—
How far will you retreat?
Legana watched in shades of grey as Emin’s face fell.
‘As far as I must,’ he said in a soft, almost apologetic voice. ‘He tries to lure out my army, to force battle. It isn’t cowardice that stays my hand. We must wait, we must delay for as long as we can - the longer we can hold out, the more problems he will have with his new “allies” and his conquered cities. Supplies will become scarce, even in our farming heartland, and who knows? Perhaps your fellow Farlan will honour our treaty? If the Farlan Army marched to my aid, the Menin would be massively outnumbered, and they would be forced to evade for a change.’
—
While Azaer grows stronger.
Emin scowled. ‘I know that, only too well. My one consolation is that the shadow’s goal appears to be promoting chaos in the nations of the West.’ He managed a bitter laugh now. ‘It’s in Azaer’s interests for me to last as long as possible too. A quick war does not serve the shadow’s purpose.’
—
Forget Styrax for a moment. How can you defeat Azaer?
The question made him turn back to the evening sky. ‘A question I have asked for years now,’ he said eventually, ‘and one I have posed to some of the finest minds in my kingdom. And still I am unsure.’
—
What do you know?
‘Of Azaer? Little enough.’ He grimaced. ‘All these years, and still I do not know my enemy. Azaer is a shadow, neither God nor daemon. It’s an entity with a similar origin, most likely, but it draws no strength from worship as a God does, nor from fear and suffering, as might a daemon. It simply exists, neither expending power, nor requiring its harvesting. If anything, it glories in its weakness, it finds power in its flaws.’
—
And flaws in power.
Legana’s observation made Emin frown, but he could not deny it. He hunched down further, as though assailed, and continued, ‘Perhaps the shadow was once a God, in the time before the Age of Myths, when the laws of magic and the Land were still malleable. Perhaps there was no death then, as we know it. Maybe the God was defeated to the point of death, reduced to the existence of a shadow.’
—
Never to gather followers again?
‘Never to risk it, you mean? To be reduced once and in glimpsing oblivion, seeing the choices of death, or service as an Aspect to some other God, so it forged its own path? The case for that is strong, certainly. Even now, the Lady isn’t dead, not in the mortal sense, however reduced she is, lacking in everything that made her the Goddess you knew.’
—
But you do not believe.
‘It is the best theory I’ve come across, but no,’ Emin admitted. ‘It contains the beginnings of understanding, but I suspect there is more to it than that. There is no God Azaer particularly hates that I can tell, which would be strange if one had killed it, no? While all the accounts I have are secondhand at best it — ’ He hesitated a moment, as if trying to pluck the correct word from the aether.
He shook himself, and went on, ‘In the years of fighting Azaer’s disciples, I have seen many things - I have dreamed of the shadow half a dozen times, and I do not believe they were merely dreams. For certain it has a scheme in everything it does, its actions are carefully calculated, and yet I have never detected hatred in its actions, nor a need for revenge. Azaer delights in cruelty, but its evil is motiveless.
‘When it sent Rojak to the village of Thistledell to wreak its horror, it was for a purpose - it was refining the magics it ultimately used in Scree. I have read the few survivors’ accounts; it took pleasure in what it did to those innocent souls, but it was for pleasure’s sake. It cannot compel; it must persuade - although it is very persuasive. It prefers to offer its victims exactly what they desire, and then twist that desire to wring out any value it might have had.
‘To choose to believe all this comes from Azaer’s fear of death or its cowardice . . . I feel that would be a fatal mistake.’
—
What does it want?
‘To tear down the Pantheon,’ Emin said with sudden conviction. ‘The shadow loves power over others - over its disciples, over those it tyrannises. Plans formed over millennia, a hand in the Last King’s rebellion; an end-game with the foundations of empty temples and war tearing through the entire Land - where Crystal Skulls are being collected by a peerless warrior and the weapons of Life and Death may soon come into play.’
King Emin took a weary breath and looked Legana straight in the eye. The cold glitter of his pale blue eyes seemed to shine in the burgeoning twilight, just as she knew her own, divine-touched eyes did.
‘Azaer is playing for keeps,’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘There will be no limit to the stakes when the shadow plays its final hand.’
—
So we must work out how to kill a shadow
, Legana wrote, a smile creeping onto her ethereally beautiful face,
preferably by giving it everything it wants.
Awkwardly she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. She could feel the king tense under the contact, but after a moment Emin relaxed and covered her hand with his. They stood together until the last light of day had gone, silently sharing the burdens of their callings.
CHAPTER 28
Dawn intruded. His head felt heavy, unwieldy and as he forced his eyes open and the hot needles of sunlight drove in, he gasped and wrenched his head away. As he shifted from his awkward sleeping position the pain moved to his neck, a spiked collar that sent arrows of agony down his spine. He tried to move his unresponsive fingers, making a weak effort to massage away the pain, while a hot throb ran down his arm from the point of his elbow, which felt as stiff and hurt as much as his neck.
He blinked until the blur of light and dark slowly came into some semblance of focus. A broken table lay a few feet away amidst the pottery shards of several wine bottles and piles of abandoned clothes. For a while he stared at the mess, not understanding what had happened. A shaft of sunlight cut a thin white line across the rug-strewn floor and ran up his leg and chest like a sword-cut. It hit another bottle, clasped between his legs, still intact but empty. It looked as if the wine that had spilled into his lap was now mostly dried.
He lifted an arm to remove the bottle and froze. The arm wasn’t his; it was bigger, and unnaturally black - like some creature of the Waste. He turned it over and tried to make out the markings on it —
— and grief hit him like a thunderbolt, slamming into his head and racing down into the pit of his stomach. Count Vesna doubled over as the void in his gut twisted violently, and he wrapped mismatched arms around his body as he started retching, spewing a thin stream of sharp, sour bile onto his battered boots. A coughing fit followed, deep, shuddering exhalations that ended in a choked howl of sorrow.
The ruby teardrop on his cheek flared warm as his armoured fist tightened around the arm of his chair, snapping the polished wooden armrest like a twig. Memory flooded back as black stars burst before his eyes: the scratch on Tila’s face as she tried to speak, her last words to him. It had been such a small thing, barely more than a graze. As the image appeared in his mind he recalled that sickening sense of hope he’d felt at, the cruel momentary waning of horror, the second before he felt the ruined mess of her back.
Trembling, he wiped the stinking spittle from his chin with a grimy sleeve. Away from the shaft of light, the room looked dark and still, wrapped in cold shadows. Nausea shivered through his body again, but Vesna did not care enough to fetch a bowl or move away from the puddle of puke. A black knot of pain was building behind his eyes, eating away at his mind.
‘Why her?’ Vesna whispered. The effort of speaking, even to an empty room, drained him of energy and his head sagged onto his chest. For a while he looked at the torn threads on his tunic where buttons had once been, and the wine-stains on the fabric. He didn’t remember putting that tunic on; his memory was a jangled mess. Only Tila’s face was clear.
What happened then, the glass arrow, was in the distant past, as was the duel he’d fought with the Elf. There were clouds in his mind, after that, voices talking over one another, faces overlaid with pain and blood, someone shouting in his ear, tentative hands leading him through the streets, faces filled with horror and terror . . . such a
long
time ago . . .
There was a sound behind him, a click and creaking. Once he had been able to recognise the noise of a door opening. Now, he didn’t turn. The sound belonged to a different time, one where Tila lived. Nothing mattered now. As a voice began to speak he tuned it out, staring, unfocused, at the wine-stains. The words flowed over him unheard as the ache behind his eyes sharpened with every beat of his absent heart. The sound filled his ears and rattled his ribs long after the voice stopped and he realised he was alone with his pain again.
‘She can’t be gone,’ he muttered, ‘she can’t be.’ But no matter how often he repeated the words, the hollowness in his belly remained and he knew the words were a lie. His God-given strength was useless against such overwhelming power. Karkarn’s
iron general
was surrounded and helpless; his forces were broken, his stratagem in tatters. He had been defeated. Nothing was left but pain —
The cloud of shadows was suddenly thrown back and Vesna felt an explosion of pain in his head as he was thrown sideways onto the floor. He crumpled, content to lie there, even as the years of training tried to cut in and force him to stand.
‘Get up, you useless streak of piss!’ yelled a voice. ‘On your feet, soldier!’
Vesna found himself dragged upright as he stared blindly at blurs that lurched and swayed. Before he could focus on anything he felt a hand slap him across the face with enough force to snap his head back.
‘You pathetic, fucking drunk! You shame her memory, boy!’ the voice roared, choked with rage.
Tila
. Energies caught life inside him, sparking like a lit fuse, and Vesna caught the next blow with one hand and struck out with the other, trying to shove his attacker away. From somewhere his sword slapped into his palm and then the blur disappeared from his eyes.
In front of him stood Marshal Carelfolden, his face red with rage, and Sir Dace, his cheek yellow with old bruising.
‘Get out,’ Vesna growled.
Sir Dace opened his mouth to reply, but Carel beat him to it. ‘Fuck off, you whining little brat! You want to be alone? You get out.’
Vesna took a step forward, power flooding though his body as the lit match became a mighty flame. ‘Get out or I’ll kill you,’ he growled.
Carel raised his head slightly, like a duellist en guarde. He held a long log in his hand, the one he’d smashed around Vesna’s skull. ‘Go on then, you damned coward. You can kill me, but don’t think you frighten me.’
‘I will kill you.’ Vesna raised his sword.
Carel spat on the floor at Vesna’s feet and tossed the log aside. ‘What are you waiting for then? I spent years around Isak and his temper; your grief’s nothing new. Want me to count the number of times he threatened me? From his thirteenth summer, that boy was strong enough to kill any man in the wagon train, and I’ve got the scars to prove his temper - and so does’ - he faltered momentarily, but caught himself - ‘and so did he.’ The rage in his eyes lessened, to be replaced by something Vesna recognised.
When Carel continued it was in a much quieter voice, though he was no less defiant. ‘You ain’t the only one who’s lost here, Vesna. You ain’t the only one who grieves for Tila.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Vesna asked.
Carel shook his head and his shoulder sagged. Now more than ever he looked the old man he was. ‘There’s no one here can tell you what to do. You’ve got to figure that out yourself - but if you just sit there I’ll keep swinging this log ’til your brains spill out or you gut me.’
‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Vesna said in bewilderment. ‘Just get out and leave me alone.’
‘Sorry, my friend,’ Sir Dace said with an apologetic shake of the head. Vesna’s oldest friend took a pace forward and pushed aside the Mortal-Aspect’s raised sword. ‘It’s no joke. You’ve been sitting here for more’n a week, and we won’t take it any more. Whether the words were spoken or not, you were married to Tila, and I swore to stand sentinel to that marriage.’
‘There’s no honour to defend now,’ Vesna whispered, dropping his sword. Dace stepped forward and slipped a shoulder under his friend’s arm.
‘Yes, there is,’ Dace said, his face tightening, ‘yours and hers. You think she’d want this? You think this is the memorial she deserves? A hero crippled with grief? A man both blessed and useless in one?’
Vesna shook his head. ‘What Tila would want?’ he whispered. ‘She’s dead, Dace, she doesn’t want anything now, and I — I can’t go on, not this way.’
‘No,’ Carel declared. ‘No, you can’t go on this way. I don’t agree with what you’ve done to yourself, but it’s done, and if your wife could accept it, so can and must I. And she did accept it, wholeheartedly and without reservation. She knew she’d be sharing you with Lord Karkarn, and there was never one word of complaint, not even after you left with the crusade. It was the duty you felt, the duty you chose, and she would never have stood in the way o’ that.’