Midnight Tides

  No, no, it’s hard as an anvil. I’ll be fine. See, I’m getting up… oh, why bother. It’s nice here in the sun. This shirt smells. Like the sea. Like a beach, with the tide out, and all the dead things rotting in fetid water. Just like the Inside Harbour. Got to stop the boys from swimming in there. I keep telling them… oh, they’re dead. All dead now, my boys, my apprentices.

  You’d better answer me soon, Mael.

  ‘Withal?’

  ‘It’s the tent. That’s what the Nachts are trying to tell me. Something about the tent…’

  ‘Withal?’

  I think I’ll sleep now.

  ****

  The trail ran in an easterly direction, roughly parallel to the Brous Road at least to start, then cut southward towards the road itself once the forest on the left thinned. One other farm had been passed through by the deserters, but there had been no-one there. Signs of looting were present, and it seemed a wooden-wheeled wagon had been appropriated. Halfpeck judged that the marauders were not far ahead, and the Crimson Guardsmen would reach them by dawn.

  Seren Pedac rode alongside Iron Bars. The new stirrups held her boots firmly in place; she had never felt so secure astride a horse. It was clear that the Blueroses had been deceiving the Letherii for a long time, and she wondered if that revealed some essential, heretofore unrecognized flaw among her people. A certain gullibility, bred from an unfortunate mixture of naiveté and arrogance. If Lether survived the

  Edur invasion and the truth about the Bluerose deception came to light, the Letherii response would be characteristically childish, she suspected, some kind of profound and deep hurt, and a grudge long held on to. Bluerose would be punished, spitefully and repeatedly, in countless ways.

  The two women soldiers in the squad had dismantled a hide rack at the first farm, using the frame’s poles to fashion a half-dozen crude lances, half again as tall as a man. The sharpened, fire-hardened points had been notched transversely, the thick barbs bent outward from the shaft. Each tip had been smeared with blood from the breeder and his family, to seal the vengeful intent.

  They rode through the night, halting four times to rest their horses, all but one of the squad managing a quarter-bell’s worth of sleep – a soldier’s talent that Seren could not emulate. By the time the sky paled to the east, revealing mists in the lowlands, she was grainy-eyed and sluggish. They had passed a camp of refugees on the Brous Road, an old woman wakening to tell them the raiders had caught up with them earlier and stolen everything of value, as well as two young girls and their mother.

  Two hundred paces further down, they came within sight of the deserters. The wagon stood in the centre of the raised road, the two oxen that had been used to pull it off to one side beneath a thick, gnarled oak on the other side of the south ditch. Chains stretched from one of the wheels, along which three small figures were huddled in sleep. A large hearth still smouldered, its dying embers just beyond the wagon.

  The Crimson Guardsmen halted at some distance to regard the raiders.

  ‘No-one’s awake,’ one of the women commented.

  Iron Bars said, ‘These horses aren’t well trained enough for a closed charge. We’ll go four one four. You’ll be the one, Acquitor, and stay tight behind the leading riders.’

  She nodded. She was not prepared to raise objections. She had been given a spare sword, and she well knew how to use it. Even so, this charge was to be with lances.

  The soldiers cinched the straps of their helmets then donned gauntlets, shifting their grips on the lances to a third of the way up from the butts. Seren drew her sword.

  ‘All right,’ Iron Bars said. ‘Corlo, keep them asleep until we’re thirty paces away. Then wake ’em quick and panicky.’

  ‘Aye, Avowed. It’s been a while, ain’t it?’

  Halfpeck asked, ‘Want any of ’em left alive, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  Iron Bars, with Halfpeck on his left and the two women on his right, formed the first line. Walk to trot, then a collected canter. Fifty paces, and no-one was stirring among the deserters. Seren glanced back at Corlo, and he smiled, raising one hand and waggling the gloved fingers.

  She saw the three prisoners at the wagon sit up, then quickly crawl beneath the bed.

  Lances were levelled, the horses rolling into a gallop.

  Sudden movement among the sleeping deserters. Leaping to their feet, bewildered shouts, a scream.

  The front line parted to go round the wagon, and Seren pulled hard to her left after a moment of indecision, seeing the glitter of wide eyes from beneath the wagon’s bed. Then she was alongside the tall wheels.

  Ahead, four lances found targets, three of them skewering men from behind as they sought to flee.

  A deserter stumbled close to Seren and she slashed her sword, clipping his shoulder and spinning him round in a spray of blood. Cursing at the clumsy blow, she pushed herself forward on the saddle and rose to stand in her stirrups. Readied the sword once more.

  The leading four Guardsmen had slowed their mounts and were drawing swords. The second line of riders, in Seren’s wake, had spread out to pursue victims scattering into the ditches to either side. They slaughtered with cold efficiency.

  A spear stabbed up at Seren on her right. She batted the shaft aside, then swung as her horse carried her forward. The blade rang in her grip as it connected with a helmet. The edge jammed and she pulled hard, dragging the helm from the man’s head. It came free and flew forward to bounce on the road, red-splashed and caved in on one side.

  She caught a moment of seeing Iron Bars ten paces ahead. Killing with appalling ease, a single hand gripping the reins as he guided his horse, sword weaving a murderous dance around him.

  Someone flung himself onto her sword-arm, his weight wrenching at her shoulder. She shouted in pain, felt herself being pulled from her saddle.

  His face, bearded and grimacing, seemed to surge towards her as if hunting some ghastly kiss. Then she saw the features go slack. Blood filled his eyes. The veins on his temples collapsed into blue stains blossoming beneath the skin. More blood, spraying from his nostrils. His grip fell away and he toppled backward.

  Drawing in close, a long, thin-bladed knife in one hand, Corlo came alongside her. ‘Push yourself up, lass! Use my shoulder—’

  Hand fisted around the grip of her sword, she set it against him and righted herself. ‘Thanks, Corlo—’

  ‘Rein in, lass, we’re about done here.’

  She looked round. Three Guardsmen had dismounted, as had Iron

  Bars, and were among the wounded and dying, swords thrusting down into bodies. She glanced back. ‘That man – what happened to him?’

  ‘I boiled his brain, Acquitor. Messy, granted, but the Avowed said to keep you safe.’

  She stared at him. ‘What sort of magic does that}’

  ‘Maybe I’ll tell you sometime. That was a nice head-shot back there. The bastard came close with that spear.’

  He did. She was suddenly shaking. ‘And this is your profession, Corlo? It’s… disgusting.’

  ‘Aye, Acquitor, that it is.’

  Iron Bars approached. ‘All is well?’

  ‘We’re fine, sir. All dead?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘That’s all of them,’ the mage said, nodding.

  ‘Less than a half-dozen actually managed to draw their weapons. You fouled ’em up nicely, Corlo. Well done.’

  ‘Is that how you soldiers win your battles?’ Seren asked.

  ‘We wasn’t here to give battle, Acquitor,’ Iron Bars said. ‘Executions, lass. Any mages among the lot, Corlo?’

  ‘One minor adept. I got him right away.’

  Executions. Yes. Best to think of it that way. Not butchery. They were murderers and rapists, after all. ‘You didn’t leave me any alive, Avowed?’

  He squinted up at her. ‘No, none.’

  ‘You don’t want me to… do what I want. Do you?’

  ‘That’s right, lass. I don’t.’
/>
  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you might enjoy it.’

  ‘And what business is that of yours, Iron Bars?’

  ‘It’s not good, that’s all.’ He turned away. ‘Corlo, see to the prisoners under the wagon. Heal them if they need it.’

  He’s right. The bastard’s right. I might enjoy it. Torturing some helpless man. And that wouldn’t be good at all, because I might get hungry for more. She thought back to the feeling when her sword’s blade had connected with that deserter’s helmed head. Sickening, and sick with pleasure, all bound together.

  I hurt. But I can make others hurt. Enough so they answer each other, leaving… calm. Is that what it is? Calm? Or just some kind of hardening, senseless and cold.

  ‘All right, Iron Bars,’ she said. ‘Keep it away from me. Only,’ she looked down at him, ‘it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.’

  ‘Aye. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Not ever,’ she said. ‘I know, you’re thinking time will bring healing.

  But you see, Avowed, it’s something I keep reliving. Every moment. It wasn’t days ago. It was with my last breath, every last breath.’

  She saw the compassion in his eyes and, inexplicably, hated him for it. ‘Let me think on that, lass.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Can’t say, yet.’

  She looked down at the sword in her hand, at the blood and snarled hair along the notched edge where it had struck the man’s head. Disgusting. But they’ll expect it to be wiped away. To make the iron clean and gleaming once more, as if it was nothing more than a sliver of metal. Disconnected from its deeds, its history, its very purpose. She didn’t want that mess cleaned away. She liked the sight of it.

  They left the bodies where they had fallen. Left the lances impaled in flesh growing cold. Left the wagon, apart from the food they could transport – the refugees coming up on the road could have the rest. Among the dead were five youths, none of them older than fifteen years. They’d walked a short path, but as Halfpeck observed, it had been the wrong path, and that was that.

  Seren pitied none of them.

  Book Four

  Midnight Tides

  Kin mourn my passing, all love is dust

  The pit is cut from the raw, stones piled to the side

  Slabs are set upon the banks, the seamed grey wall rises

  Possessions laid out to flank my place of rest

  All from the village are drawn, beating hides

  Keening their grief with streaks in ash

  Clawed down their cheeks, wounds on their flesh

  The memory of my life is surrendered

  In fans of earth from wooden shovels

  And were I ghostly here at the edge of the living

  Witness to brothers and sisters unveiled by loss

  Haunters of despair upon this rich sward

  Where ancestors stand sentinel, wrapped in skins

  I might settle motionless, eyes closed to dark’s rush

  And embrace the spiral pull into indifference

  Contemplating at the last, what it is to be pleased

  Yet my flesh is warm, the blood neither still in my veins

  Nor cold, my breathing joining this wind

  That carries these false cries, I am banished

  Alone among the crowd and no more to be seen

  The stirrings of my life face their turned backs

  The shudders of their will, and all love is dust

  Where I now walk, to the pleasure of none

  Cut raw, the stones piled, the grey wall rising.

  Banished

  Kellun Adara

  Chapter Twenty

  It seemed the night would never end during the war with the Sar Trell. Before the appearance of Our Great Emperor, Dessimbelackis, our legions were thrown back on the field of battle, again and again. Our sons and daughters wept blood on the green ground, and the wagon-drums of the enemy came forth in thunder. But no stains could hold upon our faith, and it shone ever fierce, ever defiant. We drew our ranks tall, overlapped shields polished and bright as the red sun, and the one among us who was needed, who was destined to grasp the splashed grip of the First Empire’s truthful sword, gave his voice and his strength to lead us in answer to the well-throated rumble of the Sar Trell warcries, the stone-tremble of their wagon-drums. Victory was destined, in the forge-lit eyes of He of the Seven Holy cities, the fever-charge of his will, and on that day, the Nineteenth in the Month of Leth-ara in the Year of Arenbal, the Sar Trell army was broken on the plain south of Yath-Ghatan, and with their bones was laid the foundation, and with their skulls the cobbles of Empire’s road…

  The Dessilan

  Vilara

  Somewhere ahead, the royal colonnade of the Eternal Domicile. Arched, the hemispherical ceiling web-spun in gold on a midnight blue background, diamonds glittering like drops of dew in the streaming strands. The pillars flanking the aisle that led to the throne room were carved in a spiral pattern and painted sea-green, twenty to each side and three paces apart. The passageways between them and the wall were wide enough to permit an armoured palace guard to walk without fear of his scabbard scraping, while the approach down the centre aisle was ten men wide. At the outer end was a large chamber that served as a reception area. First Empire murals, copied so many times as to be stylized past meaning, had been painted on the walls. Traditional torch sconces held crystals imbued with sorcery that cast a faintly blue light. At the inward end stood two massive, bejewelled doors that led to a narrow, low passage, fifteen paces long, before opening out into the domed throne room proper.

  The air smelled of marble dust and paint. The ceremonial investiture was three days away, when King Ezgara Diskanar in his robes of state would stride down the length of the Royal Colonnade and enter the throne room, his queen a step behind on his left, his son the prince two paces back and immediately behind his father. Or, rather, that was how it should have been.

  A trail of servants and guards had led Brys here, following the seemingly random wanderings of Ceda Kuru Qan. The strange emptiness of the Eternal Domicile on this last stretch unnerved the Finadd, his boots echoing on the unadorned flagstones as he entered the reception chamber.

  To find the Ceda on his hands and knees directly in front of him.

  Kuru Qan was muttering to himself, tracing his fingertips along the joins in the floor. Beside him was a tattered, paint-spattered basket crowded with scribers, brushes and stoppered jars of pigments.

  ‘Ceda?’

  The old man looked up, squinting over the tops of the lenses, the contraption having slid down to the end of his nose. ‘Brys Beddict? I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.’

  ‘In the throne room. The old throne room, where still resides our king. The surviving battalions and brigades are converging to the defence of Letheras. Things have been rather… hectic’

  ‘No doubt. Relevant? Significantly so. Indeed, telling. Now, count the flagstones across this chamber. Width, then length, if you will.’

  ‘What? Ceda, the king is asking for you.’

  But Kuru Qan had ceased listening. He had begun crawling about, mumbling, brushing away the grit left behind by the builders.

  Brys was motionless for a moment, considering, then he began counting flagstones.

  After he was done, he returned to the Ceda’s side. Kuru Qan was simply sitting now, appearing wholly consumed in the cleaning of his lenses. Without looking up, he began speaking, ‘Battalions and brigades. Yes, most certainly. Assembling in the hills surrounding Brans

  Keep. Useful? The last of my mages. Tell me the centre flagstone, Brys. Will Merchants’ Battalion remain in the city? I think not. It shall be cast upon those hills. All of it. The centre, Brys Beddict?’

  ‘The one before you, Ceda.’

  ‘Ah yes. Good. Very good. And what armies are left to us? How fare the fleets? Oh, the seas are unwelcoming, are they not? Best stay away. Dracons Sea, at the very least, although the protectorates are ma
king noises. Korshenn, Pilott, Descent – they think they see their chance.’

  Brys cleared his throat. ‘The Artisan Battalion has left the Manse and is marching to Five Points. Riven Brigade withdrew from Old Katter with minimal losses. Snakebelt Battalion has departed Awl, and the Crimson Rampant Brigade has left Tulamesh – the north coast cities have been yielded. Dresh was taken last night, the garrison slaughtered. Whitefinder Battalion are razing the ground on their retreat from First Reach and should be at Brans Keep soon. Preda Unnutal Hebaz will lead the Merchants’ Battalion from the city in three days’ time. It is anticipated, Ceda, that you will be accompanying her.’

  ‘Accompanying? Nonsense, I am far too busy. Too busy. So many things left to do. She shall have my mages. Yes, my mages.’

  ‘There are only fourteen remaining, Ceda.’

  ‘Fourteen? Relevant? I must needs think on that.’

  Brys studied Kuru Qan, his old friend, and struggled against waves of pity. ‘How long, Ceda, do you plan on remaining here, on the floor?’

  ‘It is no easy thing, Finadd, not at all. I fear I have waited too long as it is. But we shall see.’

  ‘When can the king expect you?’

  ‘Alas, we do not know what to expect, do we? Barring a few salient truths so painfully gleaned from the chaos. The Seventh Closure, ah, there is nothing good to this turn of events. You must go, now. Care for your brother, Brys. Care for him.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Kuru Qan was cleaning his lenses again, and made no reply.

  Brys swung about and strode towards the doors.

  The Ceda spoke behind him. ‘Finadd. Whatever you do, don’t kill him.’

  He halted and glanced back. ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t kill him. You must not kill him. Now, go. Go, Finadd.’

  ****

  So many alleys in Letheras never knew the light of day. Narrow, with various balconies, ledges and projections forming makeshift roofs, the corridors beneath were twisted and choked with refuse, a realm of rats, slipper-beetles and spiders. And the occasional undead.

  Shurq Elalle stood in the gloom, as she had stood most of the previous night. Waiting. The street beyond had wakened with the day, although the crowds were markedly more furtive and tense than was usual. There had been a riot near the West Gate two nights past, brutally quelled by soldiers of the Merchants’ Battalion. Curfews had been enforced, and it had been finally noted that the low castes seemed to have virtually vanished from the city, cause for confusion and a vague unease.