The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (126 page)

For a moment Doranei caught a glimpse of the man Mikiss must have once been. He gave a brusque nod in reply and turned his attention to the figures streaming past. Over the thump of boots on the ground he heard weapons clashing and screams of the dying, but he could see little other than the flood of soldiers filling the street, charging towards the sounds of battle with grim intent. Haipar was nowhere to be seen.

They were a ragged bunch, looking more like heavily armed savages. Doranei turned to look at Mikiss, about to ask why they were being ignored by the newcomers, when one slowed to look at them standing over the body of the wyvern, his jaw hanging open in a lopsided grin. His tattered leathers and rusting mail hung loose on his body. His baldric was drawn tight, as if that was all that was holding him together. His tightly stretched skin was filthy - no spare meat on this one … or any of them, Doranei now saw as he looked more closely.

These men were all lean, verging on withered; they looked fragile, but they carried their massive swords and axes with ease. It was their faces that made the King’s Man blanch. Doranei looked closer at the man who had slowed to look at the wyvern and saw one side of his face had been brutally shattered at some point, his ear was a mangled mess and there as an unnatural indentation in his neck. No man could still be standing with an injury like that. No living man.

What was it Zhia had called her brother’s troops? The Legion of the Damned? A soft groan escaped Doranei’s lips. ‘Gods, is there anyone actually alive in this city?’

Mikiss broke out into a fit of laughter, dropping one of his axes and reaching for Doranei’s shoulder for support as his body shook. The fingers dug hard into his shoulder, pushing through the stiffened leather and mail as though they were not even there. Doranei winced as he was driven down onto one knee and his sword slipped from his hand as his fingers opened of their own accord.

‘Be careful, pet,’ the vampire hissed in his ear, his laughter ending suddenly. ‘Your life is in our hands.’

‘Ahem,’ said Zhia, behind them. Doranei felt Mikiss flinch at the sound of her voice, but the grip did not lessen. ‘My hands, I believe, not yours.’

The fingers dug harder for a moment as a scowl passed over Mikiss’ face, but he released the King’s Man and stepped away, not about to try facing Zhia down. Doranei felt her hands under his arm, but he shook them off and rose of his own volition.

‘What’s happening here?’ he said in a daze. ‘I thought you said they would make matters worse?’

‘Worse?’ Zhia repeated. ‘This place is dead; there is no worse to be found here.’ She pointed towards where Doranei had seen men fighting a few moments earlier. Someone was lying on the ground, surrounded by Koezh’s men. Doranei took a long look before he realised the white face he saw was a mask identical to that worn by the Jester acolyte who stood not more than three yards away. Looking around, he saw more, half a dozen dead in a circle where they’d tried to defend themselves against overwhelming odds. Doranei looked around. The acolyte he had been fighting alongside a minute ago was nowhere to be seen, vanished into the night.

‘Rojak cannot have been expecting this,’ Zhia said. ‘His ambushers were horribly outnumbered. I’m sure the Jesters will have retreated immediately, but any of Azaer’s other followers who failed to leave at once are most certainly now dead.’ Her face took on the cold expression of a woman who’d lived to see every horror the Land could conjure. ‘This ends, here and now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come with me.’ Zhia turned away.

Doranei retrieved his sword again and ran after Zhia walked through the smoking devastation, entirely at her ease, moving swiftly, though without haste or urgency. The crowds of soldiers parted before her, though Zhia showed no sign of even registering their presence as she headed for a tight ring for soldiers who stood with weapons raised defensively, eyeing the mercenaries, who were looking at them with ambiguous intent.

This cannot be normal, even for her, Doranei thought as he trotted along behind.

In the dim light Doranei had to get closer before he recognised faces in the crowd, though he had already spotted the slumped shapes at their feet that indicated casualties. Clearly the damned had not been the only ones fighting, even if they had ended it swiftly.

Zhia changed direction before she reached King Emin’s group to approach a man fully suited in black armour, her brother. His long sword was still sheathed; whatever resistance Rojak had been able to muster, it had not taxed Koezh enough to draw his weapons, not even the dagger at his hip. Doranei had felt Zhia’s unnatural strength, so he knew the vampire was far from defenceless. Black-iron gauntlets and a punch to shatter stone - would even Coran force this famous swordsman to draw? He took a moment to study the armour. If they ever faced the Menin in battle, that would be how Kastan Styrax appeared because he had stripped an identical suit from Koezh’s corpse.

As Zhia reached him, Koezh stopped his silent inspection of the Narkang soldiers and turned to greet his sister, removing his helm to reveal his smooth face, untouched by years, and the glittering sapphire eyes, so like and yet unlike Zhia’s. Neither spoke, but Koezh gave his sister the briefest of nods. What was more surprising was the grunt of acknowledgement Koezh favoured him with. This was still the stuff of uncomfortable dreams; that he could be on nodding terms with such a man - such a monster. He recalled the last time they’d met - was it really just a handful of nights ago? - when he had sat just a couple of feet from Koezh, unable to pay any attention to the repellent play on stage because his attention was fixed so firmly on the terrifying siblings. He found Zhia Vukotic completely captivating, to be sure, but Koezh Vukotic was said to be the closest a man had ever come to the greatness that was Aryn Bwr, and it was those similarities that had condemned the Vukotic tribe to rebellion and heresy. That remarkable ruling family had been closer to the Elves than to their own people. He shivered.

‘King Emin,’ Zhia called, ‘I have a gift for you.’

Doranei saw the surrounding King’s Men tense and ready their weapons. He could only see one member of the Brotherhood amongst the dead, but he was face-down. The others looked to be Jester acolytes, and he spotted one of the gentry Rojak had used as guards at the theatre. As he approached, Doranei saw the gentry had not gone down easily. It wore only ragged trousers, and its exposed skin was bright white in the darkness, cross-crossed with long gashes. The Brotherhood were trained to be efficient fighters; so many deep cuts meant the creature could endure far more than any man.

Coran, the king’s white-eye bodyguard, stepped to one side to reveal his liege. The king was still wearing his ridiculous brimmed hat, a feather stuck in the band, but the look on his face was far from cheerful.

‘A gift? You have the Skull?’

‘Something far more precious to you.’

The king looked momentarily disarmed. ‘You have the minstrel.? Where?’

Doranei felt a jump in his chest. He’d not seen the minstrel anywhere - he had never seen the man himself, though he was sure he would recognise the emptiness in Rojak’s eyes. How could Zhia be so certain she had him?

As if in answer, she pointed down the street to a dark husk of a building a hundred yards off, one that had fared better than most in the area. There were a hundred or more of Koezh’s undead ringing the building, keeping a careful distance, but with their weapons at the ready.

‘You will find him within,’ she said calmly. ‘You might want to hurry, even though he’s not going anywhere.’

‘And what do I owe you for this gift?’ King Emin hadn’t moved, despite the hunger Doranei could see in his face, a hunger echoed in his own heart.

‘A favour,’ she said. Doranei recognised her tone of voice now; Zhia intended to give away nothing more. ‘I believe it is now time to leave the city, I suggest you do the same once your business with the minstrel is complete.’

‘I have more business in this city than just the minstrel.’

Zhia gave an empty laugh. ‘There will be no city come the morning, only ash and rubble. The Legion of the Damned has driven off all of your minstrel’s remaining guards. There is no one else here.’ She didn’t give the king time to reply, but turned sharply and started walking back the way she had come, Koezh falling in behind her and the undead warriors breaking into a run to stream ahead of the pair as if to clear a path for them.

Doranei held his ground, unable to go anywhere without colliding with one of the mercenaries. He sensed rather than saw Mikiss join the flow, but of those he’d fought beside, it was only Zhia who recognised he was still there.

She paused at his side, while her brother walked straight past, apparently oblivious, and looked at him. A cruel breath of wind brought her perfume to his nose, a faint, sweet scent of flowers, enough to make him catch his breath, before he was caught in the piercing blue of her eyes.

‘Look after yourself, Doranei,’ she whispered. He blinked. He couldn’t remember her ever addressing him by name before.

‘I don’t suppose I need to say the same to you,’ he croaked.

She reached out finger and touched him on the cheek. ‘Perhaps not, but I am glad it crossed your mind. Now go, you should be there when your king finishes this. You will see me again, when you least expect it, once twilight darkens the sky.’

‘Twilight has come for all of us,’ Doranei replied without thinking.

‘Then it will be soon,’ she said softly, placing a tender kiss on his cheek before following her brother. Unable to stop himself, Doranei turned to watch her go. Her loose black hair billowed in the wind. She looked a ghostly figure against the night sky.

He jerked awake from his reverie as Coran’s deep growl broke the air and the Brotherhood rushed to secure the house Zhia had indicated. One last, fruitless, look around to see if he could work out what had happened to Haipar and he returned to his obligations, sprinting to his king’s side.

King Emin stopped at the foot of the stair inside the wrecked building, seeming to notice his surroundings for the first time. After the Vukotic siblings and Koezh’s army of undead warriors had left, the king had been in a daze, seeing everything and nothing while his mind was focused entirely on the encounter ahead. His eyes were cold. Now he looked around at the house itself.

As though prompted by his hesitation, Coran loomed out of a darkened doorway, the steel ridge of his helm almost wedged against the low lintel and a look of murder in his face.

He stood erect, every muscle in his body tight with barely controlled rage as he struggled to contain every natural instinct the Gods had given him. His hands were gripping his long mace so tightly that the weapon shook. He’d sprinted here, along with half a dozen King’s Men, but he wouldn’t go up the stairs, not until the king had arrived. He didn’t trust himself.

From the street they had seen someone staring at them, though the angle was such that only from a distance had Doranei been able to make out that it was Rojak, apparently sitting there waiting for them.

Coran’s eyes were fixed on his king, silently begging for the order to kill. The white-eye had a particular loathing for Ilumene. Even before llumene had nearly crippled him, they had hated each other. But it was impossible for any member of the Brotherhood not to hate Rojak, not after the sick little games he’d played for his master, the horrors he had orchestrated.

‘You found no one alive in the house?’

Coran shook his head slowly.

‘Well then,’ the king said to the room in general, though only Coran, Doranei and the mage, Cetarn, were inside. Sebe lingered on the doorstep, his customary grin absent. They were all looking anxiously at the staircase leading to Rojak, and at the king they served.

King Emin slid his axe through a belt loop and kept his sword drawn as he started up the stairs. They creaked ominously under his feet, and he caught his balance as one gave way.

Doranei watched his back as he ascended, his sword tip leading the way. He knew the king would expect him to follow; Doranei had by no means replaced Ilumene as first of the King’s Men, but he was certainly a favourite, and his relationship with Zhia had strangely advanced that. The Brotherhood were more than just grey men in the shadows; they were the bloody hands of their king when necessary. Now Doranei had stepped away from that; he stood half in the light. The king had taken this as a sign that he was not simply a blade to be wielded, he might have a greater purpose. Without being given the choice, Doranei found himself halfway into Ilumene’s shoes. Already they chafed.

King Emin stopped at the top of the stair. Nothing moved. Perhaps Koezh had killed everyone, leaving the corpse of the minstrel as an object lesson in humility.

Doranei peered past his king at a dead acolyte lying across the top step, looking straight at him with one visible, vacant eye. The battered mask was pushed askew, revealing half a face, but a deep cut to the side of the head had made such a mess that it was impossible to make out whether the corpse was male or female. Silvery-grey hair lay in a tangle, a similar colour to that of the dead man still lying in the rains of the abbot’s house, but luxuriant and flowing where the other’s had been hacked short.

He tested the air again, fighting down the soldier’s instinct to just block out the stink. The sharp smell of faeces filled the house, overlaying everything with its gag-inducing stench, and over that he could make out the softer scent of ash and embers, adding a dry bitterness to the mix. But beneath them all was another, one hardly noticeable, unless you knew to expect it.

Morghien had first described it as overripe peaches left to fester. This was the smell that accompanied Rojak wherever he went, the reminder of where he had come from. On the fateful expedition to Castle Keriabral, survived at the end by only Cordein Malich and Morghien, one other figure had walked away from the ruined fortress after the horror had played out, one that was no longer a man. The minstrel who had begged to accompany them so he could see the famous castle. He had spent his days there walking with wonder through the wild peach tree woods outside the castle walls, singing childhood songs to himself. He had been a gentle spirit, and a generous man - until a shadow spoke to him one night when the moons were high and the scent of peach blossom was thick on the breeze.