesight was too poor to see so far in daylight — Daken clicked the fingers of his free hand towards Isak. ‘Here doggy,’ he whispered as Legana took her place between Mihn and King Emin.

‘What are you doing?’ Doranei said as Hulf pricked up his ears and Isak slowly looked over. The young dog was sitting on Isak’s feet, watching events suspiciously.

‘Come to Uncle Daken,’ the white-eye called, clicking his fingers again. Eventually Isak focused on the man and stared at the gestures he was making. He watched the man a moment, then removed his hand from around Hulf’s shoulder. ‘That’s it, boy, come here,’ Daken called again.

‘Leave the bloody dog alone,’ Doranei whispered. The palm on his chest briefly became a claw as Daken dug his fingers in to shut Doranei up.

‘It’s for the best,’ he said, nodding encouragingly to Isak. ‘That dog was with him on the battlefield — they might not’ve been part o’ the fighting, but it ain’t leaving his side any time soon. You ever seen a dog fight an armed man? It’s gonna need all the protection it can get.’

From behind him Doranei heard a snort. ‘Don’t be so surprised,’ Veil said softly, ‘if a dog can’t eat or fight something, it’s only got one use for it — remind you of anyone?’

Isak pushed Hulf towards Daken, and at last the dog padded warily over. The white-eye mercenary let Hulf sniff his fingers before he made to stroke him, but once that was done Hulf went easily enough and Daken hooked an arm over the grey-black dog to hug him close.

‘Now don’t you bite my face, you little bugger,’ Daken whispered as Legana reached out, a Crystal Skull in each hand. One she pressed against Mihn’s chest, the other against King Emin’s. After a moment Doranei heard the king gasp and braced himself.

Mihn had told him acquiring the scar had hurt enough to make him pass out. Legana hadn’t mentioned anything like that, but the erstwhile Farlan assassin had a strange sense of humour at the best of times. If it wasn’t for the fact that she’d grown close to King Emin and he was to be the first recipient of the markings, Doranei thought it an even bet she’d gladly have knocked out more than a thousand men in one go.

Daken’s fingers tightened on Doranei’s tunic and he pulled it against his chest, a moment later feeling Veil follow suit as best he could. Hulf gave a short bark, more puzzlement than alarm, but Doranei couldn’t look to see if Isak had reacted. Instead he closed his eyes and focused on the warm tingle that was building on his chest. His heart began to beat faster as the warmth spread around his chest like a belt, slowly tightening on his ribs.

A furious itch began on his palms and down his arms, the skitter of a thousand tiny spiders on his skin. Carefully he opened his eyes, wincing slightly as the pressure on his chest increased with every second, and turned his free hand over to look at the palm. A white speck of light was dancing madly over his skin, leaving a trail of ink behind it. All around him he heard gasps as others discovered the same sensation, but he only looked up when he heard a gasp of pain from Mihn.

The Crystal Skulls in Legana’s hands shone with a fierce, bright white light, and it looked like the shafts of light had impaled Mihn. His arms and head hung limply behind him; his lips were moving, but whatever he was saying Doranei couldn’t hear.

Then Mihn’s whole body shuddered as though Legana had shaked him like a toy and he moaned, ‘It is given.’ His voice was hoarse from the pressure being exerted. Doranei felt a renewed surge of power wrap around his body and Mihn’s words echoed through his bones. Then the power increased again and Mihn’s words became lost in the storm that filled Doranei’s head. ‘Whatever asked… in darkness a path…’

Doranei howled as the pressure abruptly focused into a burning pain, as though Daken’s hand was a white-hot brand. Distantly he heard others cry out, and Hulf whimpered, but the sounds were lost amidst the stars of pain bursting before his eyes. Though reeling from the agony, he felt impaled by Daken’s hand, nor could he wrench his own hand from Veil’s chest.

A cool gust of wind swept across his face, whipped into life by the magic running through his body. It carried the stink of scorched flesh and Doranei realised with a flash of fear that the smell was him. The itch on his hands, feet and arms intensified. Unable to see through the pain he had to picture the tattoos unfolding on his skin, spun like silk and burned onto his body: circles within circles to keep him hidden and silent, leaves of rowan and hazel on his arms to shield him from magic.

With one final surge the searing magic drove deep into his chest, then went racing down his arm and on into Veil. He heard his Brother cry out even as Daken’s hand fell away and the pain receded. When the magic was gone and through Veil the pair sagged, flopping sideways and clinging desperately to each other for support.

Doranei gasped for air, his heart racing as fast as it had the previous evening. Almost drunkenly he inspected his arms: there was a perfect replica of Mihn’s tattoos, and on his palms too, running unbroken over the various scars he’d acquired over the years in service to his king. The charms of silence and magic to hide him from both men and daemons were now indelibly imbued into his skin.

‘Do you reckon-’ Daken wheezed from nearby, one arm still around a distraught Hulf, ‘-do you reckon this means we’ll never find Veil’s hand out here?’

He gasped for breath and cackled at his own joke while Veil, too drained to do anything more, muttered insults. Doranei forced himself upright and looked around: the magic was still working its way outwards. It resembled a ripple of wind sweeping over a field of wheat as the magic flowed from one man to the next, leaving them toppled and exhausted in its wake.

Legana sank to her knees, spilling the Crystal Skulls on the ground. Mihn and Shanas caught her befoe she fell flat on her face.

‘It’s done,’ King Emin groaned, fumbling at his tunic a while before he managed to open it and look at the rune burned into his chest. Doranei did the same. He could just make out the symbol. It was strange to see it there; since the age of sixteen he’d worn the tiny heart rune on his ear, the mark of the Brotherhood, but this enlarged version looked oddly out of place. The skin was red and blistered and painful to the touch, just as any burn would be.

Isak began to laugh, awkwardly at first, as though only slowly remembering exactly how to do it. The big white-eye stood up as Hulf ran to his side and jumped up, his front paws resting on Isak’s thigh. Still laughing, Isak ran the fingers of his right hand through the dog’s thick fur while with his left he pushed back the hood of his cloak and let the garment fall open.

‘Isak?’ Mihn said quietly.

The white-eye turned to him with a broad smile that had been entirely absent since even before his death. ‘Think of it as a tradition,’ Isak explained, and Mihn gave a cough that was akin to amusement.

Doranei frowned, a shadow of memory stirring. Had he heard something about this, when Mihn first linked himself to Isak? There was something about the connection it made between them — hadn’t Mihn, while his scar was still raw and sensitive, been able to feel something of Isak’s pain?

‘My grave thieves and ghosts,’ Isak announced to the moor at large, turning as he spoke, ‘welcome.’ And before anyone could respond, he jammed his thumbnail hard enough into his own scar to draw blood. All around him men howled, but it only made Isak and Mihn laugh all the harder.