Authors: Tom Lloyd
The Ragged Man (2 page)
Back in Tirah, Isak has called all of the Farlan nobility to his official investiture as Lord of the Farlan. Each must swear allegiance to him. To keep the tribe’s increasingly troublesome clerics in check he makes a bargain with Cardinal Certinse. Isak has revealed he is dreaming of death at Styrax’s hands, so after the ceremony, Mihn goes to question the witch of Llehden. Their conversation results in the witch tattooing magical charms over Mihn’s body, linking him directly with both Xeliath and Isak.
While Mihn is learning of the afterlife, Vesna is ambushed by fanatics. After he has killed them all, he discovers the ‘ambush’ was in fact a test, engineered by Karkarn, the God of War, to see if he is indeed the right man for the high honour the God wishes to bestow upon Vesna: to become his own Mortal-Aspect. Vesna, shocked, finds himself unable to make an instant decision.
In Byora, the Lady’s death has sparked an increase in the tensions between the ruling nobles and city’s clerics. An assassination attempt on Duchess Escral fails, thanks to Ilumene’s help, but her husband is killed. The clerics follow this personal attack with a full-scale assault on the Ruby Tower, which Ilumene uses to massacre the city’s mage-priests - and as another demonstration of Ruhen’s supernatural powers.
Legana is being slowly nursed to health by a priest. When she is well enough, he helps her escape from the Temple District, just as Duchess Escral orders the symbolic barring of the door to Death’s temple and Ilumene leads a crackdown in her name on the city’s clerics. Outside the Temple District Legana encounters Doranei, and they exchange information before Doranei goes in search of his lover, Zhia Vukotic. Now they know who’s pulling the strings in Byora. Legana reports that to Isak.
Religious fanaticism and active reaction against it are both on the increase, and violence is breaking out in all the Land’s cities. To avoid outright civil war led by a white-eye as powerful as he is, Isak is forced to persuade one of his most loyal subjects to start a crusade against the Menin. Legana’s report makes him realise he is being drawn inexorably towards the man he believes will kill him - but he refuses to shy away from his destiny any longer, and he adds his forces to the crusade.
As Isak heads south, Lord Styrax reaches the Circle City and his decisive action forces the surrender of its most powerful quarter. Once in control of the city, he begins to investigate the secret at its very centre, the Library of Seasons, which sits in a valley between the city’s four domains. By the time Isak’s army reaches them, he has solved the mystery, and just as the crusade attacks his forces he retrieves a Crystal Skull from the library and wakes the dragon set to guard it. Isak is intent on disrupting Azaer’s plans by attacking Byora, but he is drawn into battle with the Menin and becomes the dragon’s target, just as the Menin Army springs a trap.
Isak, realising the danger they’re in, accepts that he is going to die. He has been dreaming of this for too long. He orders Vesna to lead the army out of danger, while he delays the Menin and attacking dragon. When he is unable to persuade Isak to change his mind, Vesna finally accepts Karkarn’s offer and leads the Farlan Army away as Mortal-Aspect of the God of War, while Isak advances on the Menin alone, but with the full power of his Crystal Skulls unleashed. He knows he cannot defeat Lord Styrax, so he takes the only choice remaining to him: the manner of his death. He kills Kohrad, Styrax’s white-eye son, and even as he himself is being cut down, he boasts about Kohrad’s death to Styrax. The grief-stricken Menin lord retaliates by using his own vast power to send Isak direct to Ghenna, the dark place of eternal torment, instead of just killing Isak and ushering him to the final judgement of Lord Death. As Isak is cast down to the realm of daemons, far away in Llehden, Mihn realises his last desperate gamble must now be played.
PROLOGUE - PART 1
Death stalked the field. As the last of the sun’s rays winked out of the sky, a heavy shroud settled over the fields beyond Byora. It was followed by an unnatural hush that rolled in like sea-fog. Bird calls became distant before gradually fading into nothing, but as the gloom deepened there came other sounds: whispers and low, mournful cries from the torpid fens. Uncertain lights winked in the misty distance in cold imitation of life, but then even the voices of spirits and daemons quietened in the presence of something more terrifying yet. In the broken silence the darkness on the edge of the fens slowly deepened and took form.
A hooded head surveyed the still battlefield. The scarce fauna of the fens kept quieter than ever while the baleful creatures that roamed it nightly fled. The newcomer did not notice. They were not what He sought.
The night-robed figure strode forward, pausing a while to look left and right, as though scenting the air. The stink of decay was unmistakable: the rot of butchery that lingers on a killing ground long after the last corpse is buried. He saw the freshly dug heaps all around, unmarked barrows that would soon be beaten from the Land’s memory by wind and rain. Around them hung pale shapes, the shades of those robbed of life and senses, unaware of everything but the emptiness within. In a fit of generosity He gestured towards them and watched the handful of lost fade to nothing, ushered towards the Herald’s Hall and their Last Judgment.
In the centre of the mounds was a crude monument: upraised spears set in a circle, within which fresh skulls were piled. Above them all flapped a flag of black and red depicting a stylised skull with long, curved canines.
Buried beneath was a corpse, a young man killed before his time, but that was not why He lingered. There was a scent on the air, one unsuited to a cold, muddy field where the promise of rain hung in the air. It spoke of fire and pain: an echo of horror etched into the earth.
The stench of daemons was strongest at a fissure barely twenty paces from the monument. The jagged tear in the ground was no more than a few yards deep, and stained by their corrupt touch. He stood over the rent, unmindful of the distant shrieks that shuddered up through the ground. It took one as strong as He to notice them at all; no mortal would ever be so attuned to the Land, not even the strongest of witches.
He did not speak. He had no words for the dead, or the deed - it was done now, and He was all too aware of the damage done by revenge. Instead He reached out His bone-white arms out into the night. In His left was a double-headed spear studded with glinting gems; the right was empty. The air seemed to contract and reel around Him, though His robe was barely ruffled by the assault, and when the spear cut an arc through the air the darkness was beaten back.
He grabbed with His free hand, which closed about a spitting thread of light. The night boiled off the thread like black smoke, but He ignored it, and twice more grabbed at thin air, each time capturing a new thread, a slightly different tint, in His fist. The empty black cowl regarded the three threads for a while as He stared intently at His catch.
Then, with shocking speed, He spun about and swung with the flat of the spear at the darkness behind. A momentary burst of light tore through the gloom and a fourth thread appeared. This too was scrutinised, but no further violence was required. He jerked the threads closer, and as he tugged, almost carelessly, four figures from the empty night air appeared to cower and stagger before Him.
A hump-backed wolf cringed from His presence, squirming on its belly over the blood-soaked ground until it reached His side. The others came less easily, but by the force of His will He dragged them close and wrapped the threads around the spear shaft. He ran a long, bony finger over each, and the newcomers flinched as though they had been struck, then stood still, finally resigned to their fates.
‘One is missing,’ Death said.
The Headsman raised his head, his poise subservient though his voice betrayed no emotion. ‘She has grown stronger. Our sister has made bargains to keep herself from you. She is gone far from this place.’
‘Broken from my grip and teased away,’ He said, looking to the northeast, ‘but we all shall pay the price of such a bargain.’
He turned abruptly, heading back towards the fens. The others could not help but follow, and within a few steps all five had faded from sight. The night returned and the breeze dared sweep over the battlefield once more, the chill air empty of all now but the voices of the lost.
PROLOGUE - PART 2
As the light began to fade in the Great Forest, miles east of the closest Farlan outpost, bloodlust broke the silence and an old woman ran through the rising shadows, then vanished. They pursued with eager abandon, spreading left and right to sight their prey once more and run her down. Orders were called; sharp and ugly syllables barked in an alien tongue. She crouched low behind a tangled briar for a while longer, hands pressed flat on the damp carpet of leaves, and listened to their confusion. Not waiting for one to chance upon her the woman broke cover, her feet kicking up a flurry of debris as she raced through the trees.
She plunged downslope, her ragged dress billowing in the wind as she skidded down a channel cut by the rain, then slewed left to drop over a rise flanked by a pair of tall beech trees. With a howl the rider in front recklessly followed, only to find the ground fall sharply away. Horse and rider pitched forward and dropped ten feet down the vertical bank. The creature’s desperate kicks twisted it around and as it fell on its rider a brief scream pierced the air.
Their voices changed in an instant. The game had become serious and now they drove forward with mounting anger. Again the woman disappeared, melting into the shadows like a will o’ the wisp, while they cursed and screamed threats at the empty forest. The flanking riders wheeled in a circle, furiously searching for a flash of movement until, finally, they were rewarded. Fifty yards downslope she broke from cover again and the chase was on again, the riders crouching low over the necks of their horses as they closed the gap.
They grinned when she darted over another rise and scrabbled down the slope on the other side, trying the same lure again, only to find herself penned in on three sides. The old woman lunged for the only escape route but one rider was quicker and cut her off. She headed in the opposite direction, but floundered in the soft, sodden earth that sank beneath her feet. She slithered down on her belly to the floor of the gully, ending up behind a long stone protruding from the bank, and there she cowered.
The riders approached at leisure, two with arrows nocked on the off-chance she might find the strength to try the slope again. Teeth bared and weapons raised, they formed a half-circle as the woman cringed behind the stone. Her face was covered by a tattered shawl and her fingers tapped the stone’s surface, as if seeking reassurance in its strength.
At a guttural command from the leader one rider awkwardly dismounted and lurched towards her.
The Elf was more deformed than most of his kind, his shoulders twisted so that his shield almost dragged along the ground, but his spear was swept back, ready to stab. She flinched and peered up at him through a long tear in her shawl. Her fingers were still dancing over the stone. As he neared he heard a frantic whisper, too quiet and hurried to make sense of, but he guessed what it was.
‘She prays,’ he announced to his comrades, sharing a grin with the nearest. ‘Do they hear, human?’ he called out to her in poor Farlan, his malformed throat mangling the flowing sounds of each word. He switched back to Elvish. ‘Where are your fucking Gods now?’
Abruptly she stopped.
He cocked his head at her, suddenly aware of eyes like pale blue ice shining up at him through the twilight gloom. Her hands flat against the stone, she pushed herself up with a strange, crab-like movement, stopping only when he levelled his spear and held it inches from her face.
‘Where are my Gods?’ she repeated softly, peering out through fronds of matted grey hair. ‘I am more interested in your Gods now.’
He took a step back; she had replied in perfect Elvish, something he had never heard from a human before. The Elf glanced back at his commanders, the warleader and his sister, the mage. Sensing danger the mage wasted no time in summoning the spirits bound to her; three wispy forms like puffs of smoke, one black, two white, appeared in the air near her.
‘And there they are,’ the old woman announced with a smile. She offered the spirits a bent-backed bow.
‘Kill her,’ ordered the mage.
The soldier turned and lunged, but the old woman dodged his spear somehow. As the shaft slipped past she caught it and tugged it, jerking the soldier off-balance and within reach of a backhand slap that sent him crashing to the ground.
‘We are not so different,’ the crone mused as she turned to the others.
The two archers drew back their strings as she edged forward, grinning toothily. One bow shattered in the hands of its owner. The other managed to fire before his did likewise, but he snatched at the shot, and it skewed a yard wide. A spear was thrown, but she twitched it aside with a flick of her long fingers and it buried itself deep into the soft earth. When no more were thrown she took a step forward and grinned down at the dazed Elf at her feet.
‘Not so different indeed,’ she continued. ‘Both once tied to the Gods, both now free to learn a new way.’
She hesitated, her tongue flicking out like a snake catching a scent on the breeze. The fallen Elf touched a grimy hand to his face then held it up for inspection. His eyes widened as a discoloration on the skin deepened before his eyes and swelled in an instant to become a bleeding sore.
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