Tom Lloyd - The Dusk Watchman

Vesna staggered back as the God fled again, too weakened to take control for any longer than that, but the sight of the soldier dropping to his knees and shrieking at the wound brought him back to the fight. His side was on fire, but he found himself able to move and fight still, so he drove the pain from his mind and moved on.

All around him the Ghosts and Sisters were butchering the reeling, shattered remnants of the Devoted defenders; their spirit had been broken by their commander’s retreat and Daken’s mad rush. Those still alive, the few score defending the far side of the stones, were driven off and the Ghosts let them go, glad for any moment to catch their breath after the exhausting ascent through the lines.

‘Emin, go!’ Vesna yelled, pointing towards the black, open stairway between the two tallest stones.

‘You’re not coming?’ the king gasped, running up to him. ‘We’ll need you.’

Vesna pointed back the way they had come, and even from this distance they could clearly see their troops falling to the crazed white monsters of Ruhen’s Children. Even as they surveyed the slaughter, he gestured at a Devoted regiment advancing towards them. ‘You need someone watching your back here. The Ghosts need to make a stand, and me with them. You need men who can walk in the shadows down there — Legana’s going with you, Daken, Doranei, Leshi, Shinir — but my place is here. You can handle that shadow’s Harlequins without me.’

As Emin nodded, Vesna saw a line scored down one side of his helm. The king held out a hand. ‘Karkarn chose his Iron General well.’

The Farlan hero faltered as his mind suddenly conjured an image of Tila’s last agonised expression, the remnants of a shattered Harlequin’s mask surrounding her face. He took the hand. ‘Get it done and get out,’ he said gruffly. ‘We’ll be needing a great king after.’

Emin ducked his head and tore off his boots, the Brotherhood and Legana’s Sisters following suit. Before Vesna could turn back to the fight, another man ran up to him, heaving for breath and covered in blood.

‘Too old for this shit,’ he, tearing his helm from his face and sucking in great lungfuls of air. ‘Cut my boots for me, will you?’

‘Carel, stay here,’ Vesna ordered, but the veteran just spat on the ground and straightened up.

‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’

‘You’ll die!’ Vesna protested.

‘My boy’s down there!’ Carel shouted, ‘and I’m going.’ He started to run the edge of his notched sword over his boots, trying to slice the laces open and get his feet free, but the weapon had blunted and wouldn’t cut properly.

‘Carel, listen to me.’

The old man dropped his sword and grabbed Vesna with his one hand. ‘You listen to me, boy!’ he shouted, ‘I’m going, an’ that’s the end of it! You want to part on bad terms, that’s your choice.’

Vesna stared into his eyes a moment longer, then bowed his head. He pulled his dagger from his belt and bent to slash Carel’s boots open. He dragged them off Carel’s feet and ripped open his leggings so the tattoos were exposed. ‘I don’t want to part that way,’ he said, ‘I’d rather call you brother before the end.’

Unexpectedly Carel embraced him. ‘Aye, brother it is. I never meant those words I said back in Tirah. You know what grief does to a man.’

Vesna nodded, unable to speak.

‘See you in the Herald’s Hall,’ Carel added, breaking away from the Mortal-Aspect and retrieving his sword with a grunt. ‘Put in a good word for me, y’hear?’

With that he was off, half-running, half-limping towards the stairway where most of the Brotherhood had already entered.

‘Goodbye, brother,’ Vesna whispered, filled with sudden certainty that he wouldn’t see the ageing warrior again. He shook himself, then shouted, ‘Right you bastards! Form line! ’ The Iron General looked around at his remaining soldiers. Some three hundred Ghosts out of the two thousand who’d ridden to Moor-view had reached the top with him. No doubt there were more left back on the slope, still fighting, but three hundred would have to be enough.

‘Well, brothers,’ he called out as they started to get into position, ‘looks like we’ve found a good place to die. Let’s give the bards something to sing about, eh?’

And all around him, the Farlan battle hymn started up again.

At the centre of the cavern there were more standing stones, each one as high as the pair marking the entrance, set in a circle thirty yards across. They’d not been carved or quarried, and the only markings they bore were the rune of a God, carved on their inside faces, above a small niche. Isak could feel the presence of the Gods here; this place was a lodestone for their spirits.

As he dragged himself towards the centre of the cavern Isak felt the heat on his skin, and he quailed inside, knowing the sight he would soon be faced with. When they had rounded the last of the great pillars even Ilumene had faltered, the leash falling slack for a moment, until Ruhen had gestured and the former King’s Man trotted up to his side again.

A swift-flowing river of fire, ten feet wide, was swirling around the standing stones, high flames leaping like grasping hands from its surface. A single stone slab crossed it. Isak cringed at the memory of Ghenna as the heat and pain of his torments radiated out of his many scars. He dropped to one knee, his arm thrown across his face as though to protect himself, but he could not tear his gaze from those flames.

‘Lit by the River Maram,’ Ruhen announced with delight, ‘holy beyond the Palace of the Gods itself. This is the heart of the Land, the very bedrock of the Gods and the worship that sustains them.’ The boy turned to face Isak and he saw the shadows surge and dance in the mismatched eyes. His pale skin was tainted by grey swirls as Maram’s light showed Azaer’s true self through its mortal vessel.

‘This is the place?’ Isak croaked, fighting for breath. He forced himself to his feet again, standing for a moment with the silver chain dragging at his shoulder, until he dropped heavily to his knees again and prolonged the moment a fraction more. ‘This is where you had Aryn Bwr forge the Skulls?’

Ruhen gestured towards the standing stones and Isak realised each of the niches set below each God’s rune was were were large enough to take a Crystal Skull. ‘I merely showed him this place; his decisions were his own.’

‘But you gave him the idea — how to restrict the power of the Gods.’

‘I told him the truth of the crystals he found here, the link each one had to the Gods, how worship and magic flowed through them. How each could be limited, the Last King discovered himself. He saw them for what they were: beings of power who cared little for their creations. He made them care, he made them dependent on their followers, and for that they hated him.’

Ruhen looked at Isak, his face strangely intense. ‘Do you remember any tales of the Age of Myths? The mountains they carelessly tore down, the moon they threw into the night sky? They acted without regard for consequences. The myths speak nothing of the mortals lost when the mountains fell or the waters rose. The Elves suffered, the Tribes of Man suffered, and so Aryn Bwr tried to limit them, to grant the Gods understanding and bring the creation of mortal life full circle.’

‘And for that they cursed him,’ Isak whispered.

‘They did not see it as a gift,’ Ruhen said. ’They could accept no hand but their own shaping their existence.’ He crossed the slab and entered the circle itself. ‘Bring him,’ he commanded.

Ilumene followed eagerly, half-dragging Isak after him, with Tiniq and Venn close behind. Once inside Isak felt a sudden coolness on his skin; the oppression of Maram’s flames dimmed within the circle.