The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (109 page)

‘Help you?’

The man’s accent sounded strange until Breytech placed it as from Narkang. He looked up and saw a face tanned enough for a Chetse - and no offer of help.

‘Why would I want to do that?’ the man said, shifting his shoulders under his armour, which shone in the sun. Thick trails of sweat ran from under the battered skullcap. Slung on his back was a steel-rimmed round shield and a bastard sword hung from his hip, gems glittering on the hilt.

‘But you’re a soldier. You’re protecting the temples.’

The soldier cocked his head.

Breytech heard shuffling footsteps behind the man and looked around him into the Temple Plaza. Past the ring of shrines that encircled the six huge temples were two figures dragging a third towards the Temple of Death. Three figures, no more, and none apart from this one looked like a soldier. Other than them, the plaza was completely deserted.

‘Where are the others? Where are your men?’

The man gave an evil chuckle and looked back towards the three near the temple. ‘My men are there, but I wouldn’t say we’re protecting the temples.’

Breytech whirled around to look at his pursuers. They had remained on the edge of the plaza, loitering uneasily, but when they realised he was staring at them they began to hiss and stamp their feet. One or two took a hesitant pace forward and Breytech quickly averted his gaze.

The men by the temple caught his eye once again as the dark-haired captive shook himself free and made a feeble bid to escape. He was hampered by a stiff leg and his hands were bound behind his back, and he was caught easily by a small man bizarrely dressed head to foot in black who scythed the other’s legs from under him with a sweeping kick.

Breytech felt himself sway and his knees threatened to buckle as the sun’s heat became a physical force pressing on his shoulders, but he steeled himself and stood firm. He checked his own pursuers again.

They were slowly creeping closer, like nervous children. He took a step back and turned to the soldier, but the man was already walking away, tossing a thin-bladed dagger up into the air and catching it, again and again.

‘Wait, they’re coming this way,’ Breytech croaked, catching the man up.

The soldier stopped. ‘Of course they are,’ he said. ‘They’re not frightened of the temples. The Gods have left this place; they have no need to fear it.’

‘Then why did they stop?’ Breytech asked, bewildered, his head spinning. He slipped and fell to one knee, his palms flat pressed against the grit and dirt on the ground. Breathing in, Breytech tasted the dust on the air, as dry and dead as a tomb, and realised he could go no further.

‘They stopped,’ said the soldier, ‘because while they do not fear the Gods, they know to fear me.’ With that, he started off towards the temple again, cheerfully calling over his shoulder, ‘But I’m leaving now, and all they have left is a man dressed like a priest.’

Breytech gaped at the steel-bound shield on the soldier’s back, flinching as it caught the sun and reflected into his eyes. Then he heard the slap of feet on stone behind him and turned to see the pack descend. He opened his mouth to scream but the words died in his throat as he stared into the fevered eyes of the one leading them, a young boy of no more than fifteen winters whose chest was stained with dried blood. Teeth bared, the boy howled like a creature of the Dark Place and raised his thin hands ready to strike, fingers bent like eagle claws. They tore towards him and at last he found his voice again.

Breytech screamed and his terror echoed over the plaza. Their voices added to his until their high shrieks of rage and triumph swamped his lone voice.

Soon all was silent again.

At the Temple of Death, Ilumene stopped and looked back to watch. The creatures that owned Scree’s streets battered the Chetse’s body long after he was dead. They were quiet now; intent on their task, barging each other aside in their struggle to obliterate the remaining vestiges of the man.

He smiled and entered the temple, spitting on the fresco of Death’s cowled image that faced the open doorway as he passed. ‘Run away and hide, you festering relic,’ he said out loud. ‘Your time is over. Scree is a pyre to your failed glory and from its ashes will be born something greater than you could ever comprehend.’

Doranei stared at the speaking-hole set into the door, which shuddered with the force of being slammed shut. He resisted the urge to turn around. It was bad enough that he was standing flat up against a closed door, like an errant child made to stand in the corner and unable to see the mocking eyes on his back; it was worse that those eyes belonged to the Brotherhood. He’d been the butt of every joke since first going to the theatre, when Zhia Vukotic had treated him like a favourite plaything. Now, though his command of the local dialect was not perfect, he was pretty sure that the stream of invective that had come through the speaking-hole before it had been slammed hadn’t included her best wishes and a warm welcome.

‘Maybe she’s eating,’ said a helpful voice behind him. Doranei tried to resist the urge to turn and clout Sebe around his scarred ears; it would only start the others off again. Instead, he continued to stare at the door as though force of will alone could open it.

‘Don’t say that,’ rumbled Coran, ‘you might make him jealous.’

‘Ah, neck envy,’ Sebe snickered. ‘Don’t worry, my friend, I’m sure you’re the only one to her taste!’

He endured it in silence, eyes fixed on the polished grain in front of him. Dusk was drawing in and a lull had fallen over the city. The streets had been largely deserted on the brief journey here, with only a few pockets of private militia protecting the houses of those rich folk still in the city, but he couldn’t have risked coming alone. Zhia’s men guarded the end of the street and they’d only been let through because the officer in charge had recognised Doranei from the theatre.

‘Try knocking again,’ Sebe suggested. ‘You got such a warm welcome the first time.’

A spark of childish antagonism flared in him and he felt words rise in his throat. The king had warned them to keep their tempers in check; whatever magic was being done in the city, it was designed to turn folk against each other. Instead of replying, he reached out with his right hand and rapped smartly.

‘At least he takes direction well nowadays,’ Beyn said from a little further away. ‘She’s had a good effect there.’

Doranei’s three companions had found places of concealment to watch the street in both directions; they had to assume the streets would not stay deserted for long. The officer Doranei had spoken to had made it clear he was getting his men indoors before nightfall, to avoid attracting trouble. Outside the city, armies waited like restless storm clouds, gathering in an ever-tightening funnel. The fighting at the Greengate was only a minor squall, but it heralded something far worse.

‘He’s a polite boy,’ Sebe answered, ‘always had a lot of respect for his elders.’

‘True, but I hadn’t realised he went for women that much older than he is.’

‘You don’t meet many that are so old; let’s face it they’re somewhat scarce.’

‘My money’s on him getting a crossbow bolt in the face,’ Beyn contributed in a chirpy tone. Doranei almost smiled; the Brotherhood would bet on anything amongst themselves and once the subject had been brought up there was nothing that could distract them from their ridiculous wagers.

‘I’ll take him being ignored no matter how long he knocks,’ said Sebe quickly.

‘Nah; spat in the face and told to piss off,’ said Coran.

‘What’s the wager then?’ Doranei asked.

‘You’re joining in?’

‘Absolutely.’ Doranei did smile this time, confident he knew better than they how Zhia or her companions were likely to react. At any rate, he’d not have to pay the bet if it did turn out to be a crossbow bolt in the face. ‘What’s the wager? Anyone got one in mind?’

‘I hear,’ Sebe began, ‘there’s a Raylin called Mistress leading one of the mercenary armies, and that she’s got two pet wyverns. A claw or a tooth of one of them from anyone who loses; that’s the wager.’

‘Agreed. Well then, I say I’ll be dragged inside by a beautiful woman,’ Doranei said.

Beyn spluttered. ‘The boy’s confident, I’ll give him that.’

‘Don’t think it’s confidence,’ Coran said, ‘I reckon he’s just got good ears.’

On cue, the speaking-hole popped open again. Instead of the unshaven face of the man who’d answered it last, Doranei found himself beaming at Legana, though from the Farlan woman’s expression, he could have been a cockroach crawling on the doorstep. Touching him didn’t appear to be on her current list of options, let alone dragging him inside.

‘Can’t keep away?’ she said, turning her head to see who else was standing out in the street. ‘Or did you think today was a good day to take in the evening air?’

‘Men from Narkang laugh in the face of danger,’ Doranei replied, his Brothers chuckling in the background.

Legana gave him an unfriendly grin. ‘Well then, you’ll enjoy your journey home. It’s after sunset that the lunatics come out, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

With that, she slammed the speaking-hole in his face. Doranei’s mouth hung open, frozen in the act of replying. After a few moments he shut it again. Nothing happened on the other side of the door. He turned to look at Sebe, who was crouched two yards away on his right, behind an iron railing that was choked by withered brown weeds.

The man gave a noncommittal shrug and scratched at his newly shorn scalp. Sebe, like many in Scree, had decided his long black hair was too great a nuisance in this oppressive heat. The King’s Man had seen a lot of violence in his years of service and the jagged scars on his face and scalp attested to that. Without his ragged curls he looked like a battered, grinning monkey - which hadn’t escaped mention.

Doranei was about to step back from the door when he heard the bolts slam back and it jerked open to reveal a scowling Legana, her sword drawn. Four burly guards waited a respectful distance down the dim corridor. Legana wore a thin white cape over her clothes; the trappings of the White Circle still had a powerful hold over many of Scree’s citizens.

‘What do you want? We don’t exactly have time for social calls right now.’

‘Intelligence, Legana. We’ve business to finish before we leave the city.’

Legana gaped. ‘Have you not been paying attention to what’s happening in Scree? There’s not going to be a city left in three days; it’s a miracle that the fires haven’t already levelled it. The Second Army has turned on us and is killing anyone they find, and your king is running around with less than a company of men as his only guards. I think you should forget about your business and start worrying about how you’re going to survive. Whether you men from Narkang fear danger or not, you’re fools if you have any goal now beyond saving your own skins.’

Doranei bristled at the comment. ‘We understand the situation perfectly well.’ He paused and lowered his voice so the guards wouldn’t hear. ‘Your lord has promised us help.’

‘The Farlan are going to march on the city?’ Legana whispered furiously. ‘Does he really want to get embroiled in this mess?’

‘That’s not our decision to make, but I do know he wants you to report for orders as soon as you can.’

‘Damn, how does he expect me to serve a master and a mistress at the same time?’ she muttered with a scowl. ‘I can’t keep running off for orders if he wants me to remain as Zhia’s aide.’

Doranei let her fume for a little longer before coughing obviously. ‘Could you let us in? As you pointed out, the lunatics will be on the streets again soon.’

‘I thought you laughed in the face of danger?’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Frankly, you stink like a month-dead dog; I don’t really want you to come any closer.’

‘You try smelling like roses when you’ve been wearing mail for days.’

She pulled open her cape to reveal a Fysthrall breastplate underneath. ‘Some of us have been doing more than skulking in the shadows over the last few days, and we still manage to avoid having our own personal flies circling us.’

‘So are we coming in?’

Legana sighed. ‘She’s just woken up.’ She grabbed Doranei by the tunic and pulled him inside, waving a hand graciously to indicate that his comrades should follow. They didn’t waste any time, trotting past Legana and watching the guards warily.

‘I’ll take you up to her study; your Brothers can wait down here.’ She pointed to the formal reception room, hardly the place for soldiers in stinking leather and armour, but it was clear they had been using it as a barracks over the last few days.

Doranei grinned at his companions and followed Legana upstairs towards Zhia’s study. The last time he’d been there, Koezh Vukotic had stepped out of a mirror and joined them for an evening at the theatre. That felt like a lifetime ago. He gave a slight shake of the head as he trudged behind the Farlan agent. Even considering the strange existence that had been Doranei’s life for many winters now, he felt frighteningly out of his depth. In the service of his king, Doranei had murdered, stolen, lied and kidnapped. His loyalty had always been unquestionable; he might not have been the shining light that Ilumene had been, but he knew King Emin trusted him as much as he did Coran. Rarely had he felt so adrift.

Now, in this city that shimmered uncertainly under a midday sun fierce enough to kill, the real world of loyalty and service felt a distant memory. With the day split in half by a savage and sapping afternoon, Doranei had found himself drifting through the streets as though it were all a dream - a dream in which he was terrified what would happen if his lord and the enigmatic enemy of the Gods living here ever ended up on opposing sides on the battlefield. They hunted a traitor, and he knew the king would be watching him closely.

Opening the door to the study, Legana stepped to one side to let him past into the empty room. Thick curtains covered the tall window and the room was lit only by a pair of candles on the table and the oil lamps flanking the door.

‘Zhia is speaking to Mikiss. These first few days of being turned are difficult, she tells me. She’ll be with you soon.’