The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (25 page)

Chalat kicked his attacker away and the Bloodrose flared again as it absorbed another wound. Mihn immediately swung at the creature, but had to fling himself back when he missed, trying to avoid the raking claws. He waved his staff in a wide half-circle, not daring to risk another strike at the monster, but trying to distract it. The twisted perversion of a man had bony growths pushed through the skin; it looked daemonic, and the furious snarls sounded like the dying breath of a ruined throat, amplified by rage.

With the creature’s attention on the foreigner, Chalat had the time he needed. Golaeth’s coppery surface blazed in the light from the eternal flame and Chalat roared as he hacked down at the creature. The blow was somehow turned by the creature’s arm, but it could do nothing to stop the sword when it lanced forward into its belly. Razor-sharp claws lashed forward as it tried to shred Chalat’s flesh, but the white-eye had already withdrawn. He struck again, and this time cut off one of the monster’s arms, then as he chopped deep into its neck, it collapsed, flailing violently before falling abruptly, rigid. One last twitch came, then it was still.

Chalat looked up at Mihn and bared his teeth in some sort of a smile.

‘Well done.’ He sounded husky with barely restrained aggression. Chalat hardly cared for the duties of state, but fighting in his tribe’s need was always joyfully done.

‘See to the general; those three are dead.’ Chalat stood over the corpse for a moment, then stabbed his sword down into its chest, driving it on into the rock below.

The foreigner jumped at the sudden sound, then crouched down over the general, peering into his eyes. He nodded to himself, and took the general’s dagger from his belt. With an assured movement he cut away the sleeve of the general’s shirt and tied that above the bleeding arm; the other sleeve was similarly removed and used to bandage the wound itself.

‘It’s a clean cut, but deep,’ he told Chalat. When he received no reply, he looked up from his charge. The Lord was squatting by the creature’s head, muttering something, one hand placed flat against the ground. A tremble ran through the stone beneath their feet, rippling towards the white-eye, and then a face appeared on the temple floor. The flat stone billowed up, as though it was nothing more than a sheet of silk held up against a man’s face, though the face was far from human. Though the eyes were overly large and the thick jaw extended too far back, somehow there was a beauty in the curve of the nose, cheek and forehead that redeemed its strangeness.

‘What happened to him?’ Chalat muttered to the face, ignoring the foreigner’s presence. ‘These regimental tattoos mark him as Charr’s bodyguard, but-‘ The white-eye’s voice tailed off as he gestured over the body. ‘Has the same happened to Charr?’

The being in the ground rose up a little further so that the tops of its shoulders were now protruding from the rock. There was no seam between the being and the stone floor; they were made of the same substance. Mihn stared at the Ralebrat - the earth elementals were known to be allies of the Chetse, but he had never heard of them being seen outside of battle.

‘Your Krann is dead. Something else possesses his body now.’ There was a smooth quality to the Ralebrat’s voice, sand running over stone. Something underneath the corpse reached up to tap one of the horns. The nearly decapitated head twitched under the movement as the elemental cocked its head to one side.

‘I couldn’t sense it as it attacked,’ Chalat said. ‘If more than a handful have been changed, I cannot kill them. Can your kind help?’

‘We dare not. The Gods are at play, and others. We will not be involved this time.’

Chalat seemed to take the refusal with remarkable calm. The Ralebrat had allied themselves with Aryn Bwr during the Great War - clearly the slaughter on both sides had taught them to keep clear of anything similar.

‘You must leave.’

‘What?’ Chalat was surprised.

‘You cannot fight these daemons; you must leave for the sake of your people. We have expected this Age for a thousand years - we will go deep into the earth until we are called by one who is known to us.’

‘How can I leave Charr to rule the Chetse?’

‘You cannot avoid it. The only question is whether you will be alive when the time comes to save your people.’ An arm appeared from the ground, rising up as though from a perfectly still lake. It pointed at the foreigner. ‘Take that one with you.’

‘Him? Why?’

The Ralebrat emitted a sound like sand brushing over steel; it was amused. ‘Fate intervened to put him in your enemy’s path. He is marked, that one.’

‘Marked for what?’

‘For suffering and service. What he has lost from his soul, he must confront and surpass. If he does as he must, his name will be honoured for a thousand years.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Chalat now stared at the foreigner in curiosity and fascination.

‘It is not yours to understand. He belongs to another.’ With that the Ralebrat slid back down into the ground, disappearing without trace.

Chalat stared at the blank stone for a moment, then a gust of wind tugged at his hair and stirred him to movement. He stood up and cleaned his sword on the clothes of the dead bodyguard.

‘It looks like we both have some long years ahead of us. If you’re not my business, I don’t want to know any more. I know the Ralebrat well enough to keep my silence. How badly injured is Chate?’

The foreigner looked down and shrugged. The man had passed out and he pushed back the man’s thinning silver hair to show Chalat a ripe swelling visible on the general’s hairline.

‘Right, then. I’ll carry him to the Temple of Asenn; they’ll be around soon for the dew rituals and it’s next to the Temple of Shijhe. Then we go north.’

Koezh Vukotic watched the beacons on the walls struggle against the unremitting wind. The flames sent faint shadows cavorting over the glistening cobbles of Daraban’s streets, but they made little inroad into the coating of liquid darkness that had descended upon his city. Bulging clouds obscured his sight of the moons; he preferred it that way, without Alterr’s watching eye.

But the shouts and calls out there, the clank of iron and drum of hooves, they were all sounds of another life, aspects of a time when he had been truly alive. The long years of his curse were an indistinct ache, quite separate from the sharp years of mortal life; as few as they had been. Though they were mere seconds compared to the long years that followed, their light still burned fiercely.

Out there, men preparing to die thought of their wives, their children. They smiled over those years that had been their span, hoping, praying, for a few more, however cold and harsh life might be in the Forbidden Lands.

It sickened Vukotic that his people would die in winter. The season was long here, long and harsh and violent, and he believed this attack had come about because a Krann was desperate to prove his worth. It was fear of meeting some unfortunate accident now that Lord Styrax’s own son had come of age that had driven Lord Cytt to risk marching to the Forbidden Lands in winter. He was obviously trying to emulate Lord Styrax’s great victory here.

Vukotic imagined ten thousand men, stamping their way over treacherous frozen ground, their fingers and toes black and festering, lost to frostbite and gangrene before they even reached these walls. What lurked in the shadows of these streets would only compound their misery: bright eyes and twisted smiles, and pale skin that barely noticed the bite of winter flushed in grotesque anticipation of the slaughter to come.

He could feel his breed slipping through streets and alleys now, nostrils flaring, tasting the first blood on the wind. Many were close enough for him to sense individually, more lingered at the fringes of his mind, and as each recognised his presence, they begged permission to join.

He rarely let them take part - he wanted them to have as little to do with his citizens as possible - but they would always be there on the edges. Most were worse than animals, beautiful, degenerate daemons that preyed on those they would now be protecting - for this was different. This battle had nothing to do with the people of the city, and Vukotic saw no reason why they should suffer any more than necessary.

As he turned away from the window, echoes of lusty jubilation rang out with revolting familiarity. He steadied himself on the desk and lifted a foot to tug at the black mail covering it. It had been several years since he last wore his armour and the leather padding was chafing at skin more used to the finest silks. The curse gave him enormous strength and resilience, but his senses were likewise magnified. Pain was something he had learned to endure; his many deaths had provided more than sufficient practice.

A little more comfortable now, Vukotic eased himself into the sturdy leather chair before him and pushed aside the stack of papers on the walnut desk that were awaiting his attention. Now was not the time for civic affairs, not even the most pressing matter, a legal dispute between minor nobles - he found himself hoping one or the other died in the coming battle. It might not be a human solution, but few would ever accuse a vampire of excessive compassion.

His eyes wandered the room, lingering on the gold threading that now lined the shelves of his bookcase. The housekeeper had a free rein when it came to decoration and each time he returned, the room was different in some way. Perhaps to ward off the harsh winter, she had chosen bright reds and oranges, as well as a liberal use of gold leaf far beyond the finances of most; the new colour scheme certainly cheered his dull spirits. If he hadn’t had the rest of his armour sitting on a chair behind him, the evening might not have been too unpleasant…

He sighed and trudged over to the pile of plate armour, picked up a piece and, grumbling to himself, began to strap it on. He winced as he pulled the cuirass over his head. His left hand gave a twinge as he raised his arm, the legacy of his recent death at the hands of Lord Styrax. For some reason, that injury had not entirely healed during his dark sojourn. His pale brow furrowed as he recalled not only being bested in single combat - extraordinarily - but the humiliation of slowly dying while his armour was roughly stripped from his body as it rotted to nothing.
What
he was donning now was his father’s armour, but it was identical to his own bar the monogrammed initials.

That Lord Styrax had beaten him in single combat was truly remarkable; the Menin Lord was the finest warrior Koezh Vukotic had ever faced. He sighed. He very much doubted Styrax’s Krann, rumoured to be dim-witted, even for a white-eye, would be of the same calibre.

A soft knock on the door dispelled his thoughts. Vukotic shrugged his shoulders to ensure the cuirass was straight and comfortable, then called for the servant to come in.

‘Forgive the intrusion, my Prince, but you have a visitor and your tea is ready,’ the elderly man said as he bowed as far as his load and age would permit, then shuffled forward and carefully placed a heavily laden tray on to a small table beside the fire.

‘If it is one of the scouts then send them to Duke Onteviz; he has command of the walls,’ said Vukotic before he noticed the second cup on the tray. A visitor was rare enough at any time, let alone when an army was attacking the city. It couldn’t be his brother - Vorizh wouldn’t dream of announcing himself to a servant; he preferred them to not even see him. Conceivably, his sister had returned from playing with the politicians of the western cities. She was more likely to visit than the others, perhaps the White Circle politics had bored her even quicker than she’d expected.

He paused, lost in thought. Strange he hadn’t sensed whoever it was when he spoke to the rest of his breed. Just in case, he looked at the sword belt hanging from the back of the chair to make sure it was easily accessible if some treachery were afoot.

‘I hardly think you need that,’ someone outside the room said firmly.

The voice brought a smile to Vukotic’s face and he dismissed the servant who had been waiting with hands anxiously clamped together. Aracnan leaned on the door frame. ‘It’s good to see you well again.’

Vukotic snorted. ‘You make it sound like I had a cold.’

‘Nothing you would not recover from. Complaints are not princely.’

The vampire smiled and straightened up from fitting the plates about his shin to grasp Aracnan’s huge hand and squeeze it tightly. ‘Nor is much that I do, and yet this is the company you keep. How are you, my friend?’

‘Well.’ Aracnan shook off the black bearskin draped over his shoulders and sat down beside the fire with a satisfied sigh. His taut, pale skin plowed in the firelight, though his large black eyes reflected nothing.

‘But I do not expect to be popular in the west, so I thought I might call in on an old enemy and see how he’s getting over his cold.’

Vukotic sat opposite him, leaving Bariaeth in its scabbard on the other side of the room. ‘Why?’

‘Well, it appears I tried to put an influence charm on the Saviour.’

‘What?’ Vukotic nearly jumped out of his seat. ‘The Saviour? I’ve heard none of this. When? Who?’

Aracnan gave a whispery chuckle and, ignoring his friend’s sudden animation, poured two cups of the steaming tea. The cup looked tiny in his hands as he wrapped his chilled fingers about it.

He took a sip and smiled, then said, ‘Patience; and I will tell you. He is Farlan - Nartis has two Chosen again. I was given instructions to fetch him and announce it to Lord Bahl, but he would not come.’

‘Why not?’

‘I cannot say exactly, but I felt a sudden hatred for the boy as soon as I laid eyes on him and I believe he saw that, or maybe felt the same way, but why? All I remember is that he wears a halo of trouble. He’s wild, and that makes me fear for what he might do-‘

‘And you still keep a trap-scroll with you for when you meet interesting strangers,’ finished Vukotic, with a smile. ‘You’ve become a creature of habit, my friend. Age has caught up with you at last. But it’s sensible enough. The influence will remain dormant and undetected by most mages.’

‘Except it was never activated. The scroll was given to Lord Bahl, who knew not to open it. I followed the boy to Tirah - I wanted to understand why I’d felt him to be different, and I wanted to deliver the message at least to Lord Bahl, even if I couldn’t deliver the boy.’

Vukotic looked at the immortal sitting opposite him. They called themselves friends, though that was not the simple truth. The story was likely to be less innocent than Aracnan was suggesting, but he had done the same many times. They both had their own agendas,
their own games to play and what were a few lies between immortals? As the years swept past it was good to see a familiar face, so they both
ignored much to ensure that continued.

He prompted Aracnan. ‘And?’

‘And I was attacked, again and again - attacked in my sleep by
some Yeetatchen witch, of all things. Whenever I neared the boy she
came after me. I’ve been warding my mind ever since, but I think she
only wanted to drive me away. I was out of the city by the time I heard
about the Krann’s gifts and realised what he was.’

‘What would the Gods gift their Saviour with?’ Vukotic wondered
out loud. ‘He’s Farlan, so it would ultimately be Nartis’s choice
…
so
it would be an aggressive one, without thought to the consequences,
but not whimsical. Amavoq would have given a dragon, no doubt, but
not the Night Hunter.’ He sighed. ‘So. Siulents and Eolis are back in
the Land.’

‘My friend, you have too much time on your hands.’ The mercenary
chuckled. ‘But you are, of course, quite correct.’

As he rose, slowly unfurling his body from the chair, the vampire
wondered, as always, if Aracnan was a native
of anywhere.
His almost inhuman, hairless features were starkly different to Vukotic’s own, and
unchanged over the millennia. His ears, unadorned and unscarred,
were prominent against the smooth lines of his skull, which added to
the generally outlandish impression. He was not of any of the tribes
of man, but neither was he similar to any of the warrior races created
by the Gods.

Vukotic sighed to himself, remembering those poor creatures bred
only for war and the part he had played in exterminating them: the
feral Manee, the beautiful Angosteil whose shining faces had stirred
the envy of the elves, and the bizarre, green-carapaced Voch. They had killed them all, and more besides, in ambushes, with terrible
spells, unleashing unnatural plagues. The elves had been as vicious as their Gods; perhaps even more ruthless, because they understood hurt
in a way immortals couldn’t.

Vukotic’s memories were interrupted by a sudden discordant clang
ing from the walls that got louder as more hands fell to the task of warning the city. He shrugged at Aracnan. ‘It seems I must wait for
whatever other news you have of the Land. The Menin’s Lord Cytt
demands my presence so he can prove his worth to the rest of his tribe.’

‘As if there is anyone else in the Menin who has not accepted Lord
Styrax’s son as their future ruler,’ Aracnan scoffed.

‘Will you join me? Together we could deal with the man before he wastes his soldiers on the walls. I’m sure your reputation would be furthered by the death of Lord Cytt surrounded by his entire army.’

Aracnan laughed out loud and nodded his agreement. ‘We both have reputations to further, do we not - in dark times, who knows
what use they might be? After, we must make plans to leave in search
of summer.’

‘Leave the Forbidden Lands? Events have progressed that far?’

They have gone far enough that we must deal ourselves into the game, or be left behind.’

After they had left, the shadows slowly lengthened as the lamps died down. When a servant came to clear the cups and tend the fire, he was struck, suddenly, by the feeling that he was not alone. The room grew cold for a moment and he shivered as he looked around, but there was no one there and, feeling foolish, he dismissed it as an old
man’s fears.

Outside, on the blanketed plain beyond the city, two shapes moved
silently over the snow.