Sam Bowring - Soul's Reckoning

‘I shall tell him,’ he said, ‘when I see him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bel shortly.

‘Well,’ sighed Galfin, ‘would that I could have held the Mines, as he did.’

‘Different times,’ said Bel. ‘Different circumstances.’

Again that haunted look crossed Galfin’s face. ‘As you say. Farewell, Blade Bel. Good luck.’

•

Losara walked amongst the ruined houses of the town in the fort’s interior. Here there was less blood, fewer body parts, but still the evidence of their attack was plain. A place where yesterday people had lived, loved, and whatever else it was that people did was gone. Meanwhile his army scoured and secured the fort. There was still resistance here and there – soldiers who had barricaded themselves into rooms, or otherwise been cut off from retreat. They were falling fast, though, at last report.

Soon he would order his folk to rest, before they moved on in the morning. No point stopping here, no point even leaving anyone behind to defend it. If he was to bring down the Open Halls, he would need all his army with him …or would he? The mander was so powerful by itself – he would never forget the sight of it rippling along the walls, sweeping aside the multitudes as if they were mere beetles in its path.

Who was he, to inflict such terror? What had he become?

What I need to be.

There was a whirring of wings, and Lalenda set down next to him.

‘Victorious, my lord,’ she said approvingly.

‘Lalenda,’ he sighed, with a touch of weariness. ‘I told you not to enter this place.’

‘But it’s safe now,’ she said, pouting mildly. ‘And I wanted to see what you have wrought.’

‘Wrought,’ murmured Losara. ‘That word has a sense of creation about it. The antithesis of what I’ve achieved here.’

‘No, my lord,’ she said. ‘You are building a new world. A world without fear.’

‘There was plenty of fear here just moments ago.’

Lalenda reached up and took his hand. ‘When the dam bursts, the water flows strong for a time …but soon enough the dam will empty.’

Losara smiled at her. ‘Where’s Grimra?’

‘Not sure. Probably gnawing on something.’

There came a scratching noise nearby, and Losara turned to a caved-in house with its door just hanging from the hinges. A hand reached out shakily to push it aside; it belonged to a young Varenkai soldier bleeding from his head.

Lalenda hissed, claws extending from her fingertips.

The man blinked in confusion, then touched a hand to his scalp. It came away red. ‘Roof caved in, I suppose,’ he said. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and Losara thought him concussed.

‘Kill him!’ said Lalenda. ‘Before he can –’

‘Before he can what?’ finished Losara. ‘He’s by himself in a fort surrounded by his enemies, his kinsmen fled.’

‘Where is everyone?’ the soldier asked.

‘Dead or gone.’

‘You!’ cried the soldier suddenly, staring awed and terrified at Losara. Some of his cognition, it seemed, had returned.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Losara.

The man fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground.

Losara found himself disturbed. What was he supposed to do with this man?

‘Is all well, lord?’ asked one of his soldiers, whose approach Losara had not noticed. ‘Shall we kill this one for you?’

So pitiful this Varenkai was, so alone. Not a threat to anyone, and he knew it. He did not even choose to keep his weapon in hand. Helpless, harmless …but if Losara did not kill him, or have him killed, would that seem weak?

No, not weak. My people have seen what I can do. How could any think me weak?

What then? Send him away, allow him to rejoin his comrades, and die on his feet another day?

The mander surged out from between buildings and bit the man in two.

•

They were gaining momentum, Tyrellan knew. Losara intended to sweep as fast as he could across the land, laying a trail of waste all the way to the Open Halls. He seemed impatient – well, as impatient as his lord could seem. Driven, maybe, as if he feared something, yet rushed towards it. Tyrellan could understand most people, could see the workings of their tiny minds, guess what forces motivated them as they went about their ordinary lives trying to balance reward with pain. His master, however, was ever a mystery.

And why not? He is touched by the gods, an extraordinary being. Who am I to fathom him? Not so – only one to do his bidding.

Whatever was going on in his master’s mind, it was clear that Losara meant to make use of the shadowmander to its full potential. Their next stop was to be the river town of Jeddies, which Losara intended to reach ahead of the Kainordan forces. Another thing Tyrellan did not understand – why did the dreamer dog the enemy so? Why not use the mander to rip them to shreds? Once the Kainordan army was defeated they could march unhindered wherever they chose.

Something to do with his counterpart …he fears to meet this Bel in battle? Why? The man is nothing, just a sharper sword in a storm of swords.

He was twirling his dagger absently, he realised. Hopeful of something to kill? No, he was not one for such baseness. He killed because he needed to, which was why he was so good at it – because he could think about it clearly, dispassionately. And yet something about this victory felt hollow. He had watched it all unfold from the safety of a bubble, shielded by Losara, unable to give orders of his own …an anchor for the mander, to be protected. As others drew blood or lost it around him, as walls exploded and swords clashed, he had hung back in a frustratingly calm pocket of air.

‘Is it glory you seek?’ came Fazel’s voice. The black-boned mage was standing amongst smashed fragments of rock, watching him.

‘No,’ said Tyrellan. ‘It is satisfaction. Now get out of my head or I will have you bury yourself under a hundred of your dead kinsfolk and forget about you.’

‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ replied Fazel. ‘Losara may have bidden me to follow your orders, but I doubt he’d approve of you dispensing with me entirely – not you, the dagger he twirls in his fingers.’

Tyrellan let a momentary flicker of anger pass through him, and out.

‘How are you enjoying your new uniform?’ he inquired, as if politely, uncurling a claw at the black robe that hung from Fazel’s shoulders. ‘I trust you do not miss that green rag you were wearing when you rejoined us at Holdwith? The last illusionary shred of your imagined independence?’

Fazel rasped a chuckle. ‘A good attempt, First Slave, but if I were you I’d avoid kicking skeletons while they’re down. The most you’ll achieve is a stubbed toe.’

Tyrellan nodded. ‘You’re right. I don’t know why I’m even bothering to speak to you. Get out of my sight.’

He watched Fazel mope away, into the ruin Tyrellan had had no hand in creating.

He shook his head. Satisfaction does not matter. What we do is right.

•

As day began to dawn, Bel watched shadow soldiers trickling out of the fort to gather on the plain, while those who had not entered it moved in two streams around both sides. It seemed Losara had allowed only a few hours of rest, and now they were to move on, relentless as a swarm of locusts. The question was: in which direction? In his mind’s eye Bel pictured maps studied under Fahren’s tutelage, and picked out two likely targets for Losara’s next stop. If he crossed the Nyul’ya into Tria, he would likely be heading to the state’s capital city of Ortem. If he followed the river to the north, he would be making for the river town of Jeddies.