Tom Lloyd - The ragged man

Doranei leaned forward over the rampart wall, looking past the fire-dampening charms inscribed on the outside and down to the ditch below it. In a few hours he would be killing men at this very spot, spilling their blood and battering them back into the ditch. This was the heart of the army's defences; a fortress of earth and fresh-cut logs a hundred yards across, intended to meet the crashing wave of Menin infantry and hold firm.

Behind him was the mound of earth where Endine and Cetarn had been hammering stakes into the ground. Only Isak and Mihn went there now, sometimes accompanied by the witch of Llehden or Legana, but Doranei couldn't imagine what they were up to. The company of guards was still stationed there, to keep all others away, but he'd never seen the three do anything remotely of interest. Isak had stood there for several hours yesterday, just staring into the distance as the ghost hour came and went.

He turned and looked past the squat central tower of the fort. Cetarn had inexplicably chained the mound to the ground, which was now the centre point of a dozen or so buried tendrils, each one a hundred feet or more in length. It was dark now, but Doranei could make out the tattered grey cloak Isak wore. He elbowed Veil and pointed.

'Aye, back there again,' Veil said. 'Harnessing the energies o' the Land – isn't that what Cetarn called it?'

The white-eye was a strange figure within the massive army camp. Almost everyone else wore armour, but Isak still shuffled about in ragged clothes, and used his tattered cloak to hide his scars from the rest of the Land. Doranei didn't know whether Isak even owned any armour any more – although surely the king's armourers could have beaten something out for him by now.

'You reckon he's drawing power from that heap of dirt?' Doranei's voice dropped to a whisper so the Kingsguard soldiers manning the wall couldn't hear. 'I got to say, I don't think he's the man we once knew.'

'That doesn't surprise me,' Veil said. He grimaced at the thought of what Isak might have endured.

'What if the king's gambling on it though?' Doranei said. 'Why's this all so secret? Not sure he'll be calling down the storm any time soon these days.'

'You rein that in,' Veil said sharply. 'I don't give a damn what's goin' on in your head these days, there can't be talk like that just before a battle!'

'I didn't mean it like that,' Doranei protested grumpily, knowing he was in the wrong, 'just not used to surprises, and now there's a plan I ain't party to.'

'Well you're the one walked away, and you ain't a general; we ain't soldiers. This ain't our world, so our skills aren't in demand here.' Veil gave him a hard look. 'Now shut the fuck up and don't let me hear another word. No joke, Brother; you sounded like Ilumene for a moment there – Coran hears that shit and he'll break you in pieces.'

Doranei gave a start, his mouth dropping open in surprise. As he replayed Veil's words in his head he realised he'd been right. Doranei found himself recoiling from the realisation: Ilumene's betrayal had been preceded by increasing resentment towards the king, and the assumption that his advice should always be sought, no matter what the situation.

The King's Men were supposed to be faceless and silent, removed from politics and power, personal ambitions and desires foresworn… Only Ilumene hadn't been able to accept his place, one he'd embraced until he decided he stood above the rest.

Doranei found himself half a pace removed from the Brotherhood, and his thoughts had followed the same track – and Veil was right; Coran would kill him for taking even a step down that path. The more he thought about it, the more Doranei realised he wouldn't be able to blame the white-eye for it. Doranei had personally cut down one of the Brothers killed by Ilumene during his bloody defection. He hadn't just murdered the man, he'd pinned the bastard to a wall using eight shortswords, then ritually disembowelled him and fed his heart to the man's own dogs.

'Sorry,' he muttered, abashed. 'You're right.'

'I know,' Veil said airily, 'and after this, you'n'me are going to get your shit in order, y'hear? Should be Sebe doin' it, I know, but that's not going to happen and he was my friend too. He'd want me in his stead to see the job done and I'll be proud t'do it.'

Sebe, Doranei thought glumly, this life's harder without you here. Maybe that's what I'm impatient for. This war I can manage, been living with horror for too long as it is. Zhia I can handle, or survive her, at least. But do this all without the Brother I leaned on most of all? That's harder than I'd realised.

'I hear you,' Doranei said in a quiet voice. He resumed his position, staring out toward the Menin, willing them on.

See you when the killing's done, Brother.

Kastan Styrax walked out of his tent and stopped as the Bloodsworn knights who had camped around him in a protective ring raised their weapons and roared, their wordless fervour booming out all around and echoed back by the tens of thousands beyond.

He faced them silently, looking around at the cheering soldiers and matching their gaze. Wearing the black whorled armour of Koezh Vukotic he stood with his head uncovered and accepted their adulation. The thick black curls of his hair were tied back in the manner of a Menin nobleman, neatly, without frippery or adornment, while the ghost of a beard lay upon his cheeks. It was unusual for Lord Styrax not to be clean-shaven, but if anything he looked more Menin as a result.

Strapped to his back was the fanged broadsword he'd prised from the dead fingers of Lord Akass, his predecessor: the first great feat of many, and the one that had set him on this path. All those years ago – centuries, now – Kastan had realised it was true, that he was like no other mortal. His time in the Reavers had been not only for training and preparation, it had been a refuge against the weight of expectation placed on his shoulders when he had turned sixteen. That day he had been offered a glimpse of his true potential, the weapon the Gods intended him to be.

Even for a white-eye, it was almost too much to bear, Styrax thought as he let the waves of cheering crash over him. Even when I saw the Reavers were lesser kin, it was too much to ask of a boy.

Lord Styrax smiled, and with a deliberately slow movement he reached behind his head and drew the enormous black broadsword. The cheers became deafening and the elite Bloodsworn dropped to one knee, weapons touching the ground as their lord raised Kobra's split tip to the sky and added his own booming voice to the tumult.

'We go to war!' Styrax roared as the thousands raised their own weapons. He turned slowly, watching the faces around him fill with fierce pride.

'This long march has been hard,' he called, pausing to give them all time to remember the stories of the tribe's past, 'and it is more than the weak who have fallen along the path!'

Deverk Grast had marched the Menin away from the West and ordered that the weak be allowed to fall at the wayside. Once the greatest of the seven tribes, the Menin had endured horrors in the Waste as they travelled to the Ring of Fire; they had nearly been broken as they tried to carve a new home in the wilderness. There were many sects within the tribe who saw this invasion as a return to glory; the rightful return to their place as the foremost of the tribes of man.

'The pain has been the same for us all, the loss and the suffering shared among proud brothers!'

Styrax felt his face tighten. In his mind's eye he saw Kohrad exchanging blows with Lord Isak, matching the silver-blurred stokes of the Farlan with all the fire and ferocity he'd possessed. He saw Kohrad struck and stagger, the emerald hilt of Eolis blazing through the storm of magic as he pitched backwards and fell.