Tom Lloyd - The Dusk Watchman

‘Half-sane too,’ Mihn agreed, ‘but most importantly, carrying the Crystal Skull aligned to Death. We know already they act as buffers for the mind, and of all the Skulls, Ruling should be best able to protect Isak.’

‘This is all still conjecture surely? Gambles and guesswork with the most powerful object in creation — you’re mad! You have no concept of the power you propose to use as a plaything.’

‘It’s educated conjecture,’ King Emin argued, speaking louder than before. ‘Shile Cetarn and Tomal Endine working together had few rivals in the West. Their work has surpassed anything I’ve ever read bar Verliq’s own writings. Couple that with the power of the witch of Llehden, perhaps the greatest of her kind alive today, the insight of a demi-God and Isak — a man who’s passed through death and was born to be the Gods’ own catalyst of change…’

Vesna hesitated and looked round at the faces of those who’d clearly been party to the plan’s formulation. Morghien, the man of many spirits, was swigging brandy from a bottle he was sharing with Doranei; Legana and Ehla were both as impassive as ever, while Endine himself was still unconscious after his efforts during the battle.

‘So what’s there to worry about then?’ he asked bitterly.

‘Catastrophic failure and death,’ the rather-drunk Doranei supplied helpfully, raising his bottle in toast of the notion. ‘And half-vampire children, maybe.’

Only the men of the Brotherhood and Daken managed to find that funny; to Vesna it was a knife to the gut. He rose to leave, visions of Tila and the life they had planned together filling his mind. Without bothering to bow to the king he headed for the lower gate, suddenly desperate to be outside the confining, crowded walls of Moorview. His chest felt tight and constrained. Just as he passed beyond the lit area of grounds his vision blurred and he stumbled forward on the cut-up ground, barely catching himself in time. When a soldier reached out automatically, the Mortal-Aspect lurched away, unable to bear the touch of another person, even if it meant falling flat on his face.

He walked on and ducked through the sally-port to the grounds beyond. There were Kingsguard camped all around. As he marched on through them towards the lower meadow, planning to cross the ditch to reach the moor proper, he heard a horn sound from one of the pickets. His divine-touched eyes caught movement in the darkness beyond the ditch: not fighting, but confusion of some sort.

At the sounding of the horn, half-a-dozen squads converged on the forward picket, weapons at the ready. Vesna tasted the air and knew in his bones there was no army out there, even as he recalled the king’s scryer, Holtai, tell them exactly that earlier. He stopped. No army, but something strange on the wind; something he didn’t recognise and muted by the enduring stink of the battlefield, but even for a man aligned to the God of War it overrode the shed blood and spilled bowels.

Vesna advanced towards the disruption, barely aware of the complaining voices coming from the Kingsguard’s tents as the horn sounded again. It wasn’t an attack alarm so no one raced from their beds, but it signalled that strangers had been sighted, and it was loud and persistent enough to wake the soldiers who’d turned in at sunset. As he got nearer Vesna saw a party of soldiers was advancing towards him, marching up the path to the castle and escorted by squads of Narkang troops. A larger group corralled by the picket out on the moor itself appeared to be doing nothing but waiting, so Vesna returned his attention to the party in front of him.

When they were some twenty yards off he realised with a start they were Menin officers, judging by their size and uniforms; what was more, they were led by a dark-furred figure who was surely no human.

‘So General Gaur leads his men back,’ Vesna mused. ‘Better than starving on the moor, I suppose.’

The elusive scent on the wind grew momentarily stronger and Vesna took a startled step back as the smell of hot, bitter ashes filled his nose before the breeze carried it away. Underlying it all was the stink of rot that came swiftly after any battle in the hot sun, but it was the first aroma that set Vesna’s fingers itching for his sword. The divine thread inside him recoiled at it, sensing something evil in the air.

He looked back at the castle. It was still peaceful and quiet. The sounded horn had attracted a few guards to watch from the battlements, but there was no frantic activity.

‘You, soldier,’ Vesna called, pointing at the nearest man to him. ‘Go to the king, tell him I think there’s something strange coming.’

The soldier turned and Vesna saw sweeping curves of blue on his cheek, marking him as one of General Daken’s troops. Litania the Trickster had marked all the officers of his cavalry strike-force and, according to Daken, the Aspect of Larat would be working her way through the enlisted soon enough. The man was clearly no officer, though he had a fine sword hanging from his belt, a sabre with Menin markings on the scabbard.

‘Aye, sir. Strange, sir?’

‘Just run, tell them to be on guard.’

The cavalryman bobbed his head and sprinted off, his plundered sabre flapping at his heels. Vesna returned his attention to the approaching Menin. General Gaur was accompanied by six men, all officers, though their uniforms were torn and filthy and they walked like men beaten — unlike the beastman, who held himself proudly.

Vesna reminded himself that the heavy infantry had been the elite of the Menin troops; Gaur had been in command of the cavalry or he’d never have escaped the field. The rest might be officers, but they commanded the weakest units in the army.

When they were twenty yards off Vesna put his hand on his pommel and called out to the group and their escort, ‘That’s far enough. Stop there!’

The squads flanking the Menin stopped dead, but when their charges failed to halt they hurried to make up the ground and get in front. Even then, and with spears half-levelled, the troops had difficulty persuading Gaur to stop. The beastman walked right up to the point of one soldier’s weapon and in imperfect Farlan called out, ‘I speak to your king. I offer surrender.’ Up close the beastman’s fur looked lighter, black brushed with white, but not through age; rather, it looked like Arian, the Land’s third moon, was shining down on Gaur on Silvernight.

‘You can offer it to me instead,’ Vesna replied in Menin, the dialect coming easily to the Gods-blessed soldier. ‘Is there a mage among you?’

‘You are the Mortal-Aspect?’ Gaur said, ignoring the question.

‘I am.’ Vesna took a step forward. ‘And you are most likely one of those responsible for the death of my bride, so do not test my patience or you’ll not live to see the king.’

As though to emphasise his point the faint light of the Skull glowed bright as a flicker of anger raced through Vesna’s body. His words seemed to terrify the officers behind Gaur, but the beastman regarded him with what appeared to be a complete lack of interest, though it was hard to make out the emotions of a creature he’d never seen before, the thick fur and tusks hiding most expression. The beastman still wore his battle-dress. Blood matted his fur and streaked his breastplate, and the vambrace and gauntlet of his left arm were missing entirely.

‘There is no mage among us,’ Gaur said. ‘Menin do not send mages to offer surrender.’

‘But you’re not Menin,’ Vesna said sharply, his hand tightening on his sword. ‘You’re some sort of hybrid race the Menin keep as pets.’

He stared straight into Gaur’s bronze-speckled eyes, hoping the beastman would rise to the insult, but he didn’t appear to notice. His eyes were vacant, as dulled as an addict who’d given up on life.