The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 35

The hours passed slowly as the weight of his burden grew heavier, eroding his strength with every moment passing, in the saddle, on foot or by the fire while Carel forced him to eat. Isak could feel it happen, and he could do nothing about it.

Though the hours of each day dragged, the days were somehow racing past. News of skirmishes and blood spilled washed over him: riders from the Menin force brought word of bloody battles fought; dutiful updates came from the king, conveyed by the battered remnants of his Brotherhood, though Isak guessed they were mostly sent to monitor his sanity, or what remained of it.

On occasion he made jokes, little moments of foolishness Carel would scrutinise for meaning. Sometimes the conclusions were good, and the veteran would nod, satisfied, and continue; at others a sadness would take him and he would sit and stare into the fire next to his young charge, an old man hunched against the autumn winds.

Magnificent views went unremarked-upon. Great clouds of green and blue birds filled the sky as they approached the deep lakes that dotted the plain. The fading sun cast gold and copper light over the rusty flanks of the mountains in the distance. One morning he’d awakened surrounded by ghosts in the pale dawn, which slowly revealed themselves to be towering termite mounds twice the height of a man, covering the grasslands for miles: silent, still monuments stretching off into the distance. Isak felt they were oddly fitting as they trudged on, mile after mile, in pursuit of a battle where there would be no retreat from either side.

Isak watched himself just as carefully as Carel, wondering at the damage done. From time to time he would see the monstrous white-eye he had become, shuffling from one day to the next, and it brought a tear to Isak’s eye, but the threatening flood never arrived. The ache in his heart swelled, but never broke. Something inside wouldn’t let him submit, something inside was too broken to submit.

The power suffusing Isak’s body meant his senses were rarely closed to the Land around him. He felt the brief moments of grief Vesna permitted himself, the fatigue that threatened to consume King Emin; it all drifted on the wind and settled like snow on his shoulders, adding to the burden of the black sword.

And yet And yet he had realised it was not his sanity that was fail ing. The kernel of self within his broken and brutalised body remained.

The Skull of Ruling kept him balanced, he knew that, and he held it close as hungrily as an addict. The arm of the scales creaked and groaned, but the balance remained. His mind drifted with the tides of the wind, carried by the clouds above and fogged by the heavy depths of soil below, but something remained apart from it all.

My hunger for the end? A white-eye’s need for victory? The daemons left little of me and the witch of Llehden took more, so how much is left of the boy I once was, the boy Carel loved? Did he die in the Dark Place, or when his memories were torn out? Or was he only ever an imagining — a false echo in my mind?

‘Isak,’ Carel called from his side, slapping the white-eye’s boot as he spoke, ‘you going to sit there all afternoon?’ He took the reins from Isak’s hands. More gently he said, ‘The halt’s been called. Time for lunch.’

‘I’m not hungry.’ The massive charger stood patiently while Isak disentangled himself and slid to the ground.

‘That don’t matter. You’ll eat something while I take Toramin to drink.’ Carel slapped a bruised apple in Isak’s hand along with a lump of bread, then took the reins and tugged on them to urge Isak’s horse into a walk. ‘If Hulf gets more’n the core, you’ll both feel the back o’ my hand.’

Isak looked at Carel, a frayed smile on his face. ‘You realise that hurts you more than me?’

‘Aye, I know — you bloody Chosen and your Gods-granted strength.’ Carel spat and loosened the saddle-strap. ‘Still, it hurts me, and it’ll hurt your dog — so why do that to us, eh?’

Isak didn’t answer, but he sat on the flattened grass at the side of the road, ignoring the soldiers around him, and bit into the apple. Out from the muddle of horses and men Hulf bounded, barrelled into Isak and fought his way into his lap with enough force that he would have knocked over a normal man. Isak took another big bite of the apple and offered the remains to the dog, who snapped it eagerly up.

As he ate the bread, Isak ran his fingers through Hulf’s thickening fur and stared blankly down at the dirt road. The dog’s coat had become noticeably thicker in the last month as autumn advanced. The dog’s warm, playful presence was a great comfort, a reminder that Isak was more than ephemeral; it was Hulf as much as anything that kept him in the weary flesh of his body. Lurking at the back of his mind was the sense that he no longer belonged in the Land of the living; the lure of the wind was strong, like he could simply let go and drift away.

Carel fought that with every joke and insult, with his gripes and awkward words of pride and praise, but it was the physical that worked best: Carel’s thumps on the shoulder, Hulf’s feet kicking delightedly in Isak’s lap, the burning muscles when he hacked down a tree for firewood or lifted stones to build a firepit.

‘Isak?’ Vesna was standing over him with his usual look of concern. The ruby teardrop embedded in his cheek seemed to tinge that with an air of despondency, but Isak knew the Farlan hero well enough to dismiss that thought.

‘My friend,’ Isak replied as brightly as he could manage, ‘how are you?’

The question seemed to startle Karkarn’s Mortal-Aspect. ‘Me? I’m fine — I won’t pretend it’s not annoying to have my God root through my mind, but having the bastard’s blood in my veins means I don’t tire easily.’ He gestured at the soldiers all around, men and women from the Kingsguard and Palace Guard. ‘We’re pressing them hard, as fast a pace as the baggage can manage, and it’s taking its toll.’

‘I thought the enemy were getting further away?’

‘They are.’ Vesna crouched at Isak’s side to let Hulf lick his fingers. ‘They’re getting supplied as they travel — for a retreat, someone’s planned it bloody well.’

‘Ruhen always planned on heading this way, his preachers must have struck quiet deals over the last few months. The battle becomes irrelevant if he gets Aenaris to Aryn Bwr’s fortress, to the barrow where Aryn Bwr first discovered the Crystal Skulls.’

‘So do we need to push harder, or get the Menin to delay them?’

‘We have time,’ Isak said. ‘They’ll slow down once they’re out of lands Ruhen controls.’

‘It’s a shame the Chetse won’t try to stop them, but if anyone’s going to have a problem there, it’ll be us.’

‘Aye — what fool invited a Menin army along?’

Vesna smiled. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons, whoever he was.’ He hesitated, as if wary of asking what was on his mind, then said, ‘Isak, do you know what it will take to kill Ruhen? Zhia gave him Aenaris, correct? The Key of Life? If it has the power to create dragons — if it’s the match to Termin Mystt — how can you be sure you can kill Ruhen with it?’

‘Termin Mystt’s more than enough to kill a shadow, a child too,’ Isak said with a frown, ‘more than enough to kill a God.’

‘But he’ll unleash all his power to stop you — power beyond imagination, beyond control — so how does that confrontation happen without tearing the Land itself apart? What will be left? Karkarn has told me something of the Great War, of the Last Battle that ended it all. The City of Ghosts is a place where the balance was broken, where the border between this Land and the place of Gods and daemons was fractured by the magic unleashed. Crystal Skulls alone didn’t manage that; it was the Keys of Life and Magic, wielded by opposing sides!’

‘Ifarana was her name,’ Isak said, as though in a trance. ‘She was Life herself. Death too bore a name once, when He was not Chief of the Gods alone but ruler in tandem.’

‘And they killed her for betraying her own kind!’ Vesna hissed, red light flickering in his eyes.

‘Was it betrayal, or compassion? Are you so certain of Karkarn’s memories? Do you believe the other Gods were blame less in a war that saw the creation and obliteration of entire species? Think of the fall of Scree, the fanaticism that swept the Land this past year — the rage of Gods is a blind and savage thing, and only fools trust in it. When I stripped the Menin lord of his name I discovered something I hadn’t expected: the Gods themselves feared what I was doing, and what it might mean. And it wasn’t just the drain of their strength they were afraid of. History has taught them the folly of their own rage, my friend; they know that’s a force as uncontrollable as any.’ He leaned forward and gripped Vesna’s arm with his black hand.

The Mortal-Aspect stared down in horror at it, aghast at the hurricane of power he could sense, on the cusp of manifesting.

‘Gods and mortals: we’re no different when rage takes us,’ Isak continued urgently. ‘We can’t be trusted, and we can’t be reasoned with. Our worst comes out and no amount of guilt afterwards can make up for what’s done. History is written by the victors because facing the full horror of such shame tears one’s heart apart.

‘You’re a man of conscience and compassion, my friend. Are you sure you want a part in this, and all it entails? More important, maybe: I may not have much humanity left, but how can I share this with those I love so dearly?’

‘Anyone else still find those buggers creepy?’ General Daken stared towards the knot of undead soldiers twenty yards away, just beyond the perimeter marked out by Amber’s bodyguards.

‘Aside from the fact they’re not much more than preserved corpses?’ Nai asked. ‘Not especially.’

The six figures were dressed in mismatched pieces of armour and ragged clothing as faded as their own grey skin. Nai had taken a closer look that morning, before anyone but the sentries had risen. Though the drifting song of daemons and spirits was strongest around dusk, most mornings Nai awoke to the sound of distant voices, his senses long since attuned to the daemons he and his former master had treated with.

Up close to the Legion of the Damned, Nai had seen nothing but withered limbs and jutting bones, skin turned to leather, emptiness in their cold eyes. Only when he embraced his magic did Nai find much more than a dead body inexplicably standing; only then did the warrior notice him, shifting the pitted, rusted axe a fraction.

Daken ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘Aye, well, you’re used to shit like that, necromancer. Us normal folk, we prefer our dead things to stay still.’

‘In their defence,’ Amber said in a rumbling voice that took Nai by surprise, ‘they’ve not moved all night.’

‘And that’s also more’n a bit weird. They ain’t moved an inch; they’re in the exact same damn position since I turned in for the night.’

‘Hold on a moment,’ Nai interjected, ‘since when have you been considered part of “normal folk”, Daken?’

The broad white-eye smirked. ‘Since I started to keep bad company,’ he said, looking at Nai and Amber in turn. He pulled out a flatbread, smeared it in oil and as he proceeded to eat it, turned his attention back to the Legion of the Damned.

Daken had ridden in to the Menin camp just as the sun went down, bringing Amber news of the enemy’s progress before tackling what little beer remained to them.

The Devoted armies had met and merged not far from where the Menin now camped; the unwieldy mass tens of thousands strong had barely stopped as it entered Chetse lands. They guessed there’d been no confrontation; the Chetse had lost many of its best in the past year, and the Devoted troops alone numbered seventy thousand, and they were backed by a protective curtain of perhaps twenty thousand of Ruhen’s ragged, exhausted followers, whose burning faith would not let them turn back.

It had been too late last night for Daken to return to his own men, camped several miles ahead near the Chetse border, but Nai had been glad of the ebullient white-eye’s company; Even Amber reacted to his natural charisma.

The enemy avoided even skirmishes now, except when Daken’s cavalry could force a fight on them, and the lack of violence was taking a toll on Amber. Without the savage struggle of battle to energise him, he was almost as lifeless as the Legion, who stood close at hand and watched over their ally.

‘They don’t interfere with your appetite then,’ Amber commented after Daken had lapped the last of the pale oil from his fingers.

‘Takes more’n creepy for that,’ Daken declared. ‘I’ve got a reputation to maintain after all.’

‘What’s being a mad axeman got to do with breakfast?’ Nai wondered aloud.

Daken waved an admonishing finger towards him. ‘An empty stomach’s good enough reason t’ kill, best there is — but so’s interrupting me when I’ve got a face-full of anything sweet!’ The white-eye laughed coarsely. ‘I’m a man o’ many reputations, as many as Morghien’s got spirits buzzing round his head. If I fell today, it wouldn’t be just mercenary captains who’d doff their caps and mourn. Whores and chefs alike would grieve my passing!’

‘A fool and his money, eh?’

‘A connoisseur!’ Daken protested, ‘a man of appetites and enthusiasm — show folk with taste some quality to appreciate and we’re faster’n any fool to hand over our money. Difference being, fools never learn and I make damn sure I’m paying attention while I’m enjoying myself.’

‘No likely the courtesans of Narkang will celebrate one fewer rival while your whores and chefs weep.’

Daken hauled himself up and began to brush down his horse, readying the beast for the day to come. His clothes were torn and dirty; the shadow of a bruise was still visible on his cheek, but he tended to his horse rather than himself. ‘Fucking necromancers,’ he said with a smile, ‘always missing the point.’

‘Which is?’ Nai asked as he readied his own meagre possessions. Amber remained where he was, watching the two of them with a faintly curious expression; Nai thought he looked like a man trying to remember what it was to have friends and comrades.

‘Simple: life ain’t that they cheer or weep you, it’s that they notice you passing and you had yourself a damn good time on the way! You lot sneak through the shadows, gathering power and money too, and most importantly, prolonging the inevitable, but you forget to spend all you’ve gathered. Power’s fun enough, but it ain’t nothing compared to an immoral woman in your bed and fine food in your belly. Where’s the use in your long life if it ain’t fun?’

‘So speaks a man who’s never held true power in his hand,’ Nai countered, slender spindles of light erupting from the fingers of his upturned hand. ‘You’ve never tasted that fire on your tongue, never learned the secrets of the Land while magic echoes through your bones.’

‘Pah, fire on the tongue? Prefer the taste o’ some girl’s sweat misself. Once this is all over, I’ll introduce you to some ladies I know — they’ll show you there’s something better than magic t’ have echo through your bones.’

‘I’ll take that offer,’ Amber joined, his words hesitant and awkward. ‘Got to be better than the aches I’ve got right now.’ There were dark rings of fatigue around his eyes, rings that had been there for many days now.

‘Be a pleasure, General,’ Daken said, smiling. ‘The girls like a man with scars too, which makes it easier.’ He nodded towards Nai. ‘And this one’s funny-looking — best there’s more’n just my beauty t’ distract ’em from his weird feet.’ He heaved his saddle up onto his horse’s back and secured it, slid his long-axe into a hook, offered Amber a sloppy salute and mounted.

‘Time to go greet my king,’ he announced. ‘He’ll probably need my help with the diplomacy t’ come. Messages for him?’

Amber stared at the white-eye for a long while, long enough for Nai to be about to reach out and touch the Menin on the arm when he finally spoke. ‘Messages? No, I have none.’

‘So just your humble greetings and request for further orders? Or shall I just ask what took ’em so long?’

‘Ask what you like,’ Amber said, at last seeming to focus on Daken and stand a little straighter. ‘He is my ally, not my king. My price was that he got my troops through Chetse land and supplies on the other side. How he does that is his concern.’

‘Aye, guess it is.’ Daken leaned forward on his saddle, noting the eyes of Amber’s bodyguard as they all fixed upon him. Behind their curling beards and steel helms he could see little, but the white-eye appeared to find enough to confirm what he was thinking.

‘It’s what happens on the other side I’m more interested in,’ Daken said lazily. ‘So may be time you asked your men which way they want to march.’

‘My men are Menin,’ Amber said, ‘and they follow their commander — or they kill him. There is no asking.’

‘Aye, well, ask yourself then: there’s a fight coming, either in Chetse lands or out the other side. If it’s the one, you’ll be with us, but the Devoted have a start on us, so I’m guessing it’ll be the other and then-’ He jerked his reins and wheeled around. ‘Well, ask yourself, is all I’m saying. You here for glory or safe passage?’

‘You don’t think we’ve earned both?’

Daken grinned. ‘Anyone who walks away from the fight to come, they ain’t likely t’ be remembered. The rest of us’ll be so shining with glory Tsatach hisself won’t need to lift his eye over the horizon for years to come!’

‘Or you’ll be dead,’ Amber called, ‘dead, forgotten and cursed for all eternity.’

The white-eye laughed and pulled up his shirt, revealing the tattoo of Litania covering much of his chest. The tattoo there was still, the Trickster Goddess still weak, as all her kin were, but Daken’s point was made.

‘Nah, must have a few favours saved up — I’ve done some dirty work for this immoral bitch over the years. The rest o’ you bas tards might be fucked though, aye!’

Two days later the Narkang army arrived at the Chetse border. King Emin rode with General Lahk and Vesna ahead of a legion of Kingsguard heavy cavalry, each in full armour. Emin and Vesna were resplendent in their ornate plate; Lahk, in his usual austere battle-dress, Lord Bahl’s black-and-white tabard, was as famous a sight as the extravagant lion’s head helm hanging from Vesna’s saddle. King Emin’s armour echoed that of the Kingsguard, but was suitably finer in every aspect, surpassing even Vesna’s for artistry; mage-engraved runes incorporated into a design of bees and oak leaves.

Behind them, nestled within a screen of Kingsguard, rode the less prepossessing: Isak in his tattered leathers, Legana with a shawl covering her face from the weak sun and Daken in plain armour and a stained green scarf. Carel’s cream uniform was emblazoned with Isak’s crowned dragon crest, but weeks of travelling meant it was far from pristine.

‘King Emin,’ called the ageing Chetse at the head of the receiv ing delegation, ‘I am General Dev. I command the armies of the Chetse until a new Lord of the Chetse is Chosen.’

Dev’s thick arms were uncovered despite the cool air and steady drizzle, and gold and copper torcs framed the ritual scars on his biceps. He wore a warrior’s kilt, but carried no weapon. He stepped forward to bow low. Those behind him followed suit. Their clothing indicated they were ruling landowners and the remaining Tachrenn of the Ten Thousand, but they held back to make it clear the general spoke for all of them.

The Chetse borders were aggressively defended; their slow-burning war with the Siblis ensured that every man grew up a warrior and any Chetse would feel naked when unarmed. Emin knew it was a deliberate gesture of friendship, that Dev had met them without his axe in hand.

‘General Dev,’ King Emin replied in surprisingly good Chetse, ‘your reputation precedes you. I am glad to finally meet you.’

‘Yet you do so with an army at your back,’ Dev pointed out. ‘Not an auspicious start, would you say?’

King Emin inclined his head and dismounted, Lahk and Vesna doing likewise. ‘It remains my hope that I can prove Narkang’s friendship to your tribe,’ he said as he advanced a little way on foot, ‘if you would agree to hear my offer?’

‘I’m a soldier, not a politician. Friendship is something that is earned, not bought with gifts.’

‘A soldier’s friendship perhaps,’ King Emin replied, unruffled by Dev’s gruff words, ‘but a nation is a different beast. The business of a nation is improving the lot of its people, and the gifts I intend are to the Chetse tribe as a whole.’

‘It isn’t my tribe you need to persuade, it’s me,’ Dev said.

Emin nodded. ‘And if your reputation were that of a greedy man, I’m sure your friendship would be far more cheaply bought.’

Some of the Chetse gave an angry start at that, and more than one hand tightened around an axe-shaft until General Dev raised a hand without looking back.

‘I might not be greedy, but the Menin left our armies badly depleted and our capital city in turmoil. The expense of invasion is considerable.’ He ran a hand through his thinning grey hair and spent a while regarding the Narkang force stretching out for miles behind King Emin, no doubt looking for the Menin.

‘I’m not here to fleece you,’ Dev continued at last. ‘Well, not entirely. You want to take an army through Chetse lands, almost past the Gate of Three Suns itself, and you’ll pay, and you know that — so not a surprise to you, that one.’

He sighed. ‘But that’s not the problem. Money and concessions don’t buy off the blood oaths many under my command have sworn.’

‘The Menin,’ Emin stated gravely. ‘Is your hatred really so great that it defies reason?’

General Dev gaped at him. ‘You of all men can ask that? They obliterated Aroth! They slaughtered most of the population, civilians and soldiers alike, all wiped out without mercy. How can you ally your people with such monsters?’

King Emin turned back towards his troops and looked at the faces of his soldiers before replying to the general’s question. ‘How? Because I must. Do you think it was easy? Do you think my people are sheep, to be led unthinking whatever I decide? This war must be fought, and I am outnumbered. My choice was to kill them all and accept grave losses, or bring them to the fold and use their strength for something greater. You are a reluctant ruler of your people, but a king must make such choices.’

‘Why is this war so important to you?’

‘Because the child Ruhen will overturn the Pantheon of the Gods if we do not stop him. Because all of the Gods are threatened by his actions — your own patron included.’

‘Tsatach?’ General Dev said with sudden venom. ‘Then why does our God not warn us, or act? Do you claim greater knowledge than the Gods, or is he so weakened he cannot even find the dreams of his chosen people, his priests? Or does he not care? Are all the promises of the cults so empty our God himself will not stir to warn us?’

Emin looked into the ageing warrior’s eyes and saw the terrible strain Dev was under, and his heart softened at the sight. Here was a man struggling to hold his people together, alone, and no doubt challenged at every turn. The priests would prove little use, that powerful elite more of a hindrance than anything.

Have you prayed — is that the source of your anger? Does your God not answer you — now in your time of need, are you abandoned?

‘The Gods do not fully comprehend the threat,’ Emin started to explain. ‘Right now they are at their weakest; they fear any confrontation where artefacts powerful enough to kill them are used.’

‘So you do claim you know more than our God.’ There was contempt in Dev’s voice there, but it was weak; his heart was not in the scorn, Emin could see that. His political skill told him the Chetse leader was hoping for some way out, some ray of light, or sign from a power greater than himself.

‘The Gods know,’ he said softly, ‘but it is in the hands of mortals now.’

His words struck Dev like a punch to the gut. ‘What can mortals do where Gods dare not?’ he said hoarsely.

‘We-’ For a moment Emin’s words failed him, then he said, ‘We can match this threat. My allies are more than just Menin, and upon them I gamble the future of my nation. The future of the Land itself lies in our hands, and now we have the strength to win this war.’

‘The Devoted army is greater than yours,’ Dev warned. ‘They outnumber you comfortably.’

‘But they have only numbers on their side. We have Gods, and others besides. The Legion of the Damned march with the Menin; Karkarn’s Iron General and Fate’s Mortal-Aspect sit but a few yards from you, and then — and then there is another stronger than any of them.

‘General Dev, I urge you: allow us passage, our Menin allies too. I have given them assurances; they have fought and died for my cause. I would make the Chetse Narkang’s greatest allies in trade rather than make threats, but I cannot stand aside, and I cannot allow the enemy to escape.’

The general’s shoulders slumped. ‘My people will not accept it,’ he said, almost apologetic now. ‘Our honour demands blood.’

King Emin turned again, this time seeking out two sets of eyes among the crowd. They were simple enough to pick out; even hunched over, Isak was far taller than those around him, while Legana’s eyes shone in the shadow of her shawl. The white-eye slipped from his saddle and made his way forward, his cropped sleeves revealing the black and white skin of his arms.

The king’s guards opened a path before them.

‘General Dev,’ Isak said with a bob of the head, his Chetse rough, learned during his days on the wagon train, ‘my name is Isak.’

Already staring aghast at the mass of scars and unnatural lines visible on the white-eye’s hands, face and neck, Dev staggered back a step when he heard Isak’s name. His own men breathed curses or gasped in alarm, many making warding signs against daemons, but Isak did not react, not even when the boldest pulled their weapons. He stared into the old man’s eyes, watch ing the shock play out.

‘But you- It cannot-’ Dev glanced back at his own men and realised some were on the point of attacking. With a feeble gesture he stopped them, wonder and horror blossoming all over again when he turned back to Isak. ‘How is this possible?’

‘Not easily,’ King Emin suggested before Isak could reply, ‘but perhaps it goes some way to showing the power we possess?’

As he spoke Isak raised his right hand and a burst of black light exploded from it. General Dev and King Emin both recoiled from the sudden flare of darkness that had struck with painful speed; when they opened their eyes again Isak’s fingers were wrapped around the grip of Termin Mystt. In the light of day its deep, unnatural blackness absorbed the sun’s rays so completely it looked like a tear in the fabric of the Land.

‘I hold Death’s weapon in my hand,’ Isak announced to all those watching. ‘The Dark Place could not hold me; the Menin lord could not stop me. Do you want me as your enemy?’

‘General Dev,’ Emin interjected hurriedly, ‘my army outnumbers any you could field, I am certain; we possess many Crystal Skulls and Death’s own weapon. You must see reason.’

‘I’ve told you,’ Dev said with a helpless gesture, ‘my people have sworn blood oaths! The honour of the tribe demands blood be spilled, forcing trade agreements on us as alternative to unleashing Ghenna upon us does not satisfy honour.’

— You want blood? Legana wrote on her slate in Chetse, holding it up for Emin and Dev to see while she spoke the words into Isak’s mind.

‘My people will have blood; they will fight the Menin, no matter what threats you make.’

Legana looked from the general to King Emin and back. ‘ You men and your honour — look what it does to you, ’ she said into the minds of Isak and Emin. She used her sleeve to erase the first message and quickly wrote a second.

— A duel. Amber against a Chetse. You will have blood.

‘A duel of champions?’ Emin echoed, thoughts racing. ‘A formal resolution to satisfy your honour? Even your more bloodthirsty warriors must realise the Chetse can ill-afford the huge loss and battle would mean, General Dev. This practice is ancient; the Gods themselves endorsed it before the Great War.’

‘This is some sort of trick,’ Dev muttered. ‘You planned all of this.’

‘I didn’t,’ Isak said with a crooked grin. ‘I only planned threats.’

‘This is no trick, General Dev,’ Emin said, shooting Isak a warning look, ‘but it might serve your purposes. You do not want to fight, I assume? Might your people accept such a thing? The terms would be simple enough — if your champion wins, our Menin allies turn back and we go on without them. If their champion wins, we are all granted passage. The trade terms I’m prepared to offer would not be contingent on either outcome, but the formal contract would serve to satisfy the dignity of your tribe?

‘The Chetse consider combat a noble trial, do you not? One that rests in the skill of the warriors and the will of their Gods? General Amber is a skilled fighter for certain, but he is no mage nor white-eye, just a veteran soldier. Surely you have a man to match him, so we can put it to the will of the Gods?’

General Dev was silent a long while, scrutinising the faces of all three but gleaning little from a Goddess, politician and mangled white-eye.

‘Perhaps,’ he admitted at last. ‘I must speak to my people to see if they will honour any such outcome.’

He bowed and turned away, walking back to his advisers with heavy footsteps. From somewhere high above came the mocking caw of a crow.

Amber marched out to the battle-ground as soon as dawn came. A circle was marked in the earth between the Narkang army and the far smaller Chetse force, twenty yards in diameter. Spears had been thrust into the ground at regular points around the furrowed circle and already there were soldiers standing at them, keen to get a good view of the duel to come.

‘General Amber,’ King Emin called from his right.

The Menin soldier stopped and turned to face his ally. ‘King Emin.’ He stood tall, not bowing — and realising he didn’t even feel the urge to bow. Strange. In- In my lord’s presence I always felt unworthy, blessed to be there. Now I feel nothing. The whole sham of formalities sickens me.

‘Thank you for agreeing to this,’ the king continued. ‘This is not what I wanted, but I thank you for the risk you’re taking for my cause.’

‘For your cause?’ Amber said. ‘You think that’s why I’m doing it?’

King Emin inclined his head. ‘I think you are serving your army and honouring the agreement we have made. Your motives are your own; my gratitude remains.’

Amber looked up at the sky where thick bands of cloud reached up from the eastern horizon. ‘Hope it doesn’t rain. I hate fighting in the wet.’

‘Kill ’im quickly then!’ Daken suggested with a laugh, trotting over to join the two men. He had a mug of beer in his hand and offered it to Amber, who shook his head. ‘No? Might be your last chance — I hear they’ve got a big bastard for you!’

Amber looked at the Chetse soldiers. They were all broad men, with wild sandy-brown hair; their barrel chests and thick arms made it clear how easily they could swing the long-axes each man had on his back.

‘Big, eh? Well that’s not much of a surprise.’

‘Aye, could be right there. Either way, the odds on you were lengthening all bloody night.’

‘You’re running a book?’ King Emin demanded. ‘We’re supposed to be maintaining the dignity of the situation — preserving the honour of the Chetse and the nobility of this ancient practice.’

Daken grinned. ‘Never been one for honour, didn’t you know? And this nobility thing’s harder than I realised — you might have made me a marshal of some place I’ve not managed to visit yet, but nobility? That escapes me.’ He raised a finger. ‘Soldiers, though, I get them well enough. Gossipy, money grabbing bastards, no matter what tribe they come from, and bugger me, do they like to gamble. So yeah, I’ve been running a book. I spent half the night in the Chetse camp, gauging their mood, finding out who their champion’s likely to be.. There’s a whole mixed bag of feelings about this and our hero Amber here, but when you’re offering brandy and good odds you get to make friends quick in an army camp.’

‘And what have you found out?’ Amber asked.

‘That he’s a big bugger.’

‘That’s all? It was my brandy you took there, wasn’t it?’

The white-eye’s grin widened. ‘Once I heard he was a big bugger, didn’t seem like you’d need it.’

‘By which time you’d already stolen it.’

‘Aye well, I’ve got a nose for this sort of thing.’

Amber shifted the baldric loosely slung over his shoulder so his scimitars were in a more comfortable position. ‘Did you find out anything else?’

‘Aye. Them buggers like good odds. If you lose, I might need t’ sell that marshalsy you gave me, your Majesty.’

The king regarded Daken for a long moment. ‘Maybe I’ll just let them cut bits off you instead for payment.’ He turned away from the white-eye and offered his hand to Amber. ‘I’ll leave you now; I’m sure you want to prepare alone. If you need anything, let me know. Otherwise — good luck, General.’

Amber took the man’s hand stiffly, not trusting himself to speak, but the king just turned and moved towards Doranei and Endine.

‘Any more words of advice?’ he asked Daken as he watched the king walk away.

The white-eye shrugged. ‘Pointy end goes in the other bastard. Aside from that, wouldn’t surprise me if the king had a trick up his sleeve, but don’t count on it.’ He ushered Amber to the circle, where Carel joined them and gruffly wished him luck too. Trailing along behind were Amber’s Menin guards, each of them looking about to explode as they matched glares with the Chetse, but it never went beyond that. General Dev had assured the king that his men were bound by the honour of the duel not to spill blood outside it, while Amber had threatened to execute every man in the squad of any Menin starting a fight.

Once inside the circle, Amber handed his weapons to Carel and rolled his shoulders in slow circles to loosen them up. Thanks to the efforts of Narkang’s healers, his various injuries had all healed, but still he felt stiff and old — too old to be fighting this close to dawn, whether or not he’d managed much sleep.

‘Reckon they’ve found a white-eye?’ Carel asked, conversationally. ‘Can’t have many to pick from, what with their best marching with your lot.’

‘I’ve fought white-eyes before,’ Amber said.

‘If they do, likely you’re in luck,’ Daken decided. ‘The best’ll have been in the battle at Moorview and most likely killed. If they drag out any old white-eye he’ll be quicker’n you, but still most likely dumber. All strength and no skill.’

Amber glanced up at the empty sky again and made his way out into the centre. More soldiers had arrived at the circle now, both Narkang and Menin. A few of the younger recruits attempted a cheer as their army’s champion reached the centre, but Amber scowled at them and the sound withered.

The recruits were part of the cavalry scout groups — most of the infantry were formed up in their companies, ready either to march or assault. For the main it was officers and elites here, those who weren’t bound by orders from dawn to dusk. The Menin contingent was near-silent, far more typical of Menin soldiers than Amber’s own quarrelsome Cheme legions had been.

‘Thank you, Carel,’ Amber said, glancing back. His face was set like stone, the hard lines of a veteran soldier about to fight once more. ‘I’m glad you’re here. There is a distance between my men and me; though they are loyal they fear me. Death omens follow me and my namesake’s defeat lingers in my shadow. If I am to die, it will be in the company of a friend.’

He turned to Daken, the white-eye’s easy grin absent for now. ‘As for you — well, keep your bastard hands off my brandy.’

Before either man could reply, the Chetse soldiers on the far side of the circle parted suddenly, allowing General Dev and a second man through into the circle. A murmur went up on all sides: there could be no doubt that this was Amber’s opponent. Half a head taller than the general he accompanied, the soldier could have easily been mistaken for a wildman from the Waste, but for the fine detailing on his axe and pauldrons.

His long, tangled mass of sandy-brown hair was kept out of his pale blue eyes by red bands, until he put on a shallow bowl-helm. His clothes and mail shirt looked like they had been patched repeatedly; they were festooned with fetishes. From the man’s dark skin Amber could see he was an easterner, probably from the desert clans on the edge of the Waste, where the Chetse fought a near-constant war against the Siblis who lived beneath the desert. Any veteran of those savage skirmishes would doubtless be a dangerous opponent.

‘General Amber, Chosenslayer and last survivor of the Cheme legions, your opponent, Dechem of the Wyvern Clan, champion of the Agoste field.’ General Dev’s voice was loud enough to drown out the whispers racing through the onlookers.

In response to Dechem’s introduction the Chetse soldiers gave a single, sudden shout. Amber didn’t catch the word, but it prompted Dechem to turn and salute those behind him with his long-axe. On his back Dechem wore an oval shield, but looking at the length of his axe, Amber guessed it would be staying there.

Just as Amber decided no man could use the weapon one-handed, Dechem turned around and did just that: he flourished the weapon, using long diagonal strokes, first in one hand, then the other, all performed adeptly before he saluted Amber. The Menin reached back with both hands and Carel put the hilts of his scimitars in them, allowing Amber to draw the weapons and bow in one movement. He rolled each wrist in turn, moving the brutal weapons through slow strokes to loosen his hands with out showing Dechem how fast he could strike, and with that the others retired to the circle’s edge.

Neither fighter moved. Though the duel had officially begun, Amber had been told it was Chetse custom to stand a while and size up an opponent. After titles had been announced, insults thrown or respect offered, all bluster was put aside and it was just two warriors ready to do battle.

Amber was significantly taller than his opponent, but the long-axe lent a greater reach and could both chop and hook. Dechem was a champion of the Agoste field, the Chetse veterans’ forum, but it was likely he’d never have faced twin swords like Amber’s before, which gave the Menin an advantage. Temple training in the Menin homeland required them to face warriors carrying all weapons, and Amber had duelled against the long axe many times before.

Dechem decided the moment had ended. He raised his axe and cautiously advanced, while Amber stood his ground, his swords held out before him. The Chetse made some exploratory passes, circling as he cut, poised to leap backwards should Amber try to rush him.

The Menin kept his own movement to a minimum, edging beyond Dechem’s range when necessary, mostly just watching the axeman move. The strokes were superbly dextrous, neat and swift without unnecessary backswing.

At last Amber advanced, stepping forward and lashing up at Dechem’s knuckles with his left scimitar. The right he readied to chop down with, but the Chetse twirled backwards with a grace that belied his bulk and swung around behind his body as he moved. Amber held back, realising in time he’d be caught in the leg before he could strike a blow of his own, then leaping forward in behind the stroke.

His first blade scraped harmlessly down the Chetse’s shield; the second bit the rim and scored his chainmail. Dechem hammered at Amber’s forearm with the butt of his axe then brought the head around to chop at his head. Amber caught the axe shaft on his scimitar and tried to push it down and away, but the Chetse wrenched his weapon back, quick as a snake, and struck high.

Amber twisted and dodged the cut, slashing up at the shaft. Dechem saw the danger and backed off, instinctively aiming another cut in his wake, but Amber held. When he advanced again he had one sword high, the other at chest height. Dechem responded by probing forward with the long-axe, twisting it one way then the next as he sought to snag something with the head’s hook. He feinted at the lower weapon, then went left suddenly and flicked the axe down at Amber’s knee, even as Amber slashed across his face. Neither weapon scored as Dechem’s movement took him away.

Amber didn’t wait this time, but struck down at the axe and followed it past his knee, all the while slashing at Dechem’s head with his second sword. His scimitar was turned by the Chetse’s helm and pauldron and he took a hurried blow on his shoulder as the powerful warrior heaved his axe back.

Dechem drove Amber a step to the side, but the Menin was able to hook the axe again and chop from left to right down into his opponent’s forearm. The scimitar caught Dechem between wrist and elbow, tearing open the chainmail. A spray of blood leapt up and Dechem lost his grip on the long axe and fell backwards. Amber was already moving in for the killing blow before he realised the fight was won: Dechem’s arm was half-severed, the bone exposed, and blood spurted over his legs.

Amber stayed his thrust half a foot from the downed man’s throat. ‘Yield!’ he commanded. ‘Enough have died — yield!’

Dechem croaked something unintelligible, cradling his ruined arm without a thought to continuing the fight.

Amber looked up and scanned the watching soldiers. ‘Nai, get here!’ He checked the main concentration of Chetse, but none were moving, not even as the former necromancer ran forward to the injured man. Amber discarded one weapon to make his point clear, but still none of them took a step to help.

Bastards probably think his life’s mine to spend as I see fit. Great Gods and little fishes, I’ve had enough of honour. Any more and I’ll choke.

Nai dropped to his knees at Dechem’s side then slid one foot under the man’s shoulder’s to support him. Blood leaked everywhere, running through the soldier’s fingers like it was being poured from a jug. Without speaking Nai jammed his fingers into the wound, and Dechem howled.

The Chetse would have punched Nai in the head had Amber not caught his arm, but just the attempt was enough to pale his face and after a moment of feeble struggle he submitted to Nai’s ministrations. Amber, checking the wound, realised it was too grave to save the arm. He’d seen the results of enough cuts like that, even with a priest of Shotir to hand, and after a quick exploration Nai came to the same conclusion.

He wrapped his blood-slick hands around the cut and closed his eyes. A bright light emanated from between his fingers, flaring red, then fading to pink that burned to white. Dechem roared like a wounded lion and fought against at Amber’s grip, but in the next moment he fell limp and the Menin general released him as the wound began to hiss and crackle. There was no smell of burnt flesh, but Amber backed away all the same. He’d seen enough of surgeon’s work; magical or not it was still enough to turn a sane man’s stomach.

‘Happy now?’ Amber muttered, looking from General Dev to King Emin. ‘Or would you’ve preferred I killed him?’

Of Isak Stormcaller there was no sign, but Amber couldn’t tell whether that meant the scarred white-eye was just as sickened of honour, or that he didn’t care about anything any more. Rumour said that General Lahk had been rejected by Nartis and had all emotion burned out of him. Certainly the man bore lightning scars down his neck, but Amber hadn’t spoken to the man enough to be able to tell. With Isak… well, it was hard to tell there too. One moment he wasn’t much different to any other young man, but it took only a heartbeat to switch to either traumatised recluse or blank, empty shell.

I guess the same could be said about me, though, Amber reflected as Carel approached him, his scabbards and baldrics in hand. They each cleaned and sheathed a scimitar in silence, the weapons sliding home with a whisper before Amber pulled the baldrics on and tightened the straps.

‘Man was good,’ Carel muttered.

‘Aye. Seems like a waste now, doesn’t it?’

Carel caught Amber’s arm. ‘It wasn’t, and you’ve got my thanks. Without that duel we’d have had to threaten and probably fight our way through. I don’t want Isak unleashing that sword’s power any more’n he has to. Little bastard’s never known when to stop.’

‘When to stop?’ Amber said in a hollow voice, looking back at the man he’d spared. ‘Then let’s hope he learns one day.’

He raised his voice, turning to the handful of bearded Menin watching him intently. ‘What are you waiting for? Sound the advance!’