Authors: Stephen Deas
When the dragon-queen comes . . .
. . . so the tipping point . . .
In Vespinarr he'd found his first clues. It had taken years but there was some sort of sorcerer here. A pale-skinned slave who dressed in grey and had a talent for speaking with the dead, a talent he sold for silver and jade. Subtle in his ways, harmless and leaving barely a ripple in his passing. The Watcher would never have found his scent if he hadn't already been searching for it.
The grey dead ones are coming . . .
They are making something . . .
In the passages beneath the old temple the air smelled a little of fish. Odd, he thought, for the mountains. The smell grew stronger. The passage was dark and narrow, lit now by a scattering of dim candles. He was deep beneath the streets and yet more steps took him further down. He let the candles lead him until he found what he sought: a dead-end room, round and claustrophobic with a roof that was low and a hole bored into the floor, a shaft that sank
perhaps for ever. More candles were set into scores of nooks in the wall. The smell of old fish was strong now. Facing the entrance with eyes closed, a man sat beside the shaft. He was dressed in grey and the Watcher knew he'd found one of those he sought: the grey dead. He wondered what would be the surest way to kill him: sever his head? Bleed him out? Cut out his heart? Let flames consume him? Sorcerers had survived all those things, but this one needed more than killing. This one needed to speak. He needed not to run, and so he needed to not know what it was that he faced.
In the darkness of the passage the Watcher became flesh again. The grey dead's head snapped up at once. Around him the candle flames flickered. Shadows danced around the walls, ripping themselves free. The Watcher felt power sizzling in the air. Sorcery. ‘Who are you?’
The Watcher stayed in the shadows and bowed. ‘I am the mouth for the Regrettable Men. I have come to arrange the terms.’ Every Vespinese would know at once what he meant. The Regrettable Men were civilised killers of the highest order.
‘Terms?’ The grey dead stood up. He pulled back his hood. His head was shaved, his face and neck covered in tattoos. The flickering of the candles grew to a frenzy. Shadow shapes danced everywhere.
The Watcher bowed again. ‘For our mutual convenience. If there is a poison you would prefer then we can discuss your choice.’
The grey dead smirked and slowly nodded. ‘I see. Who wants me, assassin? Tell me and I'll change their outlook.’
‘I'm desperately sorry but that's not how this plays. There's no outcome save one. I'm here as our usual courtesy, to make your departure as convenient and easy as possible with minimal distress to those around you. You may have a few days to put your affairs in order. If there is a particular location or time of day you would like the assassination to take place, you may request it. We will do our best to honour your wishes.’
The grey dead threw back his head and laughed now. ‘No, I don't think we'll be discussing those things. Tell me who sent you or I'll rip it out of you.’
‘I cannot, for I do not know. In three days at dawn then, if there is nothing to discuss. Those are our usual terms.’
The grey dead threw out his hands. Shadows poured from his sleeves. The Watcher ducked into the darkness and shifted to become the fire of one of the candle flames and the light and the heat it gave. The shadows recoiled, screaming and wailing and whirling around him. He shifted again and led them away, became the stone, the air, the darkness of the unlit path. He led them a long and merry chase, dragged their mindless hunger far away and then left them and returned alone, back to the room that stank of fish and its candles. There he stayed, a little pinprick of flame, and did what he did best.
The Regrettable Men of Vespinarr had a reputation second only to the Elemental Men themselves when it came to murder. The Watcher waited for understanding to take its course, for the grey dead to realise that he was a dead man walking. Patiently, to see what the grey dead would do.
He wasn't disappointed.
Berren the Crowntaker. The Bloody Judge of Tethis, that's who he was. He took the first of the queensguard from the flank. Stabbed the man's horse in the neck so it fell and then killed the rider while he struggled on the ground. He took the man's broadsword and battered away a swing from the next horseman to gallop past. Javelins scattered the road. He snatched one and threw it. Took one of the queensguard in the face then dived out of the way of a half-dozen more as they galloped past. The next javelin missed. He danced and parried between hooves and blades, looking for what he wanted. Damned body was slow, weak. It kept letting him down. He kept missing. A riderless horse, that's what he needed, caught in the flood of the retreat. When he saw one, thundering along the road with the rest in headlong flight, he hurled himself at it and leaped onto its back. His new legs didn't have the strength he asked from them and he landed short, almost fell off but managed to haul himself the rest of the way. Tore another muscle while he was at it. No one tried to stop him. The queensguard were wild and panic-stricken. His own men couldn't be far behind, not far at all.
He gave chase, almost sliding sideways off the saddle as soon as he was on it as he snatched yet another javelin out of a corpse. He was among the last remnants of the queensguard now. He galloped after them, javelin in hand, turned a corner in the road and then pulled up with a roar of rage. He was too late. He'd found the rear-guard, nothing more. The Dark Queen, Gelisya, was long gone, and Vallas and her death-mages with her. He'd waited, standing out here all night, freezing cold, and they hadn't even been on the road. He screamed in fury as the last of them faded into dust, full flight, job done. Clenched his fists and ground his teeth and hurled his javelin into the ground. It stuck in the dirt, quivering. ‘Vallas!
I'll find you, warlock! You hear me? Wherever you are, I'll find you! I'll find you!’
The queensguard were gone. There was nothing he could do.
No. There
was
something he could do. He bent sideways and snatched up the quivering javelin and turned, because there were more riders coming any minute, and if he couldn't hunt down Vallas Kuy then he could damn well have his army back. They probably thought he was dead. Well, he wasn't. He turned his horse across the road and snorted in the still dusty air. The sun beat down on his head. He felt naked without his armour and his helm.
They were coming. He could feel them.
At the side of the road, at the edge of the wood, a pair of crimson butterflies danced together over a patch of bright yellow milk-flowers. Birdsong fluttered between the trees. A stillness settled over everything, everything except the rumble of hooves coming closer.
He snorted again, blowing the dry snot out of his nose.
The first horses rounded the corner. They came straight at him. He held the javelin high overhead so they couldn't miss it. Ordering them to stop. He stared at them, willing them with his eyes to know him.
They didn't even falter.
The horse at the head of the riders. It was his. And as they charged closer, he saw it wasn't only the horse. His pennant. His helm. His armour. Him.
He stayed very still because he simply couldn't move now. He couldn't think. Staring at his own body. It paralysed him.
The riders stopped a dozen paces short. The man who was on
his
horse lifted his visor.
His
visor, and behind it
his
face. His own eyes looked at him. Beyond, more faces he knew stared coldly. Friends, damn them! Men who'd fought with him for years, some from the very start, and now they were looking at him as though they didn't know him. Like he was a rabid animal.
‘You're a bit ambitious for a warlock,’ said the man who wasn't him but who had his voice. ‘Brave though, I'll give you that. Or maybe just stupid.’
Berren raised his javelin to throw in the usurper's face, then stopped. He was shaking. Not shaking with rage any more but
shaking with fear. The man had his face! He'd just thought . . . He just
hadn't
thought. Supposed he must have died on the battlefield and everyone thought he was gone and how pleased they'd be to find him again once he could make them understand what had happened, what the warlocks had done . . .
But he hadn't died. And they weren't pleased. And here he was.
The other Bloody Judge stared back at him, the one who had his skin, wild-eyed and spattered in blood. He kicked his horse slowly forward until the length of the javelin was all that was between them.
‘Who are you?’ Berren croaked. The muscles in his arm twitched.
‘Who am I?’ His own voice! For the love of the sun! Holy moon, his own voice, his own face! ‘Who am
I
? I think you know very well who
I
am, warlock.’
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Didn't know what to say.
‘Well?’ He couldn't tear his eyes away. His own face watched him, unblinking. Did he really look so hard, so harsh, so cruel? But still, it
was
his face.
From so close the javelin couldn't miss.
‘Are you going to throw it or not?’
His own face looking back at him! Dear gods, his own face! ‘
Who are you
?’ Inside he kept screaming it, over and over.
‘You know that, boy. I'm the Bloody Judge. I'm Berren the Crowntaker, the killer of kings. Now put that javelin down before I kill you too.’ The Bloody Judge frowned. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed in disdain. ‘Fish! So you
are
a warlock. Got a name I can put on your grave?’
Berren's blood surged. Somehow that broke the spell. ‘I've got a name for you. It's Berren!’ He threw the javelin hard and quick. The Bloody Judge ducked sideways, lightning-fast. The javelin screeched off the battered metal on his shoulder and veered sideways and up and speared a tree far down the road. The Judge shook his head and drew his sword, the blade of glittering black moonsteel.
His
sword, the one he'd held in his hand only a day ago. The moonsteel came arcing at his head and he was already ducking because he knew how the first blow would come, and for the next few seconds he could see, in every movement this pretender made, how he fought. How they both did. How they were the same. And
that
road led to a dark place of icy cold where he wasn't who he believed with all his might that he
must
be . . .
He threw up his broadsword to block another swing and the moonsteel edge cut it in two. He hurled himself wildly aside, slipped, cried out and fell off his horse. The Judge jumped to the ground after him, grabbed him as he rose and smashed him in the face with an iron gauntlet. He staggered and fell, dazed, eyes ringing, ears full of stars, and then the Judge had him, sword point at his throat. He seemed more puzzled than angry. He poked with his point. ‘Well, you're a strange one. So who are you really?’
Rage and fury and screaming panic boiled together. ‘Who are you?’ Berren howled. ‘Who are you in there?’
The Judge shook his head. His sword twitched back, ready to strike. Berren clapped his hands around the blade and slammed its point down into the dirt beside his cheek. The Judge lurched down. Berren bucked and arced a kick over his own head, straight into the Judge's face, was on his feet in a flash but still not quick enough. The Judge caught his shoulder and sprawled him a second time and a boot smashed into the side of his head. The edges of the world turned black and shrank and all he could see was a bloody face peering down at him.
‘Knock a tooth out, did he?’ laughed someone, and he could have sworn the voice was Tallis One-Eye. Well One-Eye could just fuck off.
‘What do you want us to do with him?’
The world shrank smaller still. The Judge spat. ‘Queensguard. Same as the rest.’ Then Berren's eyes closed. The world turned red and the darkness had him.
Days passed. Skyrie knew he was dying. The village men had done what they could but his leg was lost. The damage was too deep and now the rest of him was fading as well. He shook and shivered in his bed, torn apart by the weakness and the pain. They came to see him, to sit with him, taking it in turns. There was always someone there. They thought they were being kind but he wished they'd just go away and leave him in peace to die
.
Time passed again. Alone, finally, with the last of his strength, he hauled himself out of his bed and onto the floor. Outside, the night sky was filled with stars. He heard laughter and dancing and the crackling of a large fire and smelled its smoke. He crawled and dragged himself out of the hut that had been his home, inch by inch out of the village he'd never left, to the reed beds on the edge of the lake where he'd been born. He was going to die tonight and he wanted it to be outside under the stars, not in the dark. He reached the water's edge, rolled onto his back and waited. One by one, the stars winked out. Tears filled his eyes. He wanted to live, not to die. He wanted to live but the choice had been taken away
.
A man stood over him. Skyrie blinked. He hadn't heard the man come, hadn't seen him. He was just suddenly there. The man's face, where it wasn't lost among the shadows of his cowl, was pale. One half was ruined, scarred ragged by disease or fire with one blind eye, milky white. He wore pale hooded robes the colour of moonlight
.
‘Are you death?’ Skyrie asked, but the words never came out
.
‘I carry the Black Moon.’ The stranger's one good eye bored into him
.
Hands reached under his arms, hauling him along the road and then slinging him over the back of a mule. They tied him up, good and tight. His wrists tingled and his fingers turned slowly numb. For a while he danced in and out of consciousness. The plod plod of the mule lulled him. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he dreamed, or maybe they were memories. Of a man with a ruined face and one milky eye.