‘Lieutenant Mehar,’ General Gort snapped. The lieutenant jumped, wary of further rebuke, but the general was looking out over the heads of his army, towards the walls of Scree. ‘Get the men ready to attack.’
Set apart from the clank of steel and the urgent calling of men, he sat in the dark peace of an empty room, alone with thoughts that echoed the chaos outside. His head throbbed with the surging energies in the air: magic and the voices of the dying, the shrieks of the mad and their brutal desire to kill. He could smell it all; that desire he knew as well as the rage coursing through his body that left his hands quivering. He’d sought this place out in desperation, fleeing from the animal stirring inside as the badgering questions broke in a tidal wave over him. As the army had marched in through the gate, the nobles and officers had all crowded around him as soon as they could with a thousand questions and requests, all completely unaware of the effect Scree had had on him, or the news he’d just received.
Here there were only bare floorboards, split and warped with age. A shutter clung grimly to the window frame by one last rusty hinge. A curtain hanging over the doorway was the same grey as the walls in the weak light. There was nothing to disturb or distract as he sat on the floor with his silver blade across his lap, listening to the ragged movement of breath through his tight throat. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heart beating, counting out the pauses between inhaling and exhaling, bringing the wild gasping once more under control, just as Carel had taught him all those years ago.
Slowly his hand began to uncurl from a fist and the great hammering of his heart calmed to a steady thump. The pressure behind his eyes subsided a little and he felt a flush of relief. For all the monstrous side of his soul raged and blustered, it could still be reined in by the human side. The comfort was meagre, but in darkness, any tiny thread of light was to be embraced.
Isak opened his eyes and ran a finger down the smooth blade of the sword in his lap. The whispery echo of magic tingled on his fingertips as he brushed the invisible runes that had been beaten into the silver, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were fixed on the events of the last half-hour.
Grave news, my Lord.
The voice echoed through his head like an accusation. Had he known that it would come one day? Had he been wilfully negligent?
It had been a simple enough thing to cow the defenders of the Autumn’s Arch gate into surrendering; half were nothing more than frightened city guard, suddenly facing a straight assault from the Ghosts of Tirah. The poorly trained men from Scree had grown up with the threat of the Farlan on their border, and they’d all heard stories of the prowess of the Ghosts, a professional legion the city could not hope to match. When Isak had appeared in the street behind them with a spitting corona of raw magic blazing about him, Mariq adding to the display before being joined by King Emin’s pair of mages, most had simply broken and run. Those who surrendered he’d sent south to the Greengate to join Zhia Vukotic’s motley army -by the time General Lahk had ridden up to the gate, it had been cleared of defenders and unbarred.
Isak gritted his teeth and took another moment to will his hand to unclench from around Eolis’ hilt. It had been a strange meeting, that one: General Lahk at the head of a column of soldiers who roared a greeting to their lord, while a small party of liveried suzerains followed on the general’s heels, all looking buoyed and elated at the taste of battle in the air. By contrast, the witch’s companion, Fernal, had been disturbingly silent. Fernal’s monstrous bulk made the mounted men beside him look small, fragile, even, and even the Ghosts greeting their comrades in Isak’s guard had fallen silent when Isak and Fernal stood face to face. The contrasts and parallels made every man present catch his breath and wonder what would happen.
Fernal was of a size with Isak but, unlike Isak, he looked far from human -it wasn’t just the deep blue of his skin, which faded into the evening gloom; the thick mane of hair that fell from his head and neck, framed a fierce lupine face with blackness and highlighted the white gleam of his eyes and curved fangs. Where Isak was clad in his armour and long white cape, Fernal wore no clothes, save for the tattered cloak that hung loose on his shoulders and served as a reminder to anyone watching -or perhaps to himself -that he was not some mindless creature from the Waste. He carried no weapons, and kept his taloned fingers turned inward, away from Isak.
For a few precious moments the two had regarded each other as proud equals, then they had exchanged a respectful nod. Fernal had bowed low and introduced himself in a smooth, deep voice that had sent a wave of relief rippling out through the watching rank and file. The sound had clearly unnerved Fernal; he straightened quickly with a hunted look in his eye that made the nearest soldiers freeze, as though they had heard the hiss of an ice cobra.
Isak stepping forward to clasp Fernal by the arm had broken the tense moment, but the son of Nartis had been clearly relieved when Isak turned to the other men and he was able to slip back into a dark corner where the witch awaited him.
It had been with relief and a welcome smile that Isak had finally taken General Lahk by the wrist after the strange formalities with Fernal. Only then had he seen the troubled look in Lahk’s eye, anxiety in the face of a man legendary for his lack of emotion.
Grave news, my Lord.
In that moment he’d felt the air change around him, suddenly laden with boiling energy.
This should have been foreseen and prevented. Chief Steward Lesarl apologises for not pressing the matter further with you.
His throat had dried. Any feeble attempt at a reply went as the general ploughed on, almost as if afraid to pause for breath before he’d finished.
Your father, my Lord
, he had said quietly
. Your father is missing. Taken.
Isak could feel it bubbling under his skin: that restless nag of guilt and anger, made worse by the fact it had no outlet. The only person he could find to blame was himself. He was the one with the power -he was the one who’d failed to recognise there could be a threat. His father Horman was as wilful and proud as he was. The antagonism between them had been constant, but it hadn’t really mattered before Isak had become one of the Chosen. Now their relationship was a matter of state: a tool for insurrection, or for another nation’s use against him.
But that wasn’t what haunted Isak; it was the damage that followed in his wake. First Carel, lying sick and enfeebled in a bed, missing an arm; and Vesna with that broken look in his eyes -both men were seasoned campaigners, but they had been indelibly scarred by Isak’s company. Now his father, who’d not even wanted to be a part of Isak’s new life, was paying the price for his association. He was Chosen, and cursed. Would the rare gift of his friendship exact a similar toll on everyone?
Isak winced as the fire behind his eyes threatened again and the insistent spark of magic swelled in his palms. This almost primaeval feeling welled out from his gut, begging to wreak havoc, to tear the house apart, to do anything -just to distract him from the guilt which threatened to drown him.
‘
Do not blame yourself for the actions of others,
’ said a voice inside his head. Isak’s eyes flew open in alarm. The witch of Llehden was standing in the doorway, motionless. Even the rise and fall of her breath was imperceptible. Ehla reminded him of the statues from his dreams of the White Isle: timeless and forbidding, yet calming, still.
The dreams of the White Isle, and Bahl’s death there . . . they hadn’t returned since they had come true.
Nowadays his nights were more fragmented, jagged shapes in his mind, scraps of Aryn Bwr’s brutalised memories, mingled with his own fears for the future. Apart from when Xeliath chose to visit him, Isak dreaded his dreams. The familiar trepidation of the White Isle was almost preferable now.
‘Who else am I to blame?’ he said aloud.
‘
What use is blame?
’
Isak’s hand tightened, but he kept his anger contained. ‘What in the name of Ghenna do you mean by that?’
‘
Blame serves no purpose other than to fuel the fire inside you.
’ Ehla’s face softened somewhat. ‘
Don’t focus on who is to blame, or who should bear guilt for what has happened. Care about rectifying the matter, not stumbling over it.
’
‘I’m Lord of the Farlan,’ Isak said in a controlled voice. ‘Despite what some think of me I’ve learned a little of what that means. I know my duty to the tribe is more important, but such things cannot go unanswered or we will appear—’
‘
Duty to the tribe?
’ the witch scoffed. ‘
No wonder there are so few warlocks in the Land if all men are so blind. A man thinks he is a great lord if he sacrifices himself to duty to the tribe, never once thinking that the tribe is better served if he recognises the duty he has to himself.
’ She squatted down suddenly to be on Isak’s level, her fierce gaze seeking his. ‘
Blind faith in duty will drain you as surely as a vampire, and leave you nothing more than a dead husk. Your lord knew that, did he not? Lord Bahl knew that it would use him up and spit him out, suck the very marrow of his being and leave only dry, broken bones.
’
‘“Your blood, your pain, shed for those who neither know of it nor care,”’ Isak mumbled, remembering Bahl’s warning when Isak had first strapped on the last king’s armour.
The taste of magic buzzing through that underground chamber, the rasp of a dragon’s scales running over the stone floor.
The old lord had warned him that those close to him were in danger, so why had he not listened?
Ehla cocked her head. ‘
He said that to you? So he knew what it was doing to him, and he warned you against it. Xeliath tells me he died in the Palace on the White Isle, searching for a Crystal Skull
.’
‘He was driven to it,’ Isak said, suddenly desperate to defend Bahl’s decision though he knew it had been foolish. ‘A necromancer drove him there so that Kastan Styrax could kill him.’
‘
And before he went, he warned you not to become the same as he, not to make the mistakes he could not help but make. He gave himself to guilt and grief; lost himself in duty until there was nothing left of the man he’d once been, only the lord. He didn’t want you to fail in that duty as he had
.’
Isak leapt up, Eolis flashing through the twilight as he cried out angrily. Ehla did not back out of range of his sword’s terrible gleam but faced him down with an expression of calm determination, raising a hand to stop whoever was behind her in the corridor. Isak felt a flood of magic course through his body as he realised it was Fernal there, watching over the one he’d sworn to protect.
‘
There is no need for anger; you do not curse him by accepting that as a man he had faults. They are as much a part of a man as his qualities and they tell far more about his character.
’ She took a step forward, close enough to reach out and put a comforting hand on Isak’s arm.
For a moment he thought she was going to touch him, to pass on her serenity, perhaps, but she made no more movement towards him. He lowered the sword, ashamed of his temper.
‘
Accepting one’s own faults is vital for any man, even more so for a lord. Without understanding what is inside you, it is impossible to understand the Land outside your mind; it is the filter through which you see everything.
’ She turned and walked away, so smoothly that she glided like a ghost, the tattered hem of her dress silently brushing the cracked floorboards.
Before she turned to go down the corridor, she paused to give Isak one last considered look. ‘
Look inside yourself, my Lord. Understand what lies within you first, and then you will look upon the Land with fresh eyes
.’
Isak found himself unable to move as the witch departed. He heard the creak of the stairs as Fernal walked down them, and finally the bang of the door as they left the house and he was again alone in a silent oasis, separated from the others by the walls he’d placed within himself. It took him a while to realise his anger had all but vanished, like smoke on the breeze. The guilt remained; that could not be so easily erased, but now he was not consumed by the desire to destroy everything within reach he could think clearly. He unclipped Eolis’ leather scabbard from his belt and sheathed his sword before sitting down, this time with his back resting against the wall.
‘Look inside? What would I find there?’ he wondered aloud. ‘A boy, pretending to be a king? A king, pretending to be a boy?’ He grimaced. ‘A beast straining at its shackles? Or all of them?’
He thought on Ehla’s words.
Fresh eyes. He needed to look upon the Land with fresh eyes.
‘What I need fresh eyes for is this damned city, for a way to understand the madness here,’ he said aloud.
And finally he realised the witch, intentionally or not, had been teaching him a lesson sorely needed,
and
guiding him towards the answers they had all been seeking, answers neither Zhia Vukotic nor King Emin could provide, but that might spell salvation for them all in the years to come.
Look within yourself.
Isak smiled and did so. There, he found fresh eyes.
So now, my chained dragon,
he thought,
before I go to kill Isherin Purn, I need your eyes. You’ve been hiding yourself away inside me ever since we arrived in Scree, as quiet as a mouse -or as a child hiding under the blankets. Like a king pretending to be a boy. Something here frightens you, doesn’t it? Something on the air, something you recognise.
He stretched out his legs and placed Eolis between them.
So, tell me about Azaer.
Like flowing swathes of grey in the darkness, the mercenary armies surged over the shattered remains of the Foxport gates and into the city. Rojak watched them through failing eyes, sensing the frothing tide of hatred and petty jealousies, now inflated to monstrous proportions by the theatre’s spell, more than seeing the men themselves. He was propped against a cracked column, part of the once-grand entrance to the Merchants’ Forum, and the building’s prominent position gave him a fine view of his handiwork. The inrush of soldiers swept up the maddened flotsam of the city’s population and drove it on through the channels of Scree’s streets. He felt them in his veins, their energy forcing his weary heart to beat on, the violent movement rocking his dying body as viscous, sludgy blood filled his arteries and powered his muscles.